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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.
Oh, I'm not laughing at you, although I probably should be. You really ought to close your mouth. Something might fly in. Spike had much the same expression at the time. No, I'm laughing at myself. What a melodramatic load of horseshit.
***
"Dead," I say. "If I can't be with you, I want you to kill me. But make it special."
It is such a serious moment, fraught with consequences, life and death decisions, all that, but the pole-axed look on his face sends me off into peals of laughter. Albeit hysterical laughter. Call it my way of coping with stress. It is so obviously not the answer he'd expected. Laughing gets my blood moving again, kicks my brain into gear.
My laughter is cut short when he grabs the leash, pulling my face close to his. I hear the rubber-on-rubber crunch as it changes, brow ridging, teeth growing. Even he sounds a little Godfather-y trying to talk around them.
"I'm serious, girl! Offering you a choice I never had; a fully informed choice. Never been offered to anyone else, far as I know."
"Oh, cool your jets! You just looked so surprised, is all, and I guess I'm a little overwrought. I have a lot more questions before I can make a final decision." He'd said that my only two choices were to be made into a vampire and be immediately abandoned or to be killed. Just because I'd rather be killed than be abandoned doesn't mean that I won't try to find a third option. I've always been partial to the "none of the above" box on multiple choice tests.
He relaxes his hold on my leash but doesn't let it go and shakes his demon face off. "I don't imagine you've ever seen yourself when you look like that," I say. "It's really not good PR for recruiting new vampires."
"Think you'll find your perception of it changes, once you're one of us. Dru's just as beautiful to me whichever face she wears. But you're right, never have seen myself like that. That bad, is it?"
"Well, I guess not. Not once you've gotten used it. I sometimes don't even notice anymore. But it doesn't exactly make me want to look like that."
"Won't have to see yourself, so it won't be a problem."
'But I'll know I look like that. Will I look that way all the time at first? Like the minions?"
"Depends. Lot depends on how a vamp is made. Whether the vamp making it gives it a lot of blood, whether they've a natural talent for it. Some get stuck in game face for as long as they're around, which doesn't tend to be for very long; some can switch back and forth right away."
"So say I said I wanted to become a vampire. How exactly does it work?"
Spike leans back on his elbow across the width of the bed, relaxing into the role of teacher, "Not that complicated, love. I drain you to the point of death then you drink some of my blood."
"But by that time, won't most of your blood be mine?"
"Something happens to it as soon as I drink it, it gets…infected, or something. Demon gets in it and then when you drink it, the demon gets into you. All there is to it, really."
"And the more demony blood I drink, the more control I have?"
"And the stronger you'll be, and the more like your old self."
"Huh, that's weird. Woulda thought the more demon blood, the more I'd be all 'Grr' all the time."
"Haven't really given it much thought. Guess maybe the demon wants the vamp that's got more of it in 'em to stick around a little longer, make more vamps. All I can say is, best thing that ever happened to me. Got Dru, got some stones, all 'n one swoop."
"But you don't want to make me into one."
"Not that so much as
I don't want to make you and leave you which is what Dru said she saw in her
vision. Just seems like a rotten trick to play on you." He looks down at
his hands, which are still playing with the loop on the end of my leash.
"And killing me isn't?" I say this more teasingly than indignantly.
"Anyway, this leaving me behind thing, is it absolutely non-negotiable?
Did she tell you exactly what she saw in her vision? Maybe there's some way
we can work around it. I mean, I thought she liked me and if we can explain
her vision to her in such a way that…."
He interrupts me, "What do you think I've been trying to do for the past week? Turned it this way and that. Put every spin on it I could think of. She's determined: I turn you into a vampire and before you wake up, she and I leave for Rome."
"Does she see anything that happens after that? Like, um, say I meet you there, or you swing back through New York and look me up after you're done visiting Darla. Or does her vision tell her that you'll never see me again?" There are reasons why I had been the captain of my high school debating team.
He looks thoughtful for a moment, staring off at the wall behind me, then shakes his head and answers the important question; the one I haven't quite asked, "No, choosing to become a vampire isn't something you should do just to stay with me." He looks up into my eyes; his seem tender and rueful. "I know how you feel, love, and I'm fond of you, I am, but Drusilla's my all, my guiding star, the goddess I'll worship until I'm dust at her feet. You might think that you can live with that, but you'll come to resent her, to resent my feelings for her. And she'll come to resent you. That's just the way things are. The way women are - vampire or human."
My own eyes fill with tears. I hold them wide open, hoping the tears will stop and not flow down my face, but soon they spill over, streaking down my cheeks. He reaches up to catch one with his thumb as he cradles my face in his hand. There's truth in his words that I have to acknowledge to myself. I'm already feeling resentful of Drusilla and the way she monopolizes all his attention. I have to admit to myself that however much I tell myself I'm cool with it, living with the two of them and always being second choice would become intolerable. Using the leash, he pulls me down to him and lets me cry it out, stroking my hair and murmuring endearments.
Finally I've cried all I can. The front of his shirt is a blubbery mess of tears and snot and my head feels like it's the size of the Goodyear blimp. Slowly I sit up and hide my face in the folds of my gauzy black skirt, wiping away the smeared make-up and wetness.
"If I would still rather die, how would you do it?" I ask; the question muffled by the cloth I'm holding to my face, hiding behind. "Strangle me? Rip me to pieces? Just drain me dry?"
"Hadn't really thought about it. Kind of odd, that. Well, can't say I haven't thought about strangling you when you've smarted off one too many times."
"Threatened to rip my throat out once," I remind him with a watery giggle.
"And well you deserved it, scheming little baggage. Suggesting that I lie to Dru," he says with mock indignation.
"Well, aren't you suggesting that now?"
"Different now, innit?"
"How so?" I raise my eyes from my skirt. "Exactly why is it different now?"
He looks uncomfortable, like he can't quite verbalize why it's different now, "Just is. Told you I was fond." I sort of enjoy his embarrassment, as well as his reiteration of his feelings for me. Might be a city girl, but I can fish with the best of them.
"When did this happen?"
"Don't know. You just grow on a bloke. Got used to having you around, helping out with Dru."
"Being available for a quick poke any time the mood struck?"
He smiles at this, "Yeah, that too. You're not too bad for bein' a beginner and human an' all."
"Was it hard to restrain yourself, not do too much damage to me?"
"What're you gettin' at?" He looks at me sharply.
"What would you do to me if you didn't have to worry about hurting me? If it didn't matter if you went too far?" I return his stare; I don't want him to think for a second that I'm not being completely serious.
Spike has one of those faces that you can see every thought on. He has an instant's reaction of disbelief, of wondering how I can be asking him such a question but as he continues to think about it, I can see that the idea appeals to him, appeals to his demon. His eyes go all sort of far away. I wonder if he's thought about this, fantasized about it before. Stopped himself from doing something to me that he wanted to because the damage might be lethal or irreversible.
"Never actually fucked anyone to death. Be interestin' to try."
His eyes gleam as he looks me up and down, taking in the darkness of my nipples revealed by the black lace of my brief shirt, my narrow waist, cinched in small by the corset, the pulse beating furiously in my throat. He moves in closer to smell the arousal his words have stirred in me. He slides a hand up one of my exposed thighs.
This tips the scales. If I can't live with him, with the excitement his very presence stirs in me, I don't want to live at all. I've come full circle, back to where I began when he first told me of my two possible fates.
"Do it, then. Fuck me to death."
His expression is gleeful. Like a kid unexpectedly left alone in an unattended candy store, he starts grabbing the sweets right there and then. Pulling my legs apart and pushing my skirts up, he buries his face between my thighs, rubbing his sharp chin against my newly shaven and exposed mound. The skin is so sensitive there that I can feel the slightest prickle of his stubble, although I've never seen him shave or have any kind of discernable beard. He attacks me with his mouth as if I'm the most appetizing of dishes and he's a starving man; prying me open with his fingers so he can suck my clit deep into this mouth, closing his teeth over it and tugging on it, scraping it between them.
He brings me to a quick hard orgasm, but gives me no time to rest or recover before he has his jeans shoved down and is on top of me, fucking me hard and fast, his teeth tearing the lace of my shirt to fasten onto a nipple. He slams into me harder than he ever has before, driving my head into the iron bars at the head of the bed, bruising me from both ends. My head is forced into an impossible angle and each thrust slamming me into the headboard twists it more.
Somehow having my neck accidentally broken during the first go 'round isn't exactly what I'd had in mind when I'd imagined being fucked to death so I grab a handful of his hair, pull his head up off my breast and say, "Move down, you're hurting my head." It takes him a moment to understand what I'm talking about, but when realization dawns, rather than just scooting us down, as I'd meant for him to do, he pulls out of me completely, gets off the bed, pulls up his pants and scoops me up into his arms.
He carries me into the main room and puts me down on the top of the coffin. He goes to the wall where Sidney's body is still manacled, unchains it, gives it a few kicks as it lies on the floor then drags it out of the room, muttering to it, "Pillock, not only did you ruin Dru's party, you ruined a perfectly brilliant band. Stupid sod. Prat."
I wait for him, pussy throbbing, silently urging him to hurry back to me. When he comes back from disposing of Sidney, he goes into the bedroom and emerges with my shoes - the black patent leather stiletto-heeled fuck-me-pumps. He comes over to me and carefully fits the shoes on my feet. Taking my hands, he pulls me up and over to the where the chains hang on the wall. He puts my hands into the steel manacles and adjusts the chains so that I'm stretched out full length - one taut thrumming guitar string of flesh quivering to know what melody will be played upon it next.
He rips off the lace shirt and the skirt, leaving me in only the high-heeled shoes, black silk thigh-hi stockings and black leather corset. I must look like a blonde Betty Page, I think. Taking a small key from his pocket, he unlocks and removes the collar, symbolically freeing me, making me responsible for my choice. He places little sucking, biting kisses on my neck. I close my eyes, rolling my head back and to the side to give him better access. With surprisingly gentle teeth he worries the sensitive area where my neck meets my shoulder as he also gently kneads one of my breasts, teasing the nipple to further erectness before pinching it hard, giving it a sharp twist.
He trails his tongue up my neck to my mouth and kisses me deeply, holding my face between his hands, pressing his body against mine, rubbing his engorged cock against me, the rough denim scratching my bare skin. In these heels I'm nearly as tall as he is. His tongue makes a leisurely inventory of my mouth - my teeth, tongue, palate. I suck on it, pulling it as deeply into my mouth as I can, nipping it with my teeth, tangling my tongue with his, chasing it as it retreats and he sucks on my tongue in turn.
I can taste the tobacco of his last cigarette, the sharpness of the gin shot he'd thrown back at the underground club. I concentrate on these flavors, memorizing them, savoring them. If this is going to be my last kiss before I die, I want to pay attention. I want to pay attention to everything - make it good, make it last, make it something worth dying for. I trust him to do that for me. Tears are leaking out from under my closed eyelids as I kiss him, as he kisses me and I have an emptiness inside of me that I need him to fill.
He breaks the kiss gently and thumbs the tears from my face. "Hush now, sweetheart, no tears. Can't have my special girl crying when she dies."
Dutifully, I choke back my sobs and force a weak smile, "I guess this is the place where I make some sort of smart-assed remark. Sorry I can't think of one just now." I manage to keep most of the quaver out of my voice.
"'S'all right, love, we'll just take it as read." He stands back a little ways from me, still within arms reach, and runs his hands down my neck, over my chest and breasts, over the leather covering my waist and hips before finishing off with a quick stroke on my bare mound. "I think these beautiful breasts need some color," he says, cupping them in his hands and looking at them appraisingly, his head cocked to the side. "Maybe some red stripes."
I shiver with anticipation as he strips off his shirt before going to the trunk that holds the 'toys.' He pulls out the riding crop that Dru used on me the night I stole his lighter. He trails the flapping leather tab on its end down my neck to my breasts, teasing my nipples with it. "Want a last cigarette, a blindfold?" he asks with a wicked grin.
I smile at his firing squad joke but reply seriously, "No, I want to see it. I want to see everything, feel everything." My breathing is already fast and shallow, my heart speeding up, my pulse pounding. I don't even blink for fear that I might miss something. I hold my breath as he pulls his arm back to swing the crop at me, watching his lean muscles flex and ripple beneath his smooth white skin.
The first blow lands across the top of my breasts, leaving a bright red welt, but not breaking the skin. I let my breath out and concentrate on the stinging pain. I look up at him. He's got a look in his eyes of, well; I would almost describe it as concern. As if he's giving me yet another opportunity to change my mind. I only nod and he hits me again, this time catching my left nipple, the end of the crop snapping it, making it jerk and bob. This blow brings fresh tears to my eyes and a new surge of warmth and moisture between my legs. My knees weaken for a second before I steady myself on my precarious stiletto heels.
He doesn't wait for me to signal him again, but rains blow after blow across my tits, really getting into it, aiming primarily at my nipples but liberally striping the whole area with bright red lines, more than a few of them oozing small drops or a trickle of blood. The pain of each individual blow is subsumed by the overall pain and throbbing. My breasts feel unnaturally big, as if they're the largest part of my body, followed by my cunt, which is throbbing in sympathy for and in envy of the attention being lavished on my tits.
Tucking the crop under his arm, Spike leans over me to lick up the blood before kicking my feet farther apart. He runs the crop up the inside of first one thigh and then the other before dragging the tip of it along my slit, slapping me there gently with the tab at the end of it, then more forcefully. From the tingle I can tell that the freshly bare skin must be getting pink. He steps back and swings again, the crop striking me across the tops of my thighs. Between each blow he looks into my eyes, as if to ask if it's all right, if I want him to stop, telling me that he will, even though he really doesn't want to. Wordlessly I tell him more, I want more and he delivers, striping me again and again across my legs, the stockings offering no protection as they're quickly shredded, angling the crop to catch the sensitive skin of my inner thighs or across my bare mons.
He changes his grip on the crop; holding it in a one-handed under-hand grip as if it's a croquet mallet, ready to sweep it up and directly into me. He hesitates, takes his permission from my eyes and swings his arm back then forwards. When the crop slashes into me, I'm so wet that I imagine I can hear the splash. The pain washes over me in something so closely resembling an orgasm as makes no difference, leaving me spasming and weak-kneed, hanging from the manacles. I concentrate on the pain of them biting into my wrists as a way to steady myself. I unwobble my knees and get my feet planted more firmly beneath me, in an even wider stance, and nod to him to do it again.
Up to this point I haven't made a sound other than the odd gasp. I don't want to wake Drusilla who is still passed out on the fainting couch at the other end of the room. Also, silence seems more appropriate to the seriousness of the occasion. Makes it seem both more real and more unreal, more ritualistic. But when the next blow hits me, a scream rips itself from my throat. My wider stance has opened me even farther and the riding crop hits me precisely along my openness, splitting the skin.
I feel the hot blood trickling down my thighs, mixing with my other juices. Spike tosses the crop aside and falls to his knees in front of me, leaning in to catch the blood on his tongue as it flows out of me. He licks it from my legs, following it up to its source. Holding me open, he burrows into me licking and biting, his rough tongue stimulating the split skin to continue to bleed freely. He drags his tongue all along my slit over and over, scooping up the blood and wetness. I'm bucking my hips against his face, unable to hold still. Finally he settles his mouth over my clit and I can feel his face change against me right before he sinks his fangs into me, doing what I'd begged of him so many long weeks ago - drinking from me from there.
I grab the chains above the manacles to keep myself upright while he satisfies our mutual bloodlust - his lust to consume my blood, my lust to give him anything and everything of me he wants, including all my blood, all my life.
One orgasm after another ripples through me, pumping the blood out of me and into his sucking mouth. The already dim candlelight recedes further as dark shadows chase themselves across my vision. I no longer have the strength to hold onto the chains and my fingers loosen, leaving me to hang by my wrists until Spike catches me around the hips and lifts me just enough to take the pressure off. Despite my efforts to keep them open, my eyelids flutter closed. Is this it? I wonder. Am I dying?
Not yet, apparently. When I come to, I'm lying on top of the coffin. Spike has removed the breath-constricting corset and is squatting beside me, trying to get me to drink some water. "There you are," he says. "Don't think you're getting away from me so easily. How can you get fucked to death when I haven't even really fucked you yet?"
I have a curious metallic taste in my mouth - the taste of blood. I look up at him accusingly, while gulping the water he holds to my mouth. As soon as I've drunk it all, I say, "You gave me your blood."
"Not enough to turn you, just to revive you a little. You weren't close enough to death for it to have made you into one of us. If you were going to be a vampire, you'd be dead right now and Dru and I would be on our way to Rome."
I lift my head a little and peer across the dim room. Dru is still lying motionless on the couch at the far end. "What were you going to do, carry her the whole way?"
He laughs. "Must be feeling better. Don't think you've been disrespectful to me for a whole hour, hour and a half."
He leans forward to kiss my forehead just as I decide to sit up. We smack heads painfully. "Ow," I say, holding my forehead, as, at the same time he says,
"Bloody hell!" He snakes his tongue out to feel where his lip has been split by its collision with my head.
"Figures," I say, sitting up the rest of the way. "I can't even die without it becoming a freakin' slapstick routine."
His fingertips smooth over the knot growing on my forehead, "I am going to miss you," he says, smiling up at me. His touch becomes more caressing, following the curve of my eyebrow, the line of my cheekbone, tracing the outline of my lips. I open my mouth to taste his thumb. Even his gentle touch on my face makes me want him.
With my hands finally free, I can touch him and I do. I echo the caresses he's given me, running my fingers along the sweep of his brows, starting in the center and moving outwards, feeling the difference the scar makes in his left eyebrow. Bringing the touch around to circle his eyes, I run my fingers over his sharp cheekbones in towards his nose. I run my two index fingers side by side down his hawkish nose to trace his full lips. I wipe away a small drop of blood from his split lip and bring my finger up to my mouth to slowly lick it clean.
"Stand up," I say, looking down into his eyes. He rises fluidly from his crouching position. I slide to my feet from the top of the coffin and move to stand behind him, still wearing the shredded black stockings and high-heeled shoes. He tries to turn to face me, but I stop him, "Hold still," I command and, amazingly, he does.
I circle around him, drinking him in with my eyes. I can never get enough of his cold white beauty. So much energy and strength and grace packaged so compactly, so flawlessly. "Take the rest of your clothes off, I want to see all of you." I feel weirdly powerful as he obeys me and shucks his boots and jeans. I continue to walk around him, taking in every detail - the hollows on the sides of his hips, the flat pinkish nipples, his broad shoulders and tender neck with its Adam's apple that had so mesmerized me, the place at the nape of his neck where his hair grows in a perfect ducktail.
I move closer, raising my hand to touch him with just the tip of my index finger, running it lightly from the hollow in the nape of his neck, down his spine and along the separation of his buttocks. His skin twitches under my finger like a horse shuddering off a fly. Hm, he's ticklish, I think. I turn my finger so that I'm only touching him with the edge of my long fingernail. I draw circles with it on the firm flesh of his ass, pressing hard enough to create a brief red line to mark the white. His skin continues to shiver and twitch and peering around him, I can see his half-hard cock swell and start to rise.
I continue to tease him with the edge of my nail, dragging it around his waist as I move in front of him to circle it around his navel and up his chest to tease his nipples. I bring my other hand into play and pinch both of his nipples lightly, and again, teasingly. Then a little harder, digging my nails in a bit as I pinch them then dragging all ten of my sharp fingernails down his chest, following the curve of the muscles of his lower abdomen towards his crotch, raking the white flesh hard, leaving red lines that don't fade away immediately. His cock is fully hard now and lying flat against his stomach with that funny little bend to the left I've noticed before. An imperfection, like the scar in his eyebrow, that makes him all the more attractive.
He decides he's let me control the situation long enough. With a growl deep in his throat, he grabs my hair and forces me to my knees in front of him. With his other hand he shoves his cock into my open and willing mouth, fucking it roughly, deeply, stabbing the back of my throat, making me gag. Using my hair as a handle he jerks my head back and forth as I close my mouth around him, creating the friction and suction he's craving, doing my best to keep up, to keep breathing.
Ripping himself out my mouth, still holding me by the hair he turns me around and forces me to bend over the coffin lid. He kicks my legs apart and roughly enters me from behind, using my hair as reins to control me as he slams into me hard and fast. I'm grabbing the far edge of the coffin to hold myself steady, but he's too strong; he jerks my body back and forth, dragging my sore, whipped breasts across the velvet covering which rather than feeling soft, feels coarse and prickly to my over-sensitized flesh. In short order, the velvet has been pushed off the coffin and the rough unfinished wood is scraping against me.
I try to pay attention, to make note of each thing that happens to me but to this day I can still only remember the rest of it as a blur of pain and pleasure and seemingly impossible positions. Of him bending my body this way and that, never letting up on the pace and force of his thrusts, never letting me come down from the orgasms ripping through me one after another. Finally I'm ready.
"Do it," I gasp out, finding the breath from somewhere, my voice gravelly and hoarse from my more or less constant screaming. "Kill me now."
He flips me over onto my back on the coffin, covering me with his body, still pounding into me. He lets his demon's face show and it is just as beautiful as his other face but I only see it briefly before he bites into my neck with much more force and savagery than he has ever used before, ripping the wound wide open so that my blood pulses out of me with such force that if his mouth hadn't been there to catch it, it would have sprayed the room red. At the peak of one more endless climax as the light of the candles fades to gray, a darker shadow crosses before my unfocused eyes. I hear one last thing, Drusilla's musical voice,
"Spike darling, you're getting carried away again. Don't kill it quite yet."
"Here, let me help you," she says as she pulls Spike's head back away from my throat. There's a shiny flash of black and white across the skin of his neck, a blur of red and I smell the most tantalizing aroma.
Suddenly it's as if my vision and hearing have been sucked away and all my senses have coalesced into one - my sense of smell. The odor comes closer, comes close enough to taste and I open my mouth. My senses switch again as my mouth is filled with something that is all things good - everything that tastes good, everything that smells good, feels good, sounds good, looks good. It's everything nourishing and important: food, water, oxygen, pleasure, love, hate, revenge, evil, good, laughter, sadness, anticipation and ultimate satisfaction. I suck it in, suck it up, inhale it, bathe in it, roll in it, drown in it, fuck it, am fucked by it, come in it, make it come in me, make him come in me, over and over and over.
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