Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Chapter One: A Soul Between Shadows (4,973 words)
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Chapter Two: Whispers in Red (4,675 words)
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Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Three: Bring Me The Night (4,572 words)
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Chapter Four: Slay Now, Cry Later (5,518 words)
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Chapter Five: Ghosted (4,764 words)
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Chapter Six: Seen At Last (4,613 words)
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Chapter Seven: When the Wolf Wakes (4,534 words)
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Chapter Eight: The Slayer Shall Fall (4,479 words)
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Chapter Nine: The Slayer Rises (4,421 words)
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Chapter Ten: The Last Dance (4,140 words)
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Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
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Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Ten: The Last Dance
The Bronze was empty.
No blood. No broken glass. Just silence and soft amber light. The disco ball spun lazily overhead, casting fractured stars across the floor. Tables were neatly arranged, untouched. The stage was bathed in a warm glow, amps humming gently.
Buddy Summers stood alone in the centre of the dance floor, dressed in a fetching black ensemble. His boots echoed faintly with each step, the sound swallowed by velvet shadows.
Then the lights shifted.
From the far corner, a figure emerged—tall, composed, dressed in a charcoal suit with a blood-red tie. His face human. Handsome, even. No fangs. No glowing eyes. Just a man with centuries behind his gaze.
The Master.
Buddy tensed. “You’re not supposed to look like that.”
The Master smiled. “I wasn’t always a monster.”
Buddy didn’t move. “This is a dream.”
Of course,” The Master said, stepping closer. “But dreams are where truth hides best.”
The stage lights flared.
Oz and his band appeared, tuning instruments like they’d always been there. No one spoke. No one questioned. They simply began to play—a slow, mournful melody that shimmered like candlelight.
The Master extended a hand.
Buddy stared at it.
“You killed me,” he said.
The Master’s smile didn’t falter. “And you killed me. Yet here we are.”
Buddy hesitated—then took the hand.
They moved together across the floor, slow and deliberate, the music wrapping around them like fog. The Master’s grip was firm but gentle, his gaze unreadable.
“You still feel me, don’t you?” he murmured.
Buddy’s breath caught. “You’re gone.”
“You’re not the only one who can come back from the dead,” The Master whispered.
Buddy tried to pull away, but The Master held him close.
“Our time together is far from over.”
The music swelled.
The lights dimmed.
The Master leaned in, voice like silk. “I’ll see you soon, slayer.”
Buddy jerked awake, heart pounding.
Sunlight streamed through the window, warm and real. His sheets were tangled around him, his skin damp with sweat.
From downstairs, a voice rang out:
“Buddy! Time for school!”
He blinked, disoriented.
“Coming, Mum,” he called back.
But his eyes lingered on the shadows in the corner of the room.
And he wondered—just for a moment—if they were watching him back.
The library smelled like old paper, lemon-scented floor polish, and the faintest trace of ozone. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching on the dust motes that danced like lazy fireflies. Buddy pushed through the double doors, in another killer ensemble, as Giles looked up from a stack of books, startled.
“Buddy,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “You should be resting.”
“Yeah, well, I tried that. Turns out near-death naps come with a side of prophetic nightmares and zero REM. Five stars, would not recommend.”
Giles frowned “You had a dream?”
Buddy stepped closer, voice low. “The Bronze. Empty. Oz’s band was playing. And he was there.
Giles brow furrowed “Oz?”
“No, the other guy who tried to kill me and opened the hellmouth. The Master. Only this time, he looked… human. Like, ‘I pay taxes and own a wine fridge’ human.”
Giles set down his book, suddenly alert. “Describe him.”
“Tall. Suave. Creepy in a ‘dad at a funeral’ kind of way. No fangs. No fruit punch face. Just… him. But not. He asked me to dance.”
Giles blinked. “He what?”
“Yeah. Real Phantom of the Opera vibes. Slow dance, spotlight, cryptic threats. Said our time together wasn’t over. That I’m not the only one who can come back from the dead.”
Giles removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Buddy, I understand how vivid these dreams can feel, especially after trauma, but—”
“This wasn’t a trauma dream,” Buddy snapped. “This wasn’t some borrow slayer vision either. This was mine. My Master. From this world.”
Giles hesitated, then sighed. “His remains are buried several feet beneath consecrated ground. The soil is enchanted, warded, and thoroughly saturated with holy water. There’s nothing left of him but nones.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the bones. They didn’t get the memo.”
Giles opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shifted gears. “Have you told your mother?”
Buddy blinked. “Wow. That’s a hard pivot.”
“She deserves to know what happened.”
Buddy looked away, jaw tightening. “She just started accepting that I’m the slayer. That I’m not going through a goth phase or sneaking out to hook up with a punk band. If I tell her I died—she’ll freak. She’ll lock me in the house and throw away the key. Or worse, she’ll start crying. And I can’t… I can’t do that to her.”
Giles softened. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
“I’m not,” Buddy said. “I’ve got you. And Cordelia. And Will. And Marcie, the invisible menace turned latest Scooby sidekick. I’m good.”
The library doors creaked open again.
Both heads turned.
Oz stood in the doorway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, flannel shirt rumpled, hair longer, eyes tired but familiar.
“Hope I’m no interrupting,” he said.
Buddy blinked. “Oz?”
Oz gave a small nod. “Head you died. Figured I’d come back before you made it a habit.”
Buddy grinned, the tension in his shoulders finally breaking. “Aw, you missed me.”
Oz shrugged. “I missed my vinyl collection.”
Giles smiled faintly. “Welcome home, Oz.”
Oz stepped inside, looking around like he was seeing the place for the first time all over again.
“Still smells like musty books and teenage angst,” he said. “Nice to know some things never change.”
Buddy smirked. “Yeah, well. I try to keep the vibe consistent.”
And for the first time in days, the library didn’t feel quite so heavy.
The sky was starless, the moon absent—just a yawing blackness overhead. The only light came from flickering streetlamps beyond the cemetery gates. The air was sharp and damp, heavy with the scent of turned soil and something older, something wrong.
Buddy moved like a shadow between headstones, stake in hand, hoodie zipped up this chin. Angel walked beside him, silent but alert, his coat brushing the tops of the grass with each step.
“Did I mention Oz is back?” Buddy said, voice low but casual, like they were just out for a stroll and not vampire hunting in a graveyard that reeked of death.
Angel glanced over. “No. when?”
“This morning. Just walked into the library like he never left. Said he missed his records. And Will. In that order, but I’m choosing to believe it was alphabetical.”
Angel gave a faint smile. “You think they’ll work it out?”
Buddy nodded, a little too quickly. “I hope so. Losing your virginity to a werewolf who then breaks up with you skips town, is a lot to work through.”
Angel’s expression softened. “Sounds complicated… like a vampire having feelings for a slayer, kind of complicated.
“Exactly,” Buddy said. “They’ve got magic. Fur. Feelings. I mean, if a werewolf and a witch can’t make it work, what hope is there for the rest of us?”
Angel chuckled softly. “You sound invested.”
Buddy smirked. “I’m a sucker for tragic romance. Sue me.”
They walked in silence for a beat, the tension between them thickening like fog. Buddy’s fingers tightened around his stake, but his eyes kept flicking toward Angel—watching the way the shadows clung to him, how the darkness seemed to bend around his frame like it knew him.
Angel finally broke the silence. “You’ve been different. Since…”
Buddy’s smile faltered. “Different how? Broodier? Less charming? I’ve been working on my tortured glances. You know, trying to keep up with you.”
Angel stopped walking. “I’m serious.”
Buddy sighed, gaze dropping to the ground. “I know. I just… I don’t know how to talk about it. I feel like I’m still me, but… off. Like I’m a song someone played backwards and now I can’t remember the melody.”
Angel stepped closer. “You don’t have to carry that alone.”
Buddy looked up, eyes catching the faint gleam in Angel’s. “People keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
The space between them narrowed, breath mingling in the cold air. Buddy’s heart thudded in his chest, too loud, too fast.
“I keep thinking,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “if I let myself feel anything, I’ll fall apart. And I don’t know if I’ll come back together the same way.”
Angel’s hand brushed his. “Then fall. I’ll catch you.”
Buddy’s breath hitched in. “You always say the most romantic things…”
Angel lips quirked. “Old habit.”
They leaned in; the moment stretching—
A rustle.
Buddy’s head snapped toward the sound. “Hold that thought.”
From the shadows, a dozen vampires emerged—fast, hungry, and armed. No theatrics. No banter. Just bloodlust.
“Ambush,” Angel growled, already drawing his stake.
Buddy’s eyes lit up. “Finally. Something I do know how to deal with.”
The fight was fast and brutal.
Buddy moved like a storm, flipping over a headstone and driving his stake through a vamp’s chest mid-air. Angel fought with precision, every strike was deliberate, every movement honed by centuries. Marble stone cracked. Dust filled the air. One by one, the vampires fell.
The last one tried to run.
Buddy tackled him, drove his stake home, and rolled to his feet, panting.
Silence returned.
Angel wiped blood from his lip. “You, okay?”
“Yeah,” Buddy said, brushing dust from his jacket. “Just annoyed. I was about to get kissed.”
Angel chuckled. “Next time, we pick a less haunted date spot.”
Buddy turned, frowning. “Wait. Why were they all heading this way?”
Angel followed his gaze.
They were standing near a familiar patch of earth—disturbed, the soil freshly turned. The headstone was crack. The protective sigils Giles had carved into the stone were scorched black.
Buddy stepped forward, heart sinking.
The grave was open.
Empty.
Angel’s face darkened. “No…”
Buddy stared into the hollow earth, his voice barely a whisper.
“He’s gone.”
The library buzzed with low-level chaos. Marcie sat cross-legged on the table, flipping through a dusty tome with a knife in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other. Will hovered near the stacks, pretending to read but clearly distracted by the recent return of his werewolf ex, eyes flicking to him every few seconds. Oz leaned against the counter, arms folded, his presence quiet but grounding. Cordelia paced, phone in hand, muttering about bloodstains and how dry cleaning was a conspiracy.
The doors slammed open.
Buddy and Angel strode in, both dust-streaked and grim-faced.
Giles looked up from his notes, amused. “Busy night?”
Buddy raised a hand, already in full dramatic mode. “Okay, so remember that time I said, ‘Hey Giles, maybe we should double-check The Master’s grave just in case he’s pulling a Dracula Houdini?’ And you said, ‘Nonsense, Buddy, the grave is sealed tighter than a watcher’s emotional availability’?”
Giles blinked. “I don’t believe I phrased it quite like—”
“Well,” Buddy said, dropping into a chair with a theatrical sigh, “you might want to start believing, because guess what? The Master’s grave is emptier than Cordelia’s sympathy reserves.”
Cordelia didn’t look up. “Rude. Accurate. But rude.”
Will’s face went pale. “Wait—what do you mean empty?”
Angel stepped forward. “No bones. No coffin. Just scorched sigils and a whole lot of nope.”
Marcie looked up from here book. “So… we’re doing this again. Cool. I was worried things were getting too peaceful.”
Giles stood, already moving toward the restricted section. “That’s not possible. The protections were layered—arcane, divine, and thoroughly reinforced with holy water. Nothing short of a coordinated ritual or catastrophic magical failure could’ve—”
“—resulted in exactly what I said would happen?” Buddy offered, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah. Weird how that worked out.”
Cordelia finally looked up from her phone. “Okay, but like, what’s the plan? I don’t want that bony creep crashing any more parties. Homecoming’s coming and I just can’t wait to be queen.”
Angel crossed his arms. “The vampires we fought tonight were guarding the site. They weren’t random. They were organised.”
Giles returned with a thick, leather-bound volume, flipping through pages with practiced urgency. “If The Master’s remains are gone, we need to determine how—and more importantly, why. Resurrection of a vampire that old and powerful isn’t just dangerous. It’s apocalyptic.”
Cordelia groaned. “Ugh. Again? Can’t we just have one week where the world isn’t ending?”
Buddy looked around at them—his friends, his family, his team. “We stopped him once. We’ll do it again.”
Angel met his gaze. “Together.”
Will nodded. “We’re with you.”
Marcie shrugged. “I already cancelled my non-existent weekend plans. Might as well kill something.”
Oz gave a small smile. “Guess I came back just in time.”
Giles closed the book with a thud. “Then let’s get to work.”
The Bronze was bathed in amber light, but the warmth was false. The tables were gone. The stage was empty. The disco ball spun slowly overhead, casting fractured reflections across the floor like broken promises.
Buddy stood alone in the centre of the room, barefoot this time, dressed in black. The silence was thick, like the air before a storm.
Then came the footsteps.
Measured. Confident. Familiar.
From the shadows emerged the man—not the monster. The Master, in his human form. Crisp suit. Clean-shaven. Eyes like polished obsidian. He looked like someone who might you a house or a lie; and make you thank him for both.
“You again,” Buddy muttered, arms crossed.
The Master smiled. “You keep inviting me.”
“I’m not exactly sending out dream RSVPs.”
“No,” The Master said, circling him, “But you’re still opening the door.”
Buddy turned to face him. “What do you want?”
“To talk,” The Master said. “Before the curtain rises.”
Buddy narrowed his eyes. “Talk about what? Your skincare routine? Because I’ve got to say, for a centuries-old corpse, you’re looking disturbingly fresh.
The Master chuckled. “You joke to keep the dark out. But it’s already inside you.
Buddy’s smile faltered.
“There’s a reason you’re different,” The Master continued. “And it’s not just because you’re the first male slayer. It’s not even because you died and came back. It’s because you were chosen by something older than the first slayer, older than the line. Something that doesn’t care about rules or prophecy.”
Buddy’s voice was quiet. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there’s a darkness in you, Buddy. Not evil. Not Yet. But power. Raw. Hungry. And it’s growing.”
Buddy shook his head. “I’m nothing like you.”
The Master stepped closer. “You’re exactly like me. That’s why I see you. Why you see me. We’re bound, you and I. Slayer and shadow. Death and rebirth.”
Buddy’s fists clenched. “You’re not real.”
“I’m more real than you want me to be,” The Master said. “And I’m coming back. Tonight.”
Buddy jolted awake, gasping.
His cheek was stuck to the open pages of a book, a faint line of drool connecting him to a passage on necromantic rites. The library was dim, lit only by the greenish glow of a desk lamp. The others were scattered, some asleep mid-research, others off in hidden corners of the library.
He sat up slowly, heart still hammering, The Master’s words echoing in his skull.
The Bronze. The Suit. The promise.
Buddy rubbed his face, trying to shake the chill from his spine. But it clung to him, like the dream had followed him back.
The main lights were off, leaving the library bathed in the soft glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of candlelight from a half-finished protection circle. Most of the others had drifted into the stacks or out for snacks, leaving Will and Oz tucked into a quiet corner near the occult section, surrounded by open books and half-drunk cans of soda.
Will sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a tome on solar channelling, his fingers stained with ink and candle wax. Oz leaned against the bookshelf beside him, one knee drawn up, a book resting on it, though he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.
“So,” Will said, not looking up, “I may have summoned a miniature sun in The Bronze the other night.”
Oz raised an eyebrow. “Like… metaphorically?”
“Nope. Literal sun. Tiny. Blinding. Dusted three vamps and gave me a headache that lasted all night.”
Oz blinked. “That’s… kind of amazing.”
Will grinned, cheeks flushed. “I mean, yeah. I’m still figuring out how to have better control over it, how to perhaps enlarge it for maximum damage, for the spell to take less of a toll on me, but hey—major progress.”
Oz smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You have always been a total badass.”
Will looked up at him, eyes soft. “You think?”
“I know,” Oz said. “You’ve always been the spark. Every day you just get… brighter.”
Will’s breath caught, and for a moment, the silence between them felt like it was holding its breath too.
“What about you?” Will asked. “How was it? With the pack?”
Oz leaned his head back against the shelf, eyes distant. “Wild. In every sense. Running under the stars, no leash, no chains. Just instinct and wind and teeth. It’s terrifying. And freeing. Like… being exactly what you are, no apologies.”
Will nodded slowly. “Sounds kind of beautiful.”
“It is,” Oz said. “But it’s not home.”
They sat in the quiet for a moment, the hum of the building’s old pipes the only sound.
“I missed you,” Will said, voice barely above a whisper.
Oz looked at him. “I missed you too.”
They leaned in slowly, cautiously, like the space between them was sacred. Will’s hand brushed Oz’s, fingers curling instinctively. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling.
Then Oz pulled back, just slightly.
“I should tell you something,” he said, eyes searching Will’s. “I’m only back until Graduation.”
Will blinked. “What?”
“I promised my parents I’d return to the pack. After graduation, for a year or two. A furry gap year.”
The words landed like a spell gone wrong—quiet but devastating.
Will sat back, the warmth between them cooling. “Oh. I mean; I guess we’re all going somewhere after Graduation. We can’t stay in high school forever. No, that would be literal hell. Between gap years, some of us going to different colleges, and some not going at all…”
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” Oz said. “I didn’t want to come back and start right where we left of. Not without telling you…”
Will nodded, swallowing hard. “Right. Of course. Just… thanks for the heads-up.”
They sat in silence again, the moment between them fractured but not broken.
Oz reached for Will’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
“I’m here now,” he said. “That has to count for something.”
Will didn’t pull away.
“It does,” he whispered. “It really does.”
The Bronze’s stage was draped in black cloth, candles flickering in concentric circles around a raised platform. At the centre lay a skeletal figure—The Master’s bones, arranged with ritualist precision. Vampires lined the perimeter, chanting in low, guttural tones, their eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
And at the front, standing with arms raised, was the Anointed One.
Small. Pale. Smiling.
“Tonight,” he intoned, “we restore the blood. We reclaim the darkness. We bring back The Master.”
The vampires hissed in approval.
Then—
The doors slammed open.
Buddy strode in, staked in hand, leather jacket dusted with ash, eyes blazing.
“Wow,” he said, surveying the scene. “So, this is what happens when The Bronze closes for maintenance. I was hoping for a new sound system, not a necromantic rave.”
The vampires froze.
The Anointed One lowered his arms. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Buddy shrugged. “Yeah, well, I had a dream. Very cryptic. Very creepy. Lots of slow dancing and ominous threats. Point is, it told me where to go. And here I am.”
One of the vampires lunged.
Buddy moved like lightning.
Stake. Dust.
Another charged from the left—Buddy ducked, spun, drove his elbow into his ribs, then staked it clean through the heart.
Dust.
A third tried to flank him—Buddy kicked a chair into its path, vaulted over the table, and staked it mid-air.
Dust.
The room erupted in chaos.
But Buddy was faster. Sharper. Meaner.
He fought like someone who’d already died once and wasn’t planning on doing it again.
One by one, the vampires fell—each strike precise, brutal, beautiful. The Bronze filled with ash and silence.
Only the Anointed One remained.
He stood frozen, eyes wide, lips trembling.
Buddy stepped toward him, slow and deliberate.
“Kid,” he said, voice low, “I don’t care how creepy your bedtime stories are. If I see you in Sunnydale again, I’ll throw you in a sandbox at high noon and let nature do the rest.”
The Anointed One swallowed hard.
Then he ran.
Buddy turned to the bones.
The Master’s skull grinned up at him, fangs bared, empty sockets mocking.
Buddy knelt.
He picked up the femur first—snapped it in half with a grunt.
Then the ribcage—crushed beneath his boot.
The spine—shattered with a swing of a broken mic stand.
He worked methodically, breath ragged, muscles trembling, until only fragments remained.
Then grabbed a fire axe from the wall.
And he finished the job.
Bone turned to dust.
Dust turned to silence.
Buddy stood alone in the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes burning.
“No more dreams,” he whispered. “No more comebacks. I win!”
The Bronze was a graveyard of ash and shattered ritual. The Master’s bones—what was left of them—lay scattered like broken promises. The air still shimmered with the heat of vengeance and the faint scent of dusted vampire.
Buddy stood in the centre of it all, bloodied knuckles trembling, chest heaving. The fire axe lay at his feet, its blade cracked, its work done.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He didn’t turn.
“I was wondering when the brooding cavalry would show up,” he said, voice rough but laced with mischief. “You’re late. I already killed the vibe.
Angel stepped into the candlelight, his coat catching the flicker like a shadow come to life. He took in the wreckage, the dust, the slayer.
“I had a feeling,” Angel said softly, “you needed to do this alone.”
Buddy turned, eyes gleaming with exhaustion and adrenaline. “Yeah, well. Turns out I’m great at solo acts. But the encore? Kinda hoping for a duet.”
Angel’s mouth twitched. “You’re unbelievable.”
Buddy stepped closer, eyes locked on his. “And yet, here you are. Drawn to me like a moth to a very sarcastic flame.”
Angel didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The space between them vanished.
Buddy surged forward, grabbing Angel by the lapels and pulling him in. Their mouths met in a kiss that was anything but gentle—hungry, aching, desperate. It was the kind of kiss that rewrote gravity, that made the world tilt and hush and hold its breath.
Angel responded in kind, arms wrapping around Buddy’s waits, pulling him close, grounding him. The kiss deepened—slow, then fierce, then slow again, like they were trying to memorise each other’s shape.
When they finally broke apart, Buddy’s forehead rested against Angel’s, his voice a breathless rasp.
“Okay,” he said. “So, not to ruin the moment, but I’ve died once, almost died again, and just played whack-a-bone with the remains of my undead ex-nemesis. So maybe—just maybe—it’s time you made me your boyfriend already. Before I spontaneously combust or fall into a portal of whatever fresh horror tomorrow has planned.”
Angel laughed, low and warm. “You’re serious?”
Buddy grinned. “I’m wearing vampire dust and righteous fury like cologne. I’ve never been more serious.”
Angel brushed a thumb across Buddy’s cheek, eyes soft. “Then yes. You’re mine.”
They kissed again, slower this time, sweater. The kind of kiss that said, we survived. The kind that promised more.
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Nine: The Slayer Rises
The room shimmered with a soft, silvery glow—too perfect, too still. Posters hung straight, the bed was made, and the air felt like it had been filtered through a dream. Buddy sat up slowly, blinking against the light.
He was dressed in an all-white suit. Crisp. Immaculate. Weirdly flattering.
He frowned. “Okay. Either I’m dead, or I’ve been recruited into a boy band called Celestial Regret.”
A soft laugh echoed from the corner.
He turned—and there she was.
A girl in a flowing white prom dress, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes sharp and familiar.
Buffy Summers.
She raised an eyebrow. “Nice suit. Very ‘ghost at prom.”
Buddy blinked. “I’m Buddy. The Vampire Slayer.”
She gave a mock curtsy. “Buffy. The Vampire Slayer.”
Buddy stood, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. “Wow. I always thought the slayer line would have cooler names. Buffy and Buddy? We sound like a Saturday morning cartoon about crime-fighting poodles.”
Buffy snorted. “Speak for yourself. At least I don’t sound like a golden retriever who runs a surf shop.”
“Hey,” Buddy said, mockingly offended. “It screams ‘tragic hero with great hair.”
Buddy smirked. “It screams ‘backup dancer in a boy band who dies in the pilot.”
They both laughed, the tension easing just a little.
Then the silence crept back in.
“You fell,” Buffy said softly.
Buddy nodded. “You too?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Big fall. Big sacrifice. You?”
“Slayer perks.”
They sat side by side on the bed, the flow around them pulsing gently.
Buffy sighed. “So… this is it?”
Buddy shrugged. “Feels like it. Unless this is some weird slayer HR orientation dream.”
She chuckled. “If it is, they’re really slacking on the welcome basket.”
He looked at her, more serious now. “Do you think we’re really dead?”
Buffy hesitated. “I don’t’ know. But if we are… at least we’re not alone.”
Buddy’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want to leave them…”
Buffy’s eyes softened. “Yeah. I get that.”
She reached out, took his hand.
“We were brave,” she said. “We still are.”
He looked down at their joined hands. “Do you think our worlds will be okay without us?”
“Our friends, they’ll hurt,” she said. “But they’ll fights. That’s what we do. What we leave behind.
Buddy nodded, tears brimming. “I just… I didn’t want to be a tragedy.”
Buffy squeezed his hand. “You’re not. You’re a slayer. Even if your name is Buddy.”
He sniffed, smiling. “Says the girl named after a dog breed.”
They laughed again, softer this time.
And in the stillness somewhere between worlds, two fallen slayers held onto each other—warriors, wise crackers, and maybe, just maybe, neither done, not yet.
The tunnels stretched endless in every direction, damp and echoing with distant drips. The air was thick with mildew and something fouler—something undead. Giles led the way, flashlight beam cutting through the dark, crossbow slung over his shoulder. Angel followed close behind, tense and silent. Will clutched a spellbook, Cordelia a stake in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Marcie walked beside them, visible for now, her eyes scanning every shadow.
“We’re close,” Giles murmured. “The Master’s lair should be just beyond the lower junction.”
Cordelia wrinkled her nose. “Great. Just past the scenic rat graveyard.”
Angel stopped suddenly, eyes narrowing. “We’re not alone.”
From the darkness ahead, laughter echoed—high-pitched, mocking.
Harmony stepped into view, flanked by a half-dozen vampires. Her eyes gleamed with cruel delight, fangs bared, leather jacket pristine despite the sewer stench.
“Well, well,” she purred. “Look who’s playing Scooby in the sewers.”
Cordelia groaned. “Of course it’s you. Can’t even die without making it about yourself.”
Harmony smirked. “I’m here to make sure The Master’s plans go off without a hitch.”
The vampires surged forward.
Giles raised his crossbow. “Marcie—go! Find Buddy. now!”
Marcie hesitated, eyes darting between the group and the shadows.
Cordelia grabbed her arm. “We’ll hold them. You find him.”
She nodded once.
Then vanished.
Her form shimmered, then blinked out of sight entirely.
Cordelia swung her stake. “Okay, sewer brawl it is. Someone remind me why I didn’t just stay home and binge soap operas.”
Angel launched himself into the fray, a blur of fists and fury. Giles fired his crossbow, taking down one vamp with a clean shot. Will began chanting, fingers glowing faintly as he summoned a protective ward.
And somewhere deeper in the tunnels, Marcie ran unseen.
Her footsteps silent.
Her breath steady.
The chamber was a cathedral of ruin. The torches had burned low, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cracked stone. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the stale breath of something ancient.
Marcie stepped in, silent and unseen.
Her invisibility shimmered faintly as she moved through the wreckage. Her eyes swept the room with clinical precision, cataloguing the aftermath: shattered stone, claw marks gouged into the walls, the scent of scorched air and spilled blood.
Then she saw him.
Buddy.
He lay crumpled near the altar, his skin pale as porcelain. His body was still. Too still.
Marcie’s invisibility faltered—then failed.
She became visible in an instant, as if the room itself demanded it.
She walked to him, crouched beside his body, and stared.
“Well,” she said flatly. “You look like a crime scene in a Calvin Klein ad.”
No response.
She pressed two fingers to his neck. A pulse. Barely there. Flickering.
Her face didn’t changer, but her breath hitched—just once.
“Of course you’re not dead,” she muttered.
She sat down beside him, cross-legged, hands folded in her lap. Her gaze never left his face.
“I should probably go get the others,” she said. “But you shouldn’t be alone. Not now.”
She glanced around the chamber, unimpressed. “This place is a dump. Very ‘ancient evil bachelor pad.”
Her voice dropped, quieter now.
“You fought him.”
She reached out, brushed a blood-matter curl from his forehead.
“I don’t do pep talks,” she said. “But if you’re planning on dying, I’d prefer you didn’t. It’s annoying. And melodramatic. And you me a rematch, slayer.”
She leaned back against the altar, arms crossed.
“I’ll wait.”
And she did.
In the silence of the broken lair, surrounded by bones and prophecy, Marcie stayed.
Invisible no longer.
Unmoving.
Unflinching.
The tunnel erupted into chaos.
Angel was a blur of motion, his coat whipping behind him as he moved with lethal precision. He staked one vampire clean through the heart, spun, and drove his elbow into another’s jaw, sending it crashing into the wall. Dust exploded around him like smoke from a gun.
Another vamp lunged, Angel caught it mid-air and slammed it to the ground, stake plunging down without hesitation. Ash scattered across the wet concrete.
Cordelia screamed as a vampire lunged at her—but she didn’t run.
She ducked, rolled, and came up swinging. Her stake hit home, and the vampire burst into dust with a shocked hiss.
Cordelia blinked, stunned. “Oh my god. I did it. Cordy, the vampire slayer, eat your hearts out.”
Then she turned to the next one, eyes blazing. “Okay, who’s next?”
Giles fought with grim determination, wielding a broken pipe like a staff. He jabbed one vampire in the throat, then spun and drove a stake into another’s back with a grunt of effort. His glasses were cracked, his tie askew, but his aim was true.
Will stood behind them, hands trembling, eyes glowing faintly.
He focused on a canvas duffel bag lying nearby; unzipped, filled with wooden stakes.
He raised both hands.
The bag burst open.
Stakes lifted into the air, hovering like arrows drawn in invisible boxes.
Will exhaled—and the stakes shot forward in a deadly volley.
Three vampires turned just in time to be impaled, their bodies exploding into dust mid-snarl.
Cordelia ducked as one whizzed past her ear. “Okay, warn me next time, Manny Halliwell!”
Will grinned, breathless. “Sorry! That was new.”
Across the tunnel, Harmony watched the tide turn.
Her smirk faltered.
She backed away, eyes darting between the dust clouds and the advancing group.
“Nope,” she muttered. “Not dying in a sewer. Not with this hair.”
She turned and bolted, heels splashing through the muck as she vanished into the dark.
Angel didn’t chase her.
He turned to the others, chest heaving. “We need to move. Now.”
Together, they ran.
Toward the lair.
Toward the slayer.
Toward whatever hope remained.
The music in The Bronze died mid-beat.
A low hum of confusion rippled through the crowd as the lights above flickered once—twice—then surrendered to darkness. Conversations faltered. Laughter choked off. The only sound was the soft clink of a dropped glass and the slow, rising thrum of dread.
Then the doors burst open with a thunderous crack.
Smoke poured in, thick and unnatural, curling like fingers through the air. From the swirling gloom stepped a figure—tall, skeletal, regal in his decay. His eyes flowed like twin coals in a sunken face. His mouth curled into a smile that had nothing to do with joy.
The Master had arrived.
Behind him, they spilled in—his children. Dozens of vampires, their eyes gleaming, fangs bared, hunger radiating off them like heat. They moved with animal grace, surrounding the room in seconds.
The Bronze erupted into chaos.
Screams tore through the air as the crowd surged toward the exits, only to find them blocked. Vampires pounced, dragging victims down in snarling packs. Blood sprayed across the walls, staining posters and string lights. A girl in a denim jacket was yanked from the bar, her scream cut short as teeth sank into her throat. A boy tried to climb through a shattered window—he made it halfway before a pale hand seized his ankle and pulled him back into the dark.
The Master strolled through the carnage like a man admiring a garden in bloom. He moved with unhurried elegance, his long coat trailing behind him, his boots echoing on the blood-slick floor. He passed a writhing couple pinned beneath a snarling vampire and paused, watching with something like fondness.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice like cracked marble. “So much life. So much noise. And now… silence.”
He stepped onto the stage, the once-vibrant heart of Sunnydale’s youth culture now a throne of ruin. The disco ball above him spun lazily, catching the flickering torchlight and casting fractured beams across the carnage—like a mockery of starlight.
A vampire dragged a sobbing girl by the hair, tossing her at The Master’s feet. He looked down at her, tilting his head.
“Do you know what this place was built on?” he asked, voice almost gentle. “A Hellmouth. A wound in the world. And now, it opens.”
He raised his arms.
“The slayer has fallen. The blood has been spilled. The gate yawns wide.”
The vampires roared in unison, a chorus of hunger and triumph.
The Master closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of blood and fear. “Let the world remember this night,” he whispered. “Let it remember who broke it.”
And as the screams echoed through the hollowed-out shell of The Bronze, The Master smiled with purpose.
The chamber was still, the air thick with the scent of blood and stone. Shadows clung to the walls like cobwebs, and the torches burned low, casting flickering halos across the wreckage.
Marcie sat on the cold floor, cross-legged beside Buddy’s body. Her expression was unreadable, but her hands were stained red, resting gently on his chest.
Footsteps echoed down the tunnel—fast, frantic.
Cordelia burst in first, the flashlight beam from her phone sweeping wildly until it landed on them.
“Oh my god,” she breathed.
Will stumbled in behind her, then Giles, then Angel. They froze at the sight.
Buddy lay motionless, soaked in his own blood, skin pale and waxen. His chest rose in shallow, uneven gasps.
Will dropped to his knees beside him. “No, no, no—Buddy—”
Giles staggered forward, his face crumpling. “Dear lord…”
Cordelia’s hands flew to her mouth, but she didn’t’ scream. She crouched beside Marcie, brushing a trembling hand over Buddy’s forehead.
“What happened?” she asked, voice tight.
Marcie didn’t look up. “He fought The Master. He lost.”
Angel stepped forward slowly, eyes locked on Buddy. “He’s still breathing.”
“Barely,” Marcie said. “He’s fading.”
Giles knelt beside them, checking Buddy’s pulse with shaking figures. “We must move. Now.”
Cordelia stood, already pulling off her jacket. “We’re not losing him. Not after everything.”
Angel didn’t wait for permission. He knelt, slid his arms beneath Buddy’s limp form, and lifted him with ease. Buddy’s head lolled against his chest, blood trailing from his neck.
“Go,” Angel said. “Clear the way.”
They ran.
Through the tunnels, through the dark, retracing their steps with renewed urgency. Cordelia led the charge, flashlight bouncing wildly. Will clutched his spellbook like a lifeline. Giles kept pace, muttering prayers under his breath.
Behind them, the lair faded into shadow.
Ahead, the surface waited.
And beyond that—hope.
The waiting room was a sterile pocket of dread. fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold pallor over the cracked vinyl chairs and scuffed linoleum. The vending machine hummed in the corner untouched.
Giles stood near the reception desk, arms folded tightly, his expression grim. Will sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced and white-knuckled. Angel paced in tight uncontrolled circles, his coat whispering with every turn. Marcie and Cordelia sat cross-legged in chairs, both still and silent, their gazes fixed on different spots on the floor.
The door opened with a soft hiss.
A woman in navy scrubs stepped in, clipboard tucked under one arm. Her badge read: Dr. A. Nguyen, Trauma Surgery. She scanned the room, then approached Giles.
“Me Giles?”
He straightened. “Yes. I’m Rupert Giles. I’m listed as his father.”
She gave a brief nod, her tone clipped but not unkind. “I can give you an update. Your son—Buddy—arrived in hypovolemic shock due to extensive blood loss. We initiated massive transfusion protocol immediately. He was unresponsive and hypotensive, with a systolic pressure below sixty.”
Will’s breath caught. Angel stopped pacing.
“During the transfusion, he went into cardiac arrest,” Dr. Nguyen continued. “We performed advanced resuscitative measures and achieved return of spontaneous circulation after forty-seven seconds.”
Giles closed his eyes. Angel’s jaw tightened.
“He’s currently intubated and sedated in the ICU,” she said. “Vitals are stable, but he remains comatose. We’ll be monitoring intracranial pressure and running serial neuro checks. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.
Giles’ voice was barely a whisper. “Will he wake up?”
Dr. Nguyen’s expression softened. “We don’t know yet. But he’s alive. That’s something.”
She handed Giles a visitors’ badge. “Room 207. Family only.”
Cordelia snapped. “We’re all his family!”
“One at a time. Keep it brief.” The Doctor said before turning and leaving, the door swinging shut behind her.
Silence settled like dust.
Marcie broke it first. “If a slayer is activated every time, one dies…and Buddy died for forty-seven seconds…”
Will let out a shaky laugh through his tears.
Angel sat down beside him, voice low. “He’s still fighting.”
Giles nodded. “Then we hold the line until he’s ready to join us.”
Just then, three phones buzzed in unison—Cordelia’s, Will’s, and Marcie’s.
Cordelia pulled hers out first, frowning. “It’s a news alert.”
Will’s eyes widened as he read. “There’s some kind of hold-up at The Bronze. Hostages. Multiple injuries.”
Marcie raised an eyebrow. “Guess the vampires didn’t like the playlist.”
Angel stood, already moving toward the door. “It’s him.”
Giles looked up. “The Master?”
Angel’s voice was cold. “He’s claiming back his kingdom.”
Cordelia’s eyes burned. “Then we stop him.”
Will nodded, rising to his feet. “For Buddy.”
Marcie stood, brushing off her jeans. “And for whoever thought it was a good idea to throw a party on a Hellmouth.”
They moved as one, the waiting room door swinging shut behind them.
And somewhere down the hall, a heart kept beating.
Buddy sat on the edge of his bed, fingers laced, staring at the floor. The ache in his chest had dulled, but it lingered, like a bruise beneath the skin of the world. Buddy stood by the window, arms crossed, watching him with quiet intensity. Her dress shimmered faintly, catching light like mist. She didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to.
“You’re still here,” she said.
Buddy looked up. “So are you.”
Buffy smirked. “Slayers. We never know when to leave the party.”
He gave a tired laugh. “You’d think dying would be more… final.”
“Death has a revolving door,” she said. “Especially for us.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of shared fate settling between them like dust.
“We’re from different worlds,” Buddy realised.
Buffy nodded. “Different timelines. Beaten by different Masters. Same ending.”
Buddy looked at her, something flickering behind his eyes. “You think this is just a pit stop?”
“I think it’s a choice,” she said. “We’re not done. Not yet.”
He hesitated. “What if I can’t finish it?”
Buffy stepped forward, crouching in front of him. “You’re scared. Same. That means we care. But we’ve got people out there who believe in us. Who are probably making terrible decisions without us.”
Buddy cracked a smile. “Cordelia’s probably threatening to run over The Master.”
Buffy laughed softly. “Mine would too. She’s got a mean right hook and zero patience for authority.”
Buddy blinked. “You have a Cordelia?”
Buffy smiled. “Guess some things are universal.”
The room began to shift—the walls pulsing with light, the air thickening like the moment before waking.
Buffy stood, already beginning to fade.
“Guess this is just the beginning of our stories, Buddy.”
Buddy looked up at her. “Let’s go give them hell, Buffy.”
The light flared—
Buddy gasped awake. His body jerked, monitors beeping in alarm. The white sheets tangled around him as he blinked against the harsh fluorescent light.
He was alive.
Barely.
But alive.
And somewhere out there, The Master was still smiling.
Buddy exhaled, voice hoarse.
“Round two.”
The Bronze had become a slaughterhouse.
Bodies littered the floor—some unconscious, some worse. Blood streaked the walls, smeared across the bar, pooled beneath the stage where The Master stood like a conductor before an orchestra of screams. His vampires fed freely, dragging victims into corners, pinning them against shattered furniture, draining them with gleeful abandon.
The Master raised a goblet carved from bone, filled to the brim with fresh blood. He drank deeply, crimson staining his lips.
“Do you feel it?” he called to his brood. “The pulse of the Hellmouth, wide open and singing. This is the beginning of the end.”
A vampire hissed in agreement; fangs slick with gore.
Then—
CRASH.
The front doors burst open in a rain of splinters.
Angel led the charge, coat flaring, stake in hand. Giles followed, crossbow raised. Cordelia stormed in beside them, wielding a fire axe with grim determination. Will’s eyes glowed faintly, hands already crackling with kinetic energy. Marcie was nowhere to be seen—but her presence was felt in the sudden shriek of a vampire collapsing from an unseen blow.
The Master’s smile faltered.
“Sloppy,” Cordelia muttered. “Leaving the door unlocked.”
The vampires surged.
Angel met them head-on, staking one, then another, moving like a storm of vengeance. Giles fired bolt after bolt, each one finding its mark. Will raised a hand and sent a table flying into a cluster of blood-drunk vamps, then yanked a chandelier from the ceiling, crushing two more.
Cordelia swung her axe with surprising precision, cleaving through a vampire’s neck. “I am so over this apocalypse.”
Marcie shimmered into view just long enough to stab a vampire in the back before vanishing again.
For a moment, it looked like they might win.
But The Master raised his hand—and more vampires poured in from the shadows. Dozens. Too many.
The tide turned.
Cordelia was disarmed, thrown into a wall. Giles was pinned beneath a collapsed speaker. Will tired to summon another wave of telekinetic force, but a vampire tackled him mid-gesture, slamming him to the ground.
Angel fought like a demon, but even he couldn’t hold them all.
The Master descended from the stage, slow and deliberate.
“Angelus,” he said, voice dripping with venom. “You took something from me.”
Angel spat blood. “She made her choice.”
The Master’s eyes burned. “And now I make mine.”
He struck.
The first blow sent Angel sprawling. The second cracked ribs. The third drove him to his knees.
The others struggled, helpless, forced to watch as The Master pummelled Angel into the floor. He raised a jagged piece of wood, aiming for Angel’s heart.
“This is for Darla.”
TWANG.
A crossbow bolt sliced through the air.
The Master caught it inches from his chest.
He turned.
The room fell silent.
Buddy stood in the doorway, pale but upright, hospital gown traded for black jeans and a leather jacket. His hair was tousled, his eyes sharp, his stance ready.
The Bronze held its breath.
The Master’s lips curled. “Aren’t you dead?”
Buddy smirked. “I may be dead… but at least I’m still pretty.”
The room was chaos—screams, snarls, the clash of fists and fangs. The Master stood tall amidst the carnage, Angel broken at his feet, the others scattered and struggling beneath the weight of the vampire horde.
Will lay on the floor, blood trickling from his temple, a vampire looming over him with a feral grin.
“No,” he whispered, eyes fluttering open. “Not like this.”
He raised a trembling hand and began chanting.
A flicker of light sparked in his palm—small, golden, pulsing like a heartbeat. The vampire paused, confused.
Will’s voice cracked as he spoke the incarnation, ancient syllables spilling from his lips like fire.
The ball of light expanded—suddenly, violently—into a miniature sun.
A blinding flare filled the centre of The Bronze.
The vampires closest to Will screamed, their skin blistering, turning to ash mid-snarl. Dust exploded in every direction, the shockwave knocking others back.
Will collapsed, unconscious, the light fading from his hand.
The tide turned.
Cordelia surged to her feet, grabbing her axe. “That’s my witch!”
She swung hard, cleaving through a stunned vampire’s neck. Giles, bloodied but breathing, drove a broken chair leg through another’s chest. Marcie reappeared mid-strike, her blade flashing as she cut down a retreating vamp.
The Master turned, eyes narrowing.
Buddy was already moving.
He sprinted across the room, leaping over debris, past the bodies, past the dust. His eyes locked on The Master’s. His fists clenched.
The Master sneered. “Guess I get to kill you all over again.”
Buddy didn’t answer.
He hit The Master like a thunderclap.
They crashed into a table. Splintering it beneath them. The Master lashed out, claws raking across Buddy’s side. Buddy grunted but didn’t stop. He drove his first into The Master’s jaw, then again, and again, until blood sprayed across the floor.
The Master roared, grabbing Buddy by the throat and slamming him into a pillar. “You think you can stop me? You’re just a child playing warrior.”
Buddy spat blood in his face. “I’m the slayer.”
He broke The Master’s grip, ducked a wild swing, and drove his knee into the vampire’s ribs. The Master staggered. Buddy grabbed a broken mic stand, snapped it in half, and plunged the jagged end into The Master’s gut.
The Master howled—but didn’t fall.
He backhanded Buddy across the room.
Buddy hit the stage hard, ribs screaming. He forced himself up, vision swimming.
The Master advanced, limping now, but grinning. “You’re too late. The Hellmouth is open. The world is already bleeding.”
Buddy wiped blood from his mouth. “Then I’ll cauterise the wound.”
He charged again.
The Bronze was a warzone.
Cordelia knelt beside Will, cradling his head as he lay unconscious, the last flickers of his conjured sun still fading from the scorched floor. Giles leaned against a shattered table, bloodied but breathing. Marcie stood over the last pile of vampire ash, her blade slick and trembling in her hand after just decapitating another vampire.
And in the centre of it all, Buddy faced The Master.
They collided like titans—flesh and fury, bone and vengeance. The Master fought with centuries of cruelty, but Buddy fought with something older: purpose. Every blow he landed was a promise kept. Every bruise, a memory of the lives lost.
The final strike came swift and brutal.
Buddy picked up a large piece of broken wood from the nearby floor and launched it straight into The Master’s heart.
The Master froze.
His eyes widened, lips parting in a silent gasp.
Then his body convulsed—cracking, splintering—and exploded into a cloud of dust.
But something remained.
As the ash settled, a sound echoed through the silence: the clatter of bones hitting the floor.
The Master’s skeleton lay intact, bleached and ancient, curled in a twisted sprawl at Buddy’s feet. His skull grinned up at the ceiling, fangs bared in a final, mocking sneer.
Buddy stared down at it, chest heaving, as he stuck out his tongue, mocking The Master’s defeat.
Cordelia looked up from Will, eyes wide. “That’s… not normal right?”
“No,” Giles said, his voice hoarse. “That’s very much not normal.”
Angel limped to Buddy’s side; gaze fixed on his grand-sire’s bones. “He shouldn’t have left anything behind.”
Marcie crouched beside the remains, poking the skull with the tip of her blade. “So… do we burn it? Bury it? Mail it to hell?”
Buddy didn’t answer. He just stared at the bones, jaw clenched.
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Eight: The Slayer Shall Fall
The double doors creaked open as Buddy slipped inside, stake still tucked into his belt, hoodie damp from the night air. The library was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and the flickering glow of a single candle near the stacks. He moved quietly, expecting Giles to be buried in books or asleep at his desk.
Instead, he heard voices.
Low. Urgent. Heated.
Buddy paused behind a shelf, peeing through the gaps in the books.
Giles stood near the central table, arms crossed, face tight with frustration. Angel paced like a caged animal, coat trailing behind him, eyes burning.
“We’re running out of time,” Angel growled. “You said the Council had answers.”
“They have fragments,” Giles snapped. “Half-translated, half-buried. And none of it tells us how to stop what’s coming.
Buddy leaned in, heart beginning to race.
Angel slammed a hand against the table. “Then read it again. Maybe we missed something.”
Giles exhaled, weary. “Fine.”
He reached for the scroll, unrolling it with trembling fingers, and read aloud:
“On the eve of darkness, when the bones of earth tremble, The Master shall rise.
And the slayer shall fall.
Blood shall mark the threshold, and death shall open the gate.”
Buddy’s breath caught.
He stepped out from behind the shelf, voice shaking. “What the hell was that?”
Buddy’s voice rose. “You weren’t going to tell me? That there’s a prophecy saying I’m going to die?”
Giles stepped forward. “It’s not certain. Prophecies are fluid, symbolic—”
“Symbolic?” Buddy laughed bitterly. “Sounded literal to me. Slayer. Fall. Death. Ringing any bells?”
Angel looked away, jaw clenched.
Buddy turned on him. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Because nobody wants to date someone with an expiration date?”
Angel didn’t answer.
Buddy’s voice cracked. “God. I thought I was finally getting somewhere. I thought I had people who cared. But you knew. You both knew.
Giles tried to speak, but Buddy cut him off. “I’m not gonna survive high school, am I? all those stupid dreams—college, adulting, maybe a boyfriend who doesn’t vanish into shadows—and now I’m just a footnote in a dusty prophecy.”
He wiped his eyes angrily. “I had such a killer outfit for Graduation. Shame I’ll be too dead to wear it. Still, maybe they’ll bury me in it.”
“Save it,” he said, voice hollow. “I’ll be fine. I’m the slayer, right? We’re born to die. Another will just take my place, like I was never even here.”
The doors slammed behind him, echoing through the empty library.
Giles stood frozen.
Angel stared at the scroll.
And somewhere outside, Buddy walked into the night—alone, angry, and afraid.
The chamber pulsed with ancient magic—walls slick with condensation, roots curling like veins through the stone. The Master loomed in the centre, his skeletal frame hunched, skin pale as bone, eyes burning with centuries of rage.
Harmony stood before him, nervously twirling a strand of her platinum hair. “So, like, surprise! I brought you a present.”
The Master’s clawed hand shot out, wrapping around her throat with inhuman speed.
Harmony squeaked, feet lifting off the ground.
“A present?” The Master hissed, voice like gravel dragged across a tombstone. “You left me to rot after Darla—” His voice cracked, fury trembling his grip. “My beloved Darla, dusted. And now you bring me gifts?”
Harmony kicked her heels helplessly. “Okay, okay! I know, I know! But like—ow—if you just let me explain--!”
Then—
A soft voice echoed from the shadows. “Let her go.”
The Master froze.
From the darkness stepped a boy no older than ten, dressed in a neat little suit, his eyes ancient and bottomless. The Anointed One.
Harmony dropped to the ground with a thud, coughing and rubbing her neck. “Ugh, rude.”
The Master stared at the child, stunned. “You…”
The Anointed One smiled, serene and chilling. “You’ve been waiting, haven’t you? For your court. For your vengeance. For your purpose.”
The Master’s voice was reverent now. “I felt you. In dreams. In blood.
Harmony scrambled to her feet, brushing off her skirt. “Yeah, so that’s the thing. Drusilla found him. Said he was important. Said he was, like, the key to your whole ‘rise and reign’ thing. She turned him herself. Siad he’d be the one to lead us back to glory.”
The Master’s eyes narrowed. “Drusilla? She lives?”
Harmony nodded, beaming despite the bruises forming on her neck. “She’s totally nuts, but she’s got style. And visions. And she said you’d forgive me if I brought him to you.”
The Anointed One stepped forward, placing a small, cold hand on The Master’s clawed one. “She was right.”
The Master looked down at the boy, then at Harmony.
His lips curled into a slow, terrible smile.
“Very well,” he said. “Let the court be rebuilt. Let the bloodline rise again.”
Harmony grinned, relieved. “So… we’re good?”
The Master’s smile widened. “For now.”
She gulped. “Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool.”
The chamber darkened as the Anointed One turned toward the shadows, his voice echoing like prophecy.
“Let the slayer come. Let the blood flow. The gate will open. And the world will drown in shadow.”
The sky hung low and grey, like even the weather was bracing for bad news. Buddy, Cordelia, and Will climbed the front steps of Sunnydale High, their boots echoing against the concrete. Buddy’s hands were jammed in his jacket pockets, his jaw set like stone. Will walked beside him, quiet. Cordelia trailed a step behind, sipping a smoothie like it was armour.
“So,” Cordelia said, breaking the silence, “you’re telling me there’s a prophecy that says you’re gonna die? Like, die? Not just ‘fail a math test and die of embarrassment’ die?”
Buddy didn’t look at her. “Yeah. Slayer. Fall. Death. Real cheery stuff.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Prophecies are just cosmic fanfiction. I once had a psychic tell me I’d marry a Virgo and open vegan bakery in Sedona. Like, please, I’m destined for greatness and will not settle for mediocrity.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “Remember the Gemini you dated who though deodorant as a government conspiracy.”
“Exactly,” she said, sipping. “So clearly fate is drunk.”
Buddy gave a hollow laugh. “Well, apparently fate has also got a flair for the dramatic. ‘The Slayer shall fall’—like, thanks for the subtlety, ancient scrolls.”
Will frowned. “I mean, Giles didn’t tell me Oz was a werewolf right up until he tried to turn me into a chew toy, so…secrecy seems to be his love language. He only found out five minutes before me, though, to be fair.”
They pushed through the front doors, the familiar scent of floor wax and teen despair washing over them.
As they rounded the corner, they nearly collided with Giles, who was juggling a precarious stack of books.
“Oh—good morning,” Giles said, startled. “I was just—”
“Hey, Giles,” Will said, voice clipped but polite.
Cordelia offered a breezy, “Morning, Watcher Prime.”
Buddy didn’t say a word. He brushed past Giles without a glance, his shoulders stiff, his silence louder than any scream.
Giles turned, brow furrowed. “Buddy—”
Will gave him a tight smile. “He’s not ghosting you. He’s just… emotionally buffering.”
Cordelia sighed, adjusting her bad. “You might want to invest in a helmet. Or a guilt-proof vest. Or, like, a fruit basket with a side of ‘sorry I kept your death sentence a secret.”
They hurried after Buddy, their footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving Giles alone in the hallway, holding books and regret.
The library was too quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows in dusty shafts, catching on the spines of ancient tomes and the glint of Giles’ glasses as he hunched over a brittle scroll. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax. The silence so complete it felt like the world was holding its breath.
Then the floor trembled.
It began as a low groan, a subtle shift beneath his feet. The teacup on the table rattled once, then again, skittering toward the edge. Giles didn’t flinch. He simply closed the book with a soft thud, removed his glassed, and looked up at the ceiling with a grim, knowing expression.
“So it begins,” he murmured.
Across campus, the fluorescent lights in Room 204 flickered violently overhead. A poster of the solar system peeled from the wall, curling like dead skin as the ground lurched beneath the students’ desks. Screams erupted. Desks scraped and clattered. The teacher dove beneath her desk, shouting for everyone to get down.
Will and Cordelia scrambled under theirs, eyes wide.
“Okay, I’m so over the drama,” Cordelia hissed, clutching her smoothie like a lifeline, “this is earthquake meets exorcism.”
Will ducked beside her, bracing himself. “This is Sunnydale. Shouldn’t we have, like, a punch card for apocalyptic tremors by now?”
But Buddy didn’t move.
He stood in the centre of the chaos, frozen, staring up at the ceiling as cracks spiderwebbed through the plaster like veins of doom. His face had gone pale; lips parted in a silent realisation.
“The Slayer shall fall…” he whispered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Far below the surface, in the damp, rotting belly of the earth, The Master stood tall in his prison of bone and stone. The cavern trembled around him, walls pulsing with ancient energy. Roots writhed like veins, and the air reeked of sulphur and decay.
He raised his arms, eyes gleaming with unholy joy.
“Yes… yes!” he cried, voice echoing off the jagged walls. “The earth remembers me. It screams for me.”
Dust rained from the ceiling. Bones embedded in the stone walls clattered like wind chimes in a storm.
Beside him, the Anointed One stood perfectly still, his small hands folded, his childlike face serene. But his eyes—those eyes—burned with something far older than his body.
“The gate stirs,” The Master hissed. “The blood with flow. The slayer’s time is ending. The prophecy breathes.”
He turned to the boy, reverent. “Soon, child. Soon, the world will kneel.”
The Anointed One smiled, calm as a corpse.
“Let the bones break,” he said. “Let the light die.”
Back in the classroom, the quake subsided, leaving behind a silence more terrifying than the noise. Students slowly emerged from beneath their desks, whispering nervously, brushing dust from their clothes.
Buddy remained standing, unmoved.
Cordelia climbed out, smoothing her skirt. “Okay, that was not tectonic. That was a Hellmouth mood swing.”
Will looked up at Buddy, concern etched deep into his features. “You, okay?”
Buddy didn’t answer.
He was still staring at the ceiling, as if he could see through it. As if something was staring back.
In the library, Giles moved with quiet purpose. He crossed to the weapons cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled out a crossbow. His hands were steady. His expression was not.
He didn’t need to reread the prophecy.
He knew what it said.
And he knew what was coming.
In the dark beneath Sunnydale, The Master placed a clawed hand on the Anointed One’s shoulder.
“The earth has spoken,” he said, voice thick with hunger. “The gate will open.”
He smiled, fangs gleaming like ivory knives.
“Let the slayer come.”
Giles stood at the central table within the library, re-shelving fallen volumes with mechanical precision. He didn’t look up when the doors creaked open.
But he didn’t have to.
“I want to know everything,” Buddy said from the threshold, his voice low and sharp.
Giles froze, a book halfway to the shelf. He turned slowly, eyes meeting Buddy’s.
“Everything?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Buddy stepped forward, his boots crunching on broken glass. “No more riddles. No more ‘it’s too soon’ or ‘you’re not ready.’ I want to know The Master. What he wants. And what I’m about to die for.”
Giles set the book down. “He’s ancient. Older than most vampires walking the earth. A high priest of the Old Ones. He was trapped beneath Sunnydale during the last attempted ascension. The earthquake that opened the Hellmouth also sealed him below.”
Buddy’s jaw clenched. “And now he’s breaking free faster than Troy and Gabrielle.”
“Yes,” Giles said quietly. “The prophecy speaks of his return. And of the slayer’s fall.”
Buddy let out a bitter laugh. “Right. Can’t have one without the other.”
Giles stepped closer. “Buddy, I never wanted to keep this from you. I only just confirmed the translation. I was trying to protect you.”
Buddy looked at him, eyes tired. “I know. And I get it. You were doing your watcher thing. Keeping this fragile slayer from panicking.”
He paused, then added, softer, “I forgive you.”
Giles blinked, surprised.
“But…” Buddy continued. “I need you to understand something. I’m not fragile. I’m not a kid playing dress-up with stakes and sass. I’m the slayer. The Chosen One. And if The Master is coming for me, I want to meet him head-on.”
Giles studied him. “You’re certain?”
Buddy nodded. “I’m ready.”
But his voice caught on the last word.
Just for a second.
Giles saw it—the flicker behind his eyes. The fear. The weight of inevitability pressing down on him like the ceiling might collapse at any moment.
Buddy turned away, pacing toward the weapons cabinet. “I’ve got stakes, holy water, a crossbow, and a killer sense of fashion. What more do I need?”
Giles didn’t answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
No weapon could stop fate.
And Buddy, for all his bravado, was already bracing for the fall.
Joyce pushed open the door and froze. Her suitcase was open on the bed, half-packed with her favourite clothes, toiletries, and a suspiciously generous number of bath bombs.
Buddy was crouched beside it, folding her silk pyjamas with the kind of care usually reserved for bomb defusal.
She blinked. “Okay… either I’ve dying or you’ve been possessed by Martha Stewart.”
Buddy looked up, grinning. “Neither. Martha Stewart is not a ghost, or a demon. I think. And she’s not into spa weekends and maxing out your Amex.”
Joyce crossed her arms. “You used my credit card?”
“Technically, yes. But emotionally? It’s a heartfelt gesture. Surprise! Late Mother’s Day present. You’re going to a spa. Mud baths, facials, cucumber water that tastes like regret.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You hate spas.”
“I’ve grown,” he said, zipping the suitcase. “I’m evolving. Like a Pokémon, but less furry.”
Joyce sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. “Buddy… what’s really going on?”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “I just think you deserve a break. Somewhere far from Sunnydale. Preferably with no vampires, no Hellmouths, and no chance of spontaneous demonic combustion.”
Her voice softened. “Is this slayer related?”
Buddy didn’t answer right away. He just smoothed the zipper down and stared at the suitcase like it might unzip itself and reveal the truth.
“I’m handling it,” he said finally. “But I need to know you’re safe.”
Joyce reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m you’re mum. I’m here for everything. Even slayer stuff.”
He looked at her eyes, eyes bright with something he wouldn’t name. “I’ve got the gang. And Giles. But I need you out of the way. Just for a couple of days. Please.”
She studied him. The fear he was trying to wallpaper over with quips and charm.
“Okay,” she said at last. “I’ll go. But only because I trust you. And because I really do enjoy being exfoliated into oblivion.”
Buddy smiled, pulling her into a hug. “You’re gonna come back glowing. Like, ‘ethereal forest witch’ glowing.”
Joyce held him tight. “You come back too. Glowing or not.”
He nodded against her shoulder. “I’ll do my best. No promises on the glow.”
Outside, the wind howled against the windows.
Inside, Buddy zipped up the suitcase and tried not to think about how goodbye always sounded like a countdown.
The library was a mess of open books, half-melted candles, and frantic energy. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind howled outside, rattling the windows like something wanted in.
Giles paced between the stacks, muttering to himself, a volume of demonology clutched in one hand and a half-drunk cup of tea in the other—long since gone cold. His tie was askew, sleeves rolled up, hair more dishevelled than usual.
“We’re running out of time,” he said voice tight. “That quake wasn’t just tectonic—it was ritualistic. A pulse. A signal.”
Will sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a fortress of grimoires and spellbooks, flipping pages with the speed of someone trying to outrun fate.
“Old rituals, protective wards, maybe a banishment spell if I can find one that doesn’t require a human sacrifice or a unicorn spleen,” he said, eyes scanning a page inked in rust-coloured script.”
Cordelia was perched on the edge of the table, legs crossed, flipping through a book with one hand and sipping a diet soda with the other.
“Okay, but real talk—how is it that every ancient prophecy is written in the blood of a goat, and not, like, a nice legible front? Would it kill the apocalypse to come with footnotes?”
Angel stood near the shadows, arm crossed, jaw clenched. He hadn’t sat down once. His eyes were locked on the floor, but his mind was clearly somewhere else—somewhere darker.
“He’s not ready,” Angel said suddenly. “He’s strong, yes, but this isn’t just another vampire. The Master is… older than memory. He doesn’t fight. He devours. He waits. And when he rises—”
“—we all get front-row seats to the end of the world,” Cordelia finished, raising her soda in a mock toast. “Cheers.”
Giles slammed a book shut, startling them. “This isn’t a joke, Cordelia!”
She blinked. “I know that. I’m just trying not to scream into a throw pillow.”
Will looked up from his book. “We’re all scared, Giles. But buddy’s the one walking into the lion’s den. We need to find something. Anything.”
Giles rubbed his temples. “There must be a loophole. A mistranslation. A counter-rite. Prophecies are rarely absolute—there’s always a way to bend them, to twist the outcome.”
Cordelia flipped a page, squinting. “Well, unless Buddy’s planning to fake his death, swap places with a demon twin, or pull a Houdini, we better find that twist fast.”
Angel stepped forward, his voice low and urgent. “Buddy’s pretending he’s fine. But we’ve all seen it in his eyes. He’s terrified. Like never before.”
Will’s voice was quiet. “He sent Joyce out of town.”
Cordelia’s smirk faltered. “Oh god. He’s doing the whole ‘noble sacrifice’ thing, isn’t he?”
Giles looked toward the library doors, his expression haunted. “He’s preparing to die.”
The school loomed like a tombstone against the moonlit sky, its windows dark, its halls silent. Buddy stood at the edge of the front steps, staring up at the building as if it might speak. His breath curled in the cold air, his stake tucked into his jacket, his fingers twitching.
He took a step forward.
Then the shadows shifted.
A child stepped into view, pale and still, dressed in a crisp suit that looked wrong on someone so young. His eyes gleamed with something ancient something cruel.
The Anointed One.
Buddy stopped cold.
“This has been a long time coming,” the boy said, voice soft and hollow. “You can’t stop this like you did The Harvest. It’s time. The Master is waiting.”
Buddy swallowed hard but forced a smirk. “Great. Can’t wait to meet the guy who’s been sending cryptic death threats through ancient poetry. Real charmer.”
The boy didn’t blink. “You’re afraid.”
Buddy scoffed. “Of course I’m afraid. I’m not a robot. I cry during shampoo commercials.”
The Anointed One stepped closer. “You were chosen to die. All slayers all. You know that.”
Buddy’s bravado faltered. Just for a second.
“I was chosen to fight,” he said quietly. “And if dying’s part of that, then fine. But I’m not going down without ruining someone’s outfit.”
The boy turned, walking away from the school. “Come.”
Buddy hesitated.
Then followed.
As they disappeared into the shadows, a shimmer flickered near the bushes.
Marcie Ross.
Her invisibility glitched like static, revealing flashes of her face—wide-eyed, stunned, watching.
She stepped forward, fully visible now, breath catching in her throat.
She had seen everything.
She was a witness.
The doors slammed open with a bang that echoed through the stacks.
Everyone jumped.
Marcie burst into the room, breathless, hair wild, eyes wide with panic. Her boots skidded on the tile as she stumbled forward, visible and very much not in England.
Cordelia nearly dropped her book. “Okay, either I’m hallucinating or Marcie Ross is standing right in front of me.”
Will blinked. “Marcie?”
“She’s visible,” Cordelia said, pointing. “She’s visible. And not in a straitjacket. Is this a prank? Because I swear…”
“The Council released her into my custody. Temporarily.” Giles interrupted, already moving toward Marcie. “We believe her condition may be… useful.”
“Useful?” Cordelia scoffed. “She tried to kill me with a scalpel and a flute solo.”
Marcie ignored her, eyes locked on Giles. “He’s gone.”
Giles froze. “Who?”
“Buddy,” she said. “I saw him. Outside the school. The Anointed One came for him. He went with him. Said he was ready.”
Will’s face drained of colour. “Oh god.”
Angel’s fists clenched. “No. No.”
“He was scared. He tried to hide it, but I saw it.” Marcie said. “He’s going to face The Master.”
The room fell into a stunned silence.
Then Giles spoke, voice hollow. “The prophecy is in motion.”
Cordelia stood slowly, her usual sarcasm gone. “So that’s it? We just sit here and wait for the obituary?”
Will slammed his book shut. “No. We’re not letting him do this alone.”
Angel nodded. “He’s strong. But so is The Master. If he falls—”
“Then we fall with him,” Cordelia said, grabbing a crossbow from the weapons cabinet. “But not without a fight. I’ve got stakes, sass, a serious grudge.”
Will stood, clutching a small leather-bound book. “I’ve got spells. Maybe not the best, but I’ll worry about that later.”
Giles looked at them all, pride and dread warring in his eyes. “Then we go. Together.”
Marcie stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m coming too.”
They exchanged a look, bound by fear, loyalty, and something stronger.
Hope.
Giles took a deep breath, then turned toward the door. “Let’s bring him home.”
And with that, they stepped into the night.
Toward the darkness.
Toward The Master.
Toward whatever came next.
The chamber opened like a wound in the earth—vast, vaulted, and ancient. Pillars of bone spiralled toward the ceiling, where roots dangled like nooses. Torches burned with unnatural blue flame, casting monstrous shadows that danced across the stone.
Buddy stepped into the silence, heart pounding. His boots echoed on the cracked floor as he scanned the darkness.
Then—movement.
The Anointed One emerged from the gloom, his small frame dwarfed by the cavern. He said nothing, only pointed toward the altar at the far end.
Buddy swallowed hard, forcing a smirk. “No dramatic monologue? What kind of evil minion are you?”
The boy turned and vanished into the shadows.
Buddy took a breath and stepped forward.
From behind the alter, The Master rose.
He moved like a phantom—tall, gaunt, his skin stretched tight over bone, eyes glowing with infernal hunger. His voice slithered through the chamber like smoke.
“Slayer, he said, savouring the word. “At last.”
Buddy squared his shoulders, stake in hand. “Sorry I’m late. Had to moisturise. You should try it sometime.”
The Master chuckled, low and cold. “You joke to hide your fear.”
“Yeah, well you monologue to hide your halitosis.”
Then they moved.
Buddy struck first; fast, a blur of motion. He launched into a spinning kick, catching The Master across the jaw, then followed with a flurry of punches and a slash of his stake. The Master reeled, surprised by the ferocity.
But he recovered quickly.
With a roar, her lunged, claws flashing. Buddy ducked, rolled, came up swinging. The stake grazed The Master’s ribs, drawing black ichor. The vampire hissed, backhanding Buddy across the chamber.
Buddy crashed into a pillar, stone cracking behind him. He staggered to his feet, blood in his mouth.
“Okay,” he gasped. “That one’s going in the Yelp review.”
The Master descended like a storm, striking with supernatural speed. Buddy blocked, dodged, countered—his movements honed, desperate, beautiful. They clashed in a whirlwind of violence, stone shattering beneath their feet, sparks flying from blade and claw.
Buddy vaulted off a sarcophagus, driving his knee into The Master’s chest. The vampire snarled, grabbing him mid-air and slamming him into the ground hard enough to crater the stone.
Still, Buddy rose.
Bruised. Bleeding. Burning with defiance.
“You’re strong,” The Master said, circling. “But strength won’t save you. This is destiny.”
Buddy spat blood. “Then destiny’s about to get a black eye.”
He charged again, stake raised.
But The Master was ready.
He caught Buddy mid-strike, twisted his arm, and drove him into the altar. The stone cracked. Buddy cried out, the stake skittering across the floor.
The Master loomed over him
“You were brave,” he said. “But you were never meant to win.”
Then he struck.
Fangs sank into Buddy’s neck.
The world tilted.
Pain exploded through him—white-hot, paralysing. His blood rushed out in a dizzying torrent, his limbs going numb.
The Master drank deep, eyes fluttering in ecstasy.
Then, he let go.
Buddy crumpled to the floor, limp and pale. His body hit the stone with a sickening thud.
Above them, the air shimmered.
A pulse of energy rippled through the chamber—and the invisible barrier surrounding The Master shattered with a deafening crack, like glass breaking across dimensions.
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Seven: When the Wolf Wakes
The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of lamp casting slow-moving shadows across the walls. Posters of obscure bands lined the space, and a guitar leaned against the wall near the bed, strings humming faintly from a recent strum. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air and the distant hum of crickets.
Will lay back on the bed, his fingers laced with Oz’s, their hands resting between them. His cheeks were flushed, his lips kiss-bitten, and his eyes—wide, searching, full of something deeper than nerves.
Oz hovered above him, one hand braced beside Will’s head, the other gently brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You, okay?”
Will nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. Just… you know. Heart doing the drum solo thing.
Oz smiled, soft and crooked. “I’d say that’s normal. Especially when you’re this close to a guy with legendary hair.”
Will laughed, the sound easing the tension in his shoulders. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here you are,” Oz murmured, leaning in to kiss him again—slow, warm, and lingering.
They broke apart just long enough for Will to whisper. “Your parents?”
“Gone for the weekend,” Oz said.
Will raised an eyebrow. “That’s… weirdly perfect.”
“Yeah,” Oz said, brushing his thumb along Will’s jaw. “So are you.”
Will’s breath hitched. “Are we really doing this?”
Oz nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Only if you want to.”
Will looked up at him, eyes shining. “I do.”
There was no rush. No sudden urgency. Just the slow, unfolding warmth of trust and affection, of hands learning the shape of each other’s hearts as much as their bodies. They moved together like music—tentative at first, then sure, then lost in the rhythm of something bigger than either of them.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees.
Inside, the world narrowed to the two boys, a bed, and the quiet, sacred space between them.
Moonlight spilled through the open window like a blade, slicing across the tangled sheets in pale silver. The room was still, save for the soft, steady breathing of Will, curled beneath the covers, lips parted in sleep, his hand resting where Oz had been.
Oz sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, chest heaving like a man pulled from drowning. His eyes snapped open—amber glinting in the dark.
“No,” he rasped, voice raw. “Not now.”
The full moon hung in the sky like a watching eye, its light cruel and unblinking. Oz’s muscles twitched beneath his skin, tendons tightening like piano wire. He clutched his sides, breath ragged, as a low growl rumbled from deep in his chest.
Will stirred beside him, murmuring something soft, then turned over, still lost in dreams.
Oz’s gaze lingered on him—tender, terrified.
Then the pain hit.
It came like a lightning strike down his spine, folding him in half with a strangled cry. His bones cracked audibly, reshaping beneath his skin. His fingers curled into claws, nails blackening and lengthening as his jaw clenched and popped, teeth sharpening behind bloodied gums.
He staggered from the bed, barely managing to pull on his jeans. His bare feet thudded against the hardwood as he stumbled from the room, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching his ribs as they shifted beneath his skin like writhing serpents.
Down the stairs. Past the kitchen. Into the basement.
The air grew colder with every step, the shadows thicker, the silence heavier—like the house itself was holding its breath.
He reached the basement door, flung it open, and descended into the dark.
The basement was a tomb of concrete and rust. Chains hung from the far wall, bolted into place, their cuffs padded and worn from use. A faint metallic scent lingered—old blood, sweat, fear.
Oz dropped to his knees, shaking, his vision swimming. His spine arched unnaturally, vertebrae cracking like knuckles. He fumbled with the cuffs, breath coming in snarls now, his voice reduced to animalistic grunts.
He barely got the chains locked before the final wave hit.
His scream echoed off the stone walls, warping into a howl.
Flesh tore. Bones snapped. His face elongated, jaw distending into a snout. Coarse fur erupted from his skin, spreading like wildfire. His eyes blazed gold, pupils narrowing to slits.
The transformation was agony—violent, primal, unstoppable.
The wolf reared back, testing the chains with a guttural snarl. Muscles bulged against the restraints, claws scraping sparks from the floor.
Upstairs, Will slept on, the sheets still warm from where Oz had lain, the moonlight now spilling across his bare shoulder.
And below, in the dark, the beast raged.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft gold, warming the sheets where Will lay alone. He blinked awake, stretching into the emptiness beside him. The pillow still smelled like Oz—cedarwood and something faintly citrus—but the boy himself was gone.
Will sat up slowly, heart fluttering with the memory of last night. His first time. Their first time. He smiled, then frowned.
He got dressed quickly—jeans, hoodie, socks—and padded barefoot down the stairs, the house quiet except for the faint sizzle of something frying.
He turned the corner into the kitchen—and stopped cold.
Oz stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but a black apron with the words “Bite Me” stitched across the front. His hair was tousled, his back bare, and he was flipping pancakes like a man who’d made peace with chaos.
Will blinked. “Okay. Either I’m still dreaming, or you’ve become the world’s most confusing breakfast ad.”
Will glanced over his shoulder, deadpan. “Morning. You want syrup?”
Will laughed, stepping closer. “Among other things.”
Oz leaned in and kissed him—soft, slow, warm. Will melted into it, hands resting on Oz’s hips, the apron crinkling between them.
They pulled apart just enough for Will to whisper, “I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t there.”
Oz shrugged, flipping another pancake. “I wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”
Will studied him. “Well, that’s sweet, but waking up next to you would’ve been sweeter.”
Oz nodded. “Band practice popped up. Last-minute thing.”
Will’s brow furrowed. “Really? On a Sunday morning? Are you practicing for a church performance?”
Oz didn’t meet his eyes. “Devon’s got a new riff. Wants to workshop it before our return to The Bronze.”
Will nodded slowly, but something twisted in his chest. “Right. Of course.”
Oz turned off the stove, stacking pancakes onto a plate. “You, sure you’re, okay?”
Will smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I am if you are.”
Oz kissed his temple. “We’re good, Will. Promise.”
Will nodded, accepting the plate, but as he sat at the table, watching Oz move around the kitchen, a quiet doubt lingered.
Something had shifted.
And Will wasn’t sure if it was about the night before—or something Oz hadn’t said.
The classroom buzzed with low chatter and the occasional thud of textbooks hitting desks. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead like they were trying to give everyone a migraine. At the back of the room, Will, Buddy, and Cordelia sat in their usual cluster, half-listening to the teacher drone on about the Treaty of Versailles.
Will leaned in, voice low. “I haven’t heard from Oz since yesterday morning.”
Cordelia didn’t even look up from filing her nails. “Please. That boy is obsessed with you. He probably just got distracted by a guitar solo.”
Will frowned. “It’s just… after what happened, I thought we’d at least talk. Or text. Or, I don’t know, acknowledge the life-altering intimacy thing.”
Buddy glanced over, sympathetic. “You’re just in your feelings. First time’s a big deal. Everything feels louder after.
Will raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
Buddy winced. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. Mine was back in L.A. with this guy named Pike who thought quoting The Matrix was foreplay.”
Cordelia snorted. “Mine was on a yacht. Which sounds glamorous until you factor in the seasickness and the fact that he cried after.”
Will blinked. “He cried?”
Cordelia shrugged. “I have that effect on people.”
Buddy smirked. “You’re like emotional whiplash in heels.”
Cordelia flipped her hair. “Thank you.”
Will gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just… I thought it meant something. And now I’m spiralling.”
Buddy nudged him. “Hey. You’re allowed to spiral. Just don’t unpack and live there,” he hesitated, then sighed. “I haven’t heard from Angel. Like, radio silence.”
Cordelia perked up. “Wait, Angel ghosted you? That’s rich. Isn’t he the one who shows up uninvited in alleyways like a Victorian bat?”
Buddy gave a half-laugh. “Yeah, well. I’ve never been ghosted before having sex. So, this is a fun new milestone for me.”
Will winced. “That vampire’s got the hots for you. Anyone can see that. Well, do vampires get hot?”
Cordelia leaned in, suddenly serious. “You don’t think something’s wrong, do you? Like the hellmouth is not ruining hook-ups. Or perhaps these are just the perils of going for mysterious men. They make you question the things that are not so fun to question.”
Buddy’s smile faltered. “I don’t know. But I’ve got a bad feeling.”
The bell rang, jarring them all back to reality.
Cordelia stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “Okay, enough emotional trauma for one period.”
Will and Buddy followed her out, their laughter quieter now, but still there; threaded with worry but still stitched together by something stronger.
The library was nearly empty; the last bell having rung an hour ago and the only sound was the soft rustle of pages as Giles flipped through a leather-bound volume at the counter.
The doors creaked open.
Oz stepped inside, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, eyes shadowed and unreadable. He moved with his usual quiet grace, but there was a tension in his shoulders that didn’t belong.
Giles looked up, surprised. “Oz. I wasn’t expecting—”
“I need to talk to you,” Oz said, voice low but firm. “About something… supernatural.”
Giles closed the book, sensing the shift in tone. “Of course. What is it?”
Oz hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I need you to tell me everything you know about werewolves.”
Giles blinked. “I—pardon?”
Oz met his gaze, steady but haunted. “I’m not asking for a friend, Giles. I’m the werewolf.”
Silence.
Giles stared at him, stunned. You… you’re certain?”
Oz gave a dry, humourless smile. “Kind of hard to miss when you wake up chained to a basement mall with claw marks in the floor and the all too real memory of how you got there.”
Giles removed his glasses, polishing them with a trembling hand. “Good lord.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Oz continued. “Not Will. Not the slayer. The full moon came out. I changed. I can still feel it. I can’t keep pretending this isn’t real. I need to understand what I am. What I could become.”
Giles nodded slowly, the shock giving way to something steadier—concern, curiosity, resolve. “You did the right thing coming to me. There’s much to discuss. And much to prepare for.”
Oz exhaled, the weight of secrecy finally shifting. “So… where do we start?”
Giles reached for a thick, iron-clasped tome on the top shelf. “With the truth.”
The library was lit by the warm glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of candlelight—Giles’ idea of ambiance. Ancient tomes lay open across the central table, their pages yellowed and brittle, ink faded but still legible. The scent of old parchment and tea steeping in the corner filled the air.
Oz sat across from Giles, legs crossed, flipping through a leather-bound volume titled Lycanthropy: Curse of Kinship. He squinted at a woodcut illustration of a man mid-transformation, limbs contorted, mouth open in a howl.
“So,” Oz said, deadpan, “turns out my parents weren’t into basement kink. Just prepping for my monthly monster meltdown.”
Giles looked up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
Oz gestured vaguely. “Chains in the basement. Thought they were… recreational. Turns out they were just practical.”
Giles blinked, then cleared his throat. “Yes, well. That’s… certainly one way to interpret it.”
He adjusted his glassed and turned to a thick, iron-clasped tome. “According to this text, werewolfism—lycanthropy—is primarily hereditary. Passed down through bloodlines. However, it can also be transmitted through infection. A bite from a transformed werewolf during a full moon is the most common method.”
Oz nodded slowly. “And since I’ve not been bitten by anyone other than Will. I must half wolf DNA.”
Giles continued, voice steady. “Those who are born werewolves carry the gene and can pass it to their children. Those who are turned—infected—do not. The transformation is magical, not genetic.”
Oz leaned forward. “So, one of my parents passed this on to me. If not both.”
Giles flipped another page. “Newly turned werewolves are at the full mercy of the full moon for the first year. The transformation is involuntary, violent, and often disorienting. After that, with discipline and magical assistance, some gain partial control. But it’s rare.”
Oz’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. Control’s not my strong suit right now.”
Giles gave a sympathetic nod. “There’s more. If possible, it’s recommended that werewolves run free during their transformations—ideally in remote, unpopulated areas. It allows the wolf to expend energy, reduces psychological strain, and minimises risk.”
Oz raised an eyebrow. “Sunnydale’s not exactly Yellowstone.”
“Precisely,” Giles said. “In urban or suburban environments, containment is necessary. Chains, reinforced cells, magical wards. Anything to prevent harm to others—or yourself.”
Oz leaned back, exhaling. “So, I’m a danger. Great.”
Giles looked at him, voice firm. “You’re not a danger. You’re a young man with a condition. And you’re handling it with more grace that most would expect.”
Oz gave a small smile. “Thanks. I think.”
Giles closed the book gently. “We’ll keep researching. There may be ways to help you gain control sooner. Potions. Rituals. Meditation. But for now, containment is the safest option.”
Oz nodded, eyes distant. “What am I supposed to say to Will? How do you explain something like this?”
Giles’ voice softened. “With honesty. And trust. When you’re ready.”
Oz didn’t answer. He just stared at the flickering candlelight, the shadows dancing across the pages.
And somewhere deep inside, the wolf stirred.
The neon glow of the Sunnydale Cinema flickered behind them like a dying firefly as Buddy, Cordelia, and Will spilled onto the sidewalk. The air was cool, the streets humming with the low buzz of late-night life and questionable fashion choices.
Buddy stretched with a theatrical groan. “Okay, but seriously—who ends a movie with the villain turning out to be the hero’s evil doppelganger? That’s not a twist; that’s a cry for help from a screenwriter who’s been left unsupervised.”
Cordelia scoffed, flipping her hair like it owed her money. “It was symbolic, Buddy. It represented the cyclical nature of guilt and the fragility of the human psyche.”
Will blinked. “I thought it represented the director’s unresolved twin fetish.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “You two wouldn’t know art if it bit you on the ankle and whispered its tragic backstory.”
They turned down Main Street, the glow of the marquee fading behind them.
Will’s smile dimmed. “I haven’t heard from Oz, still.”
Cordelia waved a hand. “He’s probably just off composing a love song in E minor.”
Buddy sighed. “The first time is like emotional karaoke—feels great in the moment, but the next day you’re wondering if you hit any of the right notes.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”
Buddy’s smirk faded. “Meanwhile still no text from Angel either.”
The bell from the clock tower chimed in the distance.
Will stopped. “I think I need to talk to Oz. I can’t keep spiralling without answers. It’s not healthy. Or hot.”
Buddy nodded. “Go. Demand answers. Or a song.”
Will gave a grateful smile and peeled off down a side street.
Buddy turned to Cordelia. “I should go patrol. Burn off some tension. Maybe punch something with fangs.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to look for Angel? Maybe he’s stuck in a crypt somewhere writing sad haikus.”
Buddy shook his head. “If he wants to disappear, fine. I’m not chasing shadows tonight. I’ve got stakes and unresolved feelings to work through.”
Cordelia smirked. “Well, if you’re going to be all sulky and violent, I’m in. I’ve got new boots and a lot of pent-up sass.”
Buddy grinned. “You’re like a glittery war hammer.”
Cordelia flipped her hair. “And you’re my favourite blunt instrument.”
They turned toward the cemetery, silhouettes framed by flickering streetlights, ready to face the night with stakes in hand and sarcasm fully loaded.
The basement door creaked open, and Giles emerged slowly, brushing dust from his sleeves. His face was drawn, his movements careful, like he’d just finished a ritual instead of reinforcing chains.
Oz sat hunched on the couch, hoodie pulled tight, fingers twitching against his knees. His skin was pale, eyes glassy, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened at his temples.
Giles stepped into the living room, voice low. “The chains are reinforced. Silver-lined, soaked in holy water. They’ll hold.”
Oz nodded, jaw clenched. “Thanks.”
Giles hesitated, then added, “I’ll stay here tonight. Until you parents return tomorrow. I’ll keep watch.”
Oz looked up, startled. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” Giles said simply. “You shouldn’t face this alone.”
Oz swallowed hard, the gratitude sharp in his chest. “Thanks. Really.”
But even as he spoke, a tremor ran through him. His fingers curled tighter. His breath hitched. The moon wasn’t full yet—but it was close. He could feel it rising in his blood, tugging at his bones, whispering in his ears like a distant howl.
“I can feel it,” he murmured. “Like something pacing inside me. Waiting.”
Giles sat beside him, not too closer. “We’ll manage it. Together.”
A knock shattered the quiet.
Oz flinches, eyes snapping to the door.
Giles stood, cautious. “Expecting someone?”
Oz shook his head, already moving.
He opened the door—and froze.
Will stood there, arms crossed, eyes blazing.
Before Oz could speak, Will pushed past him into the house. “You’ve been ignoring me. Since yesterday. That’s not something you do to somebody after sleeping with them for the first time.”
Oz turned slowly, heart pounding. “Will—”
“No,” Will snapped. “You don’t get to disappear. Not after what we shared. Not after you looked me in the eye and said I mattered to you.”
Giles stepped back, sensing the storm brewing.
Oz’s voice was hoarse. “It’s not you. It’s me. Literally. I’m—”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “You are so not using that line on me right now.”
Oz looked at him—really looked. At the boy he loved. At the boy he’d kept in the dark. And the wolf inside him stirred.
Oz’s eyes snapped up—golden, glowing, inhuman.
Will froze. “Oz?”
Bones cracked. Oz’s spine arched unnaturally, a guttural growl tearing from his throat. His fingers curled into claws, nails blackening, teeth lengthening as his jaw contorted. Fur burst from his skin in patches, spreading like wildfire.
Will stumbled back, horrified. “Oh my god—Oz?”
Giles moved quickly, grabbing a nearby chair and raising it defensively. “Will, get behind me!”
But it was too late.
With a snarl, the fully transformed werewolf lunged—muscle and fury in motion—straight at Will.
Will’s eyes widened. “Okay, no offense, but this is not how I imagined round two.”
He thrust out his hand.
A pulse of invisible force exploded from his palm, slamming into the charging wolf mid-air.
Oz was launched across the room like a supernatural cannonball, crashing into the far wall with a bone-jarring thud. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious, fur matted, and limbs sprawled.
Silence.
Will stood frozen, chest heaving, hand still raised, eyes wide with shock—and a flicker of pride.
Giles lowered the chair slowly, staring at him. “Good lord…”
Will turned, breathless but smug. “And I didn’t even have to chant a levitation spell this time. Look at me, all grown up and kind of badass.”
Giles stepped forward, eyes narrowing with a mix of awe and concern. “Will, that was telekinesis. Raw, un-channelled, and powerful.”
Will blinked. “I just… reacted.”
“You didn’t just react, “Giles said, kneeling beside the unconscious wolf. “You commanded. Your magic is growing. Rapidly. Alarmingly so.”
Will looked down at his hands, still trembling. “Is that… bad?”
Giles met his gaze. “It’s not bad. But it’s dangerous. It means I need to start training you. Supervising you. Properly. Before the magic starts using you.”
Will glanced at Oz’s still form, then back at his own hands.
“Guess I just keep coming out of closets. This time, the broom closet.”
The library was its usual quiet, save for the distant thump of Giles shelving books in the stacks. Buddy lounged across two chairs, flipping through a demonology text like it might bite him. Cordelia sat cross-legged on the table, filling her nails with surgical precision. Will perched on the edge of a chair, arms wrapped around himself, gaze distant.
“So,” Buddy said, glancing up. “Oz is a werewolf?”
Will nodded. “Full moon, claws, fur, the whole ‘howl at the moon and try not to maul your boyfriend’ package.”
Cordelia blinked. “Okay, but like… actual werewolf? Not just metaphorical ‘he gets weird during lunar cycles’ werewolf?”
Will gave her a look. “He literally turned into a seven-foot murder puppy and tried to eat me.”
Buddy winced. “Yikes. That’s rough.”
Will smirked faintly. “Yeah, well. Good thing my inner witch decided to show up. I kind of… launched him into a wall.”
Cordelia perked up. “Wait, you launched your werewolf boyfriend across the room with your mind? That’s so Carrie of you. Minus the pom dress and pig’s blood.”
Will shrugged. “I didn’t even chant anything. Just—boom. Telekinesis.”
Buddy grinned. “Look at you. One of us dating a vampire, the other a werewolf. We’re like a supernatural dating app gone rogue.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, if I start dating a mummy, just put me down.”
Will chuckled, it didn’t last. His smile faded as the library door creaked open.
Oz stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes shadowed and tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept, like the weight of the moon still clung to his skin.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Can we talk?”
Will stood slowly. “Yeah. Of course.”
They stepped into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them.
Buddy and Cordelia exchanged a glance.
“I don’t like that tone,” Buddy muttered.
Cordelia sighed. “That’s the ‘we need to talk’ tone. Nothing good ever follows that tone.”
Oz leaned against the lockers, arms folded tight across his chest like he was holding himself together. Will stood a few feet away, already sensing the shift in the air—the way goodbye had a weight, even before it was spoken.
“I wanted to tell you sooner,” Oz said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I just… didn’t know how.”
Will nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re here now. That counts.”
Oz looked up, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something deeper, grief, maybe. “My parents are taking me north. There’s a pack. Family. People who can help me learn control. Real control.”
Will’s breath caught. “For how long?”
Oz hesitated. “I don’t know. As long as it takes.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and aching.
Will looked away, blinking fast. “So, that’s it?”
Oz stepped closer, his hand brushing Will’s. “I love you. But I can’t be near you like this. Not until I know I won’t hurt you. Not until I know who I am when the moon’s full.”
Will blinked fast, but the tears still came. “You think I’m scared of you?”
Oz shook his head. “I’m scared of me.”
Will let out a shaky laugh. “You’re the calmest person I know. You tune guitars and quote philosophers and make pancakes in nothing but an apron. So, what if you’re a werewolf. I’m a witch. Buddy’s the slayer. Cordelia’s a cheer captain.”
They stood there for a moment, hearts breaking in the quiet.
Will stepped forward, cupping Oz’s hands. “You’re not leaving because you don’t love me. You’re leaving because you do.”
Oz leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. “Exactly.”
They stood there, forehead to forehead, breathing the same breath, hearts breaking in sync.
“I’m gonna miss you,” Will whispered.
“I already do,” Oz said.
Then, gently, Oz kissed him—slow and deep, like a memory being written in real time. Will kissed him back, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the moment. When they finally pulled apart, it was with trembling hands and a silence that said more than words ever could.
Oz stepped back, eyes lingering. “Goodbye, Will.”
Will nodded, voice barely audible. “Goodbye.”
Oz turned and walked away, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the hallway.
Will stood there for a long moment, staring at the space he’d left behind.
Then he wiped his eyes, squared his shoulders, and walked back into the library—where Buddy and Cordelia were waiting.
Will returned to the library, eyes red-rimmed but dry. He sat down without a word.
Cordelia slid off the table and sat beside him, looping an arm around his shoulders. “So… I’m guessing that wasn’t a ‘let’s get matching necklaces’ kind of talk.”
Will shook his head. “He’s leaving. Going to join his family’s pack. Learn control. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”
Buddy moved to his other side, resting a hand on Will’s knee. “I’m sorry, Will.”
Will let out a shaky breath. “I finally find someone who sees me, and now he’s gone.”
Cordelia squeezed his shoulder. “Hey. At least your first time wasn’t with some cry-baby or some guy called Pike. That’s progress in this group.”
Will laughed, wet and bitter. “Yeah.”
Buddy leaned in. “You’re not alone, okay? You’ve got us.”
Will smiled through the ache, leaning into them both.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the library floor.
Inside, three friends sat in the quiet, holding each other together.
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Six: Seen At Last
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the cul-de-sac like nature’s version of ominous foreshadowing. Marcie Ross’ former home loomed at the end of the block—neat, quiet, and unsettlingly normal for a placed tied to ghostly vendettas and flaming pom-poms.
Cordelia stood at the doorstep, clutching a basket of perfectly domed blueberry muffins wrapped in cellophane and tied with a gold ribbon. Will hovered behind her, nervously adjusting his sleeves. Buddy leaned against the porch railing, eyeing the muffins like they might bite.
“You really think muffins are gonna stop Marcie hating you?” Buddy asked. “Because unless they’re enchanted on filled with holy water, I’m not convinced.”
Cordelia sniffed. “They’re no just muffins. They’re an apology in baked form. A gesture of goodwill. A peace offering with a hint of lemon zest.”
Will squinted at the basket. “Did you even make them?”
“I curated them,” Cordelia said, knocking on the door. “Which is like baking, but with better delegation and zero flour on my couture outfit.”
The door creaked open.
A woman in a tailored blazer and Bluetooth headset blinked at them. Her smile was polished, her eyes distant.
“Yes?”
Cordelia turned on the charm. “Hi, Mrs. Ross. I’m Cordelia Chase. We went to school with your daughter, Marcie. I brought these muffins as a friendly gesture. You know, neighbourly vibes, carbs, closure.”
Mrs. Ross blinked at the basket. “Oh. That’s… lovely. Thank you. Marcie’s not home right now, but I’ll be sure to tell her you stopped by.”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Mrs. Ross glanced at her watch. “She’s always off doing her own thing. You know how teenagers are—so independent.”
Will opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Ross continued, already stepping back inside, “thanks for the muffins. I’m late for a conference call in Tokyo. Or maybe it’s Singapore. Time zones are a nightmare.”
The door shut with a soft click.
They stood in stunned silence.
Buddy blinked. “Okay, so either she’s a super chill ghost mum, or she’s missed the memo that her own daughter has been invisible for, like, a whole year.”
Cordelia stared at the door, her voice quieter than usual. “She’s always travelling. Business trips, conferences, retreats. I used to think it was glamorous. Jet-setting mum, power suits, first-class everything.”
Will frowned. “You knew she was gone a lot?”
Cordelia nodded. “Yeah. But I didn’t realise she was this checked out. I figured Marcie was just shy. Not… ghost-level neglected.”
Buddy kicked at a crack in the pavement. “She’s been missing for months. And her mum’s out here scheduling Zoom calls in three continents.”
Cordelia hugged her arms. “I thought I was the one who made her feel invisible. Turns out I was just the cherry on top of a very lonely sundae.”
Will reached out and squeezed her hand. “You didn’t know.”
Cordelia gave a small, sad smile. “No. But maybe I should’ve. I was so busy being Queen C, I didn’t notice when someone slipped off the social map.”
Buddy sighed. “Well, you’re not that girl anymore. You brought muffins. That’s growth.”
They walked on in silence, the sun casting long shadows behind them.
Somewhere behind them, a curtain twitched.
And in the empty house, a bedroom door creaked open on its own.
The library was still, save for the soft thud of books being shelved. Giles moved methodically between the stacks, arms full of ancient tomes, muttering titles under his breath as he reorganised the chaos left by last night’s research frenzy.
Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching dust in golden shafts. Giles squinted up at it, then turned back to the cart, reaching for a particularly battered volume on demonic hierarchies.
A voice drifted from the shadows.
“You’re up early.”
Giles didn’t flinch. “You’re lucky I didn’t stake you on instinct.”
Angel stepped out from the gloom near the restricted section, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow of its own. He kept to the edges of the light, careful not to let the sun graze his skin.
“Old habits,” he said with a faint smile. “Besides, I figured you’d be here. You always are.”
Giles set the book down with a sigh. “What is it, Angel? I assume you didn’t drop by for a reading list.”
Angel’s expression darkened. “There’s talk. Whispers in the underground. The Master is far from done. He’s still trapped, but… something’s changing. He’s stirring. Gathering strength.”
Giles’ jaw tightened. “We stopped the Harvest. He shouldn’t have enough power to—”
“I know,” Angel interrupted. “But he’s adapting: Finding new ways to reach out. His influence is spreading. The things I’ve heard… they’re scared. Even the ones who used to worship him.
Giles rubbed his temple. “Bloody marvellous.”
Angel stepped closer, his voice low. “You need to get Buddy ready. He’s planning something. And if he breaks free—”
“We won’t let him,” Giles said firmly. “We’ll stop him.”
A beat of silence passed between them.
Then Giles added, without looking up. “And you’ll stay away from Buddy.”
Angel’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Giles said, turning to face him. “He’s vulnerable. Conflicted. Young. And you—whatever your intentions—are a complication he doesn’t need.”
Angel’s voice was quiet, but steady. “I’m not trying to hurt him.”
“No,” Giles said, “But you will. Whether you mean to or not. You’re a vampire, Angel. With a soul, yes, but cursed. And that curse is fragile.
Angel’s jaw clenched. “I’m in love with him.”
Giles froze.
The silence deafening.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, tight with emotion. “And I love him like a son. Which is why I will do whatever it takes to protect him. Even from you.”
Angel looked away, jaw working, shadows clinging to him like guilt.
Giles turned back to the table, pulling out a notepad and scribbling furiously. “I want everything the Council has on the Master. I’ll phone them immediately…Every prophecy, every footnote, every half-baked theory they’ve buried in the archies. If he’s moving again, I want to know how to stop him before he even gets the chance to rise.”
Angel nodded once. “I’ll see what I can find on my end.”
He stepped back into the shadows, vanishing like smoke.
Giles stood alone in the morning light, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow across the empty corridor. Lockers stood like silent sentinels, and the usual hum of teenage chaos was replaced by an eerie stillness. Their footsteps echoed as they walked, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet.
Cordelia hugged her arms, glancing around. “Okay, I know I’ve said this before, but being at school on a weekend? Creepy. Like, ‘detention in a horror movie’ creepy.”
Buddy smirked. “Welcome to my life. Slayer hours don’t come with a weekend clause. I’ve fought demons in this hallway at 3 a.m. while the janitor was mopping up a smoothie spill.”
Will adjusted his backpack, eyes scanning the lockers. “Honestly, I kind of like it. No crowds. No hallway stampedes. Just us and the faint possibility of being murdered by an invisible classmate.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Comforting.”
They reached the science wing, the door to the lab slightly ajar.
Will perked up. “Okay, this is us. I’ve been working on a visibility potion—well, technically it’s a spectral refractor, but ‘potion’ sounds cooler. If we can get the ratios right, we might be able to force Marcie into the visible spectrum.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “So, like, ghost highlighter?”
Will grinned. “Exactly. With a side of ‘please don’t explode.”
Buddy gave him a thumbs up. “You two go play mad scientist. I’m heading to the library. Giles promised me a thrilling afternoon of slayer drills and obscure Latin.”
Cordelia smirked. “Try not to pull a muscle. Or summon anything with tentacles.”
Buddy backed away dramatically. “No promises. If I don’t make it, avenge me with righteous sass.”
Will saluted. “We’ll dedicate the potion to your memory.”
They split at the junction, Cordelia and Will disappearing into the lab, their voices already rising in debate over beaker sizes and magical conductivity.
Buddy turned toward the library, the silence swallowing him whole as he walked.
The library was cleared of tables and chairs, the usual research clutter pushed to the edges. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching the glint of steel laid out on a velvet-lined case: throwing knives, wooden stakes, a blunted short sword, and something that looked suspiciously like a medieval meat cleaver.
Buddy stood in the centre of the room, blindfolded, breathing slow and steady. His stance was loose but alert, every muscle coiled like a spring.
Giles circled him silently, a wooden staff in one hand, a throwing dagger in the other.
“You’re certain about this?” Giles asked, voice clipped.
Buddy smirked beneath the blindfold. “What’s the worst that could happen? I get impaled by a flying axe and haunt the library forever? At least I’d be on theme.”
Giles sighed. “This is not a game, Buddy.”
“No, but it is a Saturday, and this is how I unwind now. Slayer life: come for the destiny, stay for the surprise weaponry.”
Without warning, Giles hurled the dagger.
Buddy twisted, arm snapping up to deflect it with a wooden baton. The dagger clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Giles didn’t pause. He grabbed a padded staff and swung low. Buddy leapt, flipping over the arc of the strike and landing in a crouch.
Another blade flew—this one smaller, faster.
Buddy ducked, spun and caught it midair.
“Okay,” he said, tossing it aside. “That one was rude.”
Giles arched an eyebrow. “You’re improving.”
“Gee thanks.”
Giles stepped back, watching as Buddy adjusted his stance again, blindfold still in place. His movements were fluid now—less reactive, more instinctive. The slayer’s senses were sharpening, tuning to the world around him like a sixth sense finally waking up.
Giles reached for a throwing star.
It whistled through the air.
Buddy caught it between two fingers.
He pulled off the blindfold with a flourish, eyes gleaming. “Okay. I think I’m ready.”
Giles tilted his head. “Ready for what?”
Buddy grinned. “My rematch with Marcie Ross, the invisible woman. She got the drop on me once. Not happening again. Next time she tries to go full Invisible Ninja, I’ll be ready.”
Giles hesitated, his expression flickering—just for a moment.
Buddy caught it. “What?”
“Nothing,” Giles said too quickly, turning to gather the weapons. “Just… be cautious. We still don’t know the full extent of her abilities.”
Buddy narrowed his eyes. “You’re being weird. Giles-weird. Which is, like, ten times more suspicious than regular weird.”
Giles forced a smile. “I’m always weird.”
Buddy didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. “Fine. But if you’re hiding something, I will find out. Slayer senses, remember?”
Giles gave a noncommittal grunt, already busy re-shelving a book he hadn’t even used.
The science lab smelled like vinegar, herbs, and Cordelia’s rapidly fraying patience. Beakers hissed on a hot plate, and the chalkboard behind them looked like a coven had lost a math fight. Cordelia stood with her arms crossed, eyeing the glowing green potion like it might leap up and demand a blood sacrifice.
“Okay,” she said, squinting at the bubbling flask, “this looks like something that would give you superpowers or a third eye. Possibly both.”
Will, goggles askew and sleeves rolled up, beamed. “It’s a spectral refractor. If I got the ratios right, it should make Marcie visible for a few minutes.”
Cordelia arched a brow. “And if you got the ratios wrong?”
Will hesitated. “Then we might accidentally invent ghost napalm.”
Cordelia groaned. “Fantastic. I always dreamed of dying in a lab coat. So, flattering.”
Will carefully poured the potion into a shallow dish, the liquid shimmering like radioactive absinthe. “Okay. All we need now is Marcie.”
As if summoned by the sarcasm, the lights flickered.
Cordelia froze. “Oh no. Cue the horror movie soundtrack.”
The air dropped ten degrees. A beaker exploded off the counter, glass shattering like gunfire.
Will’s eyes widened. “She’s here.”
A chair launched across the room, slamming into the wall. Cordelia ducked, grabbing the potion dish.
“Marcie, babe, can we not do the poltergeist thing today?” she shouted. “We’re trying to help you, not host a ghost-themed demolition derby!”
A scalpel lifted off the counter and zipped toward her like a missile.
Cordelia shrieked, twisting sideways. “Okay, that’s it! I’m officially done being the final girl!”
The potion dish slipped from her hands.
“No. No. No—!”
It shattered on the floor, green liquid splashing across the tiles like spilled ectoplasm.
Will’s hands shot up. The potion froze midair, suspended in a shimmering, trembling sphere. Will’s eyes glowed faintly, sweat beading on his brow.
Cordelia ducked another flying object. “Will, I love you, but if you don’t throw that ghost juice in the next five seconds, I’m gonna haunt you!”
With a grunt of effort, Will flung his hands forward.
The levitating potion shot across the room—splattering midair with a wet splat.
A shape appeared.
A girl—flickering translucent, soaked in green. Her face twisted in rage and heartbreak, eyes wide with betrayal.
Marcie Ross.
Cordelia’s breath caught. “Oh my god… it’s really her.”
Marcie hissed, voice like static and venom. “You laughed at me.”
She lunged.
Cordelia stumbled back, heart hammering. “Okay, yes, I laughed! But in my defence, it was sophomore year, and I was a monster in lip gloss!”
Marcie froze, blinking against the potion’s sting. Her form shimmered, unstable.
Will stepped forward, hands still raised. “Back off, Marcie. We see you now. You don’t have to do this.”
Marcie’s eyes locked on Cordelia one last time—then she turned and bolted.
Cordelia exhaled, then collapsed onto a stool. “Okay. That was horrifying. But also? Weirdly cathartic.”
Will slumped beside her, panting. “I can’t believe that worked. I mean—I can, but also, I really thought we were gonna die.”
Cordelia looked at the green-stained floor, then at the door. “She’s scared now. That’s new.”
Will nodded. “We’ve got a shot.”
The corridor doors burst open as Buddy strode into the halls of Sunnydale High, Giles following closely behind, clearly out of breath, as Cordelia and Will stood nearby, green potion stains still drying on their sleeves.
“She’s rattled,” Cordelia said, tossing her hair. “We hit her with the ghost juice. She’s not as invisible as she used to be.”
Will nodded. “It worked—partially. She’s glitching. Flickering in and out. Like a haunted strobe light.”
Buddy pulled a stake out from his jacket pocket. “Then this is our shot. If she’s unstable, I can track her. End this before someone else winds up on fire, or worse.”
Giles stepped forward. “Buddy, wait—”
But Buddy was already halfway down the corridor. “No more waiting. She’s scared. That means she’s dangerous.”
The gym was a cathedral of shadows, lit only by the dying sun bleeding through high windows. The silence was thick, the kind that made your skin itch. Basketballs sat abandoned in their racks. The air was still—too still.
Buddy stepped onto the court, every sense on high alert. His boots echoed against the polished floor like a countdown.
“Marcie,” he called, voice steady, eyes scanning. “Come out, come out, wherever you’re homicidally unhinged.”
A basketball rolled across the floor on its own.
Buddy caught it mid-bounce without looking. “Cute. But I don’t basket, I cheer… badly.”
A shimmer in the air. A flicker. Then—Marcie appeared.
Half-visible, glitching like a corrupted VHS tape. Her face was twisted with fury, her eyes wild and wet.
“You ruined everything,” she spat. “You made me seen.”
Buddy tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She screamed and lunger.
Buddy moved like lightning—sidestepping her charge with a dancer’s grace, grabbing her wrist mid-swing and twisting it behind her back. She hit the mat with a thud that echoed through the gym.
“Okay, that was just embarrassing,” Buddy said, crouching beside her. “You sure you wanna keep going? I’ve got, like, six more quips locked and loaded.”
Marcie snarled—and vanished.
Buddy’s smirk vanished with her.
“Right,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Invisible mode. My favourite.”
A weight slammed into his back, sending him skidding across the floor. He rolled with it, popped up mid-slide, and flung a stake in the direction of the impact. It leaped into the bleachers.
“Missed me,” Marcie’s voice hissed from nowhere.
“Yeah, but I’m warming up,” Buddy said, flipping to his feet. “You should see me after cardio.”
A pom-pom flew at his face. He sliced it midair with a throwing knife, glitter exploding like a firework.
He closed his eyes.
Breathe. Listen.
A shift in the air. A whisper of movement behind him.
He ducked just as a metal baton whistled past his head. He caught her arm mid-swing, twisted, and flipped her over his shoulder. She hit the floor hard, flickering into view for a split second before vanishing again.
“Cordy!” he shouted. “Rope me!”
Cordelia burst through the doors, heels clacking like gunfire. “I brought the deluxe skipping rope. Reinforced nylon. Colour-coordinated. You’re welcome.”
She tossed it like a lasso. Buddy caught it midair, spun, and waited.
A breath. A scuff. A whisper of rage.
He lunged.
His foot connected with something solid—Marcie’s chest. She gasped, flickering into view as she stumbled back. Buddy didn’t hesitate. He tackled her mid-glitch, rolling across the gym floor in a blur of limbs and fury.
She fought dirty—scratching, biting, vanishing in bursts—but Buddy was faster. Stronger. Focused.
He pinned her with one knee, looped the rope around her wrists in a blur of motion, and yanked it tight.
Marcie screamed—but the moment the rope cinched, her form snapped into full visibility. Tangled, furious, and very much caught.
Cordelia jogged over, panting. “Well. That was dramatic. Ten out of ten for flair. Minus one for the glitter explosion.”
Will arrived behind her, wide-eyed. “You did it.”
Buddy stood over Marcie, chest heaving, hair tousled, a thin cut bleeding down his cheek.
“She’s done.”
Marcie thrashed once more, then slumped, defeated.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she whispered. “To be nothing. To disappear.”
Buddy crouched beside her, voice low. “Actually? I do. Try being the only guy in history with a destiny as the chosen one and a cheerleading schedule.”
She blinked, caught off guard.
Cordelia stepped forward, her voice softer now. “We see you, Marcie. And I’m not looking away this time.”
Marcie’s eyes welled with tears—but she didn’t speak again.
The gym fell silent.
And for the first time in a long time, Marcie Ross was visible.
The library was back to its usual stillness, the scent of old paper and polished wood grounding the space in something familiar. The chaos of the day had been cleared away—no more weapons strewn across the floor. Just Giles, stacking books with the kind of focus that meant he was trying not to think too hard.
Buddy stepped through the doors. He dropped his duffel bag by the counter and flopped into a chair with a groan.
“Tell me you’ve got good news,” he said.
Giles looked up, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve got good news. Well, the best possible news regarding the circumstances.”
Buddy perked up. “Lay it on me.”
Giles set down a volume of Demonic Manifestations of the 20th Century and folded his arms. “The Council’s agreed to take Marcie in. She’ll be flown to England tomorrow. They have specialists—people who deal with supernatural trauma, magical anomalies, and… well, invisible girls with homicidal tendencies.”
Buddy blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
Giles nodded. “Cases like Marcie’s fall into a… grey area. She’s not a demon. But she’s dangerous. And hurting. They’ll provide psychiatric care. Magical containment. A chance at some kind of recovery.”
Buddy leaned back, exhaling. “And her mum?”
Giles hesitated. “She’s going with her. Taking a leave of absence from work.”
Buddy’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. So, it only took her daughter going full ghost-mode and trying to murder a cheer squad for her to notice she existed.”
Giles’ voice was quiet. “Yes. Tragedy has a way of forcing clarity.”
Buddy shook his head. “Cordy’s been beating herself up about it all. She thinks it’s all her fault.”
Giles sighed. “Cordelia may have been unkind, but she was child. Marcie’s mother was an adult. The responsibility lies with those who were supposed to see her and didn’t.”
Buddy nodded slowly. “Still… Cordy’s changed. She’s not who she was back then.”
“No,” Giles agreed. “Nor are you the same boy who once refused his destiny with a fiery passion.”
Buddy gave a small smile. “Guess we’re all evolving. Even if it takes a ghost fight and a skipping rope to get there.”
Giles chuckled softly, then turned serious. “You’ve done well today, Buddy. You showed restraint. Compassion. Strength. I’m proud of you.”
Buddy blinked. “Wait. Was that a compliment? From you?”
Giles rolled his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Buddy grinned. “Too late.”
Giles moved behind the counter, rifling through a drawer. “Whish is why I’m giving you the night off. No patrol.”
Buddy sat up. “Wait—what? Are you okay? Should I check for pod people?”
“I’m quite serious,” Giles said. “You’ve earned a rest. Take it.”
Buddy stared at him, stunned. “Wow. Okay. I mean… thanks. I was fully prepared to argue, but I’m not stupid.”
He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I might even do something wild.”
Giles smiled faintly. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”
Buddy paused at the door, glancing back. “Hey, Giles?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. For seeing me. Even when I didn’t want to be seen.
Giles’ expression softened. “Always.”
Buddy nodded once, then slipped out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him.
The Bronze pulsed with lazy bass and moody lighting, casting everyone in shades of amber and rebellion. At their usual table near the stage, Buddy, Will, Oz, and Cordelia lounged like the cool kids in a supernatural teen drama.
Will was practically melted into Oz’s side, fingers tracing lazy constellations on his arm. Oz, ever the chill rock god, looked like he’d been carved from lo-fi serenity. Their love language was quiet touches and shared smirks.
Cordelia sipped her drink through a rhinestone-studded straw, legs crossed like she was posing for a magazine cover called Post-Traumatic Fabulous. “Okay, not to get all Oprah, but I’m glad Marcie’s getting help. Like, actual help. With professionals. And probably tea served in haunted porcelain.”
Buddy swirled his soda. “Yeah. She deserves it. Even if she tried to turn you and the whole squad into a human bonfire.”
Cordelia shrugged. “Honestly? I’ve had worse frenemies. At least Marcie didn’t try to serve me up to her vampiric mistress like Harmony did.”
Will snorted. “One’s a vampire, the other’s an invisible menace. I fear for the rest of us.”
Cordelia grinned. “My friendship really is a gift.”
Buddy leaned back, eyes drifting toward the door. “Wish Angel could’ve come tonight.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “What, so I’d be fifth wheeling with two loved up couples. He’d probably just be lurking dramatically in a corner right now, sighing every time one of us laughed.”
Buddy smirked. “It’s part of his charm. He’s like a walking mood board for tragic romance.”
Oz, without looking up, added, “Probably writing sonnets about your cheekbones.”
Will giggled. “Or your blonde hair, a matching trait to his last ex… who he staked.”
Buddy chuckled. “You guys are the worst!”
The music shifted—bass deepening, tempo rising. A new track kicked in, something reckless and danceable.
Cordelia stood, tossing her hair like a weapon. “Okay, enough moping. We survived invisible drama, emotional revelations, and I didn’t break a nail. We’re dancing!”
Will perked up. “I’m in.”
Oz nodded. “I follow the witch.”
Buddy hesitated, then smiled. “You know what? Yeah. Let’s dance. Slayer’s night off. Might as well shake it.”
Cordelia grabbed his hand. “Come on, teen Hercules. Let’s see if those slayer reflexes work on the dance floor.”
They moved toward the crowd, laughter trailing behind them as lights pulsed and the beat dropped. Cordelia led the charge, hips swaying like she was born to command a spotlight. Will and Oz spun together, glowing in their own orbit.
Buddy joined them, letting the music take over, letting the weight of destiny melt away—just for tonight.
And in that moment, surrounded by rhythm, and the people who saw him, he felt gloriously, defiantly alive.
The library was once again cloaked in silence, lit only by the dim glow of desk lamps and the moonlight filtering through the high windows. Shadows stretched long across the floor, pooling around the stacks like waiting hands.
Angel stood near the edge of the light, coat trailing behind him, jaw clenched. Giles was at the central table, surrounded by open books and scrolls, his expression grim.
“You must be wrong,” Angel said, voice low but sharp. “We stopped The Harvest. The Master is still trapped.”
Giles didn’t look up. “Believe me, I wish I were wrong.”
Angel stepped forward, eyes burning. “Then say it. Say you’re wrong. Say this prophecy is just another dusty myth.”
Giles slowly closed the book in front of him, fingers trembling slightly. “It’s not a myth. It’s one of the oldest prophecies in The Council’s archives. Buried, fragmented, but unmistakable.”
He reached for a parchment, yellowed and brittle, and read aloud, voice steady despite the weight of the words:
“On the eve of darkness, when the bones of the earth tremble, The Master shall rise.
And the slayer shall fall.
Blood shall mark the threshold, and death shall open the gate.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Angel’s face twisted. “No. Not Buddy. He’s—he’s not going to die.”
Giles looked up, eyes tired and full of something deeper than fear. “Prophecies don’t care about strength. Or love. Or hope. They unfold. And we scramble to survive them.”
Angel’s voice cracked. “Then we change it. We fight it. We stop it.”
Giles nodded slowly. “That’s the plan. But we need to be ready. Because if The Master rises… Buddy may be the first line of defence. And the first casualty.”
Angel turned away, fists clenched, shadows clinging to him like guilt.
Giles watched him, the silence between them thick with dread.
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Five: Ghosted
The scent of cucumber melon body spray and hairspray hung thick in the air, mingling with the faintly ominous undertone of mildew and something… older. Cordelia stood at the mirror, lip gloss wand in hand, flanked by her fellow cheerleaders—Tiffany, Amber, and Lacey—all in uniform, all hanging on every word.
“I’m just saying,” Cordelia declared, expertly applying a final swipe of gloss, “if your highlighter doesn’t make you look like a benevolent goddess descending from the heavens, then what’s even the point? You’re not flowing—you’re just… damp.”
Amber nodded solemnly. “Totally. I tried that new shimmer stick and I looked like a sweaty disco ball.”
Cordelia gave her a pitying glance. “That’s because you applied it like you were frosting a cake. Less is more. Unless it’s mascara. Or vengeance.”
Suddenly—BANG.
One of the stall doors slammed shut with a metallic shriek.
The girls jumped.
Cordelia blinked at the mirror. “Okay, rude. This is a private seminar, not a séance.”
Then—BANG. BANG. BANG.
Every stall door began slamming open and shut in a chaotic rhythm, like a haunted percussion section. The lights overhead flickered wildly, casting the bathroom in strobe-lit flashes. Toilets began flushing one after another, a cacophony of gurgling pipes and shrieking cheerleaders.
Tiffany screamed. “Oh my god, what is happening?!”
Lacey clutched Cordelia’s arm. “Is this, like, a prank? Because if this is about the pyramid incident, I already apologised!”
Cordelia held up her hands, trying to stay calm. “Okay, everyone, breathe. It’s probably just a gas leak. Or an aggressive plumbing issue.”
A sudden gust of icy wind swept through the room, extinguishing the scented candle someone had illegally lit on the sink. The mirror fogged over in a breathless exhale.
Amber bolted for the door. “Nope! I’m not dying in the bathroom! I have plans!”
She slipped on a puddle of water, shrieked, and went down hard, skidding across the tile like a cheerleader-shaped mop.
Cordelia winced. “Oof. That’s gonna bruise. And not in a cute, ‘I’m mysterious and fragile’ way.”
Then the lipstick on the sink began to rattle.
It lifted into the air, uncapping itself with a pop, and floated toward the mirror.
The girls froze, eyes wide.
With slow, deliberate strokes, the lipstick began to write:
ALL CHEERLEADERS MUST DIE
Tiffany screamed. Lacey screamed louder. Amber, still on the floor, screamed from a prone position.
Cordelia just stared at the message, then sighed, folding her arms.
“Great. Another psychotic Casper with a vendetta against prep. What is this, Carrie meets Clueless?”
She turned to the others, voice sharp. “Okay, new plan. We scream later. Right now, we walk—don’t run—out of here like the fabulous, not-dead queens we are. Got it?”
They nodded, trembling.
Cordelia led the way out, head high, heels clicking defiantly against the tile as the bathroom lights flickered behind them and the lipstick hovered, still twitching in midair.
The library was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the occasional clink of Giles’ teacup. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the stacks. Buddy sat slouched in a chair at the central table.
Giles stood at the head of the table, surrounded by open books, scrolls, and a disturbingly detailed anatomical sketch of a vampire’s feeding mechanism.
“So,” Buddy said, “let me get this straight. Darla wasn’t just throwing a blood rave for funsies. She was trying to crack open the Hellmouth pinata and let her crusty sire crawl out?”
Giles sighed, removing his glasses. “In essence, yes. Each victim she drained strengthened The Master’s tether to this plane. Had she succeeded, the barrier between his prison and our world would have collapsed.”
Buddy leaned back. “And let me guess—he’s not the cuddly, misunderstood type. More ‘ancient evil with a flair for dramatic lighting’?”
Giles nodded grimly. “Precisely. He’s been trapped beneath Sunnydale for decades, but his influence is growing. Darla was merely the beginning.”
Buddy exhaled. “Great. So, we’ve dusted a vampire queen with abandonment issues, but we still have a Hellmouth that’s basically a demon vending machine, and a centuries-old corpse with a god complex trying to claw his way out. High school is hell.”
Before Giles could respond, the library doors burst open with a bang.
Cordelia stormed in like a hurricane in heels, hair perfect, eyes wide, and voice already hallway to a dramatic monologue.
“Okay, I don’t know what kind of ghostly Mean Girls reboot is happening, but someone needs to fix it yesterday!”
Buddy blinked. “Cordelia?”
She marched straight to the table, heels clicking like judgment. “I was in the bathroom giving a motivational speech about highlighter and self-worth when suddenly—bam! Haunted house realness. Doors were slamming, toilets flushing, lights flickering like a rave hosted by Satan, and then—wait for it—lipstick. Floating. Writing on the mirror.”
Giles frowned. “What did it say?”
Cordelia threw up her hands. “All cheerleaders must die. Which, rude. I mean. I know we’re intimidating, but that’s no reason to go full Carrie on us.”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “So, we’ve to a vengeful ghost with a vendetta against pep rallies. Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long.”
Cordelia pointed at him. “You’re not helping. I’m not dying in a bathroom stall next to a broken soap dispenser and a motivational poster about hygiene. That is not my legacy.”
Buddy stood, grabbing his jacket. “Relax. We’ll handle it. Ghosts are just drama queens with unfinished business and no skincare routine.”
Cordelia crossed her arms. “Good. Because if I get possessed and start levitating, I’m suing the school board, the ghost, and probably you.”
Buddy smirked. “You’d make a very stylish poltergeist, though.”
Cordelia flipped her hair. “Please. I’d haunt with taste. Think less ‘moaning banshee,’ more ‘fashion-forward spectre with a vengeance.”
Giles sighed, already reaching for another book. “I’ll begin cross-referencing known spectral manifestations tied to the school. You two—try not to antagonise any more spirits.”
Buddy and Cordelia exchanged a look.
“No promises,” they said in unison.
Cordelia and Buddy stepped out of the library, mid-bicker about ghost etiquette and emergency lip gloss protocols, only to freeze at the sight just outside the door.
Will and Oz were pressed together in a quiet corner, mid-making-out, framed by a trophy case and a motivational poster about teamwork. Will’s fingers were tangled in Oz’s hoodie, Oz’s hand resting gently on Will’s waist, both looking very much like they’d forgotten the world was full of vampires, ghosts, and cafeteria meatloaf.
Buddy blinked. “Well. That’s one way to recover from supernatural trauma.”
Cordelia smirked. “Honestly? Iconic. If I hadn’t just survived a haunted bathroom, I’d be kissing some musician too.”
Oz pulled back just enough to glance at them, unfazed. “Hey.”
Will flushed. “Hi. Um. We were just—”
Buddy waved a hand. “No judgment. Hot make outs are healing. Carry on.”
Cordelia linked arms with Will, steering him down the hallway. “Come on, lovebirds. We’re walking and talking. Preferably away from any cursed plumbing.”
Oz fell into step beside Buddy, hands in his pockets, expression calm as ever. “So, I’m officially Scooby-adjacent now, right? Slayer, witch-in-training, Queen C and me. Feels like a band.”
Buddy grinned. “You’re in. We don’t have jackets, but we do have trauma and sarcasm.”
Will nudged Oz. “Buddy’s the Slayer. I’m the wannabe witch. Cordy’s the queen of high school and the rest of the school are her Cordettes, her loyal minions.”
Cordelia flipped her hair. “They’re not minions. They’re disciples. And I lead with style and fear.”
Oz nodded. “Respect. Also, my band’s officially avoiding The Bronze for a few weeks. Too much vamp energy. And the acoustics are haunted.”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “You think the amps are possessed?”
Oz shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing. Last gig, the mic tried to bite me.”
Will laughed. “It was a bat. But yeah, still counts.”
They passed a row of lockers, the hallway quiet except for their footsteps and the distant hum of fluorescent lights. For a moment, it felt normal—four teens, walking together, bonded by secrets and survival.
The stone door groaned shut behind them, sealing out the world with a sound that could’ve been a warning—or an invitation. Inside, the mausoleum was all gothic gloom and filtered moonlight, the kind of place that screamed “romantic disaster pending.”
Buddy leaned back against the cold marble wall, breath shallow, heart thudding like a drumline in a horror movie. Angel stood close, too close, eyes dark and unreadable.
Their lips met again—slow, hungry, like they were trying to devour the silence between them. Angel’s hands were steady, grounding. Buddy’s fingers curled into the lapels of his coat like he was trying to hold onto something solid in a world that kept shifting under his feet.
When they finally broke apart, Buddy rested his forehead against Angel’s chest, voice muffled. “So, fun fact: my mum still thinks you’re one brooding monologue away from a restraining order, and Giles looks at you like you’re a cursed Faberge egg he’s not allowed to smash.”
Angel huffed a laugh. “They’re not wrong.”
Buddy looked up, smirking. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly winning any Slayer of the Month awards either. But here I am. Making out with the undead in a crypt like it’s prom night at a Tim Burton convention.”
Angel’s expression softened. “You don’t have to explain.”
Buddy shrugged. “I know. But I’m a chronic over-sharer with a flair for the dramatic. It’s part of my charm.”
They kissed again, slower this time, like they had all the time in the world—which they didn’t.
Buzz. Buzz.
Buddy groaned and fished out his phone. “If this is another bronze bloodbath, I swear I’m going to start charging by the hour. With overtime.”
He glanced at the screen and blinked. “Oh. It’s Cordy.”
Angel raised an eyebrow. “Is she okay?”
Buddy read aloud: “Emergency. One of my girls broke her leg in a freak baton-related incident. You’re tall, flexible, and photogenic. Congratulations you’re a cheerleader now. Practice is at 7. Bring spirit. And maybe holy water.”
Her stared at the phone. “I’m sorry, did I just get drafted into the Sparkle Army?”
Angel blinked. “You’re joining the cheer squad?”
Buddy deadpanned. “Apparently.”
Angel smirked. “You in a cheer uniform. That’s… I mean, I’ve seen a lot of things, but that might kill me.”
Buddy narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get too excited. There will be no pom-pom selfies. This is a one-time emergency gig, not a lifestyle.”
Angel leaned in, voice low. “Just one picture. For morale.”
Buddy rolled his eyes, but the smile tugged at his lips anyway. “Fine. But if this ends up on some ancient vampire Pinterest board, I’m haunting you.”
Angel grinned. “Worth it.”
They kissed again, laughter caught between them, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten in the hush of the crypt.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees.
Inside, for just a moment, everything was still.
The library was bathed in soft morning light, dust motes drifting lazily through the air like they hadn’t gotten the memo that evil never sleeps. Giles stood at the central table, already elbow-deep in a stack of ancient texts, muttering Latin under his breath and sipping tea that had long since gone cold.
The door creaked open.
Buddy strolled in wearing his gym clothes and a zip-up hoodie, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and suspiciously peppy bounce in his step.
“Morning, Giles,” her chirped. “Don’t mind me. Just passing through on my way to cheer practice.”
Giles looked up, blinking behind his glasses. “I’m sorry—your way to what?”
Buddy dropped his bag with a thud. “Cheer practice. You know—spirit fingers, high kicks, the occasional pyramid of doom. Cordelia drafted me. One of her girls had a tragic run-in with Casper and a rogue baton and now I’m the emergency glam replacement.”
Giles stared at him, utterly aghast. “You’re joining the cheerleading squad?”
Buddy nodded, stretching his arms overhead. “Yup. History repeats itself, Giles. Once again, I’m a last-minute substitution for a better woman.”
Giles sputtered. “This is—this completely inappropriate! You’re the Slayer, not some—some pom-pom wielding distraction!”
Buddy smirked. “Why not both? I can slay vamps and serve face. Multitasking is a Slayer skill, right? Plus, this way I get to keep tabs on Cordy’s paranormal menace.”
Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is absurd. You’re supposed to be training, not… tumbling.”
Buddy leaned on the table, grinning. “Relax. I’ll still be patrolling tonight. I just have a few hours of synchronised clapping and Cordelia’s motivation speeches to survive first. Honestly, I’ve faced worse. Remember the slime demon? At least this time I get a cute uniform.”
Giles looked like he was calculating how many cups of tea it would take to survive this conversation.
Buddy patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Giles. I promise not to let the forces of cheer interrupt my slaying of the forces of darkness.”
Giles groaned. “I need a stronger kettle.”
Buddy was already halfway to the door. “Wish me luck! If I die doing a basket toss, avenge me with dramatic flair.”
The door swung shut behind him.
Giles stared after him, then muttered, “I trained with the Council for twenty years for this.”
The gym echoed with the rhythmic slap of sneakers on hardwood and the shark bark of Cordelia’s voice.
“Again! And this time, with actual enthusiasm, not whatever that limp spaghetti arm thing was, Buddy!”
Buddy, mid-cartwheel, stumbled out of formation and landed in a crouch. “Sorry, Coach C.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “You’re a slayer. You can bench press a vending machine but can’t stick a landing?”
“I’m used to flipping over vampires, not into jazz hands,” Buddy muttered, brushing off his knees. “Also, I’m ninety percent sure this uniform is cursed. It’s riding up in places I’ve not let boyfriends go, yet.”
The rest of the squad—what remained of it—watched from the sidelines, equal parts impressed and terrified. Tiffany was still on crutches. Amber had a suspicious burn mark on her sleeve from the last “incident.” Lacey was clutching her pom-poms like they were holy relics.
Cordelia clapped once. “Positions! Pyramid formation, people! Buddy, you’re base. Try not to drop anyone unless they’re possessed.”
Buddy took his place, muttering. “This is how I die. Crushed under a pile of glitter and teenage ambition.”
The squad moved into formation. For a moment, everything was almost normal—until the air shifted.
Cold.
Still.
Wrong.
A faint click echoed through the gym.
Buddy’s slayer sense flared just as a lighter—floating midair—flicked to life above the bleachers.
“Uh… Cordy?” he called, eyes narrowing. “Did you invite the invisible arsonist to practice?”
Cordelia turned. “What are you—”
WHOOSH.
A cheerleader’s pom-poms burst into flames.
Screams erupted. The pyramid collapsed. Girls scattered like startled birds, shrieking as smoke filled the gym.
Buddy lunged forward, yanking off his hoodie and smothering the flames. “Get everyone out! Now!”
As the girls fled, the lighter zipped through the air like a wasp, diving at Buddy’s head. He ducked, rolled, and came up with a stake in hand.
“Okay, Casper, you wanna throw down? Let’s dance.”
The air shimmered—then something hit him. Hard.
Buddy flew backward, crashing into the bleachers with a grunt. He scrambled to his feet, eyes scanning wildly.
Another blow—this time from behind. He spun, slashing with his stake, but it sliced through empty air.
Invisible laughter echoed around him, high and cruel.
Buddy growled. “Great. I’m getting my ass kicked by a ghost ninja.”
He swung again; missed. A locker door slammed open across the gym. A basketball flew off the rack and nailed him in the ribs.
He staggered, winded, dropping to one knee.
Then—just as suddenly as it started—the air stilled.
The lighter clattered to the floor.
The presence was gone.
Buddy stood slowly, bruised and panting, hair singed at the edges.
Cordelia peeked back in through the gym doors. “Is it over? Because if I file another supernatural incident report, I’m going to need a spa day and a lawyer.”
Buddy wiped soot from his cheek. “Yeah. It’s gone. For now.”
Cordelia stepped inside, surveying the scorched pom-poms and overturned mats. “Well. That was worse than your attempts at cheerleading.”
Buddy winced. “I think I just got beat up by the invisible woman.”
Cordelia crossed her arms. “You’re lucky this invisible mean girl is hot on my heels. Otherwise, I’d be replacing you with a mannequin and a dream.”
Buddy gave her a crooked smile. “Honestly? The mannequin probably has better rhythm.”
She sighed. “We’ll work on it. But first—maybe figure out who’s trying to murder my squad before we all end up as Sunnydale’s latest cautionary tales.”
Buddy nodded, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. Time to find out who’s got a grudge against glitter.”
The bell had just rung, but the library was already back to its usual hush—sunlight slanting through the high windows. Giles stood at the central table, surrounded by a fortress of open books and Watcher diaries, muttering to himself in Latin and sipping tea that had gone tepid hours ago.
The doors creaked open.
Buddy limped in, singed, scuffed, and still wearing his emergency cheer gear: gym shorts, a Sunnydale High spirit tee, and a glitter-smudged face that screamed. “I survived something.” A pom-pom was inexplicably stuck to his backpack, trailing like a wounded tail.
“Afternoon, Giles,” he called, dropping into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “Guess who got body-slammed by an invisible banshee and nearly flambeed by haunted accessories? I’ll give you a hint: he’s devastatingly handsome and currently smells like burnt polyester.”
Giles looked up, took in the state of him, and arched a single, judgmental eyebrow. “Ah. Cheerleading. Yes, I believe I did warn you.”
Buddy pointed a finger. “Okay, yes, you did. But in my defence, I’m supposed to fight all evil, even haunted pom-poms.”
Giles set down his tea with a sigh of deep, scholarly vindication. “The perils of cheerleading are well-documented, you know. Ritualistic origins, competitive bloodlust, and now, apparently, spectral arson.”
Buddy leaned forward, rubbing his ribs. “Well, add ‘invisible beatdown’ to the list. This ghost is not just angry—she’s got range. One second, I’m doing a basket toss, the next I’m dodging a floating Zippo and getting sucker-punched by Casper the Unfriendly Pscyho.”
Giles adjusted his glasses, already flipping through a brittle old volume. “I’ve been researching recorded instances of spontaneous invisibility. There are several cases—though the causes vary. Magical cloaking, psychic trauma, even one girl who vanished after a cursed tanning bed incident in 1983.”
Buddy blinked. “Wow. Death by bronzer. That’s a new one.”
Giles nodded. “In most cases, invisibility is less as spell and more a manifestation of emotional trauma—feelings of isolation, neglect, or rage. The body fades when the person believes they’ve been forgotten.”
Buddy tapped his fingers on the table. “So, we’re talking about someone who didn’t just go invisible—they felt invisible. And now they’re back with a vengeance and a flair for dramatic lighting cues.”
Giles looked thoughtful. “Given the target of the attacks—cheerleaders—it’s likely personal.”
Buddy tilted his head. “Right. So, we’re looking for someone with a vendetta against pep, glitter, and synchronised clapping. Which, let’s be honest, is at least half the student body and three-quarters of the faculty.”
He paused, then frowned. “But they knew the routines. They were in the gym. That’s not random. That’s cheer insider knowledge.”
Giles’ eyes narrowed. “You think she was once part of the squad?”
Buddy nodded. “Has to be. Past or present. Someone who walked these halls, maybe even wore the uniform. Someone who got benched, bullied, or booted—and decided to haunt the pyramid from beyond the grave.”
Giles sighed, already pulling out a stack of dusty yearbooks. “I’ll start with the last decade. You check the incident reports. And Buddy—”
Buddy stood, cracking his neck. “Yeah?”
Giles gave him a look. “Try not to get recruited into any more extracurriculars. Or set on fire.”
Buddy grinned. “No promises. But if I go down, I’m taking the pom-poms with me.”
The lights were dimmed, the blinds drawn, and the classroom bathed in the flickering blue glow of a grainy educational video. Onscreen, a narrator droned about the Industrial Revolution in a voice that could tranquilise a vampire.
Will slouched beside Cordelia, chin in hand, doodling tiny hearts and pentagrams in the margins of his notes.
“I still can’t believe how chill Oz is about everything,” he whispered, dreamy-eyed. “I told him I was a witch-in-training and he just said, ‘Cool. Want to see my guitar?’ Like I’d told him I was left-handed.”
Cordelia smirked, applying a fresh coat of lip gloss in the reflection of her compact. “That’s because Oz has the emotional range of a haunted house cat. Mysterious, aloof, and probably communing with spirits when no one’s looking. It’s weirdly hot.”
Will sighed. “Right? He’s like… if a lo-fi playlist had a soul.”
Cordelia snapped her compact shut. “Meanwhile, I’m stuck in this cinematic masterpiece about steam engines and soot. Riveting stuff. I feel soothed and stupider.”
Suddenly, the screen flickered.
The narrator’s voice cut out with a warbled “…and thus began the mechanisation of—” before dissolving into static.
Then, a new video began to play.
Cordelia sat up straighter. “Wait. I know this footage.”
Onscreen, a younger Cordelia stood front and centre in a red and good cheer uniform, flanked by a not-yet vampire Harmony and the Cordettes. They launched into a routine, all high kicks, hair flips, and weaponised smiles.
Will blinked “Is that you, sophomore year?”
Cordelia beamed. “Obviously. Look at that toe point. I was a vision in Lycra.”
The camera panned to a nervous girl at the edge of the gym—mousy, hunched, clutching her pom-poms like they might explode. She stepped forward, gave a shaky smile, and launched into a clumsy, off-beat routine.
The camera zoomed n just as Harmony leaned toward Cordelia and whispered something with a smirk. Cordelia on screen laughed—bright, sharp, and unmistakably dismissive.
The girl—Marcie Ross, according to the clipboard in the coach’s hands—finished her routing to scattered, awkward claps. She looked around, hopeful.
No one met her eyes.
The video cut to static.
Then black.
The classroom lights flickered back on.
Cordelia stared at the blank screen, her smirk gone. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. A flicker of something crossed her face—guilt, maybe, or the slow, creeping realisation that she’d just seen a ghost story’s origin.
Will turned to her. “Cordy… was that--?”
Cordelia blinked, then forced a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Marcie Ross. Wow. Blast from the beige. She tried out with us. Total wallflower. Like, if wallpaper had anxiety.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “You think she’s the invisible woman looking for vengeance?”
Cordelia’s smile faltered. “I mean… yeah. I forgot she even existed. Which, I guess, was kind of the problem.
She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag. “Come on. We’re finding Buddy. This ghost has a name now—and I am so not getting taken out by a bitter ex-Cordette.”
Will followed, glancing back at the screen. “Should we tell the teacher?”
Cordelia waved a hand. “Please. He’s been asleep since the steam engine part.”
They slipped out of the classroom, the door swinging shut behind them.
But in the darkened room, the screen flickered once more.
Then a faint, ghostly whisper.
“You laughed at me. You forgot me. But now, you’ll remember me!”
The classroom was quiet, lit only by the golden spill of late-afternoon sun through the blinds. Desks were pushed aside, chairs haphazardly arranged in a loose triangle. The hum of the overhead lights buzzed faintly, the only sound besides the occasional squeak of sneakers on linoleum from the hallway beyond.
Cordelia sat cross-legged on a desk, arms folded, her usual poise dimmed. Will leaned against the windowsill, fingers idly tracing the edge of his notebook. Buddy slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, a pencil tucked behind one ear.
Cordelia broke the silence first.
“So… Marcie Ross,” she said, voice softer than usual. “She wasn’t always my invisible stalker. I mean… she used to hang out with me and Harmony. Back in freshman year.”
Will blinked. “I think I remember that…”
Cordelia nodded, eyes distant. “Yeah. She was quiet, but funny. Had this dry, deadpan thing going on. We used to call her ‘Wednesday Addams with a Lisa Frank binder’. She was… cool. In a weird, tragic poet kind of way.”
Buddy tilted his head. “So, what happened?”
Cordelia sighed. “She tried out for the squad. She wasn’t great. Like, at all. And Harmony—well, Harmony was brutal. I didn’t stop her. I laughed. And then I stopped inviting Marcie to things. I figured she’d get over it.”
Will frowned. “But she didn’t.”
“Nope.” Cordelia looked down at her friends. “She just kind of… faded. I didn’t even notice when she stopped showing up. And now she’s back, setting my squad on fire and writing death threats in Maybelline.”
Buddy leaned forward. “Cordy…”
She shook her head. “I know I didn’t push her away on purpose. But I didn’t pull her back either. And the worst part? I get it. That feeling. Like you’re surrounded by people but still totally alone.”
Will looked at her, surprised.
Cordelia gave a small, bitter smile. “You think being Queen C means you’re never lonely? Please. Half the time I was just trying to keep up. With Harmony, with the Cordettes, with the image. You mess up once, you’re dethroned. It’s like social Dawrinism with better shoes.”
She looked at Buddy and Will, her voice softening. “It wasn’t until I befriended you two that I felt like I could breathe. Like I didn’t have to be perfect all the time. Just…me.”
Will smiled, eyes glassy. “I get that. I mean, before you guys, I was just the weird kid who talked to plants and got shoved into lockers. I didn’t think I’d ever have people who saw me, me, and not just some… nerd.”
Buddy gave a half-smile. “You’re the heart of this group, Will. You know that, right?”
Will blushed. “You’re just saying that because I bring snacks to patrol nights.”
“Also true,” Buddy said, then looked down at his hands. “But yeah. I get the lonely thing too. I mean, I’ve got you guys now, and that’s… everything. But sometimes I still feel it. Like, deep down.”
He glanced up, eyes shadowed. “I’m the only slayer in the world. The first guy to ever be called. There’s no handbook for this, well except for the actual slayer handbook. There’s no one who really gets what it’s like to be me. Not even Giles. Not really.”
Cordelia hopped off the desk and sat beside him. “Well, you’ve got us. And we’re not going anywhere. Unless we’re being chased by invisible frenemies. Then we’re running, but, like, together.”
Will nodded. “We’re your handbook now. With footnotes. And friendship.”
Buddy smiled, a little crooked, a little sad. “Thanks. I don’t say it enough, but… you two? You’re my people.”
They sat there in the fading light, three misfits bound by fate, friendship, and the kind of loneliness that only the weirdos and warriors could understand.
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Four: Slay Now, Cry Later
The moon hung low over the headstones, casting long, silver shadows across the grass. Buddy moved between the graves with practiced silence, stake in hand, senses sharp. The air was cool, but his blood was boiling—still simmering from the night before.
A twig snapped behind him.
Buddy spun, stake raised. “If you’re a vampire, congrats—you’ve won a free stake and a very dramatic exit from this world.”
Angel stepped out from behind a mausoleum, coat fluttering like smoke, face unreadable.
“Don’t,” Buddy said, voice tight. “Unless you want to me to add ‘Angelus slayer’ to my resume.”
Angel held up his hands. “I didn’t come to fight.”
Buddy lowered the stake—barely. “Too bad. I’ve got unresolved anger and a pointy stick. Let’s dance.”
Angel stepped closer. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”
Buddy scoffed. “Oh, you didn’t mean to let Darla go? After she kidnapped my friends and played villain karaoke in The Bronze? What a shocker.”
Angel’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t that simple.”
Buddy’s voice rose. “It was. She was right there. And you hesitated. Clearly, you still have a thing for the homicidal blonde. Seems to be your type.”
Angel looked away. “She is my sire. My past. You don’t just shut that off overnight.”
Buddy stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to play tortured vampire when people I love are in danger. Cordy and Will could’ve died. And you let her walk away.”
Angel met his gaze. “I’m trying to be better, to do better.”
Buddy laughed bitterly. “Yeah? Try harder. Maybe start with ‘don’t let the blood sucking ex escape.”
They stood in silence, the wind rustling the trees like whispers.
Buddy’s grip on the stake loosened. “I like you,” he said quietly. “God help me, I like you, still. But I can’t trust you. Especially not around her.”
Angel’s expression softened. “I understand.”
Buddy shook his head. “No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d stop acting like she’s still yours. You’d stop proving me right.
Angel stepped back, shadows swallowing his face. “I didn’t come to defend myself. I came to warn you.”
Buddy tensed. “About what? Another ex with a vendetta? Should I start a scrapbook?”
Angel’s voice dropped. “Darla’s planning something. And she’s not alone.”
Buddy’s heart thudded. “Then get out of my way. Because next time I see her, I’m not hesitating. And if you get in the way, I’m not hesitating with you either.”
Angel nodded once, then turned and disappeared into the night.
Buddy stood alone among the graves, stake in hand, heart heavy.
He liked Angel.
But he was the Slayer.
And liking someone had never been enough.
The scent of old books and demon dust hung in the air like a warning. Giles stood at the head of the long table, flipping through a tome that looked like it had been rebound sometime before indoor plumbing. His expression was grim, which meant bad news was incoming.
Buddy slouched in a chair, twirling a stake like it was a baton in a very stab-y parade. Cordelia perched on the table, legs crossed, sipping a green smoothie that looked suspiciously like swamp water. Will leaned over a notebook, doodling hearts in the margins every time he thought about Oz.
Giles cleared his throat. “I’ve been reviewing the Watchers’ Diaries. There’s… quite a bit on Darla.”
Buddy perked up. “Let me guess—she’s evil, she’s blonde, and she’s got a flair for dramatic lighting. So far, she’s just a vampire version of any soap opera villain.”
Giles gave him a look. “She’s also one of the most prolific vampires in recorded history. Turned in the early 1600s, sired by the Master himself. She’s left a trail of bodies across three continents.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “So, she’s basically the Taylor Swift of vampires. But with worse hair.”
Will blinked. “Wait—did you say the Master? Like, crusty cave guy who tired to open the Hellmouth and it swallowed him hole?”
Giles nodded. “Precisely. And more relevantly… she is Angel, Angelus’ sire. His mentor. His partner.”
Buddy’s jaw tightened. “Oh, fantastic. So not just an ex. She’s his murder mommy. That’s healthy.
Giles hesitated. “They were… inseparable for over a century. A notoriously brutal pair. Angelus was at his most vicious with her.”
Buddy scoffed. “Well, that’s comforting. Nothing says ‘romantic history’ quite like a shared body count and matching fangs.”
Cordelia sipped her smoothie. “Honestly, I’m starting to think Angel’s entire is just one long horror anthology.”
Will glanced up, trying to shift the mood. “Okay, this is all very ‘vampire trauma hour.’ But—on a lighter note—Oz is playing at The Bronze again tonight.”
He smiled, dreamy. “He’s so talented. And his hands? Like, guitar god meets gentle forest spirit.”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “You’re blushing. Are you blushing? Is this a full swoon?”
Will nodded, unabashed. “I am. I’m swooning. I’m allowed. He kissed me and then wrote a song about moonlight.”
Cordelia clapped. “Finally! A boyfriend who doesn’t come with a murder rap sheet. We love to see it.”
Buddy opened his mouth, but Giles cut in.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Not for you, Buddy.”
Buddy blinked. “Wait, what? Why not? I could use some decompression. Preferably with loud music and zero homicidal exes.”
Giles removed his glasses. “Darla is planning something. Angel said as much. We must remain vigilant. You need to be on patrol tonight. High alert.”
Buddy groaned. “So, while everyone else is sipping sodas and flirting to indie rock, I’m stuck playing graveyard babysitter?”
Cordelia shrugged. “Welcome to Slayer life. No cover charge, but the dress code is ‘eternal burden chic.”
Will gave Buddy a sympathetic smile. “We’ll save you a dance. Or, you know, a seat near the speakers. I’ll text you if Oz plays the swoony one.”
Buddy sighed, grabbing his bag. “Fine. But if Darla shows up at The Bronze, I’m staking her and whoever booked her as the opening act.”
He stalked towards the doors, muttering. “Murder mommy. Seriously.”
Giles returned to his book, Cordelia resumed her smoothie critique, and Will quietly texted Oz with a heart emoji.
Outside, the sun dipped lower.
And somewhere beneath Sunnydale, something ancient stirred.
The bell had rung, the halls had emptied, and Buddy trudged out the front doors with the energy of someone who’d just survived both algebra and emotional whiplash. His backpack sagged, his hoodie was half-zipped, and his mood was somewhere between “mildly cursed” and “full Shakespearean spiral.”
Joyce’s car idled at the curb, window down, radio playing soft jazz that Buddy immediately judged.
He slid into the passenger seat with a groan. “If Giles quotes one more ancient prophecy at me, I’m gonna start speaking in tongues just to freak him out.”
Joyce glanced over, amused. “Rough day?”
Buddy slumped dramatically. “I wanted to go to The Bronze tonight. Oz is playing. Will is in full swoon mode. Cordy has already picked out three outfits and a backup. And me? I get to spend the night in a cemetery, playing vampire whack-a-mole.”
Joyce pulled out of the lot, turning onto Revello Drive. “Giles said Darla’s planning something. You need to be on alert.”
Buddy blinked. “Wait—you talked to Giles? Again?”
Joyce kept her eyes on the road. “He called. Said you’d be tempted to skip patrol. Wanted me to reinforce the importance of vigilance.”
Buddy stared at her. “Okay, weird. Since when are you and Giles on the same team? Did you two start a book club while I was in gym?”
Joyce smiled tightly. “I’m your mother. I worry. And Giles is… thorough.”
Buddy narrowed his eyes. “You previously hated Giles’ thoroughness. You once called him ‘a tweed-wrapped anxiety burrito.”
Joyce didn’t answer right away.
Buddy leaned back, arms crossed. “Now you’re siding with him. Over me. Over your only son who just wants one night of music, mild flirting with someone who is not undead, and maybe a soda.”
Joyce sighed. “I’m siding with keeping you alive.”
Buddy squinted at her. “Okay, but like… you’re quoting him now. You’re agreeing with him. Are you two… crushing on each other?”
Joyce blinked. “What?”
Buddy pointed dramatically. “You’ve got Giles Voice. You’re using Giles Words. You’re Giles-ing. Is this a thing? Is this a ‘my slayer son’s watcher is kind of hot in a British panic way’ thing?”
Joyce rolled her eyes. “Buddy.”
Buddy gasped. “Oh my god, you didn’t deny it.”
Joyce pulled into the driveway, parked, and turned to face him. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just trying to accept your role as the slayer, even when you don’t want to. Giles and I talk. That’s all.”
Buddy opened the door slowly. “Right. Because nothing says ‘normal mum behaviour’ like sudden vampire intel and watcher hotline privileges. Next thing I know, you’ll be alphabetising the demon index.”
He stepped out, backpack slung over one shoulder, stake tucked into his sleeve.
Joyce watched him go, her expression unreadable.
Buddy didn’t look back.
But the suspicion lingered.
And now it had a British accent.
Cordelia’s bedroom was less a room and more a shrine to high-maintenance glam. Velvet curtains, a chandelier that probably had its own insurance policy, and a vanity table overflowing with lip glosses, perfumes, and enchanted hairpins she swore were “just decorative.”
Will sat cross-legged on a plush ottoman, flipping through a slim leather-bound book titled Beginner’s Glamours and Household Hexes. His eyes sparkled with excitement—and nerves.
Cordelia stood in front of her mirror, holding up two dresses. “Okay, so: black with the slit or red with the drama? I need to look like I’m emotionally unavailable but still the hottest person in the room.”
Will barely looked up. “Red. You’ll look like a cursed queen who eats hearts for breakfast.”
Cordelia grinned. “Perfect. I want to inspire fear, lust, and maybe a little envy-induced fainting.”
She tossed the black dress onto a chaise lounger and turned to Will. “Now, magic boy. Impress me. And if it involves glitter or levitating eyeliner, I’m already invested.”
Will held up a sleek makeup brush. “Okay, so I’ve been practicing levitation. Just small stuff. But I think I’ve got it.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “You’re about to float my contour brush? This better not end in sparkles on the ceiling or a portal to Sephora.”
Will closed his eyes, murmured a few words under his breath, and flicked his fingers.
The brush lifted gently into the air, wobbling slightly, then steadied; hovering between them like a very glamorous hummingbird.
Cordelia gasped. “Okay, that’s cool. You’re like Sabrina, but with better make up.”
Will beamed. “Right? I mean, it’s not super powerful yet, but—”
The brush suddenly jerked sideways, spun like a propeller, and shot across the room.
Will yelped. “No. No. No--!”
Cordelia ducked as the brush zipped past her head and smashed through the open window with a dramatic whoosh.
They stared at the empty space where it had been.
Cordelia blinked. “Did my brush just… ascend?”
Will winced. “I think it’s in your rose bushes. Or possibly orbiting the moon.”
Cordelia burst out laughing. “Okay, you’re officially my favourite magical disaster. But next time, maybe enchant something less aerodynamic.”
Will groaned. “I’m never living this down.”
Cordelia tossed him a backup brush. “You will. But only if you help me with eyeliner and don’t summon any more flying objects. Or singing squirrels.”
Will caught it, smiling—then his expression softened. “I just… I want tonight to go well. Oz is playing, and he’s so—ugh, he’s so cool. Like, effortless cool.”
Cordelia smirked. “You’re glowing. It’s disgusting. I love it.”
Will’s smile faltered. “But I haven’t told him. About the magic. Or the vampires. Or the fact that my best friend is a vampire slayer.”
Cordelia paused. “Okay, yeah, that’s a lot. But you’re not lying. You’re… curating.”
Will gave her a look.
She shrugged. “Look, you’ll tell him when you’re ready. Preferably not during a romantic slow dance.”
Will sighed. “I just don’t want to mess I up.”
Cordelia softened. “Then breathe. And let yourself have this. You deserve a little swoon.”
Will nodded, then stood. “Okay. Let’s go. Before I float something else out the window.”
Cordelia grabbed her designer purse. “To The Bronze, where the music’s loud, the lighting’s flattering, and the drama is always supernatural.”
They headed out, laughter echoing through the mansion.
The television flickered in the dim light, casting blue shadows across the living room. Buddy lay sprawled on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest like a snack crown. Some old monster movie played in the background—rubber claws, bad dubbing, zero stakes.
Joyce stepped in from the hallway, drying her hands on a dish towel. She paused in the doorway, watching him for a beat.
Then she walked over, picked up the remote, and clicked the TV off.
Buddy groaned. “Rude. The creature was just about to deliver his Oscar-worthy monologue.”
Joyce sat beside him, folding the towel in her lap. “We need to talk.”
Buddy sighed, sitting up and brushing popcorn off his shirt. “If this is about the dishes, I was totally going to do them. Eventually. Probably. In a parallel universe.”
Joyce gave him a look. “It’s not about the dishes.”
Buddy squinted. “Is it about the slayer thing? Because I’m already patrolling tonight.”
Joyce’s voice was gentle. “It’s about Angel.”
Buddy froze, then flopped back dramatically. “Of course it is. Why talk about my grades or my tragic lack of a social life when we can unpack my undead crush?”
Joyce continued, “You’ve been… different. Since he came on the scene.”
Buddy sat up again, quieter now. “Yeah. Well. Turns out kissing someone who used to be a soulless murder machine really messed with your emotional compass.”
Joyce didn’t flinch. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Buddy hesitated, then nodded. “I like him. I really like him. And it’s not just the broody eyes or the tragic poetry vibes. It’s… he gets it. The weight. The guilt. The whole ‘I didn’t ask for this destiny but here we are’ thing.”
Joyce listened, quiet.
Buddy’s voice dropped. “But I don’t know if I can like him. Not really. Not when I’m supposed to be the one who stops his kind. Now when he let Darla go. not when I still don’t know which version of him, I’m kissing.”
Joyce reached out, resting a hand on his knee. “You’re allowed to feel things, Buddy. even confusing, inconvenient, heart-wrenching things. But your destiny—it’s already dangerous enough. You don’t need to complicate it by falling for someone you’re meant to hunt.”
Buddy looked at her, eyes shining. “He’s not like the others.”
Joyce’s voice was soft but firm. “Maybe not. But he was. And a part of him still is. You can’t afford to forget that.”
Buddy leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “So, what, I’m supposed to slay my feelings too? Is that in the handbook? ‘Chapter Six: Emotional Decapitation’?”
Joyce gave a sad smile. “I’m saying be careful. With your heart. With your life. Because one of those is a lot harder to put back together.”
Buddy looked at her for a long moment, then leaned in and hugged her—tight, warm, and a little desperate.
Joyce held him close, stroking his hair. “You’re strong, sweetheart. But even superheroes need someone to hold them up.”
They sat together for a while, the popcorn forgotten, the TV silent.
Just a mother. A son. And the complicated ache of loving someone you maybe shouldn’t.
The Bronze pulsed with music and low light, all warm shadows and flickering neon. Oz stood centre stage, guitar slung low, fingers dancing over the strings like he was coaxing secrets from them. His band backed him with quiet intensity, but Oz was the gravity—cool, magnetic, effortlessly in control.
Will sat at their usual table near the railing, chin in hands, eyes locked on Oz like he was watching a sunrise made of sound.
Cordelia sipped her drink, legs crossed, scanning the crowd with practiced detachment. “Okay, he’s officially too cool. I feel like I should be paying him emotional rent.”
Will sighed dreamily. “He’s so talented. And his hands? Literal poetry. I think I’m in love with his wrist movements.”
Cordelia smirked. “You’re in love with him, period. And honestly? I support it. He’s got the broody charm without the murder baggage.”
Will’s smile faltered. “Speaking of murder baggage… it sucks Buddy couldn’t come.”
Cordelia nodded. “Yeah. Slayer duty. He’s probably knee-deep in grave dirt while we’re out here vibing to indie rock. Tragic. He’d look great under this lighting.”
Will glanced at his phone. “I texted him. Told him we’d save him a dance and a slice of vampire-free ambiance.”
Cordelia raised her glass. “To Buddy. may his patrol be boring and his undead crushes stay buried.”
Just then, a familiar voice cut through the music.
“Oh my god, Cordy?”
Cordelia turned—and froze.
Harmony Kendall stood near the bar, dressed in glitter and nostalgia, her blonde hair perfectly curled, her smile wide and just a little too sharp.
Will blinked. “Is that--?”
Cordelia stood slowly. “Harmony?”
Harmony bounced over, arms outstretched. “It’s been forever. You look amazing. Like, scary amazing. In a good way. Like if a fashion magazine and a murder mystery had a baby.”
Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “You disappeared. Like, full ghosted. No texts, no calls, your parents put up missing flyers. Did you join a cult or get abducted by a skincare pyramid scheme again?”
Harmony giggled. “Sort of! I got sired, dumped, and ditched all in one weekend. It was super dramatic. There were candles. And biting. And then he left me in a crypt with no Wi-Fi.”
Will frowned. “That’s… not metaphorical, is it?”
Cordelia stepped back. “Oh no. No. you didn’t.”
Harmony tilted her head. “What? Vampirism is making a comeback!”
Will grabbed Cordelia’s arm. “She’s a vampire. A vampire.”
Cordelia’s jaw dropped. “Harmony, you were my bestie. Well, best frenemy. We shared lip gloss. You can’t just go full undead without warning. There’s a group chat for this.”
Before Harmony could answer, the lights flickered.
Then cut.
The music died mid-note.
Screams rippled through the crowd.
From the shadows near the stage, Darla stepped into view—elegant, lethal, and smiling like she’d just found dessert. Her red dress shimmered like blood in candlelight, and behind her, a gang of vampires emerged, eyes glowing, fangs bared.
Darla’s voice rang out, smooth and cold. “Let the Harvest begin.”
Cordelia grabbed Will’s hand. “Okay, new plan. We run. We scream. We maybe throw a chair.”
Will nodded. “And we text Buddy. Like, now.”
They ducked behind the table as chaos erupted, Harmony twirling like she was at prom, fangs flashing.
The Bronze had never felt darker.
And Buddy was nowhere in sight.
The moon hung low and full, casting a pale glow over the cooked headstones and gnarled trees. Crickets chirped in the distance, but otherwise, the cemetery was quiet—too quiet for Buddy’s liking.
He walked beside Giles, stake in hand, boots crunching over dead leaves. Giles held a crossbow, eyes scanning the shadows with the grim focus of someone who’d seen too many things that go bump in the night.
Buddy broke the silence. “So… you and my mum, huh?”
Giles blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been calling here. She’s quoting you. You’re quoting her. It’s like watching two Victorian pen pals fall in love via passive-aggressive book recommendations.”
Giles cleared his throat. “Joyce and I have simply been… communicating. About your safety. That’s all.”
Buddy smirked. “Right. Just two concerned adults bonding over their shared love of grounding me and ruining my nightlife.”
Giles adjusted his glassed. “She’s a very intelligent woman.”
Buddy gasped. “Oh my god. You do like her. This is how it starts, Giles. First, it’s ‘how’s Buddy doing,’ then it’s candlelit research dates and co-parenting my trauma.”
Giles muttered something about decorum and focused very hard on a nearby mausoleum.
Before Buddy could press further, a shadow shifted near a crypt.
He tensed, raising his stake. “Hold that thought, Mr Darcy.”
From the darkness, Angel emerged, his coat billowing slightly in the breeze, face half-lit by moonlight.
Buddy’s expression soured instantly. “Oh look. It’s the brooding embodiment of bad decisions.”
Angel stopped a few feet away, hands raised. “I’m not here to fight, nor am I ever here to fight.”
Giles stepped forward, wary. “What are you doing here, Angel?”
Angel’s eyes flicked to Buddy. “I was tracking Darla. She’s moving fast. I think she’s planning something for tonight.”
Buddy crossed his arms. “Wow, thanks for the update. The big bad blonde is up to something. Too bad I already heard it from literally everyone else. Including my mum. Who might be dating my watcher. Which is a whole other therapy session.”
Angel’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable. Buddy hated how his stomach still did that stupid swoop when their eyes met. Hated how Angel’s voice still curled around his spin like smoke. Hated how much he didn’t hate it.
Forbidden longing was supposed to be sexy in theory—not in practice. In practice, it was just exhausting.
He looked away, jaw tight. “You can’t keep showing up like this. It’s confusing. And now in the fun, ‘is this a date or a duel’ kind of way.”
Angel’s voice was low. “I’m trying to help.”
Buddy scoffed. “You’re trying to haunt me with cheekbones and regret. Mission accomplished.”
His phone buzzed.
Buddy pulled it from his pocket, thumbed the screen—and froze.
Will’s name. One Sentence.
“Darla’s here. She’s taken The Bronze. Everyone’s trapped.”
Buddy’s blood ran cold.
He looked up, eyes sharp. “She’s not planning something.”
He turned to Giles and Angel, voice low and urgent. “She’s already started.”
And just like that, the ache in his chest was replaced by fire.
Time to move.
The Bronze had transformed.
Gone were the pulsing lights and indie guitar riffs. The stage was dark, the speakers silent. Tables had been overturned, candles snuffed out. The only illumination came from flickering emergency lights and the cold gleam of moonlight through shattered windows.
Darla stood centre stage like a queen at court, her red dress catching the light like fresh blood. Before her, a line of terrified patrons stretched across the dance floor—each one trembling, each one waiting their turn.
She smiled, slow and hungry, as she circled the first victim: a trembling boy in a varsity jacket. “Don’t worry,” she cooed, brushing his cheek with a gloved finger. “You’ll be part of something eternal. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”
Behind the stage, Harmony leaned against a speaker. Her fangs were out, but her expression was more bored than bloodthirsty.
“Ugh, this is taking forever,” she whined. “Can’t we just, like, do a group slurp and call it a night?”
Cordelia, Will, and Oz sat bound together near the back wall, zip-tied and gagged until Harmony had gotten bored and decided they were “too quiet to be fun.” Now she was watching them like a babysitter who’d rather be anywhere else.
Cordelia glared at her. “You know, for someone who used to cry when her nail polish chipped, you’ve really leaned into the whole ‘murderous minion’ thing.”
Harmony beamed. “Thanks! I’ve been working on my brand. I’m thinking, like ‘glam-pire.’ You know, fangs but make it fashion.”
Will rolled his eyes. “You’re a walking Hot Topic clearance rack.”
Harmony pouted. “Jealousy is so not cute on you.”
Oz, quiet until now, leaned toward Will and Cordelia. “Okay, so… I think I owe you both an apology.”
Will blinked. “For what? You’re not the one who turned Harmony into a bloodsucking Barbie.”
Oz shook his head. “No, I mean—for not saying anything sooner. About all of this. The vampires. The weirdness. The fact Sunnydale has more graveyards than Starbucks.”
Cordelia frowned. “Wait—you knew?”
Oz shrugged. “I didn’t have the vocab. But yeah. I mean, the marching band vanish in ’23. The swim team turned into monsters. My cousin spontaneously combusted during a pep rally. I figured either we were cursed… or I was bad at making friends.”
Will stared. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Oz gave a small smile. “Because I thought maybe I was crazy. Or maybe everyone else was pretending not to notice. And then I met you.”
Will’s breath caught.
Cordelia blinked. “Okay, that’s weirdly sweet for a hostage situation.”
Harmony clapped. “Aww! You guys are, like, so cute. I almost don’t want to drain you.” She paused. “Almost.”
Onstage, Darla sank her fangs into the boy’s neck. The crowd screamed. The vampires hissed in approval.
Cordelia’s voice dropped. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Will’s fingers twitched toward his phone, still in his pocket.
Oz nodded. “If we can stall Harmony, I might be able to break the zip tie.”
Cordelia smirked. “Stall her? Please. I’ve been doing that since sophomore year.”
She turned to Harmony, voice bright. “So, Harm… tell me more about your undead glow up. Did you get a starter cape of just the fangs?”
Harmony lit up. “Oh my god, yes! So first, Darla said I had ‘potential’, which is, like, the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me…”
As Harmony launched into her villain origin story—complete with fashion critiques and blood type preferences—Will’s fingers slipped around his phone.
He tapped out a message with shaking hands.
To: Buddy
“Darla’s here. She’s taken The Bronze. Everyone’s trapped.”
He hit send.
Now all they could do was wait.
And hope the Slayer got there before they became the next names on Darla’s guest list.
The alley reeked of old beer and bad decisions. Buddy jogged ahead, stake in hand, coat flaring behind him like a dramatic cape he absolutely didn’t buy for the drama. Giles followed close, crossbow loaded, muttering something about tactical entry points. Angel trailed behind them like a brooding fog bank with cheekbones.
They reached the back entrance of The Bronze—slightly ajar, flickering light leaking through the crack.
Buddy pressed to the wall, peeking in. “Okay. We go in quiet, get the hostages, dust the bloodsuckers and try not to die. You know, just your average Thursday.”
Giles nodded, adjusting his glasses. “We’ll need to be swift. There’s no telling how many are inside.”
Buddy glanced over his shoulder at Angel. “Which is why I’m wondering why we brought the undead elephant in the room.”
Angel didn’t flinch. “I’m here to help.”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I know. You’re always here to help. Like a vampire-themed pop-up ad that won’t go away.”
Giles sighed. “Buddy…”
Buddy held up a hand. “No, no, let’s just say it. He’s got history with Darla. He let her go once. And now we’re supposed to believe he’s suddenly Team Stake ‘Em All?”
Angel’s voice was low. “I’m not the same as I was with her.”
Giles looked at him, firm. “We’re outnumbered. We need him.”
Buddy groaned. “Fine. But if he so much as broods in the wrong direction. I’m staking him. And I’m not even going to pretend to feel conflicted about it.”
Angel gave a single nod. “Understood.”
Buddy turned back to the door, jaw tight, heart hammering. He could feel Angel’s eyes on him—like a memory he couldn’t shake, like a song that hurt too much to hear but never really stopped playing.
He exhaled. “Let’s go save the day. And maybe not die. That’d be cute.”
Giles raised his crossbow. “On my mark.”
They slipped through the door, shadows swallowing them whole.
Inside, The Bronze was waiting.
And Buddy was done playing nice.
Darla leaned over her latest victim, lips-stained crimson, eyes gleaming with hunger. The crowd of vampires watched in reverent silence, the room thick with fear and candle smoke. Her fangs hovered just above the trembling girl’s neck.
Then—
CRASH.
The back doors exploded inward, hinges shrieking as they slammed against the walls. A stake flew like a bullet through the air and thudded into a vampire’s chest. Dust bloomed in the spotlight.
Buddy strode in, framed by smoke and chaos, eyes blazing, stake spinning in his hand like a conductor’s baton. “Sorry to interrupt your little neck-nibbling soiree,” he called out. “But I wasn’t on the guest list, and I take that very personally.”
Giles followed, crossbow raised, scanning the room with sharp precision. Angel slipped in behind them, silent and watchful, his eyes already locked on Darla.
Darla straightened slowly, blood on her lips, fury in her eyes. “You.”
Buddy grinned. “Me. The Slayer. The myth. The fashion-forward nightmare.”
She snarled. “You always ruin everything.”
Buddy shrugged. “It’s a gift. Like my killer thighs or perfect hair. I don’t ask for it—it just happens.”
A vampire lunged from the shadows. Buddy ducked low, swept the vamp’s legs out from under it, and staked it mid-fall without even looking. Dust exploded around him like a firework.
Another came at him from the left—Buddy caught its wrist, twisted, flipped it over his shoulder, and drove his stake home with a flourish. “Two for flinching.”
A third tried to grab him from behind. Buddy spun, kicked off a table, flipped over the vamp’s head, and landed behind it. “You guys really need to diversify your tactics.” He staked it clean through the back. “Predictable and dusty? Tragic.”
Across the room, Cordelia had Harmony in a headlock with a broken chair leg pressed to her chest. “You’re lucky I’m not wearing heels,” she hissed. “Or this would be so much more painful.”
Will and Oz were already guiding people toward the exit, Will shielding a girl with a bloody nose while Oz helped a limping bartender.
Harmony squirmed, saw Darla locked in combat, and Buddy cutting through vampires like a blender on high. Her eyes widened. “Okay, nope. Not dying for this aesthetic.”
She shoved Cordelia hard, scrambled to her feet, and bolted for the exit in a blur of glitter and panic.
Back on the main floor, Darla lunged at Buddy, fangs bared, nails like knives. He met her head-on, their fight a blur of strikes and snarls. She was fast—feral—but Buddy was faster. He ducked, dodged, countered, his stake flashing like lightning.
She slammed him into a pillar. He kicked her off, rolled, and came up swinging. “You know,” he panted, “for someone who’s centuries old, you really haven’t evolved past ‘bite and brag.”
Darla hissed, eyes glowing. “You’re just a child playing hero.”
Buddy smirked. “And you’re just a bitter ex with a blood addiction.”
She lunged again—but this time, Buddy was ready. He twisted, drove her back toward the stage, stake raised—
And then—
Angel struck.
From behind, silent and swift, his stake plunged into Darla’s back.
She gasped—sharp, broken—eyes wide with betrayal.
She turned, saw him.
Her voice cracked. “Angel…”
He didn’t speak.
She reached for him, fingers trembling—
And turned to dust.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Buddy lowered his stake, chest heaving, eyes locked on Angel.
Angel looked down at the empty space where Darla had stood.
Giles stepped forward, helping the last of the hostages out.
Cordelia limped over, chair leg still in hand. “Well. That was dramatic. Ten out of ten for emotional devastation.”
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Three: Bring Me The Night
The streets of Sunnydale were quiet, wrapped in that late-night hush where even the shadows seemed to lean in and listen. Buddy walked beside Angel, their steps slow, unhurried, like neither of them wanted the night to end.
“So,” Buddy said, hands deep in his jacket pockets, “your ex is a centuries-old vampire who sired you and has a flair for dramatic entrances. I’m just saying, next time you want to talk about your baggage, maybe lead with that.”
Angel gave a soft, rueful smile. “I didn’t think I’d get this close to you,”
Buddy blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, well… that’s not fair. You can’t just drop a line like that and expect me not to melt a little.”
Angel stopped walking. “I’m serious.”
Buddy turned to face him, trying to keep his voice light. “Yeah, well, I’m seriously trying not to fall for a guy who broods like it’s a competitive sport and has a murder resume longer than my English lit syllabus.”
Angel steppe closer, his voice low. “You’re not afraid of me?”
Buddy’s smile was crooked. “I’m terrified. But also, kind of into it. Which probably says something deeply concerning about my taste in men.”
Angel’s hand brushed his. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
Buddy’s breath hitched. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is.”
They stood there, the porch light of Buddy’s house glowing faintly in the distance, casting a soft halo over the sidewalk. The air between them buzzed—charged, fragile, full of things neither of them were ready to say out loud.
Angel leaned in, slow and deliberate, and Buddy didn’t move.
The kiss was soft—tentative at first, then deeper, like they were both trying to memorise the shape of something they weren’t sure they were allowed to want.
And then—
The porch light snapped on.
Buddy jumped back like he’d been caught sneaking out of heaven.
Joyce stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between tired and unimpressed. “You must be Angel.”
Angel straightened, suddenly very aware of his hands and their proximity to her son.
“Mrs. Summers,” he said, voice calm.
Buddy cleared his throat. “We were just… walking. Talking. Not about to kiss. Definitely not about to kiss.”
Joyce raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. It’s late. Come inside, Buddy.
Buddy glanced at Angel, then back at his mum. “Right. Yep. Coming. Like a responsible un-grounded teenager.”
Buddy lingered a second longer, looking up at Angel.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, grinning.
Angel smiled. “If you’ll have me.”
Buddy rolled his eyes fondly. With one last look, he slipped inside, the door closing softly behind him.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Buddy leaned against it with a dreamy sigh, lips still tingling, heart doing a smug little cha-cha in his chest.
Then he saw his mother.
Joyce didn’t blink. “Giles came by.”
Buddy winced. “Oh. Great. Did he bring tea and judgment?”
“He told me about Angel,” she said, voice tight. “Who he was. What he did.”
Buddy straightened. “Okay, yes, he has a past. A murder filled, broody, cursed kind of past. But he’s not that person anymore. He’s like… vampire 2.0. Now with soul and guilt.”
Joyce’s expression didn’t budge. “He’s not a person at all, Buddy. He’s a vampire. And you’re the Slayer. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet!”
Buddy crossed his arms. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been spiralling about it since Giles gave me the Angelus Greatest Hits? But he’s different now. He’s trying.”
Joyce’s expression softened, but only slightly. “This destiny which I am forced to slowly come to terms with, contradicts everything that he is. Buddy, he is a cold-blooded killer, a member of the undead, last time I checked, you stake them not date them.”
Before Buddy could respond, Joyce’s phone buzzed on the hallway table. She picked it up, frowning.
“That’s the third message from Cordelia’s parents tonight,” she said. “They haven’t heard from her since The Bronze closed.”
Buddy blinked. “Cordy is always late. She probably stopped for fries or a guy. Or both.”
Joyce hesitated. “Will’s mum messaged too. He’s not home either. They must be together.”
Buddy’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
Joyce looked up. “His mum says he’s never late, but if you say there’s nothing to worry about…”
Buddy’s mind race. Cordelia being late was one thing. But Will, Will set alarms to remind himself to set alarms. Will was punctual like it was a religion.
And then it him.
The sudden return of an un-dead ex, Darla.
Buddy’s voice was barely a whisper. “She took them.”
Joyce’s eyes widened. “What?”
Buddy was already moving, grabbing his jacket, heart pounding. “Darla. She’s sending me a message. And I was too busy making out with her ex to see it.”
He threw open the door, the night no longer soft or sweet.
It was hunting season.
And this time, the prey was personal.
Angel’s apartment was quiet, the king of quiet that felt deliberate—like the shadows were listening. The underground space was dimly lit, all stone and solitude, with a single lamp casting long, moody shadows across the walls.
The door slammed open.
Buddy burst in, wild-eyed and breathless, jacket flapping behind him like a cape of righteous fury.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Angel looked up from the desk, startled. “Buddy—”
“Don’t ‘Buddy’ me,” he snapped. “Darla. Where is she?”
Angel stood slowly. “I don’t know.”
Buddy stalked toward him. “She’s got my friends.”
“I told you she was dangerous,” Angel said, voice low. “I told you she’d come for me. I didn’t think she’d go through them.”
Buddy’s voice cracked. “Well, she did. Cordy and Will are missing. And I’m guessing it wasn’t because they got lost on the way to a smoothie bar.”
Angel stepped closer. “I’m on your side.”
Buddy scoffed. “You sure? Because right now, you’re the only vampire I can find, and I’m feeling very stake happy.”
Angel didn’t flinch. “You’re scared. I get it. But if you want to find them, you need me.”
Buddy hesitated, fists clenched, breath ragged.
Then—
His phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, thumb trembling.
A photo.
Will and Cordelia. Tied to chairs. Gagged. Eyes wide with terror. Behind them, a familiar wall—graffiti, string lights, a cracked mirror.
Buddy’s stomach dropped.
“The Bronze,” he whispered.
Angel looked over his shoulder. “She’s sending a message.”
Buddy’s voice was ice. “Then let’s send one back.”
He turned toward the door, Angel already moving to follow.
The hunt begun.
And this time, Buddy wasn’t just the slayer.
He was pissed.
The Bronze was silent now, stripped of music and laughter, its stage bathed in shadows. The string lights flickered overhead like dying stars, casting a sickly glow over the two figures tied to chairs at the centre of the dance floor.
Cordelia’s mascara was smudged, her wrists raw from the ropes. Will’s hoodie was torn. Both were gagged, eyes wide, breathing fast.
Darla circled them slowly, heels clicking against the floor like a countdown.
She wore red again—of course she did—her dress clinging to her like blood and silk. Her smile was serene, almost maternal, as she crouched beside Will and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
“You’re both so sweet,” she cooed. “So loyal. So… breakable.”
Will flinched. Cordelia glared.
Darla stood, arms outstretched like she was addressing a theatre full of ghosts.
“You know, Angelus used to love this place,” she said. “Not The Bronze, obviously. But places like it. Crowded. Loud. Full of warm bodies and bad decisions. He’d walk in, smile that wicked smile, and by morning, everyone was dead or ruined. It was beautiful.”
She turned to them, eyes gleaming.
“And then he got a soul. A soul. Like some tragic little boy who wanted to be good. And now he moons over a boy slayer, because that’s a thing now, like he’s in some trashy soap opera.”
She leaned in close to Cordelia, voice dropping to a whisper.
“But I know him. I made him. And I know what it takes to bring him back.”
She straightened, pacing again.
“You kill the slayer,” she said, voice rising. “You rip out the heart of his redemption. You show him that love is weakness. That pain is power. And then—then he remembers who he is.”
She stopped in front of Will, tilting his chin up.
“And Angelus will come home.”
Cordelia made a muffled sound—furious, defiant.
Darla smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll get front-row seats.”
She turned her back, humming softly, lost in her fantasy.
Behind her, Cordelia shifted her wrists, subtly twisting them against the frayed edge of the rope. Willow followed suit, fingers working at the knot behind his chair, slow and steady.
They didn’t look at each other.
They didn’t need to.
They knew.
Darla kept talking, lost in her monologue, painting a future soaked in blood and nostalgia.
But behind her, the ropes were loosening.
And the countdown had already begun.
The Bronze loomed ahead, dark and silent, its windows blacked out like eyes that had seen too much. Buddy sprinted across the parking lot, stake in hand, Angel close behind, coat billowing like a brooding thundercloud.
Inside, Cordelia’s fingers finally slipped the last knot free.
She yanked her gag down. “Will—now!”
Will kicked his chair backward with a crash, scrambling to his feet as Cordelia shoved hers over and rolled. They bolted for the exit just as the front doors burst open.
“Cordy!” Buddy shouted, catching her as she stumbled into the light.
“About time!” she gasped. “She’s in there—crazy, monologuing, full Dracula-core—”
Will grabbed Buddy’s sleeve. “She wants to kill you. She thinks it’ll bring Angelus back.”
Buddy blinked. “Wow. That’s… romantic. In a ‘murder your boyfriend to win him back’ kind of way.”
Angel stepped past them, eyes already scanning the shadows. “Get them out. I’ll—”
“Nope,” Buddy said, jaw tight. “We do this together. Team Broody and the Slayer. Let’s go.”
He shoved Cordelia and Will toward the door. “Go. now. And if either of you dies after I just rescued you, I’m gonna be so mad. Like, ghost-haunting levels of mad.”
Cordelia opened her mouth to argue, then saw the look in his eyes and nodded. “Fine. But if you die, I’m haunting you first.”
Will grabbed her hand, and they disappeared into the night.
Buddy turned back just as Darla stepped onto the stage, slow clapping like she’d rehearsed it.
“Well done,” she purred. “You found them. Very noble.”
Buddy raised his stake. “You know, for someone who’s centuries old, you really commit to the whole ‘evil drama teacher’ aesthetic.”
Darla smiled. “Subtlety is for people with time. I’m here for blood.”
She lunged.
Buddy met her mid-air, stake flashing. Angel was there in an instant, intercepting her claws with a brutal punch. The three of them crashed into the tables, wood splintering, lights swinging wildly overhead.
Darla fought like a dancer—graceful, vicious, precise. Buddy ducked a swipe, rolled, came up swinging. Angel blocked him from behind, but she twisted free, laughing.
“You still protect him,” she hissed at Angel. “Even now.”
Angel didn’t answer. He just hit harder.
Buddy caught her across the jaw with a roundhouse kick. “You know, for someone obsessed with Angelus, you sure spend a lot of time getting your ass kicked by your replacement.”
Darla snarled, eyes flashing gold. “You’re not his anything.”
She threw Buddy across the room. He hit the wall hard, groaning.
Angel moved to strike—but hesitated.
Darla looked at him, blood on her lip, eyes softening. “You remember, don’t you? What we were. What we could be again.”
Angel’s first hovered in the air.
“Angel,” Buddy growled, staggering to his feet. “Don’t go full tragic ex. It’s not a good look.”
Darla smiled.
And vanished into the shadows.
Angel didn’t follow.
Buddy stared at the empty space where she’d been, chest heaving. “You let her go.”
Angel turned, jaw clenched. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”
Buddy’s voice cracked. “She hurt my friends. She would’ve killed them. And you let her walk away like she’s still yours.”
Angel looked away.
Buddy shook his head, fury and heartbreak tangled in his chest. “Next time she comes for someone I love, I won’t hesitate. You better decide whose side you’re on, Angel. Because I’m done playing vampire roulette.”
He turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him.
Angel stood alone in the wreckage, the silence pressing in like guilt.
FLASHBACK
The air was thick with incense and rot. Shadows danced along the stone walls, flickering over bones, broken charms, and the trembling figure chained to the altar.
A young Romani woman—barefoot, bloodied, her eyes defiant—struggled against the iron cuffs biting into her wrists. Her breath came in ragged bursts, but she didn’t scream. Not yet.
Angelus leaned against a pillar, shirt open, blood on his collar like a lover’s kiss. He watched her with idle amusement, twirling a siler ring between his fingers.
“She’s pretty,” he said, voice like velvet soaked in venom. “I like the fire. Makes the fear taste better.
Darla stepped out of the shadows, her crimson grown trailing behind her like spilled wine. She moved with the grace of a queen and the hunger of a wolf.
“They say she speaks to the dead,” Darla said, circling the girl. “I thought it would be poetic.”
Angelus raised an eyebrow. “Poetic’s not usually your thing.”
Darla smiled. “Tonight, I’m feeling sentimental.”
She stopped beside him, fingers brushing his chest. “Do you remember the last time we danced like this? The monastery in Prague? The priest who begged you to spare his choirboy?”
Angelus chuckled. “He hit a high note I’ll never forget.”
Darla leaned in, her lips grazing his ear. “Then make this one sing for me.”
Angelus turned to the girl, his eyes gleaming gold. “You heard the lady.”
The girl spat at his feet.
Angelus grinned. “Oh, I do love a challenge.”
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, fangs descending.
Darla watched, eyes wide with something between lust and reverence. “Yes,” she whispered. “Show me. Show me what you are.”
Angelus bared his teeth, the candlelight catching the curve of his smile.
And as he descended on the girl, Darla leaned against the altar, eyes alight, drinking in the violence like wine.
This was love, in their language.
Blood. Power. Devotion.
Sunnydale High’s courtyard buzzed with the usual morning chaos—students milling around, half-awake and caffeine-deprived, lockers slamming, someone already crying over an upcoming exam.
Buddy walked between Cordelia and Will, sunglasses on, hoodie up, and mood set to “do not test me unless you want a stake to the metaphorical heart.”
“I’m just saying,” Cordelia said, sipping her iced coffee like it was holy water, “next time Darla shows up, I’m bringing garlic press-on nails and a taser powerful enough to put down an army of vampires. Maybe a priest on call.”
Will nodded. “I second that. Also, maybe we stop hanging out in alleys. Or anywhere with dramatic lighting and a murder-y vibe.”
Buddy sighed. “Okay, yes, I messed up. I let my Slayer instincts get steamrolled by cheekbones and tragic backstory. I’m sorry. You both now had lifetime trauma punch cards. First one’s free.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “You think this is about trauma? I had rope burns, Buddy. and not the fun kind.”
Will gave Buddy a gentle nudge. “We know you didn’t mean for it to happen. But yeah… maybe next time, less kissing, more stabbing.”
Buddy groaned. “If Angel gets in the way of me staking Darla, I promise I’ll stake him too. And then stake myself for ever thinking ‘tall, dark, and broody’ was a green flag.”
Cordelia smirked. “Growth looks good on you. Still needs accessories, but we’ll get there.”
Will slowed as they passed the science wing, distracted by a familiar figure leaning against the wall, flipping through a battered notebook.
Oz.
He looked up, met Will’s eyes, and gave a small, crooked smile.
“Hey,” Oz said.
Will blinked. “Oh. Hi. Um. Hi again.”
Buddy and Cordelia exchange a glance and immediately slowed down, eavesdropping with the subtlety of a marching band in tap shoes.
Will’s ears turned pink.
Oz stepped closer. “I was wondering… if you wanted to hang out sometime. Maybe something chill. Coffee. Music.”
Will blinked. “Are you asking me out?”
Oz shrugged. “I am. Unless you’re allergic to coffee. Or me.”
Will grinned. “Nope. I’m good with both.”
Oz handed him a slip of paper with a time and place. “Cool. See you then.”
He walked off, leaving Will frozen in place, staring at the note like it was a prophecy.
Buddy leaned in. “Well, he’s out basking in the sun so at least we know he’s not a brooding vampire with a psychotic ex…”
Will nodded slowly. “This is true.”
Cordelia clapped once. “Finally. Something good. Now let’s go before Darla shows up in a sun proof trench coat and ruins everything again.
They walked on, the sun climbing higher, the shadows retreating—for now.
The sewers beneath Sunnydale twisted like veins beneath the city, damp and echoing with the slow drip of ancient water. Darla walked with purpose, heels clicking against the wet stone, her red coat trailing behind her like a streak of blood.
Behind her, Harmony Kendall clomped along in platform boots, clutching a glittery handbag and trying not to step in anything gross.
“Ugh, why do we always have to walk through the sewers?” Harmony whined. “Can’t we Uber Evil or something?”
Darla didn’t slow. “Because the sewers are safe. Hidden. And because I don’t trust you not to get distracted by a Forever 21 window display.”
Harmony pouted. “That was one time. And they were having a sale.”
Darla stopped suddenly, turning to face her. “Do you know what I’m doing, Harmony? What I’m building?”
Harmony blinked. “Um… a murder-y revenge plan? With, like, a slayer twist?”
Darla smiled. “I’m resurrecting an empire.”
She turned and kept walking, voice echoing off the stone.
“Angelus was the beginning. But he’s… compromised. Soft. Tethered to that boy like a dog on a leash.”
Harmony wrinkled her nose. “You mean the slayer? He’s cute.”
Darla ignored her. “But there’s someone else. Someone older. Stronger. The one who made me.”
Harmony gasped. “Wait—you have another vampire ex? How many are we talking here? Is this, like, a coven or a calendar?”
Darla’s eyes gleamed. “The Master.”
Harmony’s jaw dropped. “The Master? The wrinkly bat-daddy in the cave? I thought he was, like, permanently grounded.”
“He’s imprisoned,” Darla said. “But not dead. Not yet. And if I can find the right spell, the right blood, the right moment…”
She trailed off, smiling to herself.
Harmony tilted her head. “So… you’re gonna break up the slayer and Angel, kill the slayer, and then go full reunion tour with your undead exes?”
Darla turned, eyes glowing gold. “Exactly.”
Harmony clapped. “Ooh, I love a comeback arc.”
Darla’s smile sharpened. “Then keep up, Harmony. We have a ressurection to plan.”
They vanished into the dark, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the sewers—and somewhere far below, something ancient stirred.
The coffee shop was tucked between a bookstore and a vintage record store, all mismatched furniture and fairy lights strung across the ceiling like constellations. Will sat at a corner table, nervously stirring his hot chocolate even though he hadn’t added anything to it.
Oz arrived exactly on time, guitar case slung over one shoulder, wearing a faded band tee and that same crooked half-smile that had short-circuited Will’s brain the first time.
“Hey,” Oz said, sliding into the seat across from him.
Will blinked. “Hi. Um. You came.”
Oz nodded. “I did. You look… caffeinated.”
Will glanced at his untouched drink. “I’m trying to look casual. I think I overshot and landed in ‘twitchy raccoon.”
Oz chuckled. “It’s working for you.”
They talked—about music, weird teachers, and the Bronze’s acoustics. Oz listened, amused and intrigued, occasionally tossing in dry one-liners that made Will laugh harder than he meant to.
At one point, Will gestured too dramatically and knocked over his drink.
“Oh god,” he groaned, grabbing napkins. “I’m a disaster. You’re on a date with disaster.”
Oz helped mop it up, unfazed. “Good thing I like disasters.”
Will froze. “You do?”
Oz leaned back, thoughtful. “Well, we’re on a date. And I’m planning to ask you out again. So yeah.”
Will’s heart did a backflip.
They stepped outside after closing, the night cool and quiet. Oz walked Will to the edge of the parking lot, hands in his pockets, eyes soft.
“I had a good time,” he said.
Will nodded. “Me too. Like, suspiciously good. Like the universe is setting me up for heartbreak.”
Oz smiled. “Or maybe it’s just setting you up.”
Will laughed, then hesitated. “Can I—would it be weird if I kissed you?”
Oz stepped closer. “Only if you don’t.”
Will leaned in, tentative, heart pounding.
The kiss was gentle, warm, and just a little shy—like both were trying to memorise the moment without rushing it.
When they pulled apart, Will was grinning like an idiot.
Oz touched his hand. “See you soon?”
Will nodded. “Definitely. Unless I spontaneously combust from joy first.”
Oz walked off into the night, and Will stood there for a long time, smiling at nothing.
The bell above the door jingled as Will stepped into The Magic Box, still smiling like someone who’d just won the emotional lottery. The shop was warm and cluttered, all shelves of crystals, grimoires, and vaguely cursed tchotchkes. A “Do Not Touch the Skull” sign hung crookedly over the register.
Buddy was at the counter, sharpening a stake with theatrical flair, a crossbow slung over one shoulder like a fashion statement. Cordelia sat on a stool nearby, flipping through a glossy magazine and sipping something aggressively herbal.
Will dropped into the chair beside her, practically glowing.
Cordelia looked up. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr Fist Kiss. You’re late. I was about to send a search party. Or a glitter bomb.”
Buddy perked up. “Wait—did it happen? Did you kiss the guitarist?”
Will nodded, cheeks pink. “I did. And it was… nice. Like, butterflies and fireworks and maybe a little bit of gay hyperventilating.”
Cordelia grinned. “Ugh, finally. I was starting to think you’d combust from unresolved tension.”
Buddy leaned on the counter. “So, was it like, a soft indie movie kiss, or more ‘teen drama season finale with swelling music’?”
Will laughed. “Definitely indie.”
Cordelia clutched her chest. “Okay, that’s it. I’m emotionally invested now. If he has an ex named Darla, I’m breaking his guitar.”
Buddy tossed the finished stake into his bag. “Well, I’m thrilled for you. Truly. But I’ve got a date with the cemetery.”
Cordelia stood, grabbing her keys. “And I’m driving Will home before he floats into traffic. You good to patrol solo?”
Buddy nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got stakes, sass, and a lot of unresolved rage. I’ll be fine.”
Will gave him a quick hug. “Be careful. And if you see Angel, maybe don’t kiss him this time.”
Buddy grinned. “No promises.”
Cordelia looped her arm through Will’s. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s get you home before your smile breaks your face.”
They headed out into the night, the bell jingling behind them.
Buddy watched them go, then turned back to the shop, the smile fading from his face as he picked up his crossbow.
Time to hunt.
The air was damp and fetid, thick with mildew and something older—something that smelled like rot and reverence. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, echoing like a heartbeat in the dark.
Darla moved through the tunnel with purpose, the flashlight on her phone casting a narrow cone of light that jittered with every step. The beam caught glimpses of rusted chains, claw marks in the stone, and bones—some old, some disturbingly flesh.
Behind her Harmony clomped along in rhinestone-studded boots.
“Ugh, this place is, like, so gross,” she whined. “It smells like wet dog and sadness. Are sure this isn’t just a bad escape room?”
Darla didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed ahead, on the faint shimmer in the air—like heat rising off pavement, but colder. Hungrier.
They stepped into a wide chamber; the walls slick with moss and old blood. The shimmer resolved into a shape-tall, skeletal, cloaked in shadow.
The Master.
He stood within an invisible forcefield, unmoving, yet utterly aware. His skin was pale and cracked like ancient porcelain, his eyes twin embers in a skull-like face. When he spoke, his voice was a rasp that seemed to come from the stone itself.
“Darla.”
She stepped forward, reverent. “Master.”
Harmony squinted. “Wait, that’s him? He looks like a Halloween decoration that got left in the basement too long.”
The Master didn’t move. “You bring noise.”
Darla didn’t flinch. “She’s new... harmless. Like a decorative lamp.”
Harmony beamed. “Aww, thanks!”
The Master’s gaze pierced through her. “You seek resurrection.”
Darla nodded. “The world has forgotten you. But I haven’t. Angelus is lost—softened by guilt and teenage lips. But you… you are the beginning.”
The Master’s voice deepened, echoing through the chamber. “I am the end.”
Harmony raised a hang. “Okay, but like… how do we un-end you? Is there, like, a spell? Or a blood moon? Or maybe a dramatic group chant?”
Darla turned to her, eyes flashing. “Shut up, Harmony.”
The master stepped closer to the edge of his prison. The forcefield cracked, casting flickering shadows across his face.
“This cage is old. Woven from blood and betrayal. But it weakens. The seams fray.”
Darla leaned in. “Tell me how to break it.”
“The Harvest,” he whispered. “A night of chaos. The blood of the living must flow. Then… I rise.”
Darla smiled, slow and sharp. “Then we’ll make it happen.”
The Master’s eyes burned brighter. “Bring me the night.”
The forcefield pulsed once, then dimmed.
Darla turned, her phone light catching the glint of her fangs.
Harmony blinked. “So… we’re doing a Harvest? Should I bring snacks? Or, like a playlist?”
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Previously on Buddy the Vampire Slayer:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Buddy the Vampire Slayer · 15+
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, an
Chapter Two: Whispers in Red
The sky was just beginning to pale, the earliest hint of dawn brushing the rooftops in soft grey. Buddy Summers trudged up the path to 1630 Revello Drive, boots scuffed, jacket streaked with ash, and exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.
He froze when he saw them.
Joyce and Giles sat on the front steps, hunched in silence, their faces drawn tight with worry. Joyce’s arms were wrapped around herself, her eyes fixed on the street like she’d been staring into the dark for hours. Giles sat beside her, unusually still, his glasses off, fingers steepled in thought.
They both looked up as Buddy approached.
Joyce stood first, her voice sharp with relief and fury. “This is late even by your standards! We thought you were—”
Giles didn’t wait. He rose and crossed the porch in three strides, pulling Buddy into a tight, sudden hug. Buddy stiffened, surprised, then let himself lean into it for a moment.
Joyce joined them, arms wrapping around her son, but her grip was tense, her breath shaky. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet, her jaw clenched.
Buddy offered a weak smile. “Sorry, guys. Same old story—slayer versus vampire. This one just took longer to end.”
Joyce’s voice cracked. “You could have called. Or texted. Or something.”
Buddy shrugged. “His place had no reception.”
Giles frowned. “His place?”
Buddy blinked, then recovered. “Graveyard. Graveyards and reception don’t really mix.”
Joyce snapped. “This is not a time for your jokes, Buddy! You should’ve checked in!”
Buddy’s voice rose, defensive. “I couldn’t exactly tell the vamp to hold that thought while I dropped my mum a text.”
Joyce’s face crumpled. “I thought you were dead, God damn it! Do you have any idea what it’s like to wait—night after night—for you to come home, fearing the worst? To sit her and try to make peace with the idea that one day you won’t walk through that door?”
Her voice broke. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I thought that had happened.”
Buddy’s bravado faltered. He stepped closer, voice low and sincere. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Joyce wiped her eyes, her tone hardening. “You’re grounded.”
Giles opened his mouth, but Joyce turned on him. “And don’t even try talking me out of it.”
She turned back to Buddy. “Get inside. Get cleaned up. Eat something before school. And after school, you come straight home. One night off saving the world won’t kill you.”
Buddy hesitated. “Not, it’ll just kill someone else when I’m not around to save them.”
Joyce’s voice was steel. “My job is to keep you safe. Not them. Now get in the bloody house.”
She turned to Giles, her voice cold. “You can get the hell off my property.”
Giles looked at Buffy, then at Joyce, then quietly stepped off the porch and into the fading dark.
Buddy lingered a moment longer, watching his mother disappear into the house, her shoulders stiff with fear disguised as anger.
Then he followed her inside, the door closing behind him with a quiet finality.
The cafeteria was its usual midday circus—trays clattering, gossip ricocheting off linoleum walls, and the scent of something vaguely meat-adjacent wafting through the air like a dare. Buddy slumped into his usual seat at the back table, dropping his tray with a dramatic sigh that could’ve won an Oscar.
Cordelia was already there, dissecting her salad like it had personally insulted her. “You look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower and your will to live.”
Buddy groaned, faceplanting into his arms. “I’m grounded. Like, medievally. Like, ‘no patrol, no Bronze, no breathing without supervision’ grounded.”
Cordelia gasped. “What did you do? Set fire to the living room? Summon a demon in the kitchen? Wear socks with sandals?”
“I stayed out all night slaying a vampire and accidentally gave my mum and Giles matching aneurysms,” Buddy mumbled into the table. “So basically, I’m a monster.”
Will arrived just in time to hear that, balancing a tray stacked with pudding cups and a book titled Demonic Syntax and You. “You’re not a monster. You’re just… aggressively committed to your destiny.”
Buddy peeked up. “Tell that to my mother. She went full apocalypse mum. Giles hugged me. It was a whole thing.”
Cordelia arched a brow. “Wait. Giles hugged you? Like, voluntarily? That’s practically a marriage proposal in British.”
Buddy sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I feel awful. They thought I was dead. I was just… off having a moonlit stroll with a vampire.”
Will blinked. “Angel?”
Buddy nodded. “He’s got a soul. He remembers everything he’s done and it’s eating him alive. It’s tragic. It’s broody. It’s… weirdly hot.”
Cordelia fanned herself with a napkin. “Okay, I’m officially into it. Forbidden romance, tortured past, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass? That’s your brand.”
Buddy smirked. “I’m a sucker for emotionally unavailable undead.”
Will opened his mouth to respond—then froze.
A boy with tousled red hair and a guitar case slung over one should had just walked past their table. He wore a faded band tee, scuffed boots, and the kind of quiet confidence that made time slow down. He glanced at Will, offered a crooked half-smile, and kept walking.
Will stared after him, stunned.
Buddy followed his gaze. “Will?”
Will blinked. “I think I just met my soulmate.”
Cordelia didn’t look up. “Was he cute?”
“Like, ‘write poetry about him in the margins of my notebook’ cute.”
Buddy grinned. “Go talk to him.”
Will panicked. “What? No. I can’t just—what would I even say?”
As if summoned by fate (or excellent comedic timing), the redhead doubled back, pausing at their table.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and mellow. “You dropped this.”
He held out a pen Will hadn’t realised he’d dropped.
Will took it, flustered. “Oh. Thanks. I—uh—thanks.”
The boy smiled again. “I’m Oz.”
Will blinked. “I’m Will. Not short for anything. Just… Will.”
Oz nodded. “Cool. See you around, Will.”
He walked off, and Will stared after him like he’d just witnessed a miracle.
Cordelia finally looked up. “Okay, that was disgustingly adorable. I’m gonna need a moment.”
Buddy leaned back, grinning. “So… forbidden vampire romance, emotional growth, and now a meet-cute with a boy who looks like he writes sad songs in his sleep. High school’s really stepping up its game.”
Will clutched his pen like it was scared. “I think I’m in love.”
Cordelia raised her water bottle. “To grounding, guilt, and guys with mysterious auras.”
They clinched drinks and pudding cups, laughter echoing through the chaos of the cafeteria.
Outside, the sun shone bright over Sunnydale.
Inside, something new was beginning.
The rhythmic thud of fists against a punching bag echoed through the Sunnydale High library’s back room. Dust motes floated in the slanted morning light, and the air smelled like old books, sweat and teenage frustration.
Buddy pivoted, jabbed, spun, and kicked—his movements sharp, precise, and just a little more aggressive than usual.
Giles stood nearby, arms crossed, watching his usual furrowed brow. “You’re leading with your shoulder again.”
Buddy huffed. “I’m leading with righteous indignation and a side of sleep deprivation. It’s a new style. Very underground.”
Giles didn’t smile. “You’re lucky your mother didn’t call the police. Not that they would have been helpful whatsoever.”
Buddy dropped his arms, stepping back from the bag. “She grounded me. I’m basically under house arrest.”
“She was terrified,” Giles said. “We both were. You vanished without a word.”
“I was fighting for my life,” Buddy muttered, grabbing a towel. “Again.”
“You could’ve died,” Giles said quietly. “And we wouldn’t have known until it was too late.”
Buddy’s bravado faltered. “I didn’t mean to scare her. Or you.”
There was a pause. Then Giles softened. “I know. But you must understand, Buddy—being the Slayer doesn’t mean being reckless. You have people who care about you. Who need to know you’ll come back.”
Buddy nodded, guilt flickering behind his eyes. “I wasn’t alone.”
Giles tilted his head. “Oh?”
Buddy hesitated, then said, “The clapping guy from the other night, was there. His name’s Angel.”
Giles froze.
“Angel?” he repeated, voice suddenly sharp.
Buddy blinked. “Yeah. Tall, dark, broody. Wears a lot of black. Smiles like it’s a crime. You know, my exact type.”
Giles stepped forward, his expression shifting from curious to grave. “Buddy… Angel is a vampire. Several centuries old…”
“I know,” Buddy said. “He told me. He’s got a soul. Cursed by Romani magic. He’s all tortured and brooding and emotionally constipated. I think I’m in love.”
Giles’ face darkened. “Before this curse, he was Angelus.”
Buddy blinked. “Okay…”
Giles’ voice dropped. “Angelus was one of the most sadistic vampires in recorded history. He didn’t just kill—he destroyed. He stalked his victims, broke their minds before their bodies. He was a monster.”
Buddy stared at him, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. “Wait. Wait-wait-wait. Are you telling me my mysterious, slow-dancing, cheekbone-having crush used to be the Dracula equivalent of a slasher film?”
Giles didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
Buddy sat down hard on the edge of the training mat. “Cool. Cool-cool-cool, so, I made out with a guy who used to be the vampire version of Hannibal Lecter. That’s… that’s great. That’s exactly mu luck.”
Giles crouched beside him. “He has a soul now. But if he ever loses it—if the curse breaks—Angelus will return. And you’ll have to stop him.”
Buddy looked up, eyes wide. “You mean stake him.”
Giles nodded.
Buddy let out a breathless laugh. “God, I really know how to pick them.”
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then looked at Giles. “So, what do I do? Stake him now? Ghost him? Pretend I didn’t feel something like I have never felt with anybody else before?
Giles’ voice was gentle. “You be careful. You stay vigilant. And you remember who you are.”
“And if Angelus ever shows up,” he muttered, “I’ll introduce him to my quippy side. And then my pointy one.”
The sun was dipping low behind the rooftops of Sunnydale, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. Buddy Summers walked with one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding his phone to his ear, earbuds in, boots scuffing the sidewalk with every step.
“I mean, Angelus?” he said, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and dramatic horror. “That’s not just a red flag, Cordy. That’s a red banner. With fangs. And a body count.”
Cordelia’s voice crackled through the line, unimpressed. “Okay, yes, he has a dark past. Who doesn’t? I once dated a guy who thought ska was making a comeback. People change.”
“Cordelia,” Buddy hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “He used to torture people. Like, for fun. Psychological horror movie levels of sadism. And now I’ve got his number saved in my phone under ‘Tall, Dark, and Traumatised.”
Cordelia sighed. “And yet, you’re still talking about him. Still thinking about him. Still slow dancing with him like you’re in some tragic gothic romance novel.”
Buddy groaned. “Don’t remind me. I kissed him. I kissed him, Cordy. And now I find out he used to be the vampire equivalent of a Bond villain with a Shakespearean flair for cruelty.”
“Yeah, but now he’s got a soul,” she said. “And cheekbones.”
Buddy stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for a car to pass. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help,” Cordelia replied. “I’m trying to make you admit you still like him. And that scares you more than the whole ‘he used to be evil thing.”
Buddy crossed the street, heart thudding. “I’m the Slayer, Cordy. I’m supposed to kill vampires, not… swoon over them.”
“Maybe you’re supposed to do both,” she said breezily. “Slay with one hand, smooch with the other. Multitask.”
“I’m right,” she said. “You’re scared because he makes you feel something. And because if you let yourself want this, it might hurt. But guess what? Everything worth wanting does.”
He slowed as he reached his street, the familiar outline of his house coming into view. The porch light was already on.
“I don’t know if I can trust him,” Buddy said quietly. “I don’t know if I can trust myself.”
Cordelia’s voice softened. “Then start small. Talk to him. Ask the hard questions. Look him in the eye and see what’s still there.”
Buddy nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Okay.”
“And Buddy?” she added. “If he ever goes full evil again, I’ll help you stake him. But until then… maybe let yourself feel something good.”
He smiled, the ache in his chest loosening just a little. “Thanks, Cordy.”
“Anytime. Now go inside before your mum throws a shoe at you.”
Buddy hung up, slipping his phone into his pocket as he climbed the steps to his front door. The night was quiet, but his thoughts were loud.
Angel had a past.
But maybe—just maybe—he had a future too.
And buffy wasn’t sure yet if he wanted to run from that… or toward it.
The underground apartment was quiet, lit only by the flicker of candlelight and the soft hum of the city above. Angel sat in the shadows, shirt half-unbuttoned, a book forgotten in his lap. The air was cool, still, heavy with memory.
Then he felt it.
A shift in the room. A scent—familiar, sweet, and laced with blood and perfume.
He stood just as she stepped into view.
Darla.
She wore red like sin, silk clinging to her curves, her smile slow and devastating. Her heels clicked softly against the concrete floor, each step deliberate, like she was savouring the moment.
“Hello, lover,” she purred, voice like honey poured over a blade.
Angel’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, but I should,” she said, circling him like a cat with a wounded bird. “I remember the way you used to look at me in the dark. Like I was the only thing that mattered.”
He didn’t move. “That was a long time ago.”
Darla stopped in front of him, tilting her head, her eyes gleaming. “The shadows. The guilt. You haven’t changed, Angelus.”
“I’m not him,” Angel said, voice low.
She smiled, stepping closer. “You were exquisite. A storm wrapped in silk. The way you whispered to your prey before you broke them… the way you touched me like the world was ending. You were poetry.”
Angel looked away. “I was a monster.”
“You were mine,” she said, voice softening to a whisper. “I made you. I sired you. I gave you eternity. And you gave me centuries of pleasure.
He met her gaze, eyes dark. “You gave me hell.”
Darla reached out, fingers grazing his chest, nails dragging lightly over fabric. “And you loved every second of it. Don’t lie to me, Angelus. I know what your body remembers. And I know what your soul aches for when it dreams.”
Angel stepped back. “I remember everything. That’s the curse.”
She laughed, low and musical. “Then why fight it? Why pretend to be something you’re not? You think this soul makes you better? It makes you weak. It makes you lonely.”
Angel’s voice was steel. “It makes me responsible.”
Darla’s eyes flashed. “It makes you hollow.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Angel spoke, quieter now. “I’m not alone.”
Darla’s smile faltered. “The Slayer?”
Angel didn’t answer.
She stepped closer again, voice like velvet and venom. “He’ll never understand you. Not the way I do. Not the way I made you. You were born in my arms, Angelus. You were perfect.”
Angel’s eyes burned. “He sees what I am now. Not what you turned me into.”
Darla leaned in, lips near his ear, breath cool against his skin. “But I see everything. And I still want you.”
Angel closed his eyes, the weight of centuries pressing down.
Then he stepped back, voice cold. “Get out.”
Darla’s smile returned, brittle and cruel. “You’ll come back to me. You always do.”
She vanished into the shadows, her laughter lingering like perfume.
Angel stood alone, the candlelight flickering.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the clink of cutler and the occasional passive-aggressive hum of the fridge. A single lamp cast warm light over the table, illuminating Joyce’s casserole and Buddy’s heroic attempt to avoid the peas like they were radioactive.
Buddy poked at his plate with theatrical disdain. “Is this punishment casserole? Because it tastes like guilt and regret.”
Joyce didn’t look up. “It’s turkey and mushroom. And you’re lucky I didn’t serve it with a side of ‘I told you so.”
Buddy grinned, then glanced toward the window. Outside, the sky had deepened into a rich indigo, the last blush of sunset swallowed by shadow. The streetlights flickered on, casting long pools of amber across the pavement.
The night was waking up.
And it was calling him.
His fingers twitched around his fork. His jaw clenched. He could feel it in his bones—the pull, the itch, the primal whisper that came with darkness. Somewhere out there, something was hunting. And it wanted to be hunted.
Joyce followed his gaze. “You’re not even pretending to eat.”
Buddy sighed. “I’m trying. But the night’s out there doing its whole ‘come slay me’ routine and I’m stuck here playing dinner theatre.”
Joyce set down her glass. “You’re grounded, remember?”
Buddy gave her a look. “I remember. It’s hard to forget when you’ve been sentenced to casserole and emotional reflection.”
Joyce leaned back, arms crossed. “I didn’t ground you to be mean. I did it because I was scared. I still am.”
Buddy softened. “I know. And I get it. But I’m the Slayer, Mum. I don’t get to take a night off just because you’re worried. I wish I could.”
Joyce was quiet for a moment. Then she reached across the table, placing her hand over his.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she said. “But neither did you. And I’m trying. I really am. I’m trying to understand what it means to be you mum when you’re… this.”
Buddy blinked. “This? You mean devastatingly handsome and morally obligated to punch demons in the face?”
Joyce rolled her eyes, but her smile tugged at the corners. “I mean brave. And reckless. And mine.”
Buddy swallowed hard. “So… I’m ungrounded?”
Joyce sighed. “You’re ungrounded. But you check in. you text. You come home. And if you’re going to fight monsters, you eat your damn dinner first.”
Buddy saluted with his fork. “Slayer’s honour. But I’m still skipping the peas. They look like tiny green lies.”
Joyce laughed, the sound soft and real.
Outside, the night deepened.
Inside, Buffy felt the tension ease—not the hunger to hunt, but the weight of being loved by someone who was learning, slowly, to let him go.
The Bronze was alive with sound-bass thumping through the floorboards, coloured lights sweeping across the crowd like lazy searchlights. At a corner table near the stage, Cordelia sipper her soda through a red straw, legs crossed, eyes scanning the room like a queen surveying her court.
Will sat beside her, chin propped on one hand, the other nervously tapping the edge of his glass. His gaze was fixed on the stage.
More specifically, on the guitarist.
Oz stood under the lights, head bowed slightly as his fingers moved across the strings with effortless precision. His hair was tousled, his expression unreadable, but every so often, he glanced up—and Will swore those glances landed right on him.
Cordelia followed his gaze and smirked. “You’ve got it bad.”
Will blinked. “What? No. I mean—maybe. I don’t know. He’s just… good at guitar.”
“And brooding. And mysterious. And he wears flannel like it’s a lifestyle,” Cordelia said. “Face it, Will. You’re crushing harder than a vampire under a sunlamp.”
Will flushed. “I barely know him.”
“Exactly. It’s the perfect time to fall in love.”
Before Will could respond, a shadow fell across their table.
Angel.
He looked like he’d stepped out of a noir film—black coat, unreadable expression, eyes scanning the room like he was expecting trouble to crawl out of the walls.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Where’s Buddy?”
Cordelia perked up instantly. “Still grounded. Tragic, right? He’s probably at home, staring longingly out the window like a Victorian heroine.”
Will gave Angel a cautious look. “Why? Is something wrong?
Angel shook his head. “No. I just… wanted to see him.”
Cordelia grinned. “Aww. That’s almost romantic. In a ‘tall, dark, and broody’ kind of way.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “You know he’s the Slayer, right? And you’re… not exactly on the approved dating list.”
Angel’s jaw tightened slightly. “I’m not here to hurt him.”
Cordelia leaned forward. “Good. Because if you do. I’ll stake you myself. But until then? I’m rooting for you two. You’ve got the whole ‘forbidden love with a side of danger’ thing going. It’s very on-brand.”
Will crossed his arms. “I just think we should be careful. Buddy has already got enough on his plate without adding ‘tragic vampire boyfriend’ to the mix.”
Angel looked down, then nodded. “I understand.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes at Will. “Let the boy have a little romance.”
Will glanced back at the stage. Oz was looking their way again.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Romance.”
Angel turned toward the exit, but not before casting one last glance at the empty seat beside them.
Cordelia watched him go, then nudged Will. “You think Buddy’s sneaking out tonight?”
Will sighed. “If he is, I hope he’s careful.”
Cordelia smirked. “I hope he’s not.”
And onstage, Oz played a chord that hummed through Will’s chest like a secret waiting to be told.
The alley behind The Bronze was quiet, lit by a flickering neon sign that buzzed like it had secrets to spill. The thrum of music inside was a distant heartbeat, muffled by brick and shadow.
Buddy stepped into the alleys, hands in his jacket pockets, boots crunching the gravel. Angel was already there, leaning against the wall like he’d been sculpted from moonlight and regret.
“You always lurking in alleys, or is this just you way of flirting?” Buddy asked, voice light but eyes sharp.
Angel gave a faint smile. “You came.”
Buddy shrugged. “I’m a sucker for dramatic lighting and unavailable men with horrific backstories.”
Angel’s smile faded. “You talked to Giles.”
Buddy stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. “Yeah. He gave me the full Angelus horror show. Europe. Torture. Mind games. Real ‘Netflix and psychological trauma’ vibes.”
Angel looked away, jaw tight.
“There’s something else,” Angel said. “Something you need to know.”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “Oh good. More cryptic vampire revelations. Hit me.”
“Darla’s in town.”
Buddy blinked. “Darla? As in…?”
“My sire,” Angel said. “And my ex.”
Buddy stared. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot. Like, therapy-level a lot. So let me get this straight—you were sired by your evil vampire girlfriend, went on a centuries-long murder spree, got cursed with a soul, and now she’s back in town like some undead ex who wants closure?”
Angel didn’t deny it.
Buddy’s voice dropped, edged with something darker. “Is she pretty?”
Angel hesitated. “She’s… persuasive.”
Buddy scoffed. “Translation: she’s hot and manipulative. Great. Love that for me.”
Angel stepped forward. “She’s dangerous. She’ll try to get to you. Or through you.”
Buddy’s jaw clenched. “So, what, she’s jealous? Or just nostalgic for the good old days of blood and mayhem?”
Angel’s voice was low. “She wants me back.”
Buddy’s eyes narrowed. “And do you want here?”
Angel’s answer was immediate. “No.”
Buddy looked away, heart thudding. “Because if you do, I’ll stake her. And then you. And then probably myself, just for the drama.”
Angel stepped closer, the space between them charged. “I want you safe.”
Buddy met his gaze. “I want you honest.”
They stood there, the alley holding its breath.
Angel reached out, fingers brushing Buddy’s wrist. “I’m not him anymore.”
Buddy’s voice was barely a whisper. “Then prove it.”
Angel leaned in, slow and deliberate, until their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the cold night air.
Buddy closed his eyes, the jealousy still burning—but softer now, dulled by the ache of wanting something he wasn’t sure he could have.
And Angel stayed close, like he didn’t want to leave.
The Bronze had emptied out, the music fading into memory as the last stragglers spilled into the night. The alley behind the club was quiet now, lit only by a flickering streetlamp and the pale glow of the moon.
Cordelia clicked across the pavement in heels she regretted wearing, arms folded tight against the cold. Will trailed beside her, hoodie pulled up, eyes darting nervously.
“I told you we should’ve left with the crowd,” Will muttered.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “And miss the chance to walk dramatically through a creepy alley like we’re in a teen horror movie? Please.”
Will glanced around. “You realise how often those characters die, right?”
Cordelia smirked. “Yeah, but they don’t have a superhero for a best friend like we do.”
A soft laugh echoed from the shadows.
They both froze.
From the far end of the alley, a figure stepped into view—elegant, poised, and wrong in that way only something ancient and hungry could be.
Darla.
She wore crimson like it was stitched from blood, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her smile sweet and venomous.
“Well,” she said, voice silk over ice. “Aren’t you two just precious.”
Cordelia’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”
Darla tilted her head. “Oh, I’m just a girl with a message. For the Slayer.”
Will stepped in front of Cordelia instinctively. “Buddy’s not here.”
“I know,” Darla said, pouting. “But you are. And you’re his friends. His heart. His weakness.”
Cordelia’s voice sharpened. “If you touch him—”
“Oh, I’m not here for him,” Darla said, stepping closer. “I’m here for you. Because nothing beats dropping a little blood on the slayer’s doorstep.”
Will reached into his bag, fumbling for a cross or holy water or anything, but Darla was already moving—faster than though, faster than fear.
She struck.
Cordelia screamed as she was thrown against the wall, her head cracking hard. Will barely had time to raise his arm before Darla grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
But she didn’t drop them.
With inhuman strength, she hoisted Will over her shoulder and dragged Cordelia by the wrist, her heels scrapping against the pavement as she struggled.
Their cries echoed once—then were swallowed by the dark.
Warnings: Contains moderate to strong descriptions of violence, murder, torture, horror, and gore. Supernatural elements such as witchcraft, demonlogy, lore, and myth.
I do not own nor claim to own any of the characters from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or it's spin-off series "Angel".
Pairings: M/M, F/F, F/M, GEN +
Chapter One: A Soul Between Shadows
The vampire tore through the mist-veiled woods, his snarling visage twisted in full vamp-face-eyes glowing amber, veins bulging like black roots beneath his skin. He darted past the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign. Moonlight slashed through the trees in pale ribbons, casting skeletal shadows that danced as he ran.
He wasn’t used to running. Not like this. Not with fear gnawing at his spine.
A branch snapped behind him.
He stumbled, tripped over a moss-slick rock, and slammed into the earth with a grunt. Dirt filled his mouth. He spat it out, rolled to his knees—and froze.
Boots.
Polished. Expensive. Standing inches from his face.
The vampire looked up, and his demonic features twitched with something almost human: dread.
Buddy Summers stood over him, stake in hand, dressed like he’d just stepped off a fashion runway curated by demon hunters with a flair for the dramatic. His jacket shimmered faintly under the moonlight. His hair was tousled just so, and his grin was all teeth and trouble.
“I’ve got to say,” Buddy drawled, twirling the stake like a drum major’s baton, “you vampires really need to work on your cardio. You’re all bite, no stamina.”
The vampire scrambled back. “Please… I—I wasn’t—”
“Lemme guess,” Buddy interrupted, crouching slightly, eyes gleaming. “You were just out for a midnight jog, saw a cheerleader, and though, ‘Hey, protein shake!’” He clicked his tongue. “Classic.”
The vampire lunged with a snarl, claws slashing. Buddy sidestepped with a dancer’s grace, the stake flashing in his hand. The vampire spun, fangs bared and tackled him into a tree. Bark splintered. Buddy grunted, then drove his knee into the vampire’s gut, flipping him over his shoulder.
They crashed through the underbrush, a blur of fists and snarls. The vampire clawed at Buddy’s face, tearing fabric, drawing a thin line of blood.
Buddy hissed. “Okay, rude. This jacket is limited edition.”
The vampire lunged again, but Buddy ducked low, sweeping the creature’s legs out from under him. The vampire hit the ground hard, and Buddy was on him in a heartbeat, straddling his chest, stake poised.
“You know,” Buddy said, panting slightly, “I always thought it was poetic. You monsters spend your un-lives hunting in the dark… and then one day, the dark hunts back.”
He plunged the stake into the vampire’s heart.
The creature shrieked, body convulsing—then burst into ash with a hiss like steam escaping a crypt.
Buddy stood, brushing soot from his sleeves with exaggerate disgust. “Ugh. Vampire glitter. It’s like fighting a homicidal pinata.”
He shook out his jacket, muttering, “Giles is definitely paying for the dry cleaning this time.”
Slow applause echoed from the shadows, deliberate and amused.
Buddy Summers turned, stake still in hand, as a figure emerged from the gloom like a well-dressed ghost. He was tall, dark-haired, and handsome in that “I brooded through the Renaissance” kind of way. His coat swayed with theatrical precision, and his smile—oh, that smile—looked like it had ruined hearts across centuries. Buddy felt his pulse skip, which was annoying, because he was supposed to be the one causing dramatic reactions tonight.
“Well,” the stranger said, clapping once more. “That was impressive. I heard there was a slayer in Sunnydale, but I didn’t quite expect a…”
Buddy raised an eyebrow, already scanning him like a suspicious package wrapped in charm. “A guy? Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m Buddy Summers. My parents wanted me to sound like a bubble-gum pop star and never be taken seriously. Mission accomplished.”
The stranger chuckled, low and velvety. “This slayer’s got bite.”
Buddy twirled the stake like a baton once more. “Nah. I just dust those that do. Speaking of which…” He stepped closer, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “Who—or what—are you? Because you’ve got the whole ‘tall, dark, and possibly cursed’ vibe going on.”
The man took a slow step forward, the moonlight catching the edge of his smirk. “A friend.”
Buddy tilted his head. “Cute. But FYI, applications for my friendship are currently closed. Unless you come with snacks and emotional availability.”
“I didn’t say I was yours,” the man replied, voice like velvet and danger.
Buddy blinked, caught between a scoff and a blush. “Okay, cryptic. Love that for you.”
The stranger turned, already melting into the night like fog on a graveyard.
“I’ll see you around, slayer,” he said over his shoulder.
Buddy watched him go, lips pursed, heart annoyingly fluttery. “Great,” he muttered. “Tall, mysterious, and possibly undead. Why is that my type?”
Less than an hour late, Buddy Summers strolled into the Sunnydale High School library, stake holstered and designer jacket only slightly dusted with vampire ash. It was his nightly ritual—post-patrol debrief, with his watcher Ruper Giles, his best friend and resident wiccan Will Harris, and head cheerleader Cordelia Chase, who insisted on being present for “moral support” and “aesthetic supervision.”
The trio were gathered around the central table, buried in mythology tomes thicker than Buddy’s patience for Latin. Giles stood nearby, arms crossed, glasses perched on his nose like a warning label.
Buddy dropped into a chair with theatrical sigh. “Another day, another crispy vampire. Judging by the tragic posture and book-induced eye strain. I’m guessing you all got my text.”
Will didn’t look up. “When a stranger watches you slay a vampire and instead of initiating a flight response, initiates applause? That’s not just weird—it’s statistically anomalous.”
Cordelia flipped a page with a manicured flourish. “I’m mainly here to get specifics on how hot tall, dark, and cryptic was. You were vague. I need jawline geometry and brooding intensity metrics.”
Giles removed his glasses and began polishing them with a handkerchief—the universal sign of “I’m too tired for this.” “Cordelia, please. This is not a situation to trivialize. This stranger may pose a serious threat.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Broody British,” Cordelia said, snapping her book shut. “The woods are a hotspot for cruising. Not everything lurking in the shadows is supernatural. Sometimes it’s just hormonal.”
Buddy leaned back, arms crossed. “He didn’t exactly scream ‘Grindr and chill.’ Or own a phone, come to think of it. I’m thinking vampire. Maybe demon. He’s not sending any “u up?” texts anytime soon that’s for sure.”
Cordelia shrugged. “So, we’re leaning supernatural? Again. I’m still holding out for sexy. Preferably no fangs kind of sexy.”
Buddy turned to Giles. “Anything on tonight’s mystery man? Tall, dark, and ‘I clap for slayers’?”
Giles sighed, replacing his glasses with the weariness of someone who’s raised too many teenagers. “Sadly, ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ isn’t the most helpful descriptor when combing through ancient texts. I need specifics. Preferably something that doesn’t sound like a tinder profile.”
Will flipped another page, eyes gleaming. “My hypothesis leans vampire. Demons tend to go full Lovecraftian horror, not runway model chich. Which is unfortunate. For science.”
Cordelia stretched, gathering her books with a dramatic groan. “Well, I vote we put the research on pause and remember we’re still technically students. I have a pop quiz in history and a pop quiz in lip gloss durability.”
Buddy groaned. “Ugh. That bloody pop quiz. Stake me now.”
Will smirked. “You’ve survived countless vampires. You can survive standardised testing.”
Buddy narrowed his eyes. “One of those involves bloodshed. The other involves fractions. I’m not convinced which is worse.”
Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, one day you’ll all take this seriously. Preferably before the apocalypse.”
The next morning, Buddy slouched in the passenger seat of his mum’s car, designer hoodie up, expensive sunglasses on, and a yawn so wide it could’ve swallowed the steering wheel. The early morning sun stabbed at his sleep-deprived eyes like a celestial middle finger. He’d barely gotten three hours of sleep—standard slayer fare.
Joyce Summers glanced at him, her tone light but laced with the familiar maternal exasperation. “If you weren’t out all night hanging around graveyards, getting into fights with the undead, maybe you wouldn’t be such a struggle to get out of bed every morning.”
Buddy snorted. “It’s not like I’m out making out with strangers behind The Bronze, Mum. I’m literally saving the town. Again. From fanged death. You’re welcome, by, the way.”
Joyce sighed. “I know you were chosen. I just wish being ‘chosen’ came with a school exemption form. Or maybe a hotline. ‘Hi, yes, my son’s the Slayer, can he skip gym today?’ And don’t get me started on the laundry bills. Blood doesn’t come out of denim, Buddy.”
He cracked a tired grin. “Hey, I’m with you. Honestly, the Watchers’ Council should be footing the dry-cleaning tab. And while we’re at it, how about hazard pay?”
Joyce gave a reluctant laugh, but Buddy could still feel the weight behind her words. The unspoken worry. The quiet disapproval. Like she was waiting for him to grow out of it. As if being the slayer was a phase—like frosted tips of his brief boy band era.
But this wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t a costume he could take off. It was in his bones, his blood, his nightmares. He didn’t ask for this life—it had asked for him. And every time his mum looked at him like he was breaking her heart just by existing, it twisted something deep in his chest.
He masked it with a smirk. “Anyway, I’m running on caffeine fumes and existential dread, so wish me luck on the pop quiz. If I fail, I’ll just drop out and become a stripper. I’ve already for the perfect name for it, thanks for that.”
Buddy opened the door and stepped out, slinging his bag over one shoulder with a dramatic flair.
Joyce called after him, half-laughing, half-serious. “That better be a joke!”
As the door slammed shut, she muttered under her breath, “Being a slayer is bad enough…”
Buddy didn’t hear her. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have know what to say Not really. Because deep down, he wanted her to understand that this wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t a phase. It was destiny. And sometimes, destiny didn’t come with a choice. Just a stake, a calling… and a mother who still wished he were normal.
The halls of Sunnydale High buzzed with the usual morning chaos—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and the distant wail of someone realising they forgot their homework. Buddy navigated the crowed like a sleep-deprived ninja, dodging backpacks and bad vibes with practiced ease.
He spotted Will by the vending machine, already mid-rant about the nutritional failings of school-issued granola bars. Cordelia leaned against the lockers nearby, scrolling through her phone with the kind of intensity usually reserved for runway critiques.
Buddy slid between them, dropping his bag with a dramatic thud. “Okay, someone tell me why being the Chosen One doesn’t come with a coffee stipend or at least a nap pass.”
Will looked up. “You do realise the average slayer lifespan is historically short, right? Sleep deprivation is practically a rite of passage.”
“Great,” Buddy muttered. “So, I’m destined to die young and exhausted. Love that for me.”
Cordelia didn’t look up. “You’re also destined to ruin your skin with stress. I hope you’re at least moisturising.”
Buddy gave her a look. “Cordy, I’m fighting vampires, not crow’s feet.”
She shrugged. “Both are equally terrifying.”
He leaned back against the lockers, letting the cool metal ground him. “My mum gave me the guilt trip deluxe this morning. You know, the whole ‘if you weren’t out in graveyards punching the undead, maybe you’d be awake for school’ speech.”
Will frowned. “She still doesn’t get it?”
Buddy shook his head. “She gets it. She just doesn’t want to. I mean, I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t wake up one day and think ‘Gee, I’d love to be a supernatural punching bag with a side of algebra.’ But it’s who I am. It’s in me. And I can’t turn it off.”
Cordelia finally looked up, her expression softer than usual. “She’s scared. You’re her kid, and you come home with blood on your boots and sarcasm in your soul. That’s a lot for an art professor mum to process.”
Buddy sighed. “I’m trying to keep the town safe, pass my classes, and not break her heart every time I come home with a torn shirt and a new existential crisis. It’s like juggling flaming swords while blindfolded. And one of the swords is also emotionally needy.”
Will nodded, thoughtful. “You’re doing the impossible. But you’re not alone. Giles has your back. We do too.”
Cordelia smirked. “And if you ever need to fake a sick day, I’ve got a killer concealer and a note-writing hand that could fool the pope.”
Buddy smiled, the weight of his chest easing just a little. “Thanks, guys. Seriously. If I implode from stress, I want you both to know you’re invited to the funeral. Open bar. Dramatic lighting. Maybe a fog machine.”
Will grinned. “Only if I get to deliver the eulogy in Latin.”
Cordelia flipped her hair. “And I’ll wear black. But like, couture black.”
Buddy chuckled. “Perfect. Now let’s go fail this pop quiz!”
Buddy stormed into the Sunnydale High library like a caffeinated hurricane, clutching his pop quiz results in one hand a dramatic sigh in the other. His boots thudded against the floor with theatrical precision, announcing his arrival before he even spoke.
Behind the desk, Giles stood immersed in a leather-bound tome that looked older than most civilisations. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as he traced a passage in archaic Latin.
Buddy dropped the paper onto the desk like it was radioactive. “Well, chalk up another failed pop quiz to my mother’s ever-growing disappointment file. What are you ready? Something tells me it’s less soul-crushing than my score.”
Giles closed the book with deliberate care, removing his glasses to polish them with a handkerchief that seen too many slayer-related crises. “Just brushing up on demon mythology. One must stay current.”
Buddy flopped into a chair; legs spawled like he’d been shot. “You’re basically a walking encyclopedia of things that go bump, bite, and occasionally explode in the night.”
Giles raised an eyebrow. “Did you say you flunked the quiz?”
“Spectacularly,” Buddy said, gesturing to the paper like it had personally betrayed him. “You’re my watcher. Can’t you rig a result or two? I mean, the Watcher’s Council is supposed to be all-knowing. Shouldn’t they know how to make high school slightly less soul-destroying for their prized slayer?”
Giles sighed, folding his glasses and setting them down. “Traditionally, slayers don’t attend high school. In fact, many are removed from their families and raised by their watcher in isolation—no distractions, no social entanglements.”
Buddy blinked. “So, no pop quizzes? No disapproving mums? Just the hermit life and your only friend being some stiff-upper-lip British guy with a fondness for tweed?”
Giles gave him a look. “Shall we proceed with training?”
Buddy perked up, hopeful. “I was kind of hoping you’d let me crash in your office for a power nap. Your slayer’s running on fumes and sarcasm.”
Giles didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The look said it all.
Buddy groaned, dragging himself to his feet. “Training it is then. But if I collapse mid-punch, I’m blaming the American education system.”
Giles retrieved a training pad and handed it over. “You may also blame the vampire population. They’re far less understanding about academic fatigue.”
Buddy smirked. “Great. Slay by night, flail by day. I’m living the dream.”
Buddy lay sprawled across his bed at 1630 Revello Drive, limbs akimbo like a crime scene victim of academic failure. His bedroom was a chaotic shrine to teenage contradiction: one wall plastered with band posters and magazine clippings, another lined with weapons—stakes, holy water, a crossbow that doubled as a coat rack. A stuffed animal sat beside a pile of demonology texts. The curtains were drawn, the lighting moody, and somewhere beneath the clutter was a floor.
His laptop balanced on his chest, casting a soft glow across the room. He tapped the screen and started a video call.
Will appeared first, framed by a backdrop of colour-coded flashcards and a lava lamp that looked suspiciously enchanted. Cordelia joined moments later, perfectly lit, perfectly styled, and clearly using a filter that added sparkle to her cheekbones.
Buddy groaned. “Okay, let’s talk academic tragedy. I flunked. Again. My mum’s face did that thing where she smiles like she’s fine but her eyes scream ‘you’re ruining my dreams.”
Will responded first. “I got the highest score in class. Again. But I think I lost points for writing too much. I may have footnoted a pop quiz.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “I passed, obviously. I didn’t study, but I wore a persuasive outfit. Teachers are only human. And tragically susceptible to lip gloss.”
Buddy sighed. “Meanwhile, I’m out here slaying vampires, failing quizzes, and emotionally disappointing my mother like it’s a full-time job. She wants me to be normal. I want to not die in a graveyard. It’s a vibe clash.”
Will frowned. “You’re living two lives. Most people can barely handle one. You’re literally saving lives.”
“Try telling that to my mum,” Buddy muttered.
Cordelia leaned closer to her camera. “You need a break. I say we hit The Bronze before you go all cape-and-stake tonight. You need chill time. Maybe even—dare I say it—flirt time.”
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “Flirt time? Cordy, I haven’t slept in two days. I look like a raccoon who lost a fight with a mascara wand.”
“Exactly,” she said. “You’re tragic. Tragic is hot. You just need the right lighting and a little attitude.”
Buddy chuckled, the weight of his chest easing just a little. “Fine. One hour of fun. Then it’s back to the graveyard shift.”
Cordelia winked. “That’s the spirit. Now go shower. You look like you’ve been rolling around in vampire dust and self-pity.”
The Bronze pulsed with life.
The band onstage tore through a cover of “Superstition,” guitars snarling, drums pounding like a heartbeat. Coloured lights spun overhead, casting the crowd in flashes of red, blue, and gold. Buddy moved through it all like he belonged to the rhythm—half slayer, half showman. His jacket shimmered under the strobes, his grin sharp and tired and alive.
Cordelia danced beside him, glitter catching every light like she’d planned it. Will bounced with endearing awkwardness, mouthing lyrics like he memorised them for extra credit.
Buddy spun between them, laughing. “Okay, this is officially the most fun I’ve had since that vampire tried to flirt with me mid-battle.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome. I dragged you here. You were one brooding sigh away from becoming a tragic indie song.”
Then the music shifted.
The tempo slowed, bass deepening into something sultry. The crowd adjusted, couples drawing closer. The lights dimmed to a moody amber.
And Buddy felt it before he saw him.
Angel stepped onto the dancefloor like he’d been summoned by the beat itself. His coat moved like smoke; his eyes locked onto Buddy’s with quiet intensity. The crowd seemed to part for him, instinctively. Like the night made room.
Buddy blinked. “Okay. Either I’m hallucinating from exhaustion, or Mr. Applause—from-the-shadows just stepped not my personal space.”
Cordelia’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Is that him? Is that Tall, Dark, and Broody?”
Will squinted. “He looks… statistically dangerous.”
Angel reached out a hand.
Buddy hesitated. Then, with a half-smirk and raised brow, he took it.
They moved into the centre of the floor, the music melting into something slow and aching. Angel’s hand settled on Buddy’s waist—firm, steady, not possessive but grounding. Buddy’s other hand rested on Angel’s shoulder, fingers brushing the edge of his collar.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” Buddy said, voice low, heart thudding.
Angel’s gaze didn’t waver. “Angel.”
Buddy blinked. “Seriously?”
Angel nodded. “Buddy, seriously?”
Buddy let out a breathless laugh. “Well, Angel, you’ve got timing. And cheekbones. And a habit of showing up when I least expect it.”
Angel’s lips curved. They danced, slow and deliberate, the tension between them thick as velvet. Buddy’s pulse thrummed in his ears, not from danger—but from something quieter. Something magnetic. Angel’s thumb brushed the edge of Buddy’s hip, subtle but electric.
Cordelia watched from the sidelines, eyes wide. “Okay, I’m officially jealous. That’s a slow dance with destiny.”
Will nodded. “I’m logging this under ‘unexplained phenomena.”
Buddy didn’t hear them. He was too busy trying to figure out if Angel’s hand was pulling him closer—or if he was leaning in all on his own.
Either way, he didn’t pull away.
For a second, Buddy let himself forget the world outside the dancefloor. Forget the pop quiz, the graveyards, the weight of his mother’s disappointment. Here, under the soft haze of The Bronze’s lights, he wasn’t just the Slayer. He was a boy dancing with someone who looked at him like he was more than a weapon.
Then he saw him.
Over Angel’s shoulder, near the bar, a man in a brown velvet blazer was leading a girl toward the exit. His hair was slicked back like he’d stepped out of a 1950s yearbook, and his shirt had ruffles. Ruffles.
Buddy’s eyes narrowed.
“Hold that thought,” he murmured, pulling back slightly.
Angel followed his gaze, his expression shifting from soft to sharp in an instant. “You see it too.
“Yeah,” Buddy said, already moving. “No one dresses like that unless they’re in a band, a time machine, or a coffin.”
He slipped through the crowd, weaving between dancers with practiced ease. Angel followed, silent and shadow-like. Cordelia and Will spotted them from across the room, Cordy mouthing, “What now?” as she grabbed her purse with a sigh.
The alley behind The Bronze was dim and damp, lit only by a flickering security light that buzzed like it was trying to warn someone. The vampire had the girl by the wrist, murmuring something low and syrupy in her ear as he guided her towards the shadows.
Buddy stepped out into the night, the club door swinging shut behind him with a metallic thud. The music inside faded to a muffled heartbeat.
“Hey, Count Creepsula,” Buddy called, voice sharp and casual. “You planning to show her your stamp collection, or just your fangs?”
The vampire froze. The girl blinked, dazed, mascara smudged and heels wobbling. The vampire turned slowly, his face shifting—just for a second. The ridges, the yellow eyes, the hunger. Then it was gone, replaced by a smirk.
“Slayer,” he said, voice low and amused. “Didn’t think they came in glitter.”
Buddy twirled the stake in his hand. “And I didn’t think vampires still wore ruffled shirts outside of ironic costume parties. Guess we’re both disappointed.”
The vampire shoved the girl toward the wall. She stumbled, but before she could fall, Angel was there; silent and sudden, catching her with one arm and guiding her gently back toward the club’s back door.
Buddy didn’t look away. His eyes were locked on the vampire, his stance already shifting into something coiled and ready.
“You picked the wrong night,” he said. “I was having a moment. There was music. There was dancing. There was… potential.”
The vampire lunged.
Buddy met him halfway.
They collided with a grunt, fists flying. The vampire swung wide—sloppy, hungry. Buddy ducked, drove his elbow into the vamp’s ribs, then spun and kicked him into a stack of trash cans. Metal clattered. The vampire roared, leaping back to his feet.
“You know,” Buddy said, breathless, “I was really hoping to go one night without getting blood on my boots.”
The vampire charged again. Buddy sidestepped, grabbed the back of his collar, and slammed him face-first into the brick wall. The vampire snarled, spinning with a backhand that caught Buddy across the jaw.
Buddy staggered, wiped his mouth, and grinned. “Okay. Rude.”
He surged forward, driving his knee into the vampire’s gut, then twisted and slammed him to the ground. The stake was in his hand before the vampire could blink.
“You ruined my slow dance,” Buddy said, voice low and deadly. “And I was really enjoying the view.”
He plunged the stake into the vampire’s chest.
The creature gasped, eyes wide—then burst into ash with a hiss and shimmer, scattering across the alley like dirty glitter.
Buddy stood there, panting, brushing soot from his sleeves.
A slow cap echoed behind him.
He turned.
Angel stood at the edge of the alley, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his lips. “Nice form,” he said. “You’ve got style.”
Buddy rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always show up just in time to miss the fun.”
Angel stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t miss it. I was watching.”
Buddy arched a brow. “You always this into performance art, or is it just me?”
Angel didn’t answer. But his gaze lingered.
And Buddy, for once, didn’t mind the silence.
The graveyard was quiet, bathed in silver moonlight and the soft rustle of wind through cypress trees. Headstones cast long shadows across the grass, and the air smelled faintly of moss and memory. Buddy walked beside Angel, their steps slow, deliberate, like neither of them wanted the moment to end.
It was the kind of night that felt suspended in time—no vampires, no pop quizzes, no mothers waiting up with worried eyes. Just two figures moving through the dark, shoulder to shoulder.
Buddy glanced sideways. “You know, this is probably the most romantic walk I’ve ever had. And we’re literally surrounded by corpses.”
Angel gave a quiet smile. “Sunnydale’s version of candlelight and roses.”
Buddy chuckled. “All we need now is a zombie string quartet.”
They walked n silence for a few more steps, the moon casting pale light across Angel’s face. He looked almost ethereal—like something carved from shadow and regret.
Then he spoke.
“I’m not… what you think I am.”
Buddy stopped. “Okay. That’s cryptic. Even for you.”
Angel turned to face him, eyes steady. “I’m a vampire.”
Buddy blinked. “Well, yeah. I figured. You’ve got the whole ‘eternal brooding’ aesthetic down. Plus, you move like you don’t have bones.”
Angel’s expression didn’t change. “But I’m not like the others. I have a soul.”
Buddy’s breath caught. “A soul?”
Angel nodded. “It was… a curse. A punishment. I was turned centuries ago. I did terrible things. Hurt people. Killed. Then a Romani clan—gypsies—found me. They cursed me with my soul. Made me feel every horror I’d ever caused. Every scream. Every life.”
Buddy stared at him, the graveyard suddenly colder.
“I’ve spent the last hundred years trying to make up for it,” Angel said. “Tyring to be something better. Something… good.”
Buddy’s voice was quiet now. “So, you’re the vampire who claps for slayers and slow dances in clubs.”
Angel’s smile was sad. “I’m the vampire who remembers what it’s like to be human. And hates himself for once forgetting.”
Buddy stepped closer, his voice softer. “You don’t seem evil.”
Angel looked down. “That’s the curse. I’m not supposed to forget who I was. Not supposed to feel peace. Or love.”
Buddy’s heart thudded. “Too late.”
Angel looked up, startled.
Buddy shrugged, trying to play it off. “I mean, you’re broody and tragic. That’s, like, three points towards redemption.”
Angel’s gaze lingered on him, something raw flickering behind his eyes.
They stood there, surrounded by stone and silence, the moon casting a halo around them.
Buddy reached out, fingers brushing Angel’s hand. “So, what now? You walk me home and we pretend this is normal?”
Angel’s voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t think anything about this is normal.”
Buddy smiled. “Good. Normal’s overrated.”
Angel stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until their faces were inches apart. Buddy could feel the coolness of his breath, the tension humming between them like a live wire.
“I shouldn’t,” Angel murmured.
Buddy’s voice was steady. “Then don’t think.”
Angel kissed him.
It was slow at first, tentative—like he was afraid Buddy might vanish. But Buddy didn’t pull away. He leaned in, fingers curling into Angel’s coat, the kiss deepening with every heartbeat. The graveyard faded. The moonlight blurred. All that remained was the press of lips, the ache of longing, and the quiet surrender of something neither of them could fight.
When they finally broke apart, Buddy’s voice was breathless. “Okay. Most definitely not normal.”
Angel’s smile was soft, reverent. “Definitely not sorry.”
I’m currently busy working on original content, as well as the recent release of my debut novel “The Rising Flame” 🔥 so I’ve truly fallen behind on my fanfiction writing and posting more regularly on here 🤦 I am hoping to get back into the swing of things soon and have some great ideas for some “Buffy” and “TVD” verse fanfics…it may be a while before any “Charmed” fics though 😢 if anyone has any suggestions for fics I should get reading within these fandoms though, hit me up! 💖
Buy The Rising Flame: Book One by King, Xander D from Amazon's Fiction Books Store. Everyday low prices on a huge range of new releases and
My new novel The Rising Flame, first in a series is available to buy and/or download on Amazon.
Sypnosis:
Welcome to the realm of Brorus, a land where royalty are anything but noble. Here, witches lurk in the shadows of ancient woods, and monsters roam as freely as men. In this tumultuous kingdom, replacing a centuries-long bloodline is a task that would make most conquerors cower. But none are quite like the fearless Lars Shackleton.
Lars soon realizes that conquering is the easiest part of being a king. As he delves deeper into his new role, he learns just how deep blood runs. Heirs, conquerors, and unexpected foes begin their play for the kingdom of Brorus. Little do they know, however, that the one they should be keeping their eyes on is a sassy young servant boy living within the castle itself.
So I got playing around with a new app and found myself making a trailer for volume one of my buffy fanfiction series entitled "Slayer of Slayers" with very little restraint I also did a trailer of sorts for volume two but I'm not posting that one just yet...
Anyways, here is the trailer for "Slayer of Slayers"
Warnings:I do not own, nor do I claim to own any of the copyright or characters within the Buffyverse which includes but not limited to the television shows Buffy and Angel, as well as the Darkhorse comics series’ continuation.
15+ Strong to moderate violence, Graphic to mild descriptions of gore, and torture, sexually charged scenes, sexual innuendos, mild to strong language, and practices of witchcraft.
M/M, F/F, M/F, GEN, OTHER +
PART NINE LINK HERE
Part Ten: Prophecy's Boy
Theo Frey’s affiliation with the first slayer was a strange one, his entire life mission was to become a slayer to eradicate all slayers, especially his birth mother Buffy Summers, and yet during a prehistoric time when everything and everyone was stripped away from him he had reluctantly formed some form of friendship with the primeval Sineya, bonding through their chaotic creation and so he joined her on some of her adventures in slaying until he was brought back to the present time, back to his current grievances, and surrounded by those ready for him to take his revenge.
Theo never realized how deeply Sineya impacted her life until he saw her spirit on vampire island, her serving as a reminder to him of a simpler time where he lived his life without vengeance and how that led him to do good alongside the first slayer until he returned to evil crutches of vampire Drusilla and as the vampire/slayer hybrid stood right next to the unopened Hellmouth in the caves of vampire island, being surrounded by an undead army, he couldn’t help but think of the time he spent with Sineya.
“They only call you a king because they do not truly know what you really are neither do you yet,” Sineya said to him through her telepathic ways, her words piercing his mind as she appeared as a spirit only, he could see, standing next to him. “Slayer of slayers is just another name, Theo, nothing but a name but none are what you really are…this is now what you truly are.”
Theo looked around at his undead army to see if anyone else could see the first slayer knowing deep down that she was only appearing to him, appealing to a good side of him he thought he could bury forever, as she urged him to not bring about the end of the world, to change his ways, and accept his true destiny.
“They need to pay they need to all pay!” Theo shouted, grabbing the attention of his fellow vampires who instantly cheered him on, believing that his words were words of war before he would proceed to open the Hellmouth.
“They have paid the price already, as have you, and even her…there’s nothing left to pay except your destiny, and this is not it!” The primeval one replied to him telepathically with her cryptic words being said in his mind. “Your blood and your blood alone will open the mouth of hell, but you are so much more than your blood, a prophecy has been calling you long before your birth it is up to you if you want to continue ignoring it for a mission of vengeance or if you want to become what you were truly created to be.”
Suddenly, Sineya’s spirit disappeared once again as Buffy, Faith, Angel, Spike, Illyria, Xander, Ruby, and Giles ran into the caves to meet Theo and his army, all equipped with weapons and ready to go to war if needed to stop Theo from opening the Hellmouth, as the slayer of slayer realized that one way or another, he was not making it out of Vampire Island alive…
Theo and his dedicated team of vampires fought against Buffy, Faith, Angel, Spike, Illyria, Xander, Ruby, and Giles viciously as Theo himself went head to head with the blue-haired goddess Illyria, the one who killed his undead lover Tobias, throwing a series of punches and kicks at the old one, making little to no impact, before Illyria proceeded to fight back against the slayer of slayers gaining the upper hand with ease as she showed her superior strength while beating Theo into submission as he fell to the ground, ready to be killed by the same woman who had killed the love of his life, but Angel quickly left his ongoing fight to rush over to his son’s side, eager to save him from being killed by Illyria.
“He is my son Illyria, please do not kill my son.” Angel pleaded with his friend, who reluctantly began to walk away from both Angel and Theo before taking to fight in the ongoing war surrounding them.
“I may have your DNA or whatever but you’re not my father, you never raised me as my dad did, you weren’t there like he was, and you will never take his place.” Theo snapped at his undead father as he slowly got back to his feet, bruised, and bloodied from injuries he had sustained in his fight against the blue-haired goddess.
“You look pretty beaten up; she really did a number on you huh?” Angel replied, choosing to ignore his son’s cruel words. “I know you a slaypire or whatever now but somehow you managed to keep your soul, I’ve never heard of a vampire doing that before I mean I have a soul, but I’m cursed…literally. Yet again you are also the first male slayer, which is another mystery.”
“We’ve come too far to stop now my army will not stop until my blood opens that Hellmouth over there…unless there is no blood to be spilled,” Theo responded, as he began to realize that he still had the chance to do the right thing, something which was only validated when the spirit of the primeval slayer appeared to him once again, this time standing next to Angel, who was oblivious of her presence.
This time Sineya did not have to communicate telepathically with the slayer of slayers because the look on her face told Theo everything he had to know, her look told him that he had forced a destiny on himself that was never truly meant to be and now all he was left to do was decide whether he let that same destiny lead to him destroying the world or if he was able to do the right thing for the first time, as he suddenly began to finally feel his own humanity beginning to creep back in, as he felt all the pain and suffering he caused to his many victims, through his many evil deeds, as he concluded there was the only way to make up any kind of penance for the monster he had become.
“You are right,” Theo admitted to the spirit of Sineya, confusing an unknowing Angel in the process. “There’s only one way my blood cannot be spilled and that is if there is none.”
Theo quickly grabbed the wooden stake he spotted in Angel’s jacket pocket and plunged it into his own chest knowing that turning to dust was the only solution out of the hell he would otherwise cause onto this world, leaving his biological father Angel in a state of pure shock and horror as he screamed out “No” with the strength of all his voice, catching Buffy’s attention who turned away from her fight just in time to watch alongside Angel as the son they shared together turned to dust before their very eyes.
Suddenly, a red smoke, like the one that had turned Theo into a slayer, formed above Theo’s ashes before it began to spread itself throughout the cave growing bigger as it did so, proceeding to attack, ingest, violate, and turn Theo’s undead army into bursts of flames before they eventually turned to dust leaving Buffy, Angel, and their friends stunned by their bittersweet victory, one that came at a great cost.
The End…NOT
“Hello?” Theo called out as he walked into a darkly lit rundown bar, before noticing a sign saying Willy’s Place, as he proceeded to walk over to the bar counter noticing the place was completely empty, the vibe completely dead, as he began to wonder if this was hell, heaven, or something in-between, when suddenly he felt a warm feeling rush through him, that which felt like love in its purest form and as he turned out he was shocked to find a woman stood behind him, with the softest smile he had ever seen.
“You may not know me but I’m your grandmother, from your mother’s side.” Joyce greeted her stepson, the two have never met before. “I know this all must be very confusing for you but I’m here to help while I can.”
“Not to be rude or anything but are you not supposed to be like dead or something?” Theo replied as he struggled to get his head around whatever the hell was going on.
“Well yes, but then again so are you.” Joyce laughed off innocently. “You know you look a lot like your father, but you have your mother’s heart, no matter how much you try to hide it and that smile of yours is truly beautiful I just wish there were more opportunities for you to show the world that smile.”
“They are not my parents; my parents died a long time ago and I am sorry, but you are not my grandmother either.” Theo snapped at his biological grandmother, although his snap was nowhere near as bitter as it once was. “Is this hell?”
“No honey it is not hell nor is it heaven, consider this your second chance,” Joyce informed him cryptically. “You walked a path you were never meant to walk and the powers that be are just trying to get you back onto the right path, instead of fighting for another destiny why not try embracing the one that’s already yours?”
Theo had no idea what Joyce Summers meant by her words but before he could ask her, he found himself magically being transported from Willy’s Place in the now non-existent Sunnydale to the rundown Hyperion Hotel in Los Angeles, where he walked into the lobby to find a beautiful dark blonde-haired woman stood behind the reception desk with a bright smile on her face that told him she was expecting him.
“So, you are my guy’s second son I get vampires normally do not have to worry about you know condoms and stuff, but you’d think after the first son tried to kill, he’d wrap it up from there on out but then again if he’s not worried about losing his soul then he’s probably now worrying about impregnating people.” Cordelia Chase said, greeting Theo as he walked over to her. “You’re all kinds of messed up perhaps more so than Connor and he was raised in a freaking hell dimension by some unhinged hunter who very rudely blew up my friend’s club with us in it nonetheless but hey at least you’re not as bad as Angelus now that is the part of your father that you do not want to take after!”
“So, which ghost from Buffy or Angel’s past are you then? Are you Angel’s mother?” Theo asked Cordelia, much to her own disgust, which was clear on her face, making Theo realize she must have been a former lover. “Oh, so you’re not Darla which I doubt because Connor’s her son…leaving you being none other than pretty little rich girl turned high being broke bitch miss Cordelia Chase. I must admit of all the stories I heard about the infamous scooby gang, yours were always the most amusing!”
“Well, I guess you got your daddy’s brains, and his looks tell me which part of you is Buffy?” Cordelia wondered.
“None I hope!” Theo quickly responded, making Cordelia cackle.
“Good one sniveling little cry Buffy is more than enough for my liking.” Cordelia joked with the son of the man she once loved, before going on to hand Theo a room key. “A little friendly warning this guy is no friend of your mum or dads so be wary also his face is all kinds of yuck but hey we’re supposed to give you the full unbiased experience but seriously his face is not going to be easy on your pretty little eyes.”
“So, you are the son of the slayer and Angelus…I have been expecting you, my boy.” The Master announced as Theo walked into the hotel room to find the legendary vampire stood waiting to introduce himself. “From your actions, you are more of Angelus’ child than Angel’s which pleases me immensely to know the girl who slew me now has a beast within her own bloodline. However, I hope there is some of the slayer's DNA in you too after all she was the only one to ever beat me.”
“You must be The Master, Dru mentioned you once or twice there sure is a lot of hype about you in your heyday you know before Buffy beat you like some newbie vamp,” Theo replied, mocking the master of vampires. “Tobias bought into all that hype but me not so much…so why the hell are you the latest stop on my supernatural soul train?”
“You have this arrogance about you that most definitely reminds me of your mother but unlike her you have been beaten time and time again, therefore, making this arrogance of yours truly unearned.” The Master responded, taking a swipe at the son of the slayer in the process. “Mummy spanked you so hard you turned to dust, I think it’s about time you lose the attitude when in the presence of someone who earned their legacy in this world and the next!”
“Now don’t start talking about spanking unless your intent is to turn me on.” Theo recklessly flirted with the infamous vampire. “You have what I call a pillow face, but I can work with it if you want to get freaky…”
“Right!” Anya Jenkins shouted before storming into the hotel room, The Master quickly vanishing out of sight the moment Anya entered the room. “I’m taking into this appointment because that is just seriously unsettling, and I’d rather not metaphorically spew all over Buffy’s boy as I try to knock some sense into you.”
“Oh, great another bloody ghost from their past!” Theo complained as he turned to face the former vengeance demon, quickly becoming tired of whatever the hell was going on around him.
“I’m Anya formerly known as Anyanka formerly known as a vengeance demon, one of the best vengeance demons actually then I almost married your mother’s friend Xander until you know he ditched me at the altar and long before he knocked up the little brat we used to babysit,” Anya answered him, clearly unamused with Xander’s choice of partner to co-parent with. “Now I’m just Anya an ally to the powers that be, who’d have thought it…certainly not me anyway.”
“Here’s the thing, I’m growing really tired of this bullshit, and after sacrificing myself for I guess the greater good I could really just do with a nap or something. I am so not in the mood for whatever is going on here nor do I give a damn that your man dumped you for someone younger it happens love get over it!” Theo quickly dismissed the former vengeance. “Sorry that your dead but I’m dead too so how about you go haunt the living? I suggest that knucklehead builder who broke your heart especially considering he has a thing for building prisons now and needs a good little scare for that alone.”
“Listen here you little snot-nosed slayer, vamp, brat! I am over a thousand years old, and I will not be spoken to that by someone who is technically an error on human history.” Anya snapped back at the slayer of slayers. “Go get yourself a drink or something! Let someone else deal with you, I’m asking for a pay raise…come to think of it, does money still smell as good as it used to?”
As Theo became more and more convinced that he was in hell, Anya took the look on his disapproving face to say he wasn’t going to answer her question, and instead of sticking around to force it out of him, she proceeded to leave the hotel room eager to get back to her own afterlife knowing that the next person to visit Theo would definitely be able to put up with his attitude better than she could, or rather was willing to.
Theo didn’t hang around for long before he decided to search for this infamous hotel bar that Anya had suggested to him, wondering if there was even a bar within this rundown, seemingly abandoned place, but after going up and down several floors he finally found the bar the former vengeance demon was referring to as he opened the door, walked through, and suddenly found himself transported to the dive bar he shared with Tobias, only Tobias was not behind the bar, a mousy blonde-haired woman was, a bewitching beauty.
“It’s funny the places you wind up when you are not even going in that direction or at least so you thought. It’s hard to accept new paths that are laid out for you but sooner or later you just got to, or you spend forever unhappy and forever’s a very long time.” Tara Maclay informed Theo as he walked over to the bar counter, trying to work out who this bartender was and why they were in some dream-world version of his home.
“I much prefer this bar to the last one I’ll give you that,” Theo admitted as he sat down on a barstool and waited for Tara to pour him a glass of whisky on the rocks, to which he quickly downed in one gulp upon being served it. “Which ghost of Buffy and Angel’s past are you?”
“I was once Tara, now I’m something else entirely, I am no longer her, and yet her memories remain. It’s funny how they don’t tell you about that when you become a higher being nor do they tell you that despite how much you want to you can never truly reclaim your past, you can never truly get back to where you really want to be.” Tara revealed to the slayer of slayers, as Theo remembered a conversation, he had with Willow about a woman she had love and lost, and how her name was Tara.
“I know she feels the same way,” Theo reassured her in a rare act of kindness, as he reached out to hold her hand to comfort the clearly saddened spirit.
“See that’s the kindness, that’s signs of your soul, one that was too powerful to be destroyed by demons or anything else that has been thrown at you.” Tara genuinely replied as Theo took his hand back, uncomfortable by showing what he considered to be a weakness but was actually just plain old sympathy. “You have been fighting on the wrong side for all the wrong reasons Theo and I know you know that now even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself you want redemption, more than that you need it.”
“Even if you were right, I’m dead now all done and dusted far too late to even try redeeming myself for all the terrible things I have done,” Theo replied, not wanting to admit to the former witch turned higher being that she was right, that he did want redemption, that he wanted to amend for the things he has done, that he had finally seen the error of his ways, and his hatred was placed in all the wrong places.
“Oh, sweetie you’re not dead you’re just on a time out, which is sort of over now,” Tara replied before Tristan found himself being transported one last time, only this time he had been transported back to vampire island, to the very spot he had staked himself, standing in his own leftover ashes as he looked around the abandoned caves more confused than ever before as he tried to work out what he had just experienced, why he was back on that island, and what would happen next.
“I told you there was another destiny for you, my friend,” Sineya revealed telepathically as her words once again pierced their way into Theo’s mind after her spirit appeared in front of the former slayer of slayers. “And now it has begun…you are no longer the slayer of slayers or the vampire with a soul intact, now you are at one with the very demon itself, this is your destiny!”
The End…of Volume One
Volume one - Slayer of Slayers Master List Link Here
Warnings:I do not own, nor do I claim to own any of the copyright or characters within the Buffyverse which includes but not limited to the television shows Buffy and Angel, as well as the Darkhorse comics series’ continuation.
15+ Strong to moderate violence, Graphic to mild descriptions of gore, and torture, sexually charged scenes, sexual innuendos, mild to strong language, and practices of witchcraft.
M/M, F/F, M/F, GEN, OTHER +
PART EIGHT LINK HERE
Part Nine: One of Us
As the story goes there was but one and only one, one born into every generation, one chosen to fight against the evils of the world, only one, and she was called the vampire slayer. Buffy Summers was the slayer that with the help of her bewitching best friend Willow Rosenberg changed those rules forever as one became two, then two became many, as slayers all over the world were activated to join the fight against evil but before those rules were broken, before everything changed forever, the world was changed once before by the birth of the first slayer known as the primeval one.
Sineya was the first woman to become the slayer creating a legacy that would be added to by many but although those who came after her were vampire slayers too none quite had the power which she held due to the first slayer having a direct link with the shadow demon which had formed with her human body causing her to lose her humanity as she became the first slayer making her far stronger than any other slayer in history.
It was that power, the power of the first slayer, that the unhinged vampire Drusilla sought out to recreate knowing that if the witch Willow was able to adjust the slayer spell to aid her in turning all potentials into slayers, then she too could adjust the magic, altering it somehow for her own liking…
Drusilla’s plans were many years in the making formed within a vision she had of a child, a son of the slayer she despised more than any other slayer, and so she waited patiently for the perfect time to her plans into action knowing she needed Theo Frey, Buffy’s son, to have lived a human life before she introduced herself to him, and that she would need an inexperienced witch that she could manipulate into doing her bidding as she educated that witch, Ruby Moon, in all things related to the dark arts, knowing its allure would make the witch a willing accomplish in anything she wanted her to be, and after much waiting it was finally time to take both Theo and Ruby into her undead family.
It took Drusilla roughly about two years of training Ruby in the magics as well as her right-hand vamp Tobias taking the ropes with training Theo into becoming ready to be the first male slayer in history, as she chose to turn the eye as she witnessed a relationship forming between Tobias and Theo, believing it would make Theo more loyal to their cause if he was in love with her number one vampire, until Ruby had found a way of both educating herself on the infamous slayer spell as well as learning a way to manipulate the magics in order to send Theo back in time, to the time of the first slayer, placing him in the same place as the primeval one, to witness her creation, as well as his own.
Prehistoric Times
Theo was surprised at first to find himself suddenly transported from the abandoned insane asylum that Drusilla called her home to be deep within the deserts of a prehistoric Africa, not knowing the logistics of the spell that Ruby had cast, only knowing that the outcome would conclude with him becoming a slayer but as he adjusted himself to his new surroundings and saw only endless miles of nothing but the scorching hot desert he wondered just what exactly he would find in a seemingly non inhabited desert, other than a serious case of sunburn and possible heatstroke.
And so with no other choice other than to stay put, Theo decided to begin walking through the seemingly never-ending desert determined to find some resemblance of life or anything which would hint to him why he had been sent to this unforgivingly hot place but with no answers and the lack of water beginning to take its toll on his mostly human body, it was not long before Theo could not go on any longer as he found his body dropping into the sandy grounds before passing out for what felt like mere moments.
However, those supposed mere moments were long enough for his body to be dragged into a cave by three powerful mages known as the shadow men, and for his body to be tied in chains like the woman next to him, the woman in question being none other than Sineya, something Theo was quick to realize when he reawakened to find himself tied next to the primeval one, as he quickly stood up and tried to break free of his chains only to quickly realize there was no escape.
Theo had wanted to know how the slayers were created and now he knew the cold harsh truth, that the first slayer was nothing more than a human victim of three powerful men who sacrificed her innocence to make her a super-powered soldier against all things supernatural, and it was then he realized that Sineya was nothing more than a girl, a girl that nobody saved, and now just like her, he was about to go through the same process that would change them both forever…
The shadow men, one by one, walked into the cave where Theo and Sineya were stood chained to chains attached to the stone-hard ground as they quickly began chanting in a prehistoric language that Theo couldn’t even begin to try and comprehend, as a dark shadow-like fog began forming in front of his eyes before it slowly began making its way towards Sineya, surging into her body causing the woman great pain as she screamed out in the agony of this shadow demon entering and violating her body as it attempted to bond itself with her, lasting for what felt like a lifetime for both her and Theo, as Theo watched the prehistoric woman continuously scream out in pain as her body shook voraciously as if the demon itself was torturing from inside her own body forcing Theo to learn the cold hard truth of the creation of the slayer as he now began to fear he would be the shadow men’s next victim, no longer willing to pay the price of becoming a slayer himself.
But much to Theo’s dismay he had no choice in the matter, he was chained and unable to escape, and the only allies he had were the very people who sent him there for this very reason and so he just stood there in chains knowing once the shadow men were done with the primeval one that he would be their next victim. However, once Sineya fell to the ground seemingly unconscious the three shadow men quickly began chanting another spell in their long-dead language, one that Theo quickly noticed was ever so slightly differently worded than the one they had just chanted.
Instead of summoning another shadow demon as they had done for Sineya, a thick ruby red smoke appeared in front of Theo, its essence giving off something greatly different than the shadow demon before it, as this red smoke wasted no time in forcing itself inside of Theo’s body entering him through his eyes, nose, and mouth, causing him to choke on the mystical smoke as it filled up his body before he fell to his knees, his entire body began to feel like it was burning up, as he felt an incredible heat, unlike anything he had ever felt before until the pain from it made the son of the slayer passed out completely.
Theo had no clue what entity had formed itself with him only that it was a creature different from the primeval slayer’s creation but he knew that whatever it was had bonded with his very soul-changing forever as he felt stronger than ever before, faster, and wiser, as a rage had inside of him began burning up what little humanity was there and yet he still found himself more human, weaker, and slower than the original slayer herself Sineya.
For some reason whatever the difference between the shadow demon which had former itself with the first slayer was vastly different from whatever demon had formed itself with Theo and although it bothered him that he was nowhere near as strong as the slayer herself he decided to, while still remaining in the past, to learn from Sineya, understand her in a way nobody else would get the chance to, and use this very knowledge to one day return to his current timeline ready to become the slayer of slayers that Drusilla had told him was his destiny.
But as he quickly learned during his time in prehistoric Africa, nothing was going to go the way he had expected them to go, and before long he found himself bonding with Sineya, learning far more than he ever expected to from her and joining her on her many hunts, all this while the first slayer never so much as uttered a single word towards him. Theo watched her in action, learned her ways, and before long began cheering her triumphs which he began to equally share himself as he unknowingly began to feel what it was like to truly be a slayer and as her own king rejected Sineya, claiming her to be the very evil she hunted, Theo couldn’t help but feel sympathetic towards her, as the two became unlikely friends during a time when both were at their least human.
After spending what felt like forever in the prehistoric past Theo suddenly found himself being pulled through the very fabrics of space and time for the second time as he was taken from the past and soon to find himself returned to the current timeline in which the spell Ruby had cast had originally taken place, returning to the abandoned insane asylum that the vampire Drusilla had made her home and he just stood there in a state of shock, he was left questioning his entire existence, his sinister schemes, and the path which Drusilla and Tobias had led him towards, only to find out that to Drusilla, Tobias, and Ruby, he had only been gone for a few minutes, a few minutes which had changed everything for the soon to be the slayer of slayers…
Modern Day
Theo Frey just stood there in the caves of a long-forgotten island while his army of vampires got to work on destroying the wall between them and the Hellmouth, using their bare hands to punch into the solid wall until their hands were red raw, and bloody only to continue to tear at the walls with their hands, refusing to stop until there was nothing in between them and the Hellmouth itself, and as he stood there watching the undead women and men hard at work to achieve their shared goal, Theo couldn’t help but reminisce about the simpler times he spent in a world that mostly consisted of him and the first slayer, having previously seen her spirit which forced him to reconsider everything just like it had done once before.
Theo couldn’t help but remember the joy he felt alongside Sineya at helping her protect the innocent, the pride he felt at destroying evil, and the simple black and white view of good and evil he had once shared until he allowed vengeance to lead him down the dark path he was now on, vengeance which was aimed at the wrong party, or rather partly on the wrong ones, as he could not help but wonder if what he was doing now was more something that Drusilla would want him to do than himself as he began questioning just how much control Drusilla and Tobias still had over him.
Before long Theo’s vampires had all but destroyed the wall standing before the slayer of slayers and the Hellmouth which he was prophesized to open, bring forth the apocalypse, and become the rightful king of an army of vampires, and all Theo had to do was pour his blood to open said Hellmouth, as he was surrounded by undead minions cheering the vampire/slayer hybrid, ready to follow him into the apocalyptic war, and yet he found himself hesitant as he realized that this was the choice he had to make, he could bring about the end of days, possibly killing the few people he reluctantly still cared for, or he could do the rare heroic thing and make sure nobody could open this Hellmouth.
