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Dead Soul
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst/horror
Pairings: Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Sunday, Drusilla/Sunday, Spike/Drusilla/Sunday
Warnings: BDSM, non-consensual sex, violence, bloodplay, language, f/f slash,
inappropriate humor - all the good stuff
Disclaimers: Story and chapter titles are titles of Blondie songs. (I thought
about being careful with song dates and such but, like Spike, I got bored. Any
anachronisms are either intentional or so the hell what.) The usual disclaimers
for both characters and song titles. The only things I own are the things I
steal from dorm rooms. No, that sweater doesn't make you look fat. It just makes
you look purple
Distribution: Want? Take, have. But please let me know where
Feedback: Keeps the bloodlust in check, mailto:deadsoul820@aol.com
or drop me a comment on my LiveJournal, Dead Soul
Summary: Spike, Drusilla and Sunday in New York City, 1977. Ever wonder where Sunday (BtVS, Season 4, "The Freshman") came from? Why her fashion sense seems familiar, not to mention her attitude? She tells her story.
They left me pretty much alone for more than a week - letting me recuperate, I guess, letting my body replace all the blood they'd drained, letting some of the wounds heal a bit. The next day was hellish. I was stiff and sore from hanging, even sleeping, in the chains and the pain from the welts all up and down my back, ass and legs made the slightest movement torture. Compared to this, the bite wounds on my neck and breasts were trifles, but they could still complain pretty loudly if I accidentally touched them.
The only times I saw Spike, and I didn't see Drusilla at all, were when he brought me food and juice. He was apparently giving some thought to my health - no junk food, all food groups represented in the appropriate ratios, plenty of fluids. He also cared for my injuries. When I woke up the first time after the whipping, my wounds had been cleaned and dressed and at least once each day, he'd clean them again and re-dress them. I came to look forward to those times, although he seemed distracted and hurried at first - like taking care of me was a chore to be accomplished as quickly as possible.
After the first couple of days when all I could think about was the pain and sleep was the only way to escape it, I was bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. I paced the room (it was eight paces by eleven), tried jumping on the bed to reach the overhead pipes (they were still out of my reach), counted bricks in the walls, sang all the songs I knew, making up lyrics to replace ones I'd forgotten, and generally acted like a restless animal in a zoo.
I was still too nervous at first to complain about my boredom, but on the third day, while Spike was perfunctorily washing my back, I said, "It's awfully boring in here. Is there any chance of getting some books, or a TV?" I looked back over my shoulder to try to gauge his reaction.
He looked surprised. I didn't know why he should. Three days of being cooped up in a concrete and brick cell would be enough to drive a world champion Zen Buddhist meditator around the bend.
"Dru's never complained about it," he said.
"You lock Dru up in here?" I was very surprised - he seemed so solicitous of her, in fact, it seemed like she was the one in control of their relationship. Like all that mattered was her pleasure, catering to her whims. For god's sake, I was nothing more than a gift he'd given her.
"Sometimes have to." He looked down as he said this, making it plain that he didn't want to talk any more about it. But when he returned later that day with my dinner (steak that was cold and over-cooked, an unimaginative salad with thousand island, blech, dressing, a couple of slices of whole wheat bread, a glass of milk, double-blech, and a pitcher of grapefruit juice), he also brought, thank you god, a couple of beers, a pack of cigarettes, a small black and white TV and a tape player with a handful of home-recorded audio tapes.
He waited, smoking from the pack and drinking one of the beers, sitting at the foot of the narrow bed while I sat cross-legged at the head with the tray of food. When I finished eating and had set the tray on the floor, he lit up one of the cigarettes for me. My own damn fault, I told myself, for ripping off his lighter last time. He didn't need to worry. I'd never try that again. Twinges every time I moved were still reminding me of that lesson. I sucked in the smoke and sighed happily.
"Thanks," I said. "I've been dying for a smoke - although, not the nearly literal type of dying I did for the last smoke I had."
His eyes crinkled as he turned towards me and smiled a slow lazy smile, "Yeah," he drew the word out licentiously, "Quite a time we had. Gotta remember to go a little easier on you in the future. Forget sometimes how breakable humans are." He moved a little closer to me.
I blushed. I hadn't thought through all the implications of what I'd said. I felt a slow warmth begin to spread from my face and down my body as I remembered that night. The pain and the pleasure I'd felt through the pain, because of the pain.
"Betcha never knew that about yourself," he said, tilting his head to the side and giving me a long look up and down, his eyes returning to mine, gleaming smugly.
I looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said primly, although I knew the redness of my face made me a complete liar.
"That anything that hurt so bad could feel so good." He leaned in closer. His face was inches from mine, my breath quickened. He whispered into my ear, his breath stirring the wispy strands of my hair, making it tickle me, "That this," I jumped as he suddenly bit my earlobe, "can feel just as good as this." He licked the lobe softly, sucking it gently into his mouth. I could feel my newly replenished blood supply driving my pulse to a quicker tempo as his cool tongue swirled in my ear.
He trailed his tongue slowly from my ear along the line of my jaw and, for the first time I realized, he kissed me. Gently at first but with increasing intensity his lips played mine, teasing them open, licking around them then thrusting his tongue deeply into my mouth. I sucked it in, giving myself completely to the sensations he caused in me, teasing it with my own then, remembering how he'd gasped when I'd scratched him, I bit it.
I felt him pause, then his mouth smiled against mine as he drew my tongue into his mouth and nipped it gently at first, then more sharply. Because his mouth was so cool, from a sudden increase in heat, I could tell that my tongue was bleeding. His teeth suddenly felt different, jagged, sharper. My eyes flickered open and he was wearing the face of his demon. I started to pull away, but he sucked more strongly on my tongue, nursing it, and the familiar drowsy pleasure suffused me and I leaned back into the kiss.
He broke the kiss way too soon for me. I blinked, in a daze, as he stood up, and then stooped to pick up the tray from where I'd put it on the floor when I was done eating. I watched him as he wordlessly left my cell, while every cell in my body screamed for him to come back and finish what he'd started.
The teasing went on for the remainder of the week. He'd come several times a day to bring me food and to attend to my injuries, which were healing very quickly (too quickly, it seemed to me). We'd kiss and grope a little and then he'd leave. Each time we'd go a little further, each time the feelings would be more intense, each time he'd mix a little more pain into the pleasure, completely blurring the line between them.
A careful caress along the underside of my breast would be followed by a sudden vicious pinch, and then the caressing would resume. Gently salving the fading welts on my back, he'd unexpectedly drag a fingernail along one of them, opening it, then licking the blood away. Likewise, while attending the welts on my ass, already nearly healed, as I lay stretched on my stomach and naked, he'd give it a flurry of slaps that would leave it bright pink and my cunt throbbing.
Because I had hours to think about it, I knew what he was doing. He was using the pleasure to make me crave the pain - mixing them up in my head until they were virtually one and the same. Still, he never gave me the release I needed. It made me furious. He could leave me, take his hard-on and use it on Dru while I had nothing but my fingers. The orgasms I could give myself were pale, weak things compared to the ones he'd given me - first in the alley and then with the candle while he and Drusilla drained my blood as I hung in their chains. Indeed, my self-induced orgasms were so disappointing that I soon stopped bothering.
On the seventh day, when he came in with my lunch, I was watching the small black and white television, trying to get involved in some soap opera, trying to figure out what was going on. He set the tray on the bed and seated himself next to me, pulling out a cigarette. He glanced over at the TV then surprised me nearly speechless. "Has Marlena figured out about Jon Black yet?"
"You watch this?" I squeaked, forkful of potato salad halfway to my mouth and hanging there. "You watch soaps?"
"Well, you try being stuck indoors all day with a bunch of useless, boring minions and you'd appreciate a good story on the telly, too."
I couldn't help it, I started laughing. The image of the big tough punk vampire watching the afternoon soaps was so incongruous, such a non sequitur. It was like thinking of John Wayne tatting antimacassars, Vincent Price pruning roses. I was laughing so hard that Spike snatched the tray off the bed and set it on the floor before I could upset it. I realized I was laughing longer and harder than the image strictly deserved, but I couldn't help it - it felt so good and it had been so long since I'd had a good laugh.
He stared down at me frowning, but eventually started smiling himself. As I wound down, gasping and wiping the tears from my face he said, "Never seen you smile before. Should do it more often. Looks good on you."
Of course, that just made me smile back more, almost made it impossible to stop smiling. "You should, too," I said. "It makes your eyes crinkle around the corners and look all warm and friendly."
He mock-scowled at me and said, voice low and growly, "You'd do well to remember I'm a big bad vampire who'd sooner kill you than look at you."
'Well, big bad, if you're not going to kill me today, sit down and tell me what the hell's going on on this show. Which one is Marlena?"
He gave me back the lunch tray and settled down next to me, explaining while I ate who Marlena was, that Jon Black was really her missing husband Roman (or something) and what the villain of the piece, Stefano (whom he really seemed to admire), had done to split them up. It all sounded like horseshit to me, but I played along, asking questions and hanging on his every word. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had decided to test me on it. And punish me if I got the answers wrong, although who knows, I might have gotten the answers wrong on purpose. I smiled to myself at this thought.
***
Oh fuck, I thought. My period.
The conversation I really, really didn't want to have would go, I imagined, something like this:
"Um, Spike?"
"What now?"
"There's something I need, women's things…."
After that, I didn't know what to say or what to expect - I mean, what is the male vampire's take on menstruation, anyway? Blood is blood? Or just Ewww! But in the meantime, I really needed tampons because the blood was positively gushing out of me. It was the heaviest period I could ever remember having. Probably because my hormones were all in a jangle from having, of necessity, gone off the pill.
I stuffed a handful of toilet paper into my underwear and nervously waited for Spike to show up with my dinner.
I was perched on the edge of the bed, chewing a ragged cuticle when right on schedule I heard the key in the lock. I stood up. This was a question I felt more comfortable asking while standing. Spike came in carrying a brown paper bag, but he dropped it immediately and rushed me, pushing me back down onto the bed then dropping to his knees on the floor. I squeaked in surprise when he grabbed my legs, yanking them apart and snuffling his face between them.
"You finally started," he growled, rubbing his demon face against my jeans-covered crotch. There was a loud ripping noise as he tore through the heavy cloth with sharp teeth. He ripped apart my panties and tossed aside the bloody wad of paper then paused. I looked down at him curiously. His eyes were closed and his nostrils were flaring as he took deep breaths.
"What in the world are you doing?" I asked.
"Smelling you," he said without opening his eyes. "Been smelling this coming on for a couple of days and now it's finally here."
"So I guess blood is blood. I've been wondering what the vampire reaction to this would be."
'More'n just blood. It's sex, it's meat, it's got texture, feel to it. Something to sink your fangs into." With rough, impatient fingers he pulled me open and buried his mouth in my bleeding cunt. First he licked up all the blood that was on the outside then positioned his mouth directly over the opening to my vagina and sucked. Sucked so hard it felt like he might pull me inside out. As he sucked, he thrust into me with his tongue, licking all around the entrance and jabbing it in as far as it would go, his fangs nicking me and still he pushed his face harder against me.
My back was bent like a bow as I raised my hips to meet his mouth, my breath coming in little gasps and moans. I could feel the pull of it all the way up to my eyebrows, rolling my eyes back in their sockets, sucking the very air out of my lungs. I was clutching the bedspread and rolling my head back and forth faster and faster as he drew the blood out of me, I knew that there must be a lot of my other juices mixing with the blood now and wondered if that made it taste better to him or if the taste of the blood itself overpowered it. It was the last thought I would be able to have for a long while.
Long, long minutes, hours went by as he sucked and licked, twisting his face against me to get deeper, get a better angle. The muscles in my back, hips, all the way down my legs and into my toes were screaming with the strain, held tensed and rigid, pushing me against him. I was making little yelps and squeals, alternating with deep moans and sighs as he kept me balanced forever on the pinnacle, on the edge, of coming. I wanted it so badly tears were beginning to leak out from under my eyelids and I grunted as I shoved my crotch up at him, trying to shift it to get my clit under his mouth, but he wouldn't let me. With strong, bruising hands he held my hips still, pinning them to the bed as he sucked and licked and sucked and licked until there could be nothing left - no blood left in my cunt, no blood left in my body.
Finally he pulled his face away. Crawling over me, he rubbed his bloody face on my torn jeans, raising my shirt to nuzzle my stomach. I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up over me. All brow-ridged and fanged, his face smeared with my own blood, I seized him around the neck and kissed him hard, kissed him deep, tasting my blood and my wetness on his lips. I dug my fingers into his thick hair and wrapped my legs around his waist, plunging my tongue into his open mouth, putting all of my want and need and desire into the fierce combat of our mouths.
He pulled up against my grasping legs enough to get a hand between our bodies to knead one of my breasts, mauling it with strong fingers, digging his short nails into my flesh, pinching my nipple hard and twisting it. I tore my mouth away from his to take a deep ragged breath and he let go of my breast long enough to take the collar of my t-shirt in both hands and tear it all the way to the hem. As soon as it was out of the way, he kissed his way down to the other, so far untouched, breast and sucked my nipple deep into his mouth, nursing on it, pulling on it with a strong steady pulse. I looked down to watch his face as he suckled me, watched the demon retreat and the human part of him reemerge. As it did so, he became gentler, more tender.
It's not that he sucked any less powerfully. Maybe it was only the change in his face that made it seem that way. Or maybe seeing that face against my bosom, eyes closed, long dark eyelashes fanning his cheekbones made me feel more tender. I stroked his head and felt my frenzy being drained away with each pull of his lips. My pulse and heartbeat slowed to match it and my eyes closed of their own volition.
Inside my head, in the dark, I was only that feeling, that slow, steady, throbbing that grew stronger and deeper, like a relentless undertow pulling me down and out to sea, washing over me, shushing in my ears. The primal pulse of the universe, of things needed and needs sated yet never satisfied, the yearning beneath the fulfillment, the restlessness within contentment. I floated in it, in the blood warm sea. I could have stayed there forever.
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