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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.
As his face changed, becoming something monstrous and fierce, my panic surged and increased exponentially, but the shock had left me paralyzed. His arms tightened hard around me and he buried his deformed face in my neck. I stiffened, then struck out, struggling wildly as he sank his long jagged fangs into my throat. The pain was unendurable, yet seemed to lessen as I stilled, an ancient place in my brain telling my muscles that this was what they should do - go limp like a mare when she's mounted and the stallion bites her neck. An ancient mating reflex stimulated by this creature's teeth in my throat, draining my blood.
A cloudy languor stole over me, my eyes closed, my fists unclenched, then caressed his head, my fingers running through his crisp yet soft blond hair, tracing the edge of his ear. What blood was left in me was hardening my nipples, swelling my sex. A steady beat was throbbing between my legs in time to the music I could hear through the walls of the club - something driving and frantic, tempo rising, quickening, both in my ears and my cunt. He loosened his death grip on me and clutched my breast roughly, kneading it in time to the music, in time to the sucking of his mouth, in time to the throbbing of my slickening center.
He grabbed my nipple roughly, twisting it, pinching it, sending stabs of arousal to my crotch. This was no unsure high school boy, so afraid of hurting me that I could barely feel his touch. His hands demanded, they wrung cries, gasps and moans from me. I was no longer still, I was writhing, my hips pumping the air, my hands clutching his hair, pulling it, pressing his head harder into my neck. Out of sheer cussedness, I thought, he slid his teeth from my throat and pulled his head away, shaking it slightly. He let go of my nipple and turned my face to his. His face was normal again and I was sure I'd imagined the monster - save for the blood I could feel trickling down my neck and chest.
He swung me around to straddle his body, I clutched him around his neck. He pushed my body back but didn't disengage my arms. Reaching for my shirt he tore it from the neck to the waist leaving my braless breasts completely bare. He licked down my neck and chest, cleaning away the blood his bite had let flow. He licked lower, bathing my left breast with his cool tongue, but, maddeningly, not touching the nipple. His hands had a hold of my ass, kneading and massaging it as his tongue circled closer to where I wanted it.
As he finally (finally!) took my nipple between his teeth, he moved his hands to the button and zipper of my prized Calvins. Drawing my nipple deep into his mouth, sucking strongly, rhythmically, he popped the button of my jeans, unzipped the zipper then took both halves of my open jeans and ripped them apart, breaking the bottom of the zipper and tearing the denim along the crotch seam halfway up my ass. And since, you know, nothing could come between me and my Calvins, there was nothing between me and his hands except the warm August night air.
My hands were no longer around his neck, I was struggling frantically with his own jeans, but I was having a damn hard time with his belt - the buckle seemed to be around somewhere to the side. I didn't want to reach around for it lest I disturb what his mouth was doing, what his hands were doing as he wormed one cold finger along my slit, rubbing back and forth, spreading my wetness.
Disappointed, I brought my hands up his sides, reaching under his arms to find his nipples, scratching my nails over them, pinching them. He sucked more frantically on my aching nipple and rammed a sudden finger deep inside me, plunging it in and out as he rubbed the heel of his hand hard on my clit. I scratched my nails over his denim-covered cock as he let go of my left nipple to attack the right one. A second finger joined the first pumping into my hot clutching cunt.
I was approaching a meltdown, but I couldn't get to what I needed. I was whimpering, pawing at his crotch, trying to find the tab of the zipper but it was covered by the smooth leather of his belt. Sensing my predicament, he suddenly stood, dumping me into a panting heap on the filthy alley floor.
He reached around to the buckle, unbuckled it and whipped the belt out of its loops. He roughly pulled me to my feet, spinning me around, pinning me against the club wall. He wrapped the belt around my arms, halfway up to my elbows, drawing my shoulders back and thrusting my breasts forward. Pushing his jeans down his thighs, he sat back down on the crate, restraddling me across his lap, his cock rubbing against my wet slit.
I squirmed and wriggled, trying to get that long thick piece of hard flesh inside me, rubbing my clit against it. He leaned back against the club wall, his hands behind his head, watching my desperation with amusement gleaming in his eyes. "Damn you, you prick," I hissed at him. "Help me or untie my hands so I can do it myself."
He reached down to where our bodies were touching. Lifting me slightly in his strong hands, his cock sprang upright and he lowered me onto it. Its cool length stretched me and touched places that had never been touched before. It hurt, but it hurt so good.
He leaned back again to watch what I would do. Grumbling and giving him dirty looks, I moved my hips around in a circle, getting used to the size of him. The crate was low enough that I could reach the ground with my toes. Slowly I pushed up, feeling his cock sliding out of me. Before it could escape I slid back down on it, over and over, faster and faster, driven by the music pounding though the walls of the club and by the blood boiling in my veins.
He tried to maintain his smug attitude, but it was getting to him, too. With a snarl, he gathered my bouncing body close to him, taking control, moving me up and down on him, grinding his pelvic bone against my clit on each downstroke. A storm was building in me as orgasm came closer and closer. My head was thrown back, my breath gasping, a red blush spreading across my chest and breasts.
Clutching my outthrust breasts against his face, I felt first his tongue then his teeth on my nipple. He caught it between his strong teeth, pulling it out, stretching it. The pain shrieked through me, intensifying the pleasure of his plunging cock and coarse pubic hair as it ground against my clit.
As I screamed my fulfillment, he plunged those sharp fangs into the flesh of my breast around my nipple. Before I passed out from passion and blood loss, I heard him growl, "God, Dru's gotta get a taste of this."
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