slayer, the

> ind & selective buffy summers.

[hellmouthed]

#HELLMOUTHED > 01. CARRD 

an independent & selective portrayal of BUFFY SUMMERS. using both canon and headcanon to shed light. resurrected by RO. 30+ – DD; DNE

structured on; empty cold graveyards. vampyrs. unspoken trauma that defiles. purple bruises. stakes carved from broken wooden furnitures. california suburban rotting from the inside out. prophecies. bloody knuckles. crawling out of a grave. duty heavier than fear. cross necklaces. demons horns hidden under human hair. being the weapon & the girl.

[fuffygifs]

Okay, I’m ready.

[lycaea]

levi wears the face of a cadaver. it's muted and clipped, acclimated to inanimation in a way that lends to his general uncomfortable demeanor that puts everyone else off. he likes it this way, because it makes it easier for him to exist in a world full of things that people don't like: monsters and mean things that come from the wilds of the dark. what he finds odious about @hellmouthed, the slayer who breathes before him like a band of light in a string of dusk, is that she appears to be completely unfazed by him. the false sense of security won't work on him, not when he's so curbed by his distrust. the silver streak of his gaze sinks into her own, angry and misty in way it erupts in his hands as he squeezes them shut. as his lids lower to conceal his eyes, he ignores his fingernails jutting through the skin and the tackiness of the blood while he wills himself to stillness.

he knows what she saw, but doesn't have any idea how she could possibly react, and realizes he has very few options to remedy the predicament. recovery from being in that state of irrevocable bloodlust takes time and leaves him feeling hollow and weak, and he just wants to get away. she takes a step forward, measured and calculated, and he instantly recoils. ❝ don't ❞ he snarls, vicious in its bite, holding out a hand as though it'll bar her from him. he's lucid enough now to step away from her, eyes locked firmly onto her face as he moves backwards. ❝ don't come any closer. ❞

[hellmouthed]

it’s too still this calm, like the silence had laid over her in a shroud, swallowing the sounds of her steps upon the old bark underfoot. she can feel the darkness pressing in, bringing the cold into this abandoned corner of the woods, where the soil exhaled in faint whispers. where the forgotten suburban hysteria dissolved into something almost mythic. buffy has half a mind to turn, to slump back into the warmth of her bed, & to cover herself under the blanket until the rising dawn brings back life into her. but she trudges onwards instead, her palm closing around her wooden stake; self made, unpolished, carved from a broken chair she had once dearly loved and owned. steps fasten in reluctant increments, & she sighs, tapping the weapon against the bone of her thigh. it’s an idle rhythm, a pop song if you truly listened close enough.

a sigh slips from her glossy mouth again, repeated, the too quiet of the night shaping her with no relief. above her, the moon howls without a sound. the paleness of the crater dragging light across everything it deemed visible. her nails, short & soft, were painted a blushing pink, catching the briefest of light & tenderness as she moves forward, always forward, as though the motion of her feet were bound by obedience. still, her boots found no argument on the earth, for they were practiced & silent (or so she thought), soft on damp moss & the thinned branches of forgotten sticks. after all, who was she if not a good sacrificial soldier who had learned all the steps ?

then, she sees him. breath loud and unmeasured. his nails protruded like a mythical hound. he looked like a storm that had been ripped from its shelter. & for a brief moment, buffy stays frozen in her spot, tightening her grip around her stake and curses to herself as she wished for her crossbow instead. it’s tentative, the footsteps she takes, careful not to alert branch and leaf alike. but his voice whips her back, rooted once more, coming to negotiate with something fascinating.  " look, "  it's pleading, almost. & impatient, almost.

a small step is taken, closing the distance, her hand in the air as if she’s soothing him. " i can work with weird. & as long as nobody is eating anybody we don't got any issues. " a breath, air fogging around her frosted pink lips. " alright ?  " her arm still hovers in the air, & her jaw is set tight as she looks at him.

" i'm serious." it definitely was a plead. " i'm putting up a boundary ! "  

[no-resolution]

[hellmouthed]

how much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of murder? — from dawn !

There’s an inhale of her breath that’s harshly sucked in, her chest swelling in size, the shards in Dawn’s words cut her right open. 

" Dawn. Hey.  Don’t. "

Another breath as she tries not to flinch. Change. Murder. The space between those words are stretched wide, and Buffy tumbles straight through them. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift a muscle either. " We’re not doing that. " 

Buffy looks straight through Dawn, the silhouette of her sister blurred in her vision as her anger spikes, pinpricks older than the slayer, older than the prophecy she was sharpened by. " And do you honestly think I don't know that? That I like waking up less like me every single day? Because it feels like I'm killing myself piece by piece while everyone around me is too busy calling it destiny. " Cadence impatient, her voice high and worried, yet, something in her softens. 

Anchored, she walks closer. Like an invisible string attached to her sister's heart. Her hand brushes over the side of her face, dropping to her arm. Her tether. Her one reason not to give up. " So if this is what they call destiny, then screw it. We’ll make our own rules. I’m not leaving you, Dawnie. "

[stagborne]

Will Graham is not the traditional sort of imposing figure. He stands relatively unimpressively in his well-worn brown jacket, tucked into layers of soft browns, with a navy collared shirt peeking out the neckline. His brown hair is richly brown, almost inky black curls in the poor lighting, tousled in a way that suggests that this has been one of the really long days he has had recently. Perched precariously are the thin-rimmed glasses acting as an escutcheon to the outside world, as if they might be less pervious to what lay in the depth of his skull.

So he stands, his hands tucked in his pockets, in the cold, sterile environment, like someone who has been there many times. It smells of antiseptic, something distinctly formaldehyde tickles his nose; clinical and detached, as awaited them in the metal morgue drawers, rowing up like an ominous foreshadowing.

Blue eyes flicker over the body in quiet assessment, taking in any defensive wounds and the extent of the damage. Two prick marks on the mangled neck, like they really got bit into, but they were not animal marks. Which is why she was here as well. Merged through a singular, driving pursuit. He knows design when he sees it, and it was not merely survival.

“There are five so far. I suspect we will find more in the coming days. There is an insatiable hunger for this. They will not stop because they will find themselves never satiated.” Will murmurs, eyes downcast. “It’s seemingly random; the only commonality is that it is densely populated areas. A crime of opportunity rather than anything meticulously planned.”

[hellmouthed]

old ghosts still clung to her lungs like vines, insistent with every inhale, and for a moment, the world folded with a heavy sting into a cold weight. sage eyes traced the path back to where the body laid still, wrapped in their last moments of finality; the silence pricking like a sobering thought, a testament to what no longer could speak. yet, buffy’s pulse was steady, the rhythm starting to press into her teeth. before her, was a soul that was only as a fragmented clue, like a pattern to be solved, a ghost that could only haunt the morgue. it was then that buffy could feel her own ghosts creeping forward as she inhaled in the cold, sterile air. memories unpooled, unlocking every morgue, every creature as she traced their violence. still, she does not flinch. " okay. then we stop treating this like a bad series and start treating it like a trajectory. "

its hunger could be felt beneath her ribs, in the pit of her gut, and in the small tightening of her jaw. shoulders straighten as she finally looks at him; he's calm, his hands in his pockets, his posture unyielding like he was used to this. good, she thought he has the stomach for it. " five victims means five locations. " a statement made more to herself than anything. like checking off a list, like a birthright she never asked for.

she turns to him fully now, the leather of her rosewood red jacket rustling with the movement. her sage hues are more wide, her cadence almost impatient, clipped and sharp. " key word; seemingly. " a breath comes out as she leans forward, her shoulders still square. " it just feels that way because no one’s really looking. " delicate fingers brush her hair back, her hand coming to rest upon the metal of where the woman laid. " i mean, think about it the crowd blurring things, the city noise dulling, makes it really easy to stop noticing what’s right in front of you. " the last words drifted, soft and slow. silence hung after. " they had to leave some kind of footprint walk me through the sites. " more a demand than anything.

head turns back to the woman laying down, old crimson puncture wounds still standing out against the grey of her skin. she takes the sheet and dresses it over her head, gone from their sight.

" and take me to where it happened. "

[hellmouthed]

† PAGING @stagborne

the morgue is sterile as steel tightens in the pit of her gut. soft pinpricks tickle her palms as the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting shadows in irregular pulses, the darkness blanketing over steel tables and the body in front of her.

buffy swallows, her stomach tightening even more.  " these wounds "

sage hues roam over cuts that bloomed dark, their edges too unerring, too exacting, too detailed. she stays fixated on the bruise that spread like a shadowed ink on the base of her neck, fused together into a black and green tint, a geometry far too detailed to be anything but ritualistic.

" they’re too precise. " 

gloved hands hover over the body, not touching, tracing the air as if cataloguing the story, willing to draw out the intent of the murder by the hover of a ghost touch alone. buffy lets her heart sink, letting it drop down next to her stomach that was now coiling with a newfound vigor. she will find who did this. she must.

she felt the exude of something sinister press upwards. slowly, her chins tilts towards will. " i think you might be right which, lucky me, means this is just my kind of mess. " a sardonic lilt. " how many victims did you say there were again? "

[buffygifs]

an endless list of my fave btvs fits 4/? BUFFY SUMMERS in "BUFFY VS. DRACULA"

[hellmouthed]

"This is not harmless." ( it's probably harmless, but area librarian might have an opinion or two about it )

† PAGING @gilesian. > ask meme / always accepting.

" giles."

tone of voice insisting, only to huff out a breath that carried both demand and a heavy restraint. she kicks herself off the mahogany table, heeled boots planting straight upon the linoleum floor with a solid thud, a grounding finality as she fixes a stray lock of wheat blonde hair. she doesn't speak yet, only lets sage hues flicker towards the concerned features of her watcher, tracing the lines of worry like ink on parchment. 

It’s an arduous labor not to roll her eyes.

" i’ve had worse chemistry tests. "

taut with certainty as such a simple truth only stretched before her. her gaze is fixed, an unblinking stubbornness that was held in her grip. " and it’s just a regular demon so i’m gonna go ahead and file it under ‘just fine’. " she let’s the pause linger, her purse now resting upon her leather clad shoulder. it’s a fleeting glance, her line of sight that passed upon the mythology books, their weathered spines cracked open as the soft hum of the library's air conditioning whirred in the background.

" besides, if this is the thing that gets me on a friday night? i’m demanding a full refund from little miss destiny herself. "

[hellmouthed]

.

[hellmouthed]

.

[weltenwellen]

Erika L. Sánchez, from "Departure"

[hellmouthed]

† PAGING @urbxnlegxnd

The night gathers around her like something hungry. A few speckles of stars were settled in the indigo, thin and deliberate. Buffy breathes out a sigh, the cold slipping towards her skin like a careful hand. As the quiet of the street settles around her, she holds her breath for a moment as the yellow streetlights flicker. Somewhere off in the distance, a car alarm blares off as she cuts the corner.

She sees it, then. A wooden box, angled almost church like. White wood closing off the red body. In the middle, a black door with the word CLOSED to restrict access. She tilts her head, eyes squinting, her footsteps haltering a smidge from the obscurity. When she resumes, her heeled boots trudge gingerly; a practice of past ease. She closes the distance, the words now clear to her,                 WORLD’S SMALLEST MUSEUM.

Breath hitched as her brows cinch together, a scrutiny of her bewildered gaze as she reaches out to touch the door. The wood is cold under her fingertips as her eyes depart the black frame. She takes another moment before her hand reaches towards the knob. But her heartbeat quickens, a betrayal ever so small, and before her skin meets the metal, she feels it, the presence behind her creeping up with pinpricks, the cold rush of wind on the nape of her neck almost stiffening her. Abruptly, she turns, her face veiled in surety. 

Honey blonde hair whips around her as she turns, the leather of her jacket creaking in the motion. Buffy plants her feet more firmly, refusing to get caught off guard.

“ I see someone came home.” 

No patience in the lilt, her snark ever ready as silence stretches a moment. “         and you’re officially the creepiest exhibit I’ve seen or the most intense museum security guard I’ve ever met.” She takes him in, her shoulders tense. No sense of an evil dread who’s hoping to kill her, but no human either. “This toybox’s yours?” 

[gdzie-rosna-poziomki]

"This one's for the ladies" 🔥

[hellmouthed]

.

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM RICHARD SIKEN'S POETRY *  assorted lines from richard siken poems, some slightly adjusted to suit a roleplay format, adjust as necessary

sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how i ruined everything by saying it outloud.

something's not right about what i'm doing but i'm still doing it.

the enormity of my desire disgusts me.

i woke up in the morning and i didn't want anything, didn't do anything, couldn't do it anyway.

i couldn't make you love me and i'm tired of pulling your teeth.

this is not harmless.

damn if there isn't anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.

okay, so i'm the dragon. big deal. you still get to be the hero.

there are many names in history... but none of them are ours.

i had a dream about you.

let me name the stars for you.

kiss me.

here i am, leaving you clues.

what do you want, sweetheart?

just mash your lips against me.

we are all going forward. none of us are going back.

i swear, i end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and i have to search my body for scars.

you wanted happiness.

the truth is complicated.

i should have known.

tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

the way you slam your body into mine reminds me i'm alive.

monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you.

i crawled out the window and ran into the woods.

i had to make up all the words myself.

i made this place for you. a place for you to love me.

if this isn't a kingdom then i don't know what it is.

i wore his jacket for the longest time.

you're trembling.

i feel like i've done something terrible.

i'm trying to choke down the feeling.

i've discovered something i didn't even have a name for.

eventually something you love is going to be taken away.

it is finally happening to you.

i am falling to the floor crying.

i realize i didn't paint it very well.

we have not touched the stars.

tell me we'll never get used to it.

sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.

if you love me, [name], you don't love me in a way i understand.

someone has to leave first.

this is a very old story.

i'm battling monsters.

you say "i'll give you anything" but you never come through.

everyone needs a place. it shouldn't be inside of someone else.

you're trying to smile.

how much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of murder?

imagine that the world is made out of love.

imagine a story where everything goes wrong.

hello, darling. sorry about that.

tell me we're dead and i'll love you even more.

i should have known.

no one will ever want to sleep with you.

i'm sorry i couldn't come to your party.

i'm sorry i came to your party and seduced you.

you want a better story. who wouldn't?

who am i? i'm just a writer.

let me do it right for once.

this doesn't look that much different from home.

you were crying, too.

you said i could have anything i wanted, but i just couldn't say it outloud.

okay, if you're so great, make it work.

i saved a plate for you.

please keep him safe.

i do believe his mouth is heaven.

i wanted to explain myself in an understandable way.

i'd rather quit. i'd rather be sad. it's too much work.

[hellmouthed]

i forgot how daunting it was to start