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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.
Red-faced I turned to apologize, nose to chest with a torn, sleeveless black t-shirt studded with safety pins. Can't be, I thought. But it was. I slowly looked up, same heavy chain and padlock, same sharp chin and full-lipped mouth. I tore my eyes away before they could meet the blue ones that had fascinated me on the train platform. Mumbling a belated apology, I ducked around him and into the dark, hot smelly club.
I could see that the stage was lit but empty as the bouncer checked my fake I.D. and took the cover charge, stamping my hand with a big black X. I fought through the crowd at the bar and ordered myself a beer. I wanted something stronger, but I also wanted to keep the amusing stumbles and bumps to a minimum. Some hope. Not a drop of the beer went into my mouth, it all went down the front of you know who's black, torn, safety-pinned t-shirt the minute I turned away from the bar. Jesus.
"What'd I ever do to you, you stupid cow?" he snarled, trying to brush some of the liquid off his shirt before it had a chance to soak in. Why don't earthquakes, fires and other natural disasters strike when you want them to? I'd have given anything for a small bomb to go off anywhere in the vicinity - anything to take his irritated blue eyes off of me so I could slink away in shame.
I muttered something, god knows what, and tried to get away, but while I was humiliating myself for the third time in about as many minutes, the band had come onto the stage and were getting ready to play. All the people from the street streamed into the club and to the bar, anxious to get another drink before the band really got going and it would be impossible for the bartender to hear their orders. I was pushed up against the wet, torn black t-shirt, completely unable to move in the press of hot bodies. A particularly strong bump from behind knocked me off my feet and he caught my elbows in strong hands while I struggled to get my feet back under me. His hands were surprisingly cool in the stifling heat.
Looking down at my flaming face, he started to laugh. "What say we get out of this crush, cutie," he said into my ear, cool breath tickling my ear. He grabbed my hand and, like an eel, he squirmed us through the crowd, down a hall with graffiti-covered walls and out the back door into a quiet, dank alley.
There were some wooden crates in the alley. He sat down and patted the one next to him, indicating that I should sit, too. This was a little more adventure than I had been looking for. I scanned the alley for other people, but we were alone. I was getting a little adrenalin rush, but wasn't yet spooked enough to bolt. He hadn't done anything to make me afraid and, indeed, he was taking the drink I'd spilled on him in quite good grace.
What's the worst that could happen? I thought. A little stand-up sex in a dark alley with a sexy Brit? Doesn't sound so bad. This was before AIDS had been heard of outside of the gay community, before herpes had become an epidemic and I was already on the pill. I almost felt that it was the least I could do for the guy. I sat down next to him, the crate teetering under my weight, threatening to dump me on the ground again. He caught my arm and quick as thought, pulled me into his lap.
"You're not safe to let go of," he said, laughing at me again.
I finally had had enough embarrassment and was getting mad. I struggled in his arms, trying to leap up and leave him. His arms tightened and my squirming was remarkably ineffective. He was having less trouble holding onto me than I would holding onto a week-old kitten. Well, I reminded myself, kittens have claws. I took my long sharp nails to his hands and arms, digging them in hard.
He stopped laughing. "Do it again," he breathed into my ear. Shocked, I stopped scratching and wiggling. I craned my head around to look at him. He had a slight smile on his face, full lips curling smugly and his eyes were heavy-lidded. I could feel something growing under my leg that hadn't been there before. My heart was beating quickly from something other than shame, fear or anger. He looked at me through his thick lashes and relaxed his hold on me. Not breaking the eye contact I dragged my nails back down his bare arms, leaving, I was sure, long red stripes on his white, white skin. His left hand moved down my side and over my thigh while his right hand came across my chest, over my breasts, reaching around to stroke the side of my neck closest to his face as I sat sideways on his lap. My breath was becoming short and shallow. The hand not on my neck continued down my leg, brushing over my skinned knee. I shrieked a little and jumped at the sudden pain.
His hand left my knee immediately. He brought it, red-stained, to his mouth and licked my blood off his fingers. His eyes widened. Then changed color from blue to yellow a fraction of a second before his whole face changed.
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