DISCLAIMER: No, I don't own any of the characters... yet.
RATING: R, for descriptive scenes, as in blood and gore and sex and rape... also for language
AUTHORS NOTES: First fanfic, go me! Set in the future. Everything since Season 3 is officially A/U, (which means no Spike chipping) no spoilers, my new universe will be revealed soon ;)
WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH!!! Sheild your innocent eyes and press the back button if you don't want anyone from the Buffyverse to meet their match.
PAIRINGS: W/S is the big one. A little bit of W/A, S/A.us, D/S, and B/A.
Chapter One: Rememberings After A Decade (with commentary by Willow Rosenburg)
It's been a long time since they died. I used to count by days, but the number has gotten so large it's hard to keep track. When I want to not think I separate the days into weeks and months. The months turn to years, decades, even. But in my pocket I always keep a scrap piece of paper with the number of days etched into it in pencil, so I can erase and start anew the next day.
One day I couldn't find it in my pocket, and I screamed and cried. I let the fire from the fireplace burn my skin as punishment for losing it. When the sun disappeared behind the mountains and the night awoke, I found it, torn a bit, wedged in-between the pages of a book I would never have read. Then the number had been one hundred and twenty three days. It's been a long time since then, too.
When I look at the paper sometimes the memories decide to stay hidden, and sometimes they return just as vividly as they had unfolded the night they happened. Sometimes there are wisps, sometimes huge chunks of long past time. Tonight there are wisps. Lately there have often been wisps.
I remember her hair, it was blonde. She dyed it that way. It made a yellow-ish blur when she danced around her attacker, taunting it, before ending the fight. Next to her is always a red something. It's not the same color as her or anyone else's blood, but a cheerful red, kind of like cherries or some other red fruit. A happy red. I touch my hair and I think it might have been happy red too, a long time ago.
Outside the street is deserted. There are deep holes in the stone every few feet, and the house across the street is old and I can almost feel water drip on me when I see the holes in the roof. There is movement inside, and I think it is a rat or maybe a raccoon, because there would never be a person this close to where I live.
My house is big and lonely, and there are so many rooms I get lost often, but that's the way I like it. When I'm lost and I can't find my way out, I hope that means that no one can find their way in and get me. I curl up in the most unsuspecting spot and wait for my body to crumble from hunger or something remotely human, but it never does, and eventually I have to find a pencil to erase and refill the scrap of paper in my pocket. I uncurl myself and search for a way out, and I always do.
I pull out the paper because I want to remember again. My brain feels like a huge steel dam with the smallest hole ever in it, so only the tiniest trickle of water can get through, but the hole is growing. This time, I can hear someone yelling at me, and I think what I hear is my name.
"Willow!"
---------------------
"Willow!"
"Oh my god, Xander, don't move. I think I hear something." There's the sound of wood creaking bouncing off of the library walls.
Whispers, murmurs. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..."
Footsteps. Pounding. Claws.
"Ok, Willow and Xander, stay behind me. There can't be that many."
"Buffy, there's-"
"Shut up, Willow!" Worry, frustration? "Giles-"
"Buffy, I can take care of myself." His old man facade is fading fast.
"Ok, if they come in, I want you guys to stay out of the fray, and to get out first opening. Don't worry about me, I'm the Slayer..."
And then they had come.
They were ugly creatures. 7 feet tall, blue and scaly, with razor sharp claws that seemed to elongate every step they came closer. They're fangs were sharp and dripped with green saliva, maybe poison?
The first came up behind Buffy and hit her hard in the head. She crumpled to the ground, whimpering in agony while she tried to regain her bearings. Another one came up behind Xander, wrapping its arms around his head and snapping his neck grotesquely. The sound cackled through the room, and Xander didn't have time to open his mouth and scream.
Willow had watched her best friend die that night.
Giles watched but stood unfazed as he tried to defend himself through his ugly tweed suit. The one who had killed - murdered - Xander moved over to the Watcher and jabbed at it with its claws. Giles, shouting a battle cry, had gone after it with a knife he had managed to gather before the creatures had surfaced, but the monsters body just absorbed the knife and stabbed Giles repeated times with its spears. Giles cried out in pain, his life's blood seeping through the beige business jacket and staining it red.
Willow had watched her only father die that night.
Buffy had gotten up, and after watching Giles take his last breath, began to attack the creatures with a vengeance. Every punch was filled with anger, but the creatures seemed nonchalant while they bested all of her moves. One grabbed a hold of her blonde hair and yanked at it, hard - it ripped fiercely out of her head, and blood seeped out of the holes and poured down her distorted face.
Willow had watched the Slayer cry, the Slayer be tortured.
When the three corpses lay rotting on the ground, the two demons' hunger for violence satisfied, they had left, and Willow stayed cowering in the corner. She was covered in tears and the blood of her friends that had splattered far enough to catch on her clothes. Her sobs had long died, her voice hoarse from screaming, her wrists bruised from a vampires grip.
Spike had hoisted her into his arms and carried her off, leaving the three dead bodies to be picked at by the police.
------------------------
I will not break; I have found the covers and when I shut out all the light, my eyes don't burn as much. Still, questions haunt my mind.
Why had he come for me? It is a question I often ask myself. He had left Buffy and the others to be maimed, tortured by huge scaly demons, but he had not let me die.
Why?
Later, he told me the demons had not been his fault, not his minions. The suffering and death Buffy and Giles and Xander had endured had not been in his master plan - not that he didn't enjoy watching it - and that I should not hate him for it. But I hated him anyway.
I rekindle the fires of my memory again, so I can remember why it is that I hate him so.
---------------------
The room is decorated in reds and blacks, obviously the home of a vampire. She is thrown into the big, four-poster canopy bed, where dark colored veils cover all four openings.
Willow is crying still, though she thought she had cried all of her tears out when Buffy had died. She thinks about the nasty crack of Xander's neck and sobs even louder, which is music to Spike's sadistic mind.
"Like it better when you scream, love, but that'll have to come later." He says to her unhearing ears, while he comes closer to the bed. Her eyes are closed but she can sense him, like the prey senses its predator, and he laughs when she tenses. She would scootch back but the bed is so soft and seems to be holding her in place.
He's at the edge of the bed now, his thighs on her kneecaps where her legs dangle over the side of the billowy covers. He crawls on top of her, and she has to lean back into the mattress because he is too strong.
"I've always wanted to taste you." He coos, and digs his face in the crook of her neck and his fangs pierce her flesh, the hot bubbling life underneath her skin melting in his mouth.
Willows screams are dead on the air for her throat is too rubbed raw to even whisper, but Spike can enjoy her painful silence while he slurps up her blood. He sighs when he has to pull away, and licks at the wound with his healing tongue while she attempts to whimper. Her heat radiates in waves off her body and he greedily absorbs it into his cold, dead one.
"First, I'll fuck you until you break," he starts out, circling his tongue lazily around the fresh wound. "And then..." his voice is fading because the whine in Willows ears is growing, over compassing everything but itself. She finds reprieve in the monotonous ring.
She is safe in her happy spot until she feels her skirt being ripped in half, and the inevitable is coming. She tries to dig her nails into his arms while he tears off her shirt and her white cotton bra underneath, but he laughs at her feeble attempts and moans in pleasure when she breaks the skin.
And then he slams into her with a force, her virginity is broken and her eyes cloud over in pain. Her screams are again dead in her swollen throat, and she can find no solace this way while her insides are savagely twisted by Spike and... his.
He comes violently, thrashing while she cries dry tears and her throat squeezes in a mixture of silent sobs and silent screams. Spike shudders and collapses his dead weight on top of her, her lungs squashed and her breathing choppy while he sighs contentedly.
"We're going to have to do that again, love." He chuckles while he rolls over beside her, wrapping his arms possessively around her waist. He slowly seeps into a slumber, satisfied, and Willow tries to find her happy spot again.
---------------------
I shudder as I remember what he had done to me, and I touch my stomach where my insides are remembering the pain I had endured. The scratch marks have long since healed, the bruises gone, my body mended through time and a helping hand. But there are deeper scars, scars that won't heal no matter how many sweet whispers are whispered to me and comforting arms comfort me. Even his 'I'm so sorry's are empty and dead, like him.
Why is he even here, I wonder? The memories are held back like water is held back in a dam, and I go at it with a pick and begin to chop at the dam with all my strength.
----------------------
Spike had wanted to take Willow and break her, make it so her insides craved him while her brain vomited at him.
The morning after the first night, he had roused her gruffly and chained her to a wall. Her sore throat had not yet cooled, but she could make quiet sounds that Spike anticipated him savoring.
He had taken out his torture instruments and his cock, and took turns hurting her both ways. Either style, her silent scream filled the room and ricocheted off of the walls, and Spike felt himself in vampire heaven. His control kept slipping, and he was only reminded of her frail body by Dru and her singsong voice.
"She's only a little tree, Spike, don't chop her down." She'd coo, pampering Miss Edith while she relished in the cries of Spike's captive.
When Willow had found her happy spot again and the whine of her ears had droned out everything, Spike finally stopped. "No fun if she isn't around to scream for me," he had said, and Dru just clapped her hands in response and dropped Miss Edith to the ground. Spike pulled Willow from her restraints and let her tortured body fall onto his own, and he carried her to the large vampire bed to let her rest.
Willow had counted the days then, too, only she could remember them in her tormented mind and repeated them over and over when Spike was relentless with his inflicted agony. She counted twelve days before her cavalry had come.
She had laid broken on the bed, her wounds covered in bandages for her captors feared she would infect and die before they had ample time to play with her. Angel had crawled through the window, and his warm yet cold touch had roused her.
Angel looked at her naked, bruised and battered form and was overridden with guilt. "I'm so sorry, Willow," he said, crying over the sight of the cuts that marred her underneath the gauze and tape. Willow's voice was hoarse, but she could make out a faint phrase that Angel could hear through his vampiric hearing.
"Where is Spike?" Angel had cried even louder at her question, while he wondered how he was going to move her without reopening any of the healing wounds.
"The bastard will die," he had declared, and picked her up gingerly, though the movement caused her to wince in anguish. "Oz and Cordelia had gone to the library and found... them." He began to tell Willow what had happened while she had been captured, trying to take her thoughts off of the immeasurable pain she was experiencing. "They came to get me and told me your body couldn't be found. I went to the library. There were so many police there. They asked me questions I couldn't answer. But I could smell Spike far off in a corner, his smell faint like he hadn't been there in days, but I knew it was his fault."
Angel crawled out of the window, holding Willow close to his chest. "We came looking for you. It took forever - it took too long." They traversed through the bushes, and Willow could see a car not far off from them in the driveway. It wasn't Spike's DeSoto, so she guessed it was Angel's.
He laid her in the back seat. Her eyes were open and terror was filling them, and Angel tore his gaze away from the haunting sight.
"The bastard will die, Willow, I promise." Angel swore, while he climbed into the front of the Plymouth and drove away into the night.
--------------------------
Angel and I had never been friends before, but then he had saved me and took care of me. He didn't want me to hurt, so he drove me far away, to who knows where, and kept me safe.
I'm here now, in this God forsaken place, where there are no gates to the outer walls so I cannot leave. Angel holds me captive like Spike had, though he feels that it is for the greater good and I'm safer if nothing can get in or out. Every night I sleep in his big bed where he holds onto me like Spike had, afraid to let me go as if I could run away. At times we go out into the inner courtyard, and I pick berries in the sun while Angel watches me from under the shaded porch so that my therapy may continue.
Even if I am still captured, I know it eases his mind to be taking care of me, because Buffy is dead and he wants me to help his pain like he is helping mine. So each night I let him hold me while he tells me some Irish fairytale he remembers from his human years, and we ease our pain together in fear of the alternative. When I cry he kisses my tears away and rubs my back, and when he cries I cradle his face and press my lips to his. I am certain that is a circle of destruction, but for now we find solace together and that is more than welcome.
His 'I'm so sorry's are still empty and cold, like he is, because no matter how much he apologizes, it is Spike from whom I need my comfort. Angel's sweet nothings he whispers into my ears are warm and friendly for a while, but without the apology from my first captor the scars still dig deep into my bones.
So while Angel slept a magically-induced sleep that I remembered the spell for from a long time ago, I whispered to my Goddesses a call for Spike in hopes that he could find me even though I do not know where I am. Then I curl up into Angel's waiting arms and pretend that I am Buffy, so that at least he can sleep without fear.
RATING: R, for descriptive scenes, as in blood and gore and sex and rape... also for language
AUTHORS NOTES: First fanfic, go me! Set in the future. Everything since Season 3 is officially A/U, (which means no Spike chipping) no spoilers, my new universe will be revealed soon ;)
WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH!!! Sheild your innocent eyes and press the back button if you don't want anyone from the Buffyverse to meet their match.
PAIRINGS: W/S is the big one. A little bit of W/A, S/A.us, D/S, and B/A.
Chapter One: Rememberings After A Decade (with commentary by Willow Rosenburg)
It's been a long time since they died. I used to count by days, but the number has gotten so large it's hard to keep track. When I want to not think I separate the days into weeks and months. The months turn to years, decades, even. But in my pocket I always keep a scrap piece of paper with the number of days etched into it in pencil, so I can erase and start anew the next day.
One day I couldn't find it in my pocket, and I screamed and cried. I let the fire from the fireplace burn my skin as punishment for losing it. When the sun disappeared behind the mountains and the night awoke, I found it, torn a bit, wedged in-between the pages of a book I would never have read. Then the number had been one hundred and twenty three days. It's been a long time since then, too.
When I look at the paper sometimes the memories decide to stay hidden, and sometimes they return just as vividly as they had unfolded the night they happened. Sometimes there are wisps, sometimes huge chunks of long past time. Tonight there are wisps. Lately there have often been wisps.
I remember her hair, it was blonde. She dyed it that way. It made a yellow-ish blur when she danced around her attacker, taunting it, before ending the fight. Next to her is always a red something. It's not the same color as her or anyone else's blood, but a cheerful red, kind of like cherries or some other red fruit. A happy red. I touch my hair and I think it might have been happy red too, a long time ago.
Outside the street is deserted. There are deep holes in the stone every few feet, and the house across the street is old and I can almost feel water drip on me when I see the holes in the roof. There is movement inside, and I think it is a rat or maybe a raccoon, because there would never be a person this close to where I live.
My house is big and lonely, and there are so many rooms I get lost often, but that's the way I like it. When I'm lost and I can't find my way out, I hope that means that no one can find their way in and get me. I curl up in the most unsuspecting spot and wait for my body to crumble from hunger or something remotely human, but it never does, and eventually I have to find a pencil to erase and refill the scrap of paper in my pocket. I uncurl myself and search for a way out, and I always do.
I pull out the paper because I want to remember again. My brain feels like a huge steel dam with the smallest hole ever in it, so only the tiniest trickle of water can get through, but the hole is growing. This time, I can hear someone yelling at me, and I think what I hear is my name.
"Willow!"
---------------------
"Willow!"
"Oh my god, Xander, don't move. I think I hear something." There's the sound of wood creaking bouncing off of the library walls.
Whispers, murmurs. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..."
Footsteps. Pounding. Claws.
"Ok, Willow and Xander, stay behind me. There can't be that many."
"Buffy, there's-"
"Shut up, Willow!" Worry, frustration? "Giles-"
"Buffy, I can take care of myself." His old man facade is fading fast.
"Ok, if they come in, I want you guys to stay out of the fray, and to get out first opening. Don't worry about me, I'm the Slayer..."
And then they had come.
They were ugly creatures. 7 feet tall, blue and scaly, with razor sharp claws that seemed to elongate every step they came closer. They're fangs were sharp and dripped with green saliva, maybe poison?
The first came up behind Buffy and hit her hard in the head. She crumpled to the ground, whimpering in agony while she tried to regain her bearings. Another one came up behind Xander, wrapping its arms around his head and snapping his neck grotesquely. The sound cackled through the room, and Xander didn't have time to open his mouth and scream.
Willow had watched her best friend die that night.
Giles watched but stood unfazed as he tried to defend himself through his ugly tweed suit. The one who had killed - murdered - Xander moved over to the Watcher and jabbed at it with its claws. Giles, shouting a battle cry, had gone after it with a knife he had managed to gather before the creatures had surfaced, but the monsters body just absorbed the knife and stabbed Giles repeated times with its spears. Giles cried out in pain, his life's blood seeping through the beige business jacket and staining it red.
Willow had watched her only father die that night.
Buffy had gotten up, and after watching Giles take his last breath, began to attack the creatures with a vengeance. Every punch was filled with anger, but the creatures seemed nonchalant while they bested all of her moves. One grabbed a hold of her blonde hair and yanked at it, hard - it ripped fiercely out of her head, and blood seeped out of the holes and poured down her distorted face.
Willow had watched the Slayer cry, the Slayer be tortured.
When the three corpses lay rotting on the ground, the two demons' hunger for violence satisfied, they had left, and Willow stayed cowering in the corner. She was covered in tears and the blood of her friends that had splattered far enough to catch on her clothes. Her sobs had long died, her voice hoarse from screaming, her wrists bruised from a vampires grip.
Spike had hoisted her into his arms and carried her off, leaving the three dead bodies to be picked at by the police.
------------------------
I will not break; I have found the covers and when I shut out all the light, my eyes don't burn as much. Still, questions haunt my mind.
Why had he come for me? It is a question I often ask myself. He had left Buffy and the others to be maimed, tortured by huge scaly demons, but he had not let me die.
Why?
Later, he told me the demons had not been his fault, not his minions. The suffering and death Buffy and Giles and Xander had endured had not been in his master plan - not that he didn't enjoy watching it - and that I should not hate him for it. But I hated him anyway.
I rekindle the fires of my memory again, so I can remember why it is that I hate him so.
---------------------
The room is decorated in reds and blacks, obviously the home of a vampire. She is thrown into the big, four-poster canopy bed, where dark colored veils cover all four openings.
Willow is crying still, though she thought she had cried all of her tears out when Buffy had died. She thinks about the nasty crack of Xander's neck and sobs even louder, which is music to Spike's sadistic mind.
"Like it better when you scream, love, but that'll have to come later." He says to her unhearing ears, while he comes closer to the bed. Her eyes are closed but she can sense him, like the prey senses its predator, and he laughs when she tenses. She would scootch back but the bed is so soft and seems to be holding her in place.
He's at the edge of the bed now, his thighs on her kneecaps where her legs dangle over the side of the billowy covers. He crawls on top of her, and she has to lean back into the mattress because he is too strong.
"I've always wanted to taste you." He coos, and digs his face in the crook of her neck and his fangs pierce her flesh, the hot bubbling life underneath her skin melting in his mouth.
Willows screams are dead on the air for her throat is too rubbed raw to even whisper, but Spike can enjoy her painful silence while he slurps up her blood. He sighs when he has to pull away, and licks at the wound with his healing tongue while she attempts to whimper. Her heat radiates in waves off her body and he greedily absorbs it into his cold, dead one.
"First, I'll fuck you until you break," he starts out, circling his tongue lazily around the fresh wound. "And then..." his voice is fading because the whine in Willows ears is growing, over compassing everything but itself. She finds reprieve in the monotonous ring.
She is safe in her happy spot until she feels her skirt being ripped in half, and the inevitable is coming. She tries to dig her nails into his arms while he tears off her shirt and her white cotton bra underneath, but he laughs at her feeble attempts and moans in pleasure when she breaks the skin.
And then he slams into her with a force, her virginity is broken and her eyes cloud over in pain. Her screams are again dead in her swollen throat, and she can find no solace this way while her insides are savagely twisted by Spike and... his.
He comes violently, thrashing while she cries dry tears and her throat squeezes in a mixture of silent sobs and silent screams. Spike shudders and collapses his dead weight on top of her, her lungs squashed and her breathing choppy while he sighs contentedly.
"We're going to have to do that again, love." He chuckles while he rolls over beside her, wrapping his arms possessively around her waist. He slowly seeps into a slumber, satisfied, and Willow tries to find her happy spot again.
---------------------
I shudder as I remember what he had done to me, and I touch my stomach where my insides are remembering the pain I had endured. The scratch marks have long since healed, the bruises gone, my body mended through time and a helping hand. But there are deeper scars, scars that won't heal no matter how many sweet whispers are whispered to me and comforting arms comfort me. Even his 'I'm so sorry's are empty and dead, like him.
Why is he even here, I wonder? The memories are held back like water is held back in a dam, and I go at it with a pick and begin to chop at the dam with all my strength.
----------------------
Spike had wanted to take Willow and break her, make it so her insides craved him while her brain vomited at him.
The morning after the first night, he had roused her gruffly and chained her to a wall. Her sore throat had not yet cooled, but she could make quiet sounds that Spike anticipated him savoring.
He had taken out his torture instruments and his cock, and took turns hurting her both ways. Either style, her silent scream filled the room and ricocheted off of the walls, and Spike felt himself in vampire heaven. His control kept slipping, and he was only reminded of her frail body by Dru and her singsong voice.
"She's only a little tree, Spike, don't chop her down." She'd coo, pampering Miss Edith while she relished in the cries of Spike's captive.
When Willow had found her happy spot again and the whine of her ears had droned out everything, Spike finally stopped. "No fun if she isn't around to scream for me," he had said, and Dru just clapped her hands in response and dropped Miss Edith to the ground. Spike pulled Willow from her restraints and let her tortured body fall onto his own, and he carried her to the large vampire bed to let her rest.
Willow had counted the days then, too, only she could remember them in her tormented mind and repeated them over and over when Spike was relentless with his inflicted agony. She counted twelve days before her cavalry had come.
She had laid broken on the bed, her wounds covered in bandages for her captors feared she would infect and die before they had ample time to play with her. Angel had crawled through the window, and his warm yet cold touch had roused her.
Angel looked at her naked, bruised and battered form and was overridden with guilt. "I'm so sorry, Willow," he said, crying over the sight of the cuts that marred her underneath the gauze and tape. Willow's voice was hoarse, but she could make out a faint phrase that Angel could hear through his vampiric hearing.
"Where is Spike?" Angel had cried even louder at her question, while he wondered how he was going to move her without reopening any of the healing wounds.
"The bastard will die," he had declared, and picked her up gingerly, though the movement caused her to wince in anguish. "Oz and Cordelia had gone to the library and found... them." He began to tell Willow what had happened while she had been captured, trying to take her thoughts off of the immeasurable pain she was experiencing. "They came to get me and told me your body couldn't be found. I went to the library. There were so many police there. They asked me questions I couldn't answer. But I could smell Spike far off in a corner, his smell faint like he hadn't been there in days, but I knew it was his fault."
Angel crawled out of the window, holding Willow close to his chest. "We came looking for you. It took forever - it took too long." They traversed through the bushes, and Willow could see a car not far off from them in the driveway. It wasn't Spike's DeSoto, so she guessed it was Angel's.
He laid her in the back seat. Her eyes were open and terror was filling them, and Angel tore his gaze away from the haunting sight.
"The bastard will die, Willow, I promise." Angel swore, while he climbed into the front of the Plymouth and drove away into the night.
--------------------------
Angel and I had never been friends before, but then he had saved me and took care of me. He didn't want me to hurt, so he drove me far away, to who knows where, and kept me safe.
I'm here now, in this God forsaken place, where there are no gates to the outer walls so I cannot leave. Angel holds me captive like Spike had, though he feels that it is for the greater good and I'm safer if nothing can get in or out. Every night I sleep in his big bed where he holds onto me like Spike had, afraid to let me go as if I could run away. At times we go out into the inner courtyard, and I pick berries in the sun while Angel watches me from under the shaded porch so that my therapy may continue.
Even if I am still captured, I know it eases his mind to be taking care of me, because Buffy is dead and he wants me to help his pain like he is helping mine. So each night I let him hold me while he tells me some Irish fairytale he remembers from his human years, and we ease our pain together in fear of the alternative. When I cry he kisses my tears away and rubs my back, and when he cries I cradle his face and press my lips to his. I am certain that is a circle of destruction, but for now we find solace together and that is more than welcome.
His 'I'm so sorry's are still empty and cold, like he is, because no matter how much he apologizes, it is Spike from whom I need my comfort. Angel's sweet nothings he whispers into my ears are warm and friendly for a while, but without the apology from my first captor the scars still dig deep into my bones.
So while Angel slept a magically-induced sleep that I remembered the spell for from a long time ago, I whispered to my Goddesses a call for Spike in hopes that he could find me even though I do not know where I am. Then I curl up into Angel's waiting arms and pretend that I am Buffy, so that at least he can sleep without fear.
