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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.
After the blood transfusion, my recovery had been remarkably quick. Quick enough, that within a few days, here I was down on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the main room for Drusilla's party. I never appreciated the minions enough, I grumbled to myself, sneezing as the remains of one or more of them blew up my nose. This was the last chore to be done before the decorating.
For days I'd been at the cleaning and I was finally beginning to think of the things I should have said to my mother during my brief freedom, rather than choking and hanging up the phone. There may have been a few awkward questions when I got home, but at least we'd had a cleaning lady. Of course you never think about these things until it's way too late.
And, the most aggravating thing of all, I'd swear Spike was avoiding me. He only ever spoke to me to pass on more of Dru's orders then he'd go back to the cell to be with her. Drusilla I never saw at all.
They were keeping strictly to themselves, not even going out to hunt, although Spike would go out on other mysterious errands, coming home with bundles he'd immediately hide away. From the trash I'd hauled out to the curb, I could tell he'd gotten way more blood than he had used for my transfusion when he'd raided the blood bank. If they could drink blood bank blood, why did they kill people, I wondered. I filed it away in my mind as #343 on my list of questions about vampires
Occasionally I'd hear their voices raised in argument. Oddly, from the tone (I could never hear their actual words), Spike seemed to be the one who was upset. Dru would only raise her voice to be heard over his shouting. Then all would be quiet again.
So I guess you're asking yourself, if you were so unhappy, if they were ignoring you, why didn't you just pick up and leave again? Good damn question. I think it was because of the party. I was supposed to be the guest of honor and I was absolutely eaten alive with curiosity about what that meant. Plus, it would have been rude. Some childhood training you have to die to get over.
Oi! Waitress! More coffee and dump this ashtray if you're sure it won't cut into your standing around time.
Had nothing to do with Spike, if that's what you're thinking. And speaking of rude, you should try keeping your scoffs to yourself. Where was I?
Oh yeah, but in the time between my recuperation and the party I had had dresses to iron, trash to haul, chains to polish and this floor still to finish scrubbing. It was late afternoon and the party was tonight.
***
I hear Spike's footsteps coming towards me from the hall. I straighten up, drag a sleeve across my sweaty face and wait for the next asinine and exhausting order. I guess I should never have told him I wasn't his maid. Sure way to get him to hafta prove me wrong. Only person I know stubborner than me.
"Couple hours till the party" he says, not meeting my eyes. "Clothes she wants you to wear are on the bed." (Oh no, what ridiculous costume this time, I'm thinking). "Go get cleaned up and dressed but don't come out until I come get you. Might be awhile."
I stand wearily, throw the brush I was using on the floor into the bucket of dirty water and strip off my rubber gloves. If he won't look at me, I think, I won't look at him. I walk towards the bedroom, knocking his shoulder as I pass, slapping the wet gloves against his chest and letting go of them. He traps them against his body rather than allowing them fall on the clean floor.
"Oh, and Sunday," he calls after me, "She wants you to, ah, to shave your, um, quim." He mumbles the last word.
"My what?" I spin around to look at him; he's looking at the floor.
'Your, uh," he gestures vaguely with the hand holding the gloves, "down there."
Boy, you can take the vampire out of the Victorian era but you can't completely take the Victorian out of the vampire.
"Guess I'm kinda stupid," I say archly, enjoying his uncharacteristic embarrassment. "Better spell it out for me."
That gets a rise out of him. He throws the gloves into the bucket, sloshing dirty water on my nice clean floor. His eyes are blazing, mouth snarling. In two long strides he's got me with my back against the wall and he's growling in my ear, "Your C-U-N-T. Your pussy, your snatch," he pops the button on my jeans, slides the zipper down, "your box, your hole, your slit," and shoves his hand inside.
"Your snapper, your twat, your gash," his voice softening, becoming deeper, caressing. "Your cunny, your punaani," his fingers are sliding along my wetness, "su concha, la vostre fica." He pulls his head back to watch my face as he slides first one finger into me then another, "ta chatte." He's grinding the heel of his hand against my clit as he fucks me with his fingers. "Ta moule, ton con," his other hand is pinning me to the wall which is handy because my knees are buckling.
He continues to whisper but I can no longer make any sense of what he's saying, only that it's French, I'm about to come and his deep voice is just one more electric current of sensation brushing over me, through me….
I can't believe it when he pulls his hand away just as I'm about to come. Well actually, yeah, I can believe it, but it still pisses me off. It takes me a few seconds to snap out of it and by that time he's halfway down the hall and I'm halfway down the wall. "Va te faire foutre!" I yell after him, rather proud that I can remember enough French to tell him to go get fucked. All I hear is his laughter, cut off when he shuts the cell door. I stomp to Dru's old bedroom just off the main room, which has become mine by default and slam the door. "Merde," I say. I lean back against the closed door and kick it a few times for emphasis.
***
The bedroom, as well as the bathroom, was steamy and damp when I got out of the shower, shaved as per instructions (and let me tell you, it felt damned odd). Reason #587 not to live with vampires, I thought. There are never any windows to open. I cracked the door to let out some of the steam.
I could hear all sorts of interesting bumping and cursing going on in the main room and I was tempted to peek but before I had a chance to, the door was shut firmly from the outside and I heard a key turning in the lock.
Thwarted, I plopped down on the bed and brushed my hair until it was dry and shining, rippling with a natural wave. All right, so I'm kind of vain about my hair. I'd just touched up the color the night before so the blonde was bright and fresh. Having no instructions to the contrary, I gave it a slightly off-center part and left it down.
Along with the clothes, Spike had left a small quilted bag that held make-up and some pieces of silver and garnet jewelry. I applied the make-up and began to dress, still trying to identify the noises coming from the main room.
***
I'm fighting with a particularly recalcitrant article of clothing when I hear the key in the lock and Spike walks in, holding a small black fabric bundle. I cross my arms over my chest and snap, "There's such a thing a knocking."
He sets the bundle down on the top of the chest of drawers. "Thought you might need some help with that and Dru's busy gettin' herself all done up before we go out tonight," he says. He spins me around, moves my hair to hang out of the way over my left shoulder and in a no-nonsense manner begins pulling at the laces that run up the back of the shiny black patent leather bustier kind of thing I'd been struggling with. Although I don't know if you can call it a bustier if it has nothing whatsoever that covers your bust. Maybe you just call it a corset.
"Deep breath," he says before I can ask where we're going and I hold onto the air I'd sucked in to ask. He pulls the laces so tight I feel like I'm going to be pinched into two halves. He ties them off and turns me towards the full-length pier glass in the corner (#45 on the vampire question list - why do they even have mirrors?). I see myself, but of course I can't see him. I still have my arms up hiding my breasts. He reaches around me, takes my wrists and gently, but irresistibly pulls my arms down and away from my body. In the mirror it looks like I'm moving them myself.
"Look at yourself," he commands. "Really look at yourself." The corset has cinched my waist to an amazing slenderness while emphasizing the flare of my hips and making me stand very straight. My hair hides my left breast, but the right one is bare. Black leather covers my torso from just under my breasts to halfway down my hips. Beneath that a multi-layered skirt of gauzy sheer black fabric covers my legs nearly to the ankle. He releases my wrists but I don't put my arms up again.
Running his hands down my body, he rests them on my hips. With just his fingers he teases back the fragile material of the skirt just far enough to reveal the slit that runs from the hem to the waist. Through the slit I can see a long length of leg in black silk stockings, topped with a flash of white thigh. The black shoes have the highest of stiletto heels and sharply pointed toes. The fuck-me-est of come-fuck-me pumps. The room is small enough that he can turn and retrieve the bag of jewelry from where I'd left it on the bed while still keeping one hand on my hip. He pulls an earring from it.
It's the eeriest thing I've ever seen. When he's holding the earring, it doesn't reflect in the mirror until my body is between it and him, then it shimmers into view and seems to float. My hair also appears to move itself as, with one hand, he brushes it aside and carefully threads the wire of the long, vintage-looking garnet and silver earring through the hole in the lobe of my ear. The eeriness doesn't lessen when he repeats his actions with the other earring. Pushing gently from behind, he moves me even closer to the mirror - close enough that I can no longer see all of me, just my face. He draws my hair away from my face and up off my neck. He caresses my bare breast with his other hand. "Look at yourself and remember," he breathes into my ear. "This is how you will always be."
All the little hairs on the back of my neck and along my arms stand on end. I try to turn around to look at him, to see his expression, but his firm hand in my hair won't let me turn my head. "Look into your eyes and remember what color they are. Look at the shape of your mouth, the fullness of your lips. Remember it. See the slender length of your neck, the delicate curve of your ear. After tonight, whatever part of you you need a mirror to see, you will never see again. So remember it well because it will never change."
The dark silver-gray eye shadow, black eyeliner and mascara make my eyes look huge and the ivory foundation matches the new paleness of my skin. The dark red lipstick is almost exactly the same color as the garnets in the earrings. Beneath the make-up I can see how the planes of my face have become more refined, less child-like in just the time I've been with them. The bones a little sharper and more defined. "This is how I'm going to look forever?" I whisper to myself.
"Forever," he says, his hand dipping under my skirt to stroke my smooth-shaven mound. "But first you have to die."
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