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BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER 2x14 | “Innocence” 

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NOAH CENTINEO The Recruit 1.05 "T.S.L.A.Y.P."

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KATHRYN NEWTON via instagram (September 23, 2022)

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KATHRYN NEWTON ❀ photographed by Dania Maxwell for the Los Angeles Times (February 2023)

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THE TWIN FLAME​:​

⛧

Faith ascended the stairs flippantly, resisting the urge to slam her chunky boots obnoxiously on every step. Her half-lipped gaze languidly scrutinized the interior around her, her face twisting at the assembly of family photos lining the wall. Every corner of the Summers household was chalk full of cozy memories, of a space well loved and fully lived in. What a revoltingly campy display; it made her want to hurl. It wasn’t unusual for her to swallow that acidic bile of scorn, especially since she felt like a tacit footnote in the life of the perfect Slayer. The fucking problematic side character to the golden girl. However, part of her resentment had to stem from her unfamiliarity with this type of setting. The stereotypical nuclear family, the cookie cutter suburban, the loving parent environment. The type of shit she only saw on television.

She hooked her finger around the frame of the last set of photos and let it fall against the side table as she passed them. Oops. With that little act of mischief out of her system she returned to her earlier goal. That in the shape of a perky blonde with a killer kick. Sans the perky, as of late.

“Woah, what’s got you so strung out, B?”

“And here I thought we were becoming like, friends adjacent,” her comment spoken with a excessively fake valley girl accent. Faith waltzed into the bathroom and propped herself against the sink, oblivious to any sense of personal space. “If anything’s effecting your looks it’s that lovely aura of angst you’ve been sporting lately”

“And here I thought we were becoming like, friends adjacent..”

“Occupational hazard,” she offered lamely. 

Faith’s visceral charm warped in sarcasm bounced off the tightening pressure that filled her skull. Buffy didn’t want to face the problems of the world when hers literally imploded down in the den. Images of Giles perched over her mother with an uncomfortable twinge of helplessness and pity. Sunnydale didn’t seem so bright and maybe it would gleam in the rear view; sadly, Buffy was bound to the hellmouth by the ankles. Despite the overpopulation of Slayers frothing at the mouth to tag Buffy out for some mental rest, she couldn’t allow herself to sit idle. If the wheels ceased their rotation, she swore she’d unravel into the air and disappear. What did she have to live for now? Her mother was dead. Angel was in gone again. The Scooby Gang scattered in different directions, both happy and mournful. Life didn’t have that same pearlescence it did the night before she laid her on the pillow with her mother’s voice lulling her to sleep one last time. 

The flippant nature of Faith’s intrusion kicked up a eternal burning that licked at the back of Buffy’s throat. Pivoting on her heels, she wedged herself between Faith’s parted knees, her hand swatting at the wall above her head to entrap the alluring nuisance. “ We both know I can pull off anything but I’ll bite. Would you rather I do a little dance and smile like Cordy? Or break and enter into someone’s home like I’m some threat?” Buffy leaned in closer, her lips inches from the very thorn in her side.. A glossed look peppered in her dimming irises. “...would that make you happy, Faith?” 

Holding for a beat, she fixed her robe and disengaged. “Go home.”

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JINKIES VELMA​:

⛧  

Willow had to suppress her urge to snort at his lame excuse in favor of being firm. Albeit, gently. “I don’t think tonight is the right time to contextualize the entire evolution of the mathematical system, but I understand your plight,” naturally it was in her nature to coddle him, at least to a certain degree. She could at least concede that she’d made some personal growth over the years. She didn’t quite hang off of his every word but still found herself occasionally gazing with heady fascination. It didn’t help that any remnants of the romance she had with Oz was definitely finished with, and with a broken heart, she relied on the only boy she knew would comfort her. Providing a shoulder to cry on and an ill timed but appreciated quip, even as he drooled over Sunnydale’s IT girls. She really ought to be concentrating on honing her craft rather than fantasizing about a boy.

But Xander Harris would never be just a boy to her.

Weather one year from now or ten, when they both finally settled happily with whomever fate designed just for them. He would always be her Xander. “The next one?” now that did elicit a short burst of laughter. “Need I remind you that you copy my homework every week. You just need to hunker down, focus and stop thinking about…” the words died lamely on her tongue, the mirth in her expression momentarily faltering as she realized he was doing exactly what she was about to warn him against.

…that’s better than going on some date. 

Of course. Willow let her attention wander to the curling fingers in her lap for a few moments before forcing a smile back onto her face. This was good; she needed to be reminded. “I’m not sure picking up a hot date is really a priority for her right now, especially after…you know. He who shall not be named” Even when Buffy wasn’t present, mention of the vampire who had once been an ally had become taboo. 

Seeing Buffy in such internal upheaval broke her heart, and as she studied her grimoire, she wondered if there was anything she could do to return his soul. Furthermore, would regaining his soul even mend what had been so horribly broken after all he’d done? Willow shook off her intrinsic concerns to shrug at Xander’s remark. “Yeah, yeah I have,” it seemed like the time in their lives when the trio reveled in the nature of their carefree spirits, even amongst the ever present dangers of the undead, had passed them by. “But…can you blame her?”

The ever expanding warmth that radiated through this chest seeing her eclipsing mirth steamrolled over his inquiry about Buffy. Xander waited on bated breath to catch the rippling curl of her smile coupled with the crinkle that often dotted her nose just before a sound shattering snort. In the past, he used to feel a creeping embarrassment when she would roar into a full blown snorting fit; one oink short of a pound of bacon kind of fits. None, he laid his comedic brilliance on heavy just to elicit such a sweet sound. It was in those moments that he felt shred of ease. No monsters to slay, parents to disappoint, or expectations to fumble with. Willow’s joy reminded him of lazy summers they would ride their bikes into the wild winds of a rainstorm. The intoxicating scent of strawberries wafting off her hair as they darted out of a packed halls during their transition period to hang out in the auditorium alone waiting for Buffy to return with her tales of another crazy night. “Do you? You’re a frickin’ genius, Willow! This is probably like reading a comic to you,” he pouted. Xander didn’t often dwell on the difficulties he experienced when all of the letters jumbled together in an orientation that just narrowly missed the Webster Dictionary definition of a word. It was lonely being the dumb, unatheletic one in the great Harris line of men; Tony never let him forget it. 

Yet, when he sat in Willow’s presence, the shadow of his father felt less like a weight and more like a forgotten thought. 

His stomach growled desperately. He leaned over Willow to grab the half eaten bags of chips that poked out of his bag. His chest brushed against her shoulder, the scent of that same fragrant strawberry field almost knocked him out. Xander dropped back with a fist full of the cheesy goodness as he listened to her revelation.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he held up a cheeto dusted finger. “I don’t always copy off of your homework. I take a few sneak peeks from Derek, you know the kid in our chemistry class, paper to finish up the line up. I fundamentally spread my academic mooching to all available allies in the tri-state area,” he puffed out his chest as if he’d defended his honor with any measure of dignity.  

His expression dimmed at the way she’d laid the facts out; his mind ignoring the twinge of disappointment that colored the lines between what she didn’t say. “I know, I know but just like Patty B once said, love is a battlefield, and she can’t just sit around heartbroken and get herself killed.” Xander’s shoulder slumped forward, his books forgotten at his feet, thinking about the copious betrayals that smothered out the light of their blonde headed savior. Angel’s true color came with a bleeding crescendo of vibrant violence. Not only did Buffy lose her beau but the gang lost a beloved friend. Who would have Spike would survive the winter without any doubt from the shadow of the Mystery Van? 

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THE TEENAGE DREAM​:​

⛧

Dressed in pale fabrics of billowing white, framing the silhouette of such a delicate frame. At first glance, she resembled the spirits warned against from childhood proverbs; as if the fog had condensed into an enticing apparition from a seed of light. The likeliness so similar to that of the living it almost looked capable of moving the matter of our world. The layers of his jungchimak seemed to tighten as a peculiar mixture of curiosity and trepidation filled his ribcage. The longer he stared, the more certain he became that this was no vision from the beyond, but rather a woman of bone and far more flesh than he’d ever seen. He’d never seen such a lavishly styled garment before. Especially not on a woman. The wicked influence of far too many cups of Soju began to spin fantastical imagery. She was not merely a woman, she was a 천사, an angel. So he raised his head, unknowingly following the tantalizing course towards his own unraveling through blurred vision. For the gate to salvation was narrow, and bathed in crimson.

What is a man.

One who draped himself in the musk of masculinity or one who revels in his own empathy. One who is tenacious and courageous, or one who protects and nurtures. Furthermore, what constitutes a good man. One who wields his morality with unbridled vitality. Is he honest and kind? Does he have more virtues than vices? Is he wise and trustworthy? These were the the kind of musings that could weigh heavily on even the most philosophical of minds. After a millennium of committing sins and then attempting to atone for them, spiraling into daily cycles of existentialism became as natural as breathing. All because of that bitch gypsy. The only thing worse than being sired to live his pointless existence for all eternity was suddenly having the morality to regret every throat he’d ripped open. 

Angel had never considered himself a man nor good, by any stretch of the imagination. Regardless of the theorized parameters he did not meet them and another thousand years of repentance would do little to erase the stains of sins from his dead heart. But martyrdom seemed to be the only way he could provide himself with some sort of comfort. Any internal anguish he felt was justified. But then he met her…

Angel never intended to fall for her, even as she roundhouse kicked and wisecracked her way right past his self imposed broodiness. His thoughts were so often of her because he found her soul so beautiful. Thoughts of her were like feeling the sunshine warm his skin once more, there were a form of hope, a kind of good memory that pulled him onward. He’d indulged, and indulged, and even when he knew the consequences he indulged.

Then there was nothing. No guilt, no remorse. His repentance had come to an end. 

“Spike? Hm, you’re going to make me jealous,” 

His voice had a husky drawl and every step he took was at a painfully leisure pace, coal black pupils settled unblinking on the waver in her stance at his presence. He sauntered, his head slightly bowed, the pace of his footfalls constant. The shift in her expression brought a measure of amusement, and his lips curled into the beginnings of a deep chortle. “If it isn’t my favorite schoolgirl,” he could see right through that hardened exterior, and in the gleam of her gaze, there was still some semblance of hope. That he could be saved, that some essence of the pitiful creature she fell in love with could be found within him. But her boyfriend was long dead. Thanks to her, ironically.

He could slaughter an entire busload of Sunnydale teenagers and not feel a thing. In fact, that sounded like a brilliant idea.

He remained in the shade provided by a deteriorating archway as the sun continued its steady ascent over the withered tree line. “You’re looking a little winded,” he had no business with the slayer, but he relished the opportunity to inflict more emotional damage on her fragile, human heart.

The misleading musings about the allure of absence did not make the heart grow fond; instead the longing calcified the fragile chambers of her heart with resentment. A hot, red searing prod of resentment towards all of the agencies who stole her innocence. Buffy had grown accustom to the disappointment of men. Between her father, the weekend warrior himself, to the Almighty God who placed his holier than thou stake in the tiny hands of a sixteen year old girl. Both failed her when she needed them most in life; leaving her to slaughter for some perkier mistress like Pamela and the salvation for all. 

Where was her salvation? 

Surely it was not the withering vision of the girl in white who traded her innocence for the good of mankind. Buffy accepted the fate that had been woven into her skin like the stretching loops of thread through the musky scented leather jacket. A symbol of yet another forbidden want that passed too quickly from her fingers.  She forfeited what little innocence she coveted to the only being she ever loved more than a vintage chanel mini and a pair of chunky heels. The velvety warmth of their shared declaration dotted her memory like sun spot that blinded her resolve as it’s blurred edges faded into the wind. Their separation was a necessary evil to prevent the phase of a prophetic Armageddon; she wished she could have laid in his arms a little longer before wielding her weapon for war. Little did she knew that he would be her biggest threat; for the physical pain of the fight didn’t touch the emotional hole that burrowed into her chest.

“Do I know you?” Buffy’s tone echoing a feigned bout of amnesia. No matter how enticing his presence was, she wouldn’t allow him the pleasure to see her pine endlessly over his monthly hiatus. Her eyes flickered with the muted amusement of his jealous but simmered with the relief that he appeared before her unharmed. “Don’t let him hear you say that. Spike has grown bored with my indifference. Jealous really is a fire starter, you know.” With a subtle roll of the eyes, she straightened out her shoulders to match the undeniable swagger that rocked his gait. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the leather jacket.” Her feet stay planted in the safety of the rickety pews. The languid, effervescence he embodied embolden his continued mirth; either every breath it felt like she was suffocating in the sight of him. 

Buffy tamed the fluttering echo of her heart as not to give herself away. Her fists tightened behind her before releasing the fatigued struggle with a simple sigh. “Would you like to test how winded I am? This wasn’t the kind of dance I expected when you returned, you know? Maybe a round of pool and some overpriced drinks at Bronze.” Her pigheaded resistance  wavered for a moment as she gave him one last once over. 

“Where did you go, Angel?” 

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btvs aesthetics | spike {season two}

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✨Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered✨ Buffyverse Muses

Presenting: 

BUFFY “I may be dead but I'm still pretty.” SUMMERS

Name: Buffy Anne Summers  FC: Kathryn Newton  Hometown: Sunnydale, CA Status: Slayer  Weapons of Choice: Scythe, Wooden Stake, Exceptional Good Looks Misc: Died twice, Founder of Slayer Organizer, Member of Watcher Council, hasn’t mastered prophetic dreaming, still painfully in love with Angel.

XANDER “I saved the world with talking, from my mouth. My mouth saved the world!” Harris 

Name: Alexander “Xander” Harris FC: Noah Centineo  Hometown: Sunnydale, CA Status: Human  Weapons of Choice: Gift of Gab, Shovels, and Lookin’ Sexy with an. eye patch.  Misc: Member of the Scooby Gang, Slayer Organization Founder, rejects his crush on Buffy due to the strain it put on Willow, and is the founding member of the ‘Hate Cordelia Chase Club.” 

CORDELIA “God! What is you childhood trauma?” CHASE

Name: Buffy Summers

FC: Natasha Liu Bordizzo 

Hometown: Sunnydale, CA

Status: Human 

Weapon of Choice: Eyeliner, sass, and a great ass. 

Misc: Prophetic visions (Premonitions), Most notable Sunnydale Cheerleader, Queen of the Cordettes, and Right Hand Woman of Angel Investigations. Denies dating Xander.  

SPIKE “ Out. For. A. Walk… Bitch.“ PRATT 

Name: William “Spike” Pratt 

FC: Chance Perdomo 

Hometown: London, England

Status: Vampire 

Weapon of Choice: His obsessive love for Drusilla, his prized sex pistol mixtape, and his sparkling fangs personality.

Misc: Spike found weapons pointless and cowardly. He much prefers fighting with his body than with some cold steel object. He is well versed in Judo, Karate, Kung-Fu, street-fighting, and boxing. He learned how to hot wire a care back when it was horse drawn carriage (just pull tight until they neigh, love). 

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1.12 | Prophecy Girl

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She who hangs out in cemeteries 

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moodboard: fuffy + split screen sadness by john mayer

maybe i’ll sleep inside my coat and wait on the porch ‘til you come back home oh, right i can’t find a flight we share the sadness split screen sadness (two wrongs make it all alright tonight)

ko-fi

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NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO 2022, ph. Lelanie Foster for Bustle Magazine

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Buffy felt the hairs rise up on the back of her neck. Her house seemed quicker since her mother passed. All of the roaring life had been drained from the walls she’d once found comfort it. Peering through the hazy reflection, she’d noticed the woman in the mirror. “If you’re going to break into my house at least wait until I’ve blown dried my hair. There’s nothing worse than a fight with flat hair.” 

@slayersincorporated​

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slayersincorporated​:

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I know that I will love again I’ll meet someone and we’ll make amends I’m sure she’ll be a gentleman And I will be content…

The vigorous whirling of Xander’s number 2 pencil in her portable sharpener jolted her out of her dreamy, poetic thoughts. And she was relieved he hadn’t caught her staring this time. Every time Willow felt she was making progress in her efforts to overcome her silly little childhood crush on him, one ill-timed wisecrack or a flash of his goofy, crooked grin dissolved all the defenses around her heart. Willow hypothesized that it must be termed a crush because it can seem so crushing when we regard the other’s response, or imagined responses, as reflections of your deepest and most vulnerable self. But, as difficult as it is to admit, that type of crushing was self-inflicted. Xander had never shown that he felt anything more than platonic affection for her. He’d always been friendly to her, giving her hope that she was worth talking to, worth being a friend to, and a sense of warmth. But he’d never looked at her the way she’d seen him gaze at Buffy. Though it stung to acknowledge it, her sole solace was that Xander had no chance with the gorgeous slayer. As a result, she continued to conceal her true feelings t o avoid the embarrassment of rejection.

My crush on you is akin to a crushed velvet, soft and reflective of the light. I pray that this love I have for you lifts you to higher heights, that you find more happiness because I cherish you so. Let it be an updraft beneath your wings. And wherever you go, whatever you do, with me or not, I’ll be content that I did something good for you, that I was good for you…

“Are those tears?” In jest, she raised her fingers to trace down her cheek, her lips expanding into a cheeky grin. He wasn’t actually crying, of course, but Willow suspected that if he stared at the sheet of equations any harder, he’d break down in tears. If the irritated crease between his brows was any hint. “Good god, pull yourself together,” she taunted further, reaching across the top of her comforter to gently steal the pencil from his grasp. “Give it here,” she said, spinning the pencil to its eraser side and scrubbing over some of the inaccurate scrawls scribbled along the margin. She had to be the only one who could make sense of his squiggles. “You’re overcomplicating it, it’s just Algebra. It’s easy,” she hummed, returning the paper back to him. “Try that formula instead”

Glancing at the blinking digital clock on her night stand she took notice of the late hour. “I guess Buff is skipping the study shesh again,” she commented with a slight pout. She was hoping they could unwind afterwards with some movies. “Downside of spending the night defending the town from the undead I suppose…” she made a note to give her a call to check in and maybe simply bring her a simple study guide to help with the upcoming exam. “…there isn’t much of a sleep schedule to stick to.”

The jittery bounce of heel tapping in time with the fluttering rhythm of his heart. I should lay off the adderall or the coffee..both? Xander’s attention dipped between the blurring equations that melted into one brain busting cloud of lead and ink and the way the moonlight illuminated Willow’s freckles. He’d never noticed how they’d faintly dotted her cameral skin like the points of a constellations. 

What was that one she was talkin’ about...o’brien? like conan? what the hell are you thinking..

The pointed edge of his pencil snapped at the pressure of his grip. He cleared his throat before jammed the bright yellow number 2 into the plastic sharpener he’d lifted from her pencil case. Xander twisted for an eternity finding himself sneaking glances at her with this new curiosity. Remember Buffy the big bad slayer. The icy queen Cordelia. The busty math sub taking over Mr. Johnson’s Algebra II class. What do they all have in common and what does Willow not have in common..

Despite his own mental tug of war, Xander had felt the subtle shift within him every day he’d seen her settle into the power that she always possessed. It didn’t help having to suffer through the Oz saga. Jealously illuminated him in a deep wave of green that he’d happily swallowed away with his own brand of humor. So what if she liked hairy gingers with bad breath and an affinity for Scooby snacks? Xander’s scattered line of thought halted to a steady stop once he’d felt the long fibrous curl of pencil shaving scrapping against his knuckles. With a stiff blow, he watched it flitter off the desk before he stared at his notebook. He didn’t liked to admit that his mind couldn’t focus on the square root of a number or the identify of some alphabetic variable in the algebraic express. Every attempt, he found himself bounding between each intrusive thought and daydream. 

The beauty of ADHD.

He stared at the page defiantly at the page, in some one sided staring contest, until his vision had blurred with manly tears of fury. Willow’s wispy laughter broke the tension. Xander’s brows knitted together at her mirth. “No,” he scoffed. “I was just so focused that I forgot to..blink?” Before he could fluff his argument, she’d already stretched across her comforter, the woven hem of her crocheted poncho hiking higher on her waist. The smooth dip of her hip distracted him momentarily; his grip loosening before the pencil had disappeared completely. 

“It’s not just Algebra, Willow. It’s the very bane of my fragile existence,” his words soured. “Who thought it would be a good idea to throw letters into mix. Numbers are infinite, right, but they have conveniently just run out of them and begin to throw those in there. Don’t even get me started on the symbols,” his hands fell into his lap as he watched her erase the work that took him the better half of the afternoon to complete. “Can’t you just do it for me? I’ll get you back on the next one. Please,” he pouted.

Xander peeked at the clock with a curt exhale. “I guess that’s better than going out on some date,” he offered thoughtlessly. “..don’t you think we should be out there with her? I know Giles is her right hand man-tor and all but who’s better back up than us?” Xander knew that they didn’t exactly fit the mold as slayer but rather get quest companions. “Have you noticed she’d been acting a bit differently lately?” 

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You lying so low in the weeds I bet you gonna ambush me You'd have me down, down, down, down on my knees Now wouldn't you, barracuda? Oh

The murky indigo sky haunted her through the desolate holes that had been blown through the ceiling. Her hands grasping at the tattered leather cuff attached to the hand laced around her throat. Buffy’s gaze darted away from the snarly arrogance of the blood sucking poser that latched onto her. Silver lit streaks glimmered across the ruins of the stained glass mural that once depicted Mother Mary cradling her son just before he’d be strung up to die. The suffocating symbolism of his strife and the strangling drain the slayer lifestyles had on her. 

“The..girls must not..c-call you daddy. Y-you’ve got a s..soft grip,” she hissed. Willing whatever bead of air she had left, Buffy lifted her foot and kicked at whatever fleshy bit dangled between his legs before dropped back like dead weight. The groan rattled from his frame as they’d dropped down to the dusty hardwood. Her head nicked the solid pew with a spreading warmth replacing the cool sweat that dotted her brow. 

Dawn just refused to break, didn’t it? 

Kipping back up to her feet, Buffy wicked the crimson ooze off her face. “I’ve got a french test tomorrow, why don’t we Bonsoir already?” Jean Luc didn’t seem impressed with her word play. His open palm swatting her cheek as his gluttony blossomed. Always with the cheap shots. Her battered fist crashed into the solid chest of the larger creature. A flurry of fast jabs were traded before she’d wedged her boot into his solar plexus with such sloppy fury. Buffy’s stance shook with an unforgiving quake; thankfully, the oaf relied more on his fangs than his feet, allowing the kick to stagger him back into the newly minted spike formed from the belly of a rotting four by four beam. 

A ragged breath radiated from her chest, her lips quivering, as she watched the opaque chunks of alabaster skin flaking away into nothingness. Was that how I looked when I died..The thought swirled around with a sickening pace. Buffy tore the hem of her already frayed shirt to press it into her forehead as she’d counted back from one hundred. If she’d focused on the constant pace of each descending number, the prickling anxiety would die much like her french tutor. Buffy opened her eyes to the softness of a new rising sun christening her agape lips as she scowled. All of that struggle just for the sun to rise instead of vaporizing that sucker. 

Buffy dropped back onto the dingy pew with a windy sigh. The chiming buzz of her beeper rattled against her waist but she’d ignored it. For now, she just needed a minute. 

So this ain't the end, I saw you again, today I had to turn my heart away Smiled like the sun, kisses for everyone And tales, it never fails

A familiar gait tapped against the floor. Giles knew better than to look for her; he knew she’d been on edge lately. Xander and Willow were hopefully sleeping peacefully before homeroom as she wasted away in this church. There was only one culprit who would mock her despite the decaying scent of death lingering. “I’m not in the mood today, Spike. I’m going to fail an important test, broke the heel of favorite pair of jimmy choos, and I don’t want to hear your generic british drawl or whatever. So leave before I poke your back with something phallic in shape but not in the fun way.”  Her word bounded off the decrepit archway of the abandoned church. The irony of such holy ground being yet another den of festering evil in the center of town. Sunnydale just couldn’t help but break the flaking mold of hypocrisy. Buffy forced herself up to behold the silhouette of that vexed her dreams.

“...angel.”    

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