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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.
I must have spent hours huddled up against the wall, my ass chilled and numb from the cold floor. I was motionless, but I was thinking hard.
Dispassionately and rationally, as if I were a case to be analyzed, I reviewed the events of the last week and some days. The answer to my behavior presented itself pretty quickly - Stockholm Syndrome. What had happened to Patty Hearst when she'd been kidnapped by those terrorists and had become one herself. Subconsciously I'd been trying to like my captors in an effort to be more likable to them so they wouldn't kill me. We'd studied it in Psych class. I wondered how many opportunities to escape I'd let slide by unnoticed because of it.
None, really, that I could recall, but that didn't mean that I mightn't have failed to recognize one if it had presented itself. I gave myself a good mental shake. Now that I knew what was happening, I would be that much more alert, that much more prepared to act. Their guard had to be let down sometime and if, in the meantime, I'd shown that I wasn't trying to escape, they wouldn't be expecting it when it happened.
From the way Drusilla had treated me before Spike discovered my theft of his lighter, I thought that she might be craving a little female companionship. I could play on that, flatter her, do girly things with her. Show Spike I didn't need him, or expect him to protect me. Maybe even come between the two of them, get Dru on my side, get her to…. I stopped this train of thought in its tracks. I was supposed to be plotting my escape, not my revenge on Spike for not feeling about me the way I was coming to feel about him. Work on Dru, yes; revenge on Spike, don't bother - just get the hell away from him. That would be revenge enough.
That decided, I examined the clothes the unnamed vampire had brought me. I hoped that Drusilla had remembered that her clothes didn't fit me. I was surprised to find that they weren't like the doll clothes she wore. These looked more like something Spike would have chosen - punk bondage hooker wear. There were black fishnet stockings, complete with matching black garter belt (but no panties); high, high, stiletto-heeled black patent leather shoes; a short black leather mini-skirt and a black leather bustier that fastened with a silver zipper up the front. There were also zippers running under each cup in semicircles from where they met the vertical center zipper, dipping under my breasts and rising again on the outsides of the cups - exactly where the underwire would be on an underwire bra. There was a small zippered bag that had make-up in it. I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying on the clothes and experimenting with the make-up, trying to find just the right look to go with the ridiculous outfit.
I was dressed, made up and pacing nervously when the same vampire who'd brought the clothes to me came to take me to Drusilla. He was dressed exactly as I imagined a proper English butler would be dressed. I guess we all get costumes for this party, I thought. Before we left my cell he pulled my hands behind me, clapping a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. He also took the opportunity to try to play a little grabass until I stepped back heavily on his foot with the sharp heel of my shoe. Grumbling under his breath, he shoved me out the door and down the hall. As we emerged into what I'd come to think of as the 'main room' I set my face into an impassive expression, but my heart was beating a mile a minute.
The room was filled with, well I guess they weren't people. Vampires, then. Some were wearing their vamp faces, some weren't. I suppose I was only guessing that the ones with human faces weren't actually humans, but somehow I didn't think that Spike and Drusilla would be socializing with them if they were human. Slow music that I later learned was The Velvet Underground played the song "Venus in Furs" in the background and there were lit candles everywhere.
Along the three walls of the dungeon end of the room women were chained, some already looking pale and dead, bites all over them. As I watched, one huge, hulking brute of a vampire, dressed like a trucker, leaned over a young girl and literally tore her throat out with his teeth. My stomach flipped - not only from seeing it, seeing the blood sheeting down her front, but from the memory of Spike threatening to do that same thing to me. I stumbled on my high heels and nearly went down. With an exasperated sigh the butler vamp pulled me up by my handcuffed wrists and pushed me forward.
As we came a little farther into the room, Drusilla noticed us. With a few quick words, she detached herself from the small group with whom she had been talking and came over to me. "Sunday," she said warmly. She looked delighted to see me and pressed a kiss on each of my cheeks then, to my amazement and embarrassment, she kissed my mouth.
Frozen with shock, I stood still while Drusilla moved her soft mouth on mine. Over her shoulder I could see Spike, along with everyone else in the room, watching. My eyes narrowed then closed. If he wanted to watch, I'd give him something to see, I thought. I kissed Dru back. I kissed her passionately, frantically, my mouth open, my tongue tangling with hers. Soon I wasn't thinking about Spike at all. I'd never known that kissing a girl could be as sexy, as arousing as kissing a man. Her long delicate hands danced over my body and I longed to be able to embrace her, give her back the caresses she was giving me, but the handcuffs forced me to put all the passion I was feeling for her into the kiss itself.
Inevitably the moment came for the kiss to end. She pulled away, smiling and satisfied looking. She gave Spike her own long look over her shoulder. Turning back to me she said, "Oh dear, its lipstick is all smudged." From the dainty beaded purse that hung from her wrist, she took a handkerchief and wiped my face. She pulled out a lipstick next and carefully repainted my mouth.
When she had finished and was returning the lipstick to her purse I took my life in my hands and spoke to her. I had never dared before. "Please, Mistress, may I fix your lipstick, too?"
Her hand flew to her face as if she could feel how her makeup looked. I was so afraid that I had made her angry, said something about her appearance that she might consider disparaging. Stomach in my throat I waited while she considered. When she smiled and pulled the handkerchief and lipstick back out of her purse, my relief must have been palpable. She held them out, expecting me to take them. I gestured with my handcuffed wrists, twisting to show them to her. She snapped her fingers and pointed and the butler vamp unlocked and removed the cuffs.
Not pausing to rub my sore wrists, I took the handkerchief and lipstick from her. She held her face forward to me like a small child would hold a dirty face up to her mother. I gently wiped the smudged lipstick from around her mouth. As carefully as I could, as carefully as if my life depended on it, as well it could, I applied the dark red lipstick to her soft lips. Putting the lid back on the lipstick, I handed it and the handkerchief to her - raising her hand to my lips to place a reverential kiss on it. "Thank you, Mistress."
After replacing the items in her purse, she brought a caressing hand to my cheek while holding the other out imperiously to the butler vamp. Digging in his pockets, he brought out a black leather collar with a silver buckle and attached leash, which he handed to her. She placed the collar around my neck, adjusting it so that it was tight, but not too tight. Turning, leash in her hand, she walked, I followed her as, of course, I had to, to the fainting couch and sank down gracefully. When I began to sit next to her, she frowned and pointed to the floor. I sat on the floor and the party resumed around us. Show over, I guessed.
From my place on the floor I watched as all the attending vampires came up to Drusilla one at a time to exchange a few polite, respectful words. She was very much the queen holding court. During a pause in the stream of polite visits, she raised my hand. She drew a long sharp black nail along the vein on the inside of my wrist, making a break in the skin about an inch long. She raised my wrist to her mouth and sucked on the cut for a slow minute. Even without the pain of the bite, even though it was my wrist and not my neck, the familiar pleasure of being drunk from oozed through me and my eyes closed, my head fell back against the side of the couch. After she stopped drinking with a long lick along the length of the cut, she continued to hold my hand in hers, her thumb tracing the soft skin of my inner wrist, her other hand stroking my hair.
The music was soft and slow, Saint-Saens now, the lighting dim and low and all conversations were held in quiet tones. Drusilla, the girls chained to the walls and I were the only females there. All in all not what one would think a vampire party would be like. Not unless you noticed the comings and going from the far end of the room where the "refreshments" were. Even Spike seemed subdued as he went from group to group. Occasionally he'd take someone aside for some intense whispered talk. The someone would listen and nod, as if receiving instructions of some kind.
Spike finally came to Drusilla. He was dressed as he had been at CBGB's, the first time since then that I'd seen him with his platinum hair carefully spiked, black eyeliner and jewelry on. He sat next to her on the couch, shoving me out of the way with a black booted foot. "Dru, love," he said, "'bout time I shoved off."
"Must you, Spike?" Dru asked. She looked peevish.
"You know that we only have a little time left here before we meet Darla in Rome."
"Italians," Drusilla complained. "They always taste like garlic."
"You know that's just a myth, poodle. Anyway, garlic can't hurt you and you've been at me to go see Darla for ages now. Master doesn't let her leave the Hellmouth very often. Afraid if we went to see her there, the Master wouldn't let us leave and I'm not going to get stuck sucking up to his bat-facedness for the next fifty years."
"He thinks his freedom comes with the shaking, but only his doom shall follow."
"Shall it then? Well, never too soon for me. Can't stand these traditionalists, they've got no imagination."
He sat in silence with his arm over Drusilla's shoulder for a moment, but his heel was tapping a frenetic beat on the floor and he was drumming his fingers on his knee. He was looking in exasperation at the other vampires maintaining a cautious distance from him. "Bugger this for a game of soldiers," he muttered under his breath. He leaned over and spoke in Dru's ear, "What say we send the minions away and you and I can play with the pet? Reward her for her good behavior."
Drusilla looked down at me. I was careful to display no emotion, but I leaned my head into her stroking hand. "It has been a good little doggie," she said. "Yes, Spike, let's reward it."
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