He promised me forever, a low, breathless growl against my ear. His hands were moving against my skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. Forever over you, inside of you, _mine_. And what girl nourished on cheap romance novels and television shows wouldn't melt at that claim? Forever mine, I'll love you forever, let me take care of you, _luv_.
I lifted my hair away from my neck and tilted my head, a willing sacrifice to the promise of eternal love. Lust. _Something_. Who the fuck knows for sure anymore?
What do I remember, then? I remember the feel of his body against mine. I remember that his cock was hard against me as his fangs found my neck. And I remember that it _hurt_. I'll be gentle, pet, gentle, gentle, gentle while my teeth tear through your skin, sink into your veins. I remember how my sight blurred and dark spots began to shimmer before me. I remember how thoughts shattered and fell away beneath the furious screaming of human instinct for self-preservation. I think I cried -- everybody else does, and of what strength love when death is creeping through your body?
I remember wanting to _live_.
Naive little girl I was, all wide eyed and wondering, I'd asked him what it felt like once. Exquisite, he'd said. Fucking _amazing_. Wake from mortal drudgery to near godhood - eternity and power enough to make mortal men weep.
He never did mention the important things.
He promised me forever. And I can understand that. Even love thirsty child I was, I don't think I'd have barred my neck for rumbling whispers about a hundred or so years fighting and fucking, and then you're on your own, kid. But that's what I got. Because forever is a fucking long time once you finally start to get a hint of what it actually means.
But hey, I'm fine with that. Because I have power and I have eternity and I'm a goddamn Goddess, you hear me?
Yeah.
...~*~...
She woke with the cool grip of restraints around her wrists. She could smell them behind her, all sweat and anger and _human_. Her muscles continued to twitch, violent, involuntary motions sparked by the blaster shot that had sent her reeling face first into a muddy puddle. 'I'm going to kill each and every one of you!' her mind roared in impotent fury. 'I'll cut your stomachs open and let you watch your insides tumble out!' Willow's jaw worked, silent curses unable to find the strength to fly past her twisting lips.
They filed around her, heavy tread of identical boots falling in unison. Eleven of them lined in front of her, the trainer at her side. He smelt of dust, as if the remains of her own kind had been ingrained into his pores. His hands were easy and disdainful against her dirt streaked face as he forced her drooping head upward. His voice was crisp and certain when he spoke. "The enemy," he proclaimed.
Repressed energy snapped around his students. Willow stepped away from herself, watching herself through their reactions - a familiar mental exercise for a woman who hadn't seen her own reflection in over a century. She imagined that they saw her as a young woman, slight and slim - too short and with breasts too small for modern media definition of beautiful, but someone that any one of them would have been willing to pick up. Pale flesh splattered with mud, strands of dark red hair clinging to her cheeks and lips. She pictured the dress she was wearing, a shimmering fall of blue material that stopped above her knees, now torn and burnt and muddied. Painted toenails would be shyly peeking out from the open toes of her sandals, held in place now only by the delicate strap wound about her ankle.
She imagined that she looked weak and helpless, a tiny, feminine butterfly that men such as they were meant to protect. Willow doubted that they cared.
...~*~...
See, the future turned out all wrong. We were supposed to get neat toys and smaller but meaner tools of mass destruction. Cars were supposed to fly and humans were supposed to be able to transport from one area to another with a flick of a switch and a hum and swoosh of sparkling lights. We were supposed to be travelling in space, meeting aliens - you know all this shit, right?
But the future... it's been a real fucking bust for the most part. Cars still sputter around on the ground, guzzling gas. Teleportation is still something for the sci. fi. novelists, and space travel isn't really on anyone's mind these days. But we did get an international team of supernatural investigators. Not that anybody knows about them, of course. 'Cause mere civilian minds can't possibly handle the possibility of monsters such as myself - never mind the fact that we've been munching on them for thousands of years now and they've gotta have some sorta clue.
But back to our noble and heroic saviours of humanity. They have a fancy name, of course. Those in the know usually call them Stakes - like, you know, men with as much personality as a piece of wood? Whatever. So, they go creeping around during the night clearing out all us nasties.
My fault in a way, I suppose. Long, boring and not all that glorious a story on my part - but the bare bones of the thing was me, Buffy and a near death experience post-vampirism. Buffy was upset. Riley was upset. Giles was upset. And the three of them put their heads together and along came the Initiative, take two. But a kinder, gentler version, of course! Slayer and Watcher providing the know-how, the commandos the muscle - one neat, efficient demon killing package without any of that distasteful experimentation thing.
But hey, their little baby's all grown up now. And what kind of fun is just killing them demons, hmm?
Not that I'd care if I weren't the one hanging here. I mean, a woman such as myself really must admire such brutal efficiency, no?
...~*~...
He worshiped her in his own way. Lacking Spike's finesse, Zack was usually forced to rely on a drawn of groan of _baybee_ and a determined grope to demonstrate his appreciation. Willow allowed him access to her body, allowed him to drape his arm across her shoulder, allowed him to smirk and saunter at her side. Sometimes she nearly loved him, and at others, she merely tolerated him. He was somebody to keep her company.
Sometimes, she remembered Spike's promises with a hot stab of anger. Forever, forever, you and me, pet. He'd never mentioned the years that ate away at a person's mind - the press of experience that began to tire even the demon. Hunt, kill, fight, fuck. Scheme, plot, manipulate, rule the entire bloody world if you're creative enough.
His fingers were long and finely formed. They looked like they should belong to an artist, creations spilling to life beneath their graceful weave. His hand caught hers, dry lips brushing across her knuckles. "Dance with me, baby?"
Willow's head rolled back, neck bared to his eyes, and laughed. And sometimes he could surprise her.
...~*~...
I cup my hands and catch him, fine dust against my palms. And I'm alone.
I can feel my game face emerge, and on occasion, the feel of the transformation still surprises me. It looked instantaneous, like some sort of dark magic when I was a mortal. I can feel bones shift and crack beneath my flesh, an ache as my mouth reshapes enough to allow room for elongated canines.
Fear fills the air around me - and that, that is something that is still real to me, even now. When even that scent no longer excites the demon within me, I'll open my arms to the sun and taste a brilliant moment of pure excitement.
My fingers part, grey dust trickling from curved palms, caught by the night air.
~end~