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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.
Waking up someplace different from where I had fallen asleep, or passed out, whichever the case had been, was becoming the norm. And each time I managed to be surprised to be waking up at all. Yet, every time I did wake up, it made my determination to survive that much stronger. I wasn't going to end up like the refreshments at the party, like the girl hanging in chains with her throat ripped out. One way or another I was going to survive this and I was going to be stronger for it.
I did a lot of hard thinking and desperate acting during the two weeks that Spike was gone and I was alone with Drusilla. There were times when I felt like I'd found a new best friend and times I thought that my new best friend was going to rip my head from my shoulders.
To say that Dru was hard to get along with is like saying that jeans with those little appliqués sewn on them probably should never come back into style - each a masterpiece of understatement. Sorry, appliqués are a pet peeve of mine. You should have seen the number of them on the peach bridesmaid dress. Half made me glad to have been kidnapped if it meant I wouldn't have to wear that thing in public.
What I mean is that walking over acres of eggshells is easier than trying to get along with Drusilla, trying to guess her moods, knowing how to behave at any given time, trying to guess what might set her off.
Frankly, I'm surprised to have made it through with only the one scar to show for it. It's this little one here in my right eyebrow. Doesn't look like much now, thought I was going to lose the eye at the time.
Oh, you want more specifics about it? Well, at first it wasn't too bad. As long as I kept my mouth shut and let her push me around, dress me up and pet me like a dog, I seemed to do okay. But as the days went by, she got stranger and stranger, more mercurial, less, well, sane.
A typical day during that first week? I don't really remember a lot of the specifics - I was pretty weak still from the blood loss. Spike had drained a lot and when I woke up, curled up on a rug in the floor at the foot of Drusilla's bed, I had a fresh bite on my neck, so I guess Dru had had some too.
Not too long after sunset, Drusilla would wake up. She'd kick me awake and unlock the chains holding me where I slept on a rug at the foot of her bed. She'd send me off back to my cell with one of the minions who would lock me in while I showered. When I was done, I would knock on the cell door and he'd, all the minions were males, hand me some clean clothes. Each night I had a new costume: French maid, punk whore, tavern wench, prom queen, little drummer boy, cheerleader. Frequently, they'd be clothes last worn a night or two ago by whomever had been dinner.
I never let myself think too much about where the clothes had come from and why there was a never-ending supply of them. I did wonder, however, why, if there were all these clothes available, Spike had brought me only his own clothes (except the panties and shoes) during the week I was recuperating from the whipping. I could only conclude that in some way he was keeping my presence a secret from Drusilla, waiting to see what state of mind she'd be in when she did remember me. But I can only speculate.
When I was returned, clean, dressed and made up, to Drusilla's frilly, girlish bedroom with its lace-covered canopy bed, she'd be dressed in one of her sumptuous white lace gowns, usually playing with one of the dolls from the shelf-full of china dolls she had. Sometimes she'd have her makeup on, sometimes she'd have me do it. (I'd figured out about the no reflection thing being true one day when Spike surprised me in the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth. That's a funny story; remind me to tell you sometime.) She'd put the collar and leash on me and lead me on my hands and knees into the main room.
I never did learn exactly how many rooms there were in that rabbit warren of a basement. There was my cell, the main room, Drusilla's room where Spike would sleep when he was there, but he had another room for his things, his television and stereo. There was a utility room with a washer and dryer and, presumably, there were rooms where the minions slept and did whatever they did when they weren't following Dru's orders. Dru kept me by her side all the time except for the half-hour each day that I was allowed for showering and so forth.
There had been upwards of twenty vampires at Spike's good-bye party, but only five were around day to day. First thing each evening she'd see them, get reports on what they'd been doing, tell them what to do that night. Mostly mundane things like getting rid of the bodies, cleaning up the dried blood, doing laundry - finding out who hadn't gotten the bloodstain out of her favorite dress, things like that.
At that time I didn't know why she never went out and hunted for herself, as far as I knew at that time, she never did. I learned later that she'd promised Spike not to leave. So she'd tell whoever was doing the grocery shopping (read catching and dragging the live meat back to lair) what she wanted for dinner. It seemed to me like a twisted version of the grand lady of the manor giving her servants their instructions. I mainly sat at her feet wearing my collar and leash and pretending to be invisible. Just the grand lady's lapdog. The other vampires ignored me unless she ordered them to do something or get something for me, which was just fine with me.
She wasn't too good at remembering to feed me. One time she'd have them bring me a plate of sliced lemons, other times it would be pomegranates or custard. Always just one thing and usually no more than once a day. I learned to eat whatever I was fed and be grateful for it.
After the minions had received their instructions and gone off to fulfill them, there would be a couple of hours when Drusilla and I would be alone. This was always a nerve-wracking time for me. If things were going well, all tasks performed to her satisfaction, no arguments between minions to be settled, Dru would either ignore me or play with me like a big doll. If things hadn't gone well, I would spend the next couple of hours huddled in a corner, protecting my face and ribs from vicious kicks as she paced, muttering to herself.
But this wasn't always the case. Sometimes she'd shrug off some minion's fuck-up and spend the evening having me do her nails and sometimes, even if things with the minions were going well and she was pleased with them, she'd turn on me, drive me into the corner with kicks and slaps, rail at me for crimes I'd not only never committed but that I didn't understand. Saying I'd put snakes in the woodshed, or that it was my fault that ants had ruined her picnic. I could only apologize over and over for things I hadn't done and do my best to be as small a target as possible.
The times I liked best were when she would tell me stories about the adventures she and Spike had had during the nearly one hundred years they'd been together. There was this one story about a town in California called Boca del something or another. It never did make any sense, but it sounded like they'd had a grand time fighting the demons that worked for an evil mayor, searching for something called a glaive. But then she'd get to the part about naming stars and moving castles and I'd lose track of the story. Somehow the glaive did these things or helped her do them, she'd start singing a song about crutches and chameleons and caricatures (and she really couldn't sing at all) and go off into some other world. I'd just be quiet and wait for her to come back.
A couple of times she started to tell me about something that happened in Seville in Spain, but she would always break off, saying, "Spike doesn't like me to tell that one."
But her favorite story was when Spike killed something called a slayer in China around the turn of the century. One night, when she was in a particularly good mood and I was gently brushing her long black hair, I asked her what a slayer was.
"Slayers," she said, grinning a particularly malevolent grin, "Slayers are what Spike likes to kill."
"Are they, like, uh, vampire hunters? People who try to kill vampires?" I asked. Trying to have a conversation with Drusilla was like algebra to me. It made a weird sort of sense up to a point and then I'd get lost. Okay, I never said I was a genius. Barbie was right; math is hard.
"Only one, a Chosen One, then, snicker-snack," she gestured abruptly, making violent scissor motions with her hands, "she's dead and there's another one. Pretty maids all in a row. My Spike is the gardener, snipping off their pretty heads so newer, prettier heads can grow. But, poor Spike, the prettiest of them will snip him." She gave me a sly, sidelong look, "Snip you too, if you're not careful."
Her voice trailed off and she got a very sad look on her face. To distract her, I asked, "The slayer is a girl?"
"Just a little girl, no older than you, Miss Sunday, but much less naughty." She reached up and gently removed the brush from my hand and guided me around to stand in front of her, then gestured to me to kneel. She brought my hand to her mouth. She ran her tongue along the back of it, then turned it over and licked my wrist. If it's quiet and you listen carefully you can hear it when their faces change. A soft crunching noise, like rubber stretched tight and moved against another tight piece of rubber. The sound you'd imagine shifting bones and muscles would make. Her face changed and she bit into my wrist.
I sighed and melted with the pain. Weak with pleasure, I leaned my head into her lap; my other hand curled around one of her ankles, stroking it tentatively. When she didn't kick my hand away, it got bolder, stealing up her leg under her dress to caress her smooth white thigh. Her soft sweet sucking on my wrist paused for a second then continued, which I took to be tacit permission to go on doing what I was doing.
My heart in my throat, I raised my head from her lap and reached for the smooth skin at the apex of her thighs. Her legs parted, allowing me to gently trace the line of her hairless slit. I had never felt skin so smooth and soft and perfectly cool. Applying just a little more pressure, I parted her and found the little swelling bump. I wiggled my finger tentatively. Her thighs parted a little more and she sucked a little more strongly on my wrist as I gently rubbed her.
She detached her teeth from my wrist and licked the wound. I had noticed that when they licked my bites or other wounds, the blood would clot faster and they'd stop bleeding almost immediately. Pushing me away for a moment, she daintily raised her white skirts and spread her legs wider. She reached out for me, grabbing the back of my head and forcing my face into her pussy, clutching and pulling at my hair. I took as deep a breath as I could, seeing as I was face down in her wet flesh, closed my eyes and started licking.
The taste wasn't unfamiliar or even particularly unpleasant to me. I had curiously tasted my own excretions on occasion and she didn't taste all that different. I used my hands to open her, as I remembered Spike had done to me. In fact, I tried to reenact on Dru what he'd performed on me. Only gentler at first, tongue only, no teeth. I sucked on her clitoris, lashing it with my tongue then sliding it down to lick at her entrance, thrusting it in as far as possible. Rolling my eyes up I stole a glance at her face.
Rather than looking happy or like she was enjoying it, she had a look of frustration on her face. She shoved her hips harder at my face, grinding my face harder against her. Experimentally, I took her clit gently between my teeth and nipped it. She gasped and stilled then, as if asking for more, opened her legs even wider. I began to nibble on it and then moved a hand to her weeping hole. As I began to bite her a little harder, I pushed a finger into her, then another, pumping them in and out of her.
She began chanting in a guttural voice, 'Yeah, yeah, yeah. Harder, harder." Scraping my teeth over her clit, sucking it hard, I added a third finger and, unbelievably, a fourth. Her cunt seemed to suck on my hand, drawing it in deeper and deeper. Just to see what would happen, I carefully inserted my thumb along with my four fingers and pushed. With almost a gulp, her pussy swallowed my hand whole, the strong muscles at the entrance strangling my wrist.
Her hands left my hair and I stole another upwards glance. She was playing with her tits, scratching them with her long black nails, twisting her nipples, pulling them. She was gasping and emitting small squeals and yelps. She seemed well on her way and the last thing I wanted to do was frustrate or delay her, so, as I continued to chew and suck her clit, I rotated my hand inside her, flexing my fingers, scratching at the walls of her cunt. I could feel the muscles rippling and spasming around my hand as she started to come. I thought she would break my wrist, but I continued to lick and bite and suck, doing it gradually more gently as her body slowly relaxed. Finally I was able to wiggle my hand free with a little slurping pop.
I leaned back on my heels, breathing deeply. I had a dark purple ring of bruises around my wrist and my mouth was numb from all the sucking and licking. Sitting up in her chair, Drusilla reached out and took my wet hand, brought it to her mouth and licked it clean like a big contented cat.
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