#BTVS AU

[sunny-rants]

Yellowjackets Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU. did you hear me I said Yellowjackets Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU!!!

[jadedloverart]

The chosen one, the hero, the sacrificial lamb... She who fights like the sun against the forces of darkness.

She understands that with the power to affect change comes an obligation to those who cannot; that girlhood is forfeit in the balancing of lives.

She knows that without something to fight for, this world will eat her alive, and so she loves- she loves like a bird loves the Dawn, even when she no longer recognizes herself without gazing into the mirror of her friends.

Pt. 2 of this BTVS AU

Pt. 1

[jeskerthefool]

what if. Buffy the vampire slayer human au (for now)

[emryses]

opened the btvs steddie for for the first time in a while.

[quietblueriver]

Hit with sudden inspiration, so here's a little Avatrice Buffy AU. Now with a part two.

Now with more that can be found here.

--

It’s a trap.

Of course it is. She knows better than to do this. She has made it as long as she has as a slayer by knowing better than to do this.

It was irresponsible, and, she thinks, as she watches two more demons emerge from behind a shelving unit halfway down the warehouse, their knives glinting in the low light, now she’s going to die.

It won’t be the first time.

She hadn’t known any better, then. Had been overconfident and followed her instincts all the way to the bottom of the pool in the school gymnasium, red swirls dancing in her fading vision as she sank. She’d used the last of her strength to bend her knees and press against the bottom, weak but something, enough to get her high enough to hook an arm over a rung of the ladder before she lost consciousness, gasping for air and finding only water and the taste of iron and chlorine.

She woke up heaving and coughing to the impassive face of Suzanne Superion, who moved Beatrice’s own hand to the gauze she’d applied to the wound on her neck before standing and brushing her hands over the fabric of still perfectly-pleated pants.

A grimace. A murmur: “I just had these dry-cleaned.”

Beatrice pushed herself up from the clammy tiles, the sucking sound of her wet cotton shirt pulling free of the floor unnaturally loud without the cover of whistles and shouting and water displaced by the clumsy strokes of her peers.

She swayed slightly, felt Superion’s critical eyes on her until she stabilized. She turned, then, and Beatrice followed, slowed by blood loss and the particularly awful feeling of wet socks squishing in her wet trainers with every step. Superion did not slow for her, calling out over her shoulder, “This is why you should listen to me.”

She should have listened. To be fair, though, she had seen a vampire carrying a screaming child into the gym. Only two weeks in, she didn’t yet have the instincts to understand that the child was a vampire, too.

Beatrice is not generally particularly kind to herself, but she thinks she made an understandable decision at the time.

Tonight, though, she had merely been reckless. A moment. But she knows better than anyone that that’s all it takes.

She’s backed into a corner now, a dozen vampires and demons congratulating each other and sneering at her as she takes stock. They haven’t attacked her yet, despite their numbers, and they’re excited about something. She’s already heard a ritual mentioned in three different languages. Also, blood.

This makes sense given the symbol chalked into the floor nearby—a resurrection spell, if she had to guess, although she can only get a partial view. Most of it is obscured by the jostling bodies of a vampire—most likely newly turned, if his too-bright eyes and muddy shoes are anything to go by—and a Liliiad demon. His face, like all Lilliad faces, looks a bit like a half-melted candle, and she’s unsettled, as always, by its ability to convey its hatred so clearly through gray, blurred features.

A ritual with the slayer’s blood, then. Another one. Far from the first time they’ve tried something like this, although they’ve finally managed to catch her off guard.

She’s well and truly alone, off the trail of her prescribed patrol path, and she has the stake in her hand, the cross on her neck, and her knives. At least she has her knives.

A figure steps forward, tall and broad and dressed in red robes, his face shielded by his hood. Next to him stands the reason Beatrice entered this warehouse in the first place.

His demeanor now is a stark contrast to what it had been an hour ago, his shaking hands and disheveled hair and breaking voice.

“They slipped away,” he’d said. “The same group that got Shannon. Three of them.”

She hadn’t asked any questions. A rookie mistake, letting emotion guide her.

She thinks of the night she found Shannon on the library floor, the crack in Superion’s ever-present armor as she recognized her friend’s broken body. She thinks, very seriously, about using one of her knives to kill him, but she’s not ready to escalate, and he’s not worth wasting whatever chance she might have.

And, of course, she knows that whatever happens here, Superion will figure him out and he will pay. For Shannon, and, maybe, for her.

“Beatrice.”

She says nothing, and Vincent sighs.

“Very well.” His eyes turn to the face of the robed figure. “I’m going to the tomb. You know what to do.”

He steps back through the circle of demons and walks toward the exit. She hears the groan of one of the warehouse doors opening as the robed figure takes another step toward her.

Her fingers move for a moment to the scar on her neck and then she breathes, steady, lets her senses expand, shifts her stance.

She is the slayer. She will not go down easily.

And she doesn’t. The person or demon or creature coming toward her is slow, fumbles when she dodges, and she has somehow caught the rest of them off guard. Two quick stakes and three knives gone and she’s opening up the circle, taking full advantage of their characteristic lack of organization.

Something takes out her knee and she collapses, breath taken out of her when she hits the floor. A shadow, and a boot comes down on her knee with a sickening crunch. She cries out and closes her eyes, only for a moment, before catching herself.

She opens them to the face of the robed figure, hood now pushed back to reveal the raised planes of his vampire form, bright blonde hair and blue eyes and a predatory gaze. He rests his boot on her chest as she tries to think through the pain, moving from thoughts of escape to thoughts of sabotage. They may kill her but she’ll be damned if they use her blood to raise whatever godforsaken creature brought them all here.

“If we didn’t need all of your blood to raise our Lord, little girl, I would rip your throat open right now and have a little taste. I’ve heard slayer blood brings a real high.”

She has had more demonic creatures than she can count tell her that they’d love to rip her throat open. It’s nothing new. But the feeling of satisfaction that comes over her at his words is—he’s given her the information she needs.

She can’t run. Slayers heal quickly, but not that quickly.

But she has a knife left, and he’ll have to carry her or drag her. Plenty of time for her to bleed before he can get her to the symbol. An easy cut to the brachial artery. Her clothes are dark, and she can be quiet. He won’t realize until it’s too late.

The knife is in her boot, but when he moves to drag her, she can…

Before she can finish the thought, there’s an explosion at the symbol, heat from a raging fire reaching Beatrice’s face, and she watches as the vampire above her turns his face to the commotion. In the same moment, a stake lodges itself in his chest, and she hears his final scream of rage and confusion as the boot on her chest crumbles to ash.

A new figure looms. Small. Familiar. And Beatrice feels a new kind of pain as she’s offered a hand and a crooked smile.

“Sup, Bea? Sorry I’m late to the party.”

[patchodraws]

Ya see, Mac Coyle was supposed to die at 16.

The cancer had rendered her nearly immobile, done such a massive fucking number on her brain that she could hardly count to ten anymore. Half the time, her veins were pumping painkillers instead of blood through her body. She’d been made a husk of the fiery, fierce girl she’d so bravely decided to be for the past five years.

A week later, when KJ went in to check up on her, she was gone. Her heart had plummeted in that instant, any semblance of warmth in her body disintegrated by the painfully unsudden shock of Max finally being gone — and it had all been undone, replaced, moments later when the nurse told her she’d been sent him after a literally miraculous recovery.

Mac had kept quiet about the whole affair when she met her for milkshakes the next afternoon. Completely barring KJ’s hurt that her supposed best friend — the girl she’d spent the last three years pining after all while knowing more and more that she could never have — couldn’t even phone her up to tell her she’d been released, Mac seemed distracted. Distant. Unfocused. KJ had to remind her to even drink her shake every now and then, as opposed to every other time when she’d have to playfully reprimand her for stealing sips when she’d though KJ wasn’t looking.

“I wish I could tell you,” Mac had said as if her seemingly magical recovery wasn’t beyond all reason, “but I’m back now. I’m better. Cancer’s gone.”

“And you never said anything because…?”

KJ’s question had gone unanswered all night. Mac deflected her inquiries, or got notably short with the prodding, and managed to entirely silence KJ into confused and bitter acceptance that her best friend was alive, and she was never going to know why.

The silent they’d stewed in lasted until sundown, and it had done its work grinding KJ’s patience down to dust. Mac hadn’t even half finished her shake by the time KJ stood up and, with a betrayed scowl damming any scathing, choice words, strode back to her car—

And that was when it attacked.

It, because KJ had absolutely no clue what to call that thing, other than definitively not human. Some part of her mind, quiet and distant, seemed to want to ping in recognition of it, but a second glance at the twisted mockery of a young woman with burning yellow eyes tamped down on that thought in an instant. Whatever she was facing, she’d never seen anything like it, and as it approached with bared fangs and a bestial snarl, she feared it might actually be the last thing she saw.

Instead, what she saw was the woman go stiff, accompanied by the sound of flesh being pierced and bone being split; a second later, and she was gone, blown into the evening wind as dust, revealing in her place Mac.

KJ panted in panic, in shock, in disbelief, as Mac flipped a pointed wooden stick in her palm before hastily shoving it into her jacket pocket. “You alright, Kaje?”

“What was that?” KJ asked, her voice wobbling, before her wide stare trained back to Mac. “What are you?”

Mac shrugged. “Cats out of the bag, I guess. I’m the fucking Slayer.”

[boopsterliv]

So I have an au where Kendra stays in Sunnydale, dies for a bit when Angel loses his soul, and then Faith shows up. So Jenny and Giles have basically adopted three teenaged girls with super strength

(It’s also Powerpuff Girls themed, Buffy is Blossom, Faith is Buttercup, and Kendra is Bubbles)

[thepunkmuppet]

so I was thinking about the Key plotline as I often do, and the line “the monks made her out of me” is suddenly really interesting to me.

obviously what this means is that they made dawn’s body to have the DNA of joyce and hank, hence her being buffy’s sister and having the same DNA as buffy (“summers blood”). but like imagine taking that line literally.

“the monks made her out of me.” buffy has an identical twin.

obviously they didn’t do this because 1, they wanted a younger character to be in peril and provide variety in the cast, 2, having your lead actor play two characters would probably be much too much for them, and 3, the cost of having sarah play two characters and having to use split screen and doubles and stuff with the limited cgi of the time would just be too much. (dopplegangland was great but they probably couldn’t feasibly do that every episode for three whole seasons)

but just the concept of it is so interesting to me. this twin literally has buffy’s face, buffy’s voice, buffy’s body. but she’s not the slayer. dawn has to deal with being in the shadow of her slayer sister all the time, but the added strain of looking exactly like her and being the same age as her would just be so heartbreaking and interesting to explore.

I also think the impact of the reveal would just slap more. oh my god there’s two buffy’s!?!?!! oh my god buffy has a twin all of a sudden?!?!!!? there would also just be another level of angst, with buffy feeling violated that the monks just made another version of her and essentially used her body, and with the twin feeling like an afterthought, a duplicate, an impostor, etc.

plus them being twins would emphasise their bond more, as twins are supposed to have a really close and special relationship for obvious reasons. the monks made dawn so that buffy would protect her - the two of them having a strong twin bond and remembering a life of growing up doing everything together would really help with that!

also also I just love the idea that if the buffybot still got made, then at one point there would be three buffy’s but only one of them would actually be buffy. absolutely hilarious to me, smg would be working some serious overtime!!

I just love this concept and I might write it as a fic if I can come up with an actual plot. can any of you think of any names for this twin? or would she still be called dawn (what with the whole symbolism of the sun coming up in the gift, the foreshadowing, etc.) if you come up with any more ideas or discussion points about this au please lmk in comments/reblogs/asks etc, I’m obsessed with this idea and I need to talk about it!!!!

[dalgursbate]

of street names & subway wall prophecies (2/?)

Summary: So picture this: it’s 3:36 in the morning and she's lying on the roof of her high-rise apartment building, twenty six stories of steel and glass raising her into the sky like an offering. The shitty, thin beach towel under her is the only thing protecting her shoulders from the rough concrete. To her right is a boy who is not really a boy, but an animal in a boy disguise that isn’t even all that convincing. They’re not looking at each other, both content to stare at the few stubborn constellations that shine in spite of the light pollution. Picture this: it’s 3:36 in the morning and she is stargazing with a creature she's meant to kill. It’s 3:37 in the morning and he just lit her cigarette for her. Yeah, Shadowheart has given up trying to make sense of anything these days. — Shadowheart and Astarion & the million ways they try to outrun the inevitable. (aka the bg3/buffy crossover event i've decided needs to exist)

Pairing: M/F, M/M Shadowheart/Astarion, Astarion/Original Male Character (background)

WC: 11,865

Rating: M (for now)

CW: trauma (including sexual trauma, childhood trauma, etc.), mentions of abuse of all kinds, violence typical of both canons, mental health etc. etc. Mind the tags.

[bisexual-steveharrington]

I just don't think fandoms are utilising btvs AUs like they should be

[doesimmons]

So my life has been a little hectic lately, and my relationship with my art has been a little love-hatish...but have some SUPER lazy BTVS AU FitzSimmons doodles I made the other day. Ft. me getting distracted and literally forgetting what dialogue I was going to add. The words were not wording and I don't care anymore! (What if I stopped attempting to make very polished work for a while and did silly self-indulgent doodles forever? I think everyone would be so much happier. Mostly me.)

Additional pre-vampirification Fitzy because the thought of that poor boy being killed and turned evil makes my heart hurt and you all need to think about it as well.

[jadedloverart]

A BTVS AU bouncing around in my head.

Lena as Faith makes a lot of sense in my head. Another young warrior stripped of innocence, who just wants to be good and to do good- to rise above the circumstances of her given company.

Alas, achieving "goodness" is a sisyphean task. One that every person fails with enough time, leaving those who abide by the compass to ask, "What is the difference between the monsters and me?"

With none to answer the question, the warrior is left to her own understanding.

Of course Lena would get the sexy knife... Except her redemption arc would be much quicker and far gayer.

Pt. 2

[thinkingabouttheimplications]

In a hatchetfield btvs au, Miss Holloway totally would be an ensouled vampire very similar to Angel. Imagine the angst potential??? Especially with Holloweane with Duke as a watcher.

[emryses]

love bites

Rating: Teen Wordcount: ~4k Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fusion, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Vampire Eddie Munson, Enemies to Lovers

EXCERPT / READ ON AO3:

There’s a leak somewhere in this abandoned church, the drip, drip, drip is incessant and it’s driving Steve nuts.

He’s been doing this thing with Nancy for two years now and he’s still not used to it all, the chilly drafts, the abandoned places and the dark passage ways he’s forced to occupy.

At least he has snacks. That’s something. He cracks open a pop can with a hiss to have with the bag of chips he had ripped open not too long ago.

“Come on dude,” Eddie whines from the chair he’s strapped to in the center of the church. He kicks his feet out like a child. Steve’s sitting on one of the pews in front of him. “That’s not fucking fair.”

“You can’t even eat this shit,” Steve throws back at him, mouth full.

“Yes I can. I eat human food all the time!” Eddie says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “That cannot possibly be good for you.”

“Tell that to the lactose intolerants of the world.”

Steve glares at him and takes the opportunity to eat a chip with an obnoxious crunch, smacking his lips as he does it and then taking a long swig of the can he just opened. The lingering coldness of the drink is only due to the chill air in the church. They’ve been sitting here for what feels like hours, and he’s probably not far off. Steve knew this mission would probably take a while, that’s why Nancy, Robin and Jonathan had left him with so many snacks. Nancy also left him his homework, but there’s no point in even cracking that open. The school has already told him he’s going to have to repeat his senior year, no matter what he does.

That doesn’t matter right now, though. The only thing that matters is that Eddie doesn’t escape from the ties they put him in, and that Nancy and the others are able to finally dust the One. Steve’s only job is to keep Eddie where he is, and watch to make sure he doesn’t go back on his word of helping them defeat the One.

“All I’m saying is I don’t think it’s fair that you got all these little snacks and I just have to sit here,” Eddie continues. He shakes his head, letting his hair settle back behind his shoulders. “Kind of rude of your friends not to leave a single thing for me.”

“They like me significantly better than they like you,” Steve replies with a sneer.

“If they like you so much why’d they leave you here with me? I was called Edward the Bloody for a reason you know.” Eddie has a grin on his face, the same stupid grin he’s had on for hours, distracting Steve.

Eddie has been doing nothing but distracting Steve the entire time they’ve been here. Asking stupid questions, singing stupid songs, complaining that he was hungry and thirsty, and it’s been driving Steve absolutely up the wall. He cannot believe he’s here babysitting a vampire while his friends get to save the world.

[quietblueriver]

Part III of the BTVS au because why not. Jumping around in time; this is before the first and second parts. Rest of the ficlets can be found here.

Some Mary + Beatrice + Camila friendship time.

-

Mary slides onto the bench across from her at lunch and stares, unrelenting and silent. She steals one fry and then another from Beatrice’s lunch tray, dipping them into honey mustard she had brought herself (clearly prepared to be a thief) without even looking down. As the silence continues, she keeps this up, alternating her sauce with Beatrice’s ketchup, entirely unapologetic.

Beatrice ignores her, focuses on her plain chicken sandwich, which is as bland as always but better than any of the other culinary adventures available to her in the lunch line that day. She had learned quickly that flavorless is always the safest option.

They could do this all period. They sometimes eat lunch silently together anyway, both of them grateful for the brief respite from social expectation. Today, though, the silence is more predatory than companionable, and Beatrice refuses to be the prey.

It’s Camila who breaks their standoff, sliding in next to Mary and saying, around one of Beatrice’s fries (a pair of thieves), “So?”

There’s a moment where she considers playing dumb, but maybe the direct approach will end the conversation sooner.

“Her name is Ava Silva. Superion confirmed that she is also a violinist.”

“I thought there was only supposed to be one.”

Mary’s done with silence, it seems, leaning forward so that her forearms brace on the picnic table. She grimaces as a stray drop of ketchup smudges her skin, wiping it away and then checking the sleeves of her hoodie, rolled up to her elbows, for damage.

“Maybe you wouldn’t spill ketchup if you didn’t have to travel so far with your fries.”

Mary, defiant, steals another fry and the small cup of ketchup, moving it to her own tray.

“You’re right. I’ll bring my own next time. Now, answer my question.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

Camila sighs, giving both of them chastising looks.

“Isn’t there only supposed to be one violinist?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s you.”

“Yes.”

Two sets of expectant eyes. She takes a bite of her sandwich to buy herself some time. It remains almost impressively unseasoned.

It also gives Camila an opportunity to reach a conclusion Beatrice was attempting to avoid.

“Unless you die.”

All violinist pretext is now gone, Camila’s tone dull in a way it never is. She looks simultaneously like she might cry and also kill Beatrice (again). Mary’s arms flex on the table as she leans even further forward, eyes searching and mouth pulled tight.

“Something you need to tell us, Beatrice?”

Beatrice wipes the corner of her mouth, takes a sip of her water, and says, as though she’s updating them on her weekend, “There was an incident a few months ago, just after I started. I’m fine now.”

“An incident?”

“You died?”

They know better than to yell—Beatrice sees both of their eyes do an instinctive population check of the courtyard—but having them hiss at her is almost worse. She flinches, rubs without thinking at the scar on her neck, and Mary catches it, instincts excellent as always.

“You said it caught you off guard. You said it was nothing to worry over.” She’s using her worst British accent now, which means Beatrice is well and truly in trouble. “You failed to mention that it,” she waves her hand at Beatrice’s neck, half-standing in her distress, “killed you.”

“It didn’t.”

It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it, Mary’s growing concern and Camila’s silent tears enough of a distraction that her normally excellent filter malfunctions.

“Oh?” Camila is wiping her eyes with a used cafeteria napkin, rough brown paper pressed to delicate skin, Mary’s dab of ketchup now smearing on her ring finger. Beatrice hands her a clean napkin and she takes it, wobbles a smile and then catches herself, frowns again, and deeply, at Beatrice. “So you didn’t die?”

“No, I…” Beatrice bites at her thumbnail, immediately hears her mother’s chastising voice. “I did, but it wasn’t…” She rubs at her neck again, sighs. She feels like a coward as she stares down at the pitiful half-leaf of lettuce that has escaped her sandwich bun, tells it quietly, “I drowned.”

Silence. Silence, and it’s somehow worse than a dressing down from Mary or a disappointed speech about “friends supporting friends” from Camila. When she raises her eyes again, Camila is crying, harder now, and Mary looks as though she might give Beatrice back her fries, clammy and fully seated again, slumped forward and blinking.

She isn’t sure what to do. She loves them. They’re the first real friends she has ever had, and she’s not very good at any of this. She wants them to feel better, but she doesn’t want to lie, and there is not much to be done about the reality of it: she died. She drowned, and while she made a conscious decision, with Superion’s agreement, to keep that from them, Ava Silva had wrecked her plans.

It’s at least the third time Ava has done this in the two and a half days Beatrice has known her, and she’s more than certain it won’t be the last.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you. Superion revived me, and I learned my lesson.”

This does not appear to have the effect Beatrice had hoped, as Mary scoffs and Camila sniffles harder.

“It won’t…”

She wants to tell them that it won’t happen again. She is fairly sure she’d be lying. She has, after a few months of reading slayer and watcher journals, an understanding of the average lifespan of a slayer, even a very careful one.

“I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, mortifyingly, Beatrice is crying. They’re quiet tears, but tears nonetheless, and she fumbles for another napkin, turning her head and wiping them. She takes a few deep breaths, centering herself, and when she turns back, Camila and Mary are looking at each other, having some kind of conversation that she can’t yet understand, may never understand.

Two heads swivel nearly in unison toward her. Camila’s eyes are red but she’s no longer crying, the wadded up napkin now being torn apart in her hands.

Mary says, solemn, “You have to tell us things, Beatrice. That’s part of the being friends deal. Even hard things.”

Beatrice exhales, shakily, and feels embarrassed, knows the hot flush of her cheeks must be giving her away. It softens Mary, though, and she leans forward with Camila, each landing on a forearm, warm through the fabric of Beatrice’s sweater.

“We love you.” This from Camila, smiling, and Mary picks up, easily, “Even when you’re being an idiot.” Beatrice snorts but says, forcing herself to look at them, “Thank you. I’m not very good at this, at being…at friendship, but I’m…I’m trying.”

“You’re good at it!” Camila protests, and Mary nods, affirms, as she steals another fry, “This shit’s hard. You’ll probably have to yell at me for being all weird and withholding at some point, too.”

She takes her ketchup back, what’s left of it, and Mary grins.

“So. Tell us about Ava Silva.”

[vampstaubrey]

i think about a btvs au of pitch perfect too much.. and i wanna write it up (mostly slayer!aubrey x vampire!stacie) but also,, idk how much of that i can get out of my own brain. i also kinda just wanna rp it idek