TITLE: "Rhythms Sounding" (1/1)
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net
SITE: http://fangy.net
SPOILERS: Smashed/Wrecked
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy

* * *

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

It's the sound of her footsteps when she comes to my crypt, soles still wet from the grass outside, deafening denial echoing in every scratch of her shoes against the cement. If she ever bothered to knock, it would be the sound of her fist on the door, of her offering me the possibility of saying no, of sending her back home. But I can't, and she won't, and it's the sound of her storming in, stomping across dirt and dust to get to the filth.

It's the sound of unpulled punches, of mutual violence. Fists hitting flesh, hits blocked, bam bam bam, it's quick and fast and a blur, and invariably ends the same way. It's the sound of thrusts against a wall, of pulling, of pushing, of her cracking, sinking to my level or me rising to hers. It's the rhythm of me in her, of the oldest dance in the world, of completion, whether she likes to admit it or not. It's the obscene sound of her back pounding the wall, of hips meeting, of essences mixing, an intoxicating cocktail. It's the sound of the cries we wring out of her, and of my silence.

Sometimes it's the sound of the headboard of her bed against the wall, chipping at the plaster, the metal squeaking, confessing her sins to anyone, everyone. It's the sound of her letting me in her home, with an echo of denial, still, because denial rings loud and clear and drowns out everything else. But I'm in her home, and the walls muffle the sounds. It's the sound of the moans I caress out of her, something she did not expect the first time but has been craving ever since.

It's the sound of her fingers drumming softly on my back, on my shoulder, on my stomach. The part of her that can't stay put. It's the sound of the rain against her window, pounding heartily like only nature can, while we lay motionless, our own rhythms snuffed out, rejuvenating. It's the sound of her breathing, of the rise and fall of her breast under my cheek, under my hand, against my heart. Small puffs of air fall from her lips, faithful, and it doesn't sound like a terrible thing, even to her ears, for just a moment in time. She just breathes. It's the in and out. It's the sound of her clock ticking on the nightstand.

If I close my eyes, it can become the things that haunt me, my maker's to and fro, her maker's fists, his maker's nails on a polished table. I open my eyes.

Because it's the sound of blood, pumping through veins, the sound of life, in perfect concert with hers. I listen to it, stay up all night following its rhythm, loving how perfect it is. I put my ear to it, hearing it loud and clear, never questioning, because you don't question the impossible. Lifeblood - pushing, pulling, pulsing. Inside her, like the tender centre of a sweet.