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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.
An old yellow cab screamed up to the curb and disgorged four loud middle-aged women wearing too much make-up and perfume and clothes way too young for them. They looked like our mothers or what we could grow up to become. Picturing myself like them made my determination to escape that possible future all the more desperate. Their raucous laughter screeched in my ears as I fought through them to grab the taxi. "CBGB's," I told the driver. He gave me a "why would a nice girl like you want to go there" look but headed downtown.
I thought about what I was wearing. I must have known that I might want to ditch the girls and do some exploring on my own. I was the only one of the foursome to insist on wearing jeans and sneakers and a plain white t-shirt. Debbie had been adamant about doing my black hair like hers, but in the cab I rumpled it up, the heavy hairspray she'd used making it stay in crazy rattails and odd spikes. I pulled out the black eyeliner and dark red lipstick I had stashed in my back pocket and did the best I could in the bouncing car. If the liner went on a little jagged and thick, all the better. Taking the sharp nail file from the other back pocket, I used it to gash some strategic holes and rips in the t-shirt. I'm sure I looked exactly like what I was - a stupid girl from the suburbs slumming for a cheap thrill. But at the time I thought I'd pass.
The cab entered the Lower East Side and the Bowery and stopped in front of the club. The torn and dirty white awning over the entrance said "CBGB - OMFUG." There was a small crowd out front and I couldn't hear any music - just voices raised in loud conversation as the people milled about catching a breath between sets. I had no idea who was playing, probably hadn't heard of them anyway. I just wanted something different; something rough, not slick; something that would grab me and yank the good quiet bookish girl right out of me. My stomach in my mouth, I paid the driver, stepped out - and promptly tripped over the curb.
Praying that no one was watching, I hauled myself upright. No such luck. Applause, laughter and catcalls followed me as I ducked towards the club door. In a wild, reckless, if you can't beat them join them attempt to outface the embarrassment, I laughed myself and gave them all a pair of stiff middle fingers. Both my knees were bloody and my jeans were torn. As I turned to bow to my audience, still backing towards the door, I bumped into someone. Great, I thought, Queen Clutz strikes again.
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