1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28
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.
Slowly, as the water started to run cold, I pulled myself together, got out of the shower and dried myself with the worn towel. It was barely long enough, but I wrapped it around me and went into the other, the only other, room. I glanced up at the high window but it was dark, must be nighttime, I thought. My hair was clean but it was still a tangled mess. There was a drawer in the table next to the bed and when I checked it I found a comb and some, I sniffed to make sure, clean panties. I stepped into the panties and pulled them up. They must have been Dru's because they were a little tight and would have a tendency to ride up, but I was grateful to have anything clean. I was struggling to get the comb through my hair when the door opened again.
"Find everything you need?" Spike asked, closing and locking the door behind him. I felt a hysterical giggle rise in my throat at his polite question.
"Well, the TV doesn't get cable," I said, not thinking, "but then this would never be mistaken for the Ritz." I know I said before that I'm kinda cool and think before acting, but sometimes my mouth doesn't know this. Most of the jams I've been in have been caused by me being such a knee-jerk smart ass.
He looked a little surprised, but not unpleased by my attitude. He snorted a little laugh. He had a bundle of clothes in his hands and he threw them onto the bed next to me. Jeans and a t-shirt, but a clean t-shirt, black with "Never Mind the Bollocks" on it and a pair of delicate looking ballet slippers. An odd ensemble, but I was in no position to complain. Right?
"Ballet slippers? What am I, a ballerina? We rehearsing for Swan Lake? Where's your tutu?"
"Fine!" It took him two steps to be looming over me, prepared to grab back the clothes. "If you want to be bleedin' naked in front of the others, that's just fine with me." I guess one impertinent remark was okay, two and he felt he had to slap me down. He snatched back the bundle and turned to leave.
"Wait," I said, grabbing at the clothes. "I'm sorry. Thanks for the clothes." He let me take them from him and stood, waiting.
"I'm not going to get dressed with you watching," I said.
"Seen, and felt, everything you've got, sweetie," he smirked. "No secrets left to keep from me."
I could feel my face flaming as his words reminded me of the previous evening. How I'd behaved, what I'd done, what I'd let him do to me and where and how I'd found myself hanging at the end of it all - naked and in chains, his girlfriend biting into my neck. My hand stole up to feel the bite marks, one on each side, one from each of them. I looked away from him and quietly got dressed.
The jeans were a pretty good fit, a little tight across the hips. They must have been his. He was a lean man. Broad across the shoulders, muscular arms, but very narrow and tight in the hips. Even with all I knew about him, all he'd done to me, I still found him a beautiful man to look at. The t-shirt was fine, a little baggy, but the shoes fit perfectly. They looked pretty silly under the dragging hem of the jeans, but it beat going barefoot.
Spike handed me the paper bag he'd left by the door when he came in. Looking inside I saw another plastic bottle of orange juice and a sandwich wrapped in butcher's paper. I unwrapped it, I was still terribly hungry, and saw ham, cheese and lettuce on white. I hesitated for a second before biting into it. True, my family wasn't orthodox, but we didn't eat pork or mix meat and dairy. It was just a second's pause, though. I was too hungry to worry about keeping kosher.
As I ate and chugged down the delicious juice, Spike wandered about the room, never standing still for a moment. He reached into his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. He lit up, looking at me to see if I'd object, although I couldn't imagine that he'd put it out if I did. Hell no, I thought, I'm gonna bum one off of him as soon as I finish eating. I swallowed the last bite of the sandwich and drained the last mouthful of juice and headed for the bathroom. He looked at me, a question on his face.
"Brush my teeth," I mumbled, sucking a stray piece of lettuce from between my teeth. He nodded and let me enter the bathroom. After I'd brushed my teeth I drank handfuls of water, still feeling dehydrated from the blood loss.
I came out of the bathroom to find him lounging on the bed, watching the smoke as it spiraled towards the ceiling. Even though he was lying still, I could feel him thrum with energy, feel it coiled up inside him, waiting to spring. I cleared my throat, "Can I bum a cigarette?" I asked. Silently he dug the pack and the lighter out of his pocket. I worked a bent and rather crumpled Camel out of the pack and lit it - handing the pack back to him. Hoping he wouldn't notice, I slipped the lighter into my own pocket. Sure enough, he stashed the cigarettes away and didn't seem to see that I hadn't returned the lighter at the same time.
Dragging in a grateful lungful of smoke, I said, hoping to distract him from his lack of lighter, "What happens now?"
He got up from them bed, big cat muscles flexing and said, "Now you get introduced to Drusilla. Properly."
He stood up and dropped his cigarette, stepping on it to put it out. He grabbed my arm. I gestured with my smoke that I wasn't done yet and he let me suck in a couple more drags before plucking it from my fingers, dropping it and stepping it out like he'd done his own. He took both my wrists behind me in one of his hands and frog-marched me to the door. He unlocked it, opened it and pushed me through a long dark hallway into a larger room - the room where I'd previously been chained.
I hadn't had much of a chance to look at it the night before. It was about twenty feet, by thirty feet. At one end was an old-fashioned, Edwardian looking fainting couch and a big cordovan leather club chair. There were overlapping oriental carpets on the cement floor and small tables with small, fringed lamps on them. The dim lamps were lit, providing the only illumination in the room. Posters for various punk acts papered the walls: The Sex Pistols, The Stooges, Richard Hell and the Voidoids and the Dead Boys among many others. The Sex Pistols were the only ones I'd ever heard of. The other end of the room, the end with the chains, was still in darkness.
Spike plunked me down on the couch and took a couple of lengths of rope from his back pocket. He tied my wrists behind me and my ankles to one of the legs of the couch. He fell into the club chair and just sat, drumming his fingers. I squirmed around, trying to get a little more comfortable while we waited.
He looked up suddenly, all his attention on the dark hall we'd come down. After a moment I could hear a small voice singing a nursery rhyme growing louder as it approached.
"Run and catch, run and catch," she sang tunelessly as she entered the room, "the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch." Her dress tonight was again white, but from the various embellishments, I could tell it was a different one than the one she'd worn the night before. Spike stood and she came to his arms, leaning in for a long kiss. She didn't appear to have noticed me yet.
"Dru, poodle," Spike said, "do you remember the present I brought you yesterday?" He turned her to look at me.
"Oh yes, the yummy treat," she said. "But why is it still here?"
"Remember," Spike said, "she tasted so good we thought we'd keep her around for puddings."
"Will it be like a pet?"
"Yes, she can be your pet, precious, and you can dress her and do her hair and when she's naughty you can punish her. And if we take good care of her and feed her an' all, we can drink little drinks of her yummy blood. Would you like that, my love?"
"Oh Spike, just like Miss Edith, only all life-sized and full of delicious blood. Can I name it?" As Dru came closer, bells started ringing outside. We must be close to a church, I thought. She looked up, listening to the bells. She appeared to be thinking. She turned to me, smiled and said, "It's Sunday, so your name shall be Sunday."
She stroked a gentle hand down my face, turning it up to look at her. "My Sunday's such a pretty baby. I'll take ever such good care of it."
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28