Dead Soul (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} deadsoul820) wrote,@ 2005-07-26 17:09:00 |
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Good Housekeeping, or, Fuck me for a limber-dicked cocksucker
Yes, I've been watching Deadwood. Why do you ask?
"S'anyway, I'm trying to get all my fic into my memories (because it's that or clean the refrigerator or work on my nevermet fic) and, unfortunately, the lengthiest of it has never been posted (at least not more than a few chapter) to LJ. So this is me doing that so I can put them into memories. And tweaking, 'cause you gotta tweak. Plein d'apologies for cluttering up your flists and I promise a real, actual, I'm alive and this is what I've been doing, reading, watching, etc. entry sometime soon.
Of course, if you feel moved to read, or re-read, I can't stop you. Likewise, if you feel moved to comment, can't stop you doing that, either (is the reverse psychology working yet?).
Getting the big 'un outta the way first:
Title: Sunday Girl
Author: Dead Soul
Rating: Adult
Genre: Angst/horror
Pairings: Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Sunday, Drusilla/Sunday, Spike/Drusilla/Sunday
Warnings: BDSM, het, 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
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.
Prologue: Detroit 442
Scene: an all-night diner in Detroit, Michigan, 4:42 AM. A young woman huddles over a stale cup of coffee, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds, hard pack. She’s dressed all in black in a style ten to fifteen years out of date. Like a very young Madonna in a badass mood. It’s a look that’s making a comeback so she's not really dated, she's retro chic. She has long blonde hair and heavy makeup, especially around the eyes (just the makeup, not the long blonde hair, I mean, if she had long blonde hair around her eyes, how would she see to bite you?), which, if they had looked at you would show nothing but contempt and emptiness with maybe just a spark of world-weary humor.
A young man approaches her, asks to share her table, orders his own coffee. Nothing special about him except for a desperate extroversion and an unwillingness to take no for an answer. She’s laughing bitterly at something he’s said, you overhear her reply, "What am I doing in a place like this?" The mirth doesn’t last long. She stares long and hard into the man’s eyes and comes to a decision. She begins to talk.
Chapter One: Will Anything Happen?
I was just another stupid little girl from Longisland. We said it just like that, running the "g" at the end of "Long" into the "I" in "Island" so it sounded like "Lawn Guyland." Secular Jewish and fresh out of high school, enjoying a last summer of spending Dad's money in an amateurish way, as opposed to the professional way I'd be spending it when I started NYU in the fall.
It was the weekend before the big Labor Day weekend and a gaggle of us old high school friends was going to hit the city one last time before we scattered to our respective schools, jobs and shotgun marriages. Well, only the one shotgun marriage; my best friend Debbie had let herself get knocked up in order to finally pin down her longtime boyfriend, Steve. Oldest trick in the book, but it seemed to have worked for her – I'd already been fitted for the horrendous peach monstrosity of a bridesmaid gown that I'd be wearing in her "Harvest" themed October wedding. Early October, or her genuine knock-off Halston wedding dress wouldn't be able to be let out enough. So this weekend was also to serve as Debbie's bachelorette party. Chippendales, here we...yawn.
And there we were, Debbie, Tanya, Rachel and me, waiting on the platform for the LIRR train to the city as the sun was nearly completely set in the late summer sky. To the east the sky was blue jewel black with pinpricks of white. Our little high school clique, together since Hebrew School, but I was realistic enough to know that there was little chance we'd stay so tight. Debbie was the blond cheerleader marrying her high school quarterback sweetheart, Tanya was the slut and Rachel was the good girl. I'm sure there was more to them than that, but I really don't remember. I was the quiet, bookish one with a wild streak – the one who thought up the pranks and whispered the dirty things during class that would break the others up and get us all sent to after school detention where we'd whisper and giggle some more under the bored eyes of whatever teacher was unlucky enough to get stuck supervising.
They'd carefully coordinated their Saturday Night Fever outfits – similar enough to show that they belonged together, but different enough not to look too, they thought at the time, "tacky-twinny". I'd managed to misplace the memo and was dressed far more casually. Tanya was already passing around a flask of peach schnapps and we were well into the giggly stage. That the throwing up stage would be reached that night was a given. Debbie was passing the flask to me when something caught her eye and she poked me and pointed, snickering.
A little way down the platform stood an entwined couple. They looked and dressed completely differently, yet appeared made for each other. She was wisp thin, dark haired and dressed in a high-waisted, ankle-length white dress dripping with lace. He wore faded jeans, holes in the knees and ass, worn and pale. A black t-shirt with the arms ripped off and stuck through here and there with safety pins, heavy black belt and boots, silver bracelet, chunky silver or steel chain with a padlock as a pendant around his neck and something, another safety pin?, flashing from his black left eyebrow. Heavy black eyeliner and bleached white hair completed the, I snorted to myself, 'ensemble'.
I fancied that I wasn't a complete suburban bimbo – I'd heard of the growing punk scene just catching on down in the Bowery at clubs like CBGB's and Max's Kansas City. There'd been the odd freak at my high school who'd wear the ripped clothes and petulant attitude. I even stayed up late one Friday night to catch a British band called The Police on the Midnight Special. Some song about a prostitute. To an ear used to smooth, over–processed glib disco, it sounded rough and amateurish.
But I had had to admit to myself it had something other music lacked – anger, passion, frustration. Things I felt but couldn't articulate. If I looked at my friends and wondered at their glassy-eyed acceptance of whatever they were fed, I would stop and remind myself that they were my friends, my best friends, and I'd buy whatever they were buying, listen to whatever they were listening to, wear whatever they were wearing. In my secret heart I was looking forward to making a life that didn't depend on their approval. So this one last night as part of the foursome I planned to make one to remember. As a kind of good-bye to them and the me I was around them.
Seeming to hear my snort, although surely he was too far away (no he wasn't, and don't call me Shirley), the man in the jeans and torn black t-shirt looked over at me and his eyes snagged mine in one of those looks that lasts less than a second and stays with you forever. A stray headlight flashed across his pale face and the blue of his eyes leapt out in startling clarity. The strobe of light also broke our connection as it coincided with the arrival of the train. He and his companion entered one car while my drunken friends and I entered another.
By the time we rumbled into Penn Station, even tipsier from Tanya's schnapps, I had completely forgotten about him and the moment our eyes met, but I was filled with a strange kind of restlessness. I felt like I was outside myself, looking down with a kind of bemused affection at the four silly young things stumbling up the escalator into the hot humid smelly streets of Manhattan.
We cabbed it to Chippendales and it was all I'd expected it to be – loud, tacky and utterly boring, but the others seemed to be having a good time so I let them get on with it. For a while, anyway, but my restlessness was increasing to the point where I couldn't sit still another moment longer. I grabbed Debbie and dragged her to the bathroom.
"I gotta get outta here," I yelled into her ear. Stray strands of her hairspray-stiff, smoky-smelling Miss Clairol hair stuck to my lipstick, her spiky, fluffy bangs threatened to take an eye out, and I pulled my face away in frustration. "I got the headache from hell and I think I’m gonna heave."
Thank god she was drunk enough not to care that I was leaving by myself at nearly midnight in the middle of New York City. Thank god she didn't know where I was planning to go. She just wanted to stuff some more bills into the g-strings of the dancers and drink two or eight more Lawn Guyland Iced Teas. She just said, "Whatever – call me tomorrow," and teetered on her Candies back to the action.
I paused as I left the club and took a deep breath of the hot exhaust-laden air. By myself, finally, and ready to find some trouble to get into.
TBC
ETA: It's the designer details that are so important. Thanks,chase820!
Yes, I've been watching Deadwood. Why do you ask?
"S'anyway, I'm trying to get all my fic into my memories (because it's that or clean the refrigerator or work on my nevermet fic) and, unfortunately, the lengthiest of it has never been posted (at least not more than a few chapter) to LJ. So this is me doing that so I can put them into memories. And tweaking, 'cause you gotta tweak. Plein d'apologies for cluttering up your flists and I promise a real, actual, I'm alive and this is what I've been doing, reading, watching, etc. entry sometime soon.
Of course, if you feel moved to read, or re-read, I can't stop you. Likewise, if you feel moved to comment, can't stop you doing that, either (is the reverse psychology working yet?).
Getting the big 'un outta the way first:
Title: Sunday Girl
Author: Dead Soul
Rating: Adult
Genre: Angst/horror
Pairings: Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Sunday, Drusilla/Sunday, Spike/Drusilla/Sunday
Warnings: BDSM, het, 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
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.
Prologue: Detroit 442
Scene: an all-night diner in Detroit, Michigan, 4:42 AM. A young woman huddles over a stale cup of coffee, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds, hard pack. She’s dressed all in black in a style ten to fifteen years out of date. Like a very young Madonna in a badass mood. It’s a look that’s making a comeback so she's not really dated, she's retro chic. She has long blonde hair and heavy makeup, especially around the eyes (just the makeup, not the long blonde hair, I mean, if she had long blonde hair around her eyes, how would she see to bite you?), which, if they had looked at you would show nothing but contempt and emptiness with maybe just a spark of world-weary humor.
A young man approaches her, asks to share her table, orders his own coffee. Nothing special about him except for a desperate extroversion and an unwillingness to take no for an answer. She’s laughing bitterly at something he’s said, you overhear her reply, "What am I doing in a place like this?" The mirth doesn’t last long. She stares long and hard into the man’s eyes and comes to a decision. She begins to talk.
Chapter One: Will Anything Happen?
I was just another stupid little girl from Longisland. We said it just like that, running the "g" at the end of "Long" into the "I" in "Island" so it sounded like "Lawn Guyland." Secular Jewish and fresh out of high school, enjoying a last summer of spending Dad's money in an amateurish way, as opposed to the professional way I'd be spending it when I started NYU in the fall.
It was the weekend before the big Labor Day weekend and a gaggle of us old high school friends was going to hit the city one last time before we scattered to our respective schools, jobs and shotgun marriages. Well, only the one shotgun marriage; my best friend Debbie had let herself get knocked up in order to finally pin down her longtime boyfriend, Steve. Oldest trick in the book, but it seemed to have worked for her – I'd already been fitted for the horrendous peach monstrosity of a bridesmaid gown that I'd be wearing in her "Harvest" themed October wedding. Early October, or her genuine knock-off Halston wedding dress wouldn't be able to be let out enough. So this weekend was also to serve as Debbie's bachelorette party. Chippendales, here we...yawn.
And there we were, Debbie, Tanya, Rachel and me, waiting on the platform for the LIRR train to the city as the sun was nearly completely set in the late summer sky. To the east the sky was blue jewel black with pinpricks of white. Our little high school clique, together since Hebrew School, but I was realistic enough to know that there was little chance we'd stay so tight. Debbie was the blond cheerleader marrying her high school quarterback sweetheart, Tanya was the slut and Rachel was the good girl. I'm sure there was more to them than that, but I really don't remember. I was the quiet, bookish one with a wild streak – the one who thought up the pranks and whispered the dirty things during class that would break the others up and get us all sent to after school detention where we'd whisper and giggle some more under the bored eyes of whatever teacher was unlucky enough to get stuck supervising.
They'd carefully coordinated their Saturday Night Fever outfits – similar enough to show that they belonged together, but different enough not to look too, they thought at the time, "tacky-twinny". I'd managed to misplace the memo and was dressed far more casually. Tanya was already passing around a flask of peach schnapps and we were well into the giggly stage. That the throwing up stage would be reached that night was a given. Debbie was passing the flask to me when something caught her eye and she poked me and pointed, snickering.
A little way down the platform stood an entwined couple. They looked and dressed completely differently, yet appeared made for each other. She was wisp thin, dark haired and dressed in a high-waisted, ankle-length white dress dripping with lace. He wore faded jeans, holes in the knees and ass, worn and pale. A black t-shirt with the arms ripped off and stuck through here and there with safety pins, heavy black belt and boots, silver bracelet, chunky silver or steel chain with a padlock as a pendant around his neck and something, another safety pin?, flashing from his black left eyebrow. Heavy black eyeliner and bleached white hair completed the, I snorted to myself, 'ensemble'.
I fancied that I wasn't a complete suburban bimbo – I'd heard of the growing punk scene just catching on down in the Bowery at clubs like CBGB's and Max's Kansas City. There'd been the odd freak at my high school who'd wear the ripped clothes and petulant attitude. I even stayed up late one Friday night to catch a British band called The Police on the Midnight Special. Some song about a prostitute. To an ear used to smooth, over–processed glib disco, it sounded rough and amateurish.
But I had had to admit to myself it had something other music lacked – anger, passion, frustration. Things I felt but couldn't articulate. If I looked at my friends and wondered at their glassy-eyed acceptance of whatever they were fed, I would stop and remind myself that they were my friends, my best friends, and I'd buy whatever they were buying, listen to whatever they were listening to, wear whatever they were wearing. In my secret heart I was looking forward to making a life that didn't depend on their approval. So this one last night as part of the foursome I planned to make one to remember. As a kind of good-bye to them and the me I was around them.
Seeming to hear my snort, although surely he was too far away (no he wasn't, and don't call me Shirley), the man in the jeans and torn black t-shirt looked over at me and his eyes snagged mine in one of those looks that lasts less than a second and stays with you forever. A stray headlight flashed across his pale face and the blue of his eyes leapt out in startling clarity. The strobe of light also broke our connection as it coincided with the arrival of the train. He and his companion entered one car while my drunken friends and I entered another.
By the time we rumbled into Penn Station, even tipsier from Tanya's schnapps, I had completely forgotten about him and the moment our eyes met, but I was filled with a strange kind of restlessness. I felt like I was outside myself, looking down with a kind of bemused affection at the four silly young things stumbling up the escalator into the hot humid smelly streets of Manhattan.
We cabbed it to Chippendales and it was all I'd expected it to be – loud, tacky and utterly boring, but the others seemed to be having a good time so I let them get on with it. For a while, anyway, but my restlessness was increasing to the point where I couldn't sit still another moment longer. I grabbed Debbie and dragged her to the bathroom.
"I gotta get outta here," I yelled into her ear. Stray strands of her hairspray-stiff, smoky-smelling Miss Clairol hair stuck to my lipstick, her spiky, fluffy bangs threatened to take an eye out, and I pulled my face away in frustration. "I got the headache from hell and I think I’m gonna heave."
Thank god she was drunk enough not to care that I was leaving by myself at nearly midnight in the middle of New York City. Thank god she didn't know where I was planning to go. She just wanted to stuff some more bills into the g-strings of the dancers and drink two or eight more Lawn Guyland Iced Teas. She just said, "Whatever – call me tomorrow," and teetered on her Candies back to the action.
I paused as I left the club and took a deep breath of the hot exhaust-laden air. By myself, finally, and ready to find some trouble to get into.
TBC
ETA: It's the designer details that are so important. Thanks,
chase820!
