Buffy moved through the cemetery with purposeful strides, though her thoughts were anything but focused. The amulet, pressed against her thigh, seemed alive—its warmth pulsing faintly, tugging at emotions she didn’t want to name. She needed space to breathe, to think. But just as she reached a shadowed corner, a familiar voice sliced through the stillness.
“Well, look who’s out for a midnight stroll,” Faith drawled, stepping out from behind a crypt. She leaned casually against the cold stone, arms crossed, her smirk both teasing and razor-sharp. “Sunnydale’s golden girl, all dressed up and looking… edgy. What’s the matter, B? Graveyard giving you the creeps?”
Buffy stopped short, stiffening at Faith’s tone. “Faith,” she said, her voice tightly controlled. “Not now.”
“Oh, now I really have to know.” Faith straightened, her eyes sweeping over Buffy, missing nothing. “You look… off. Flustered, maybe?” She grinned, taking slow, deliberate steps forward. “Not like you, B. Usually, you’ve got that whole ice queen thing locked down.”
Buffy’s jaw tightened, her cheeks warming despite herself. “I’m fine. Just… thinking.”
“Uh-huh.” Faith’s gaze lingered, her smirk widening as she stopped just close enough to make Buffy’s skin prickle. “And I’m just patrolling. Come on, B, I know that look. You’ve got something rattling around up there. Or maybe…” Her eyes flicked lower, to where Buffy’s hand brushed her hip. “…you’re feeling the burn from that shiny little accessory you picked up. Guess it’s not just for show.”
Buffy’s fingers curled into fists, the heat from the amulet flaring like a betrayal. “It’s just… a weird artifact. A Slayer’s life comes with plenty of cursed trinkets, remember?”
“Sure,” Faith said, her tone skeptical but amused. She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “But most of those don’t leave you looking like you’re two seconds away from losing it. Maybe this one’s different. Maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s giving you a taste of something you didn’t even know you were missing.”
Buffy’s breath hitched, the warmth of the amulet flaring in time with Faith’s words. She swallowed hard, refusing to meet her gaze. “Not all of us like playing with fire, Faith.”
Faith chuckled, the sound low and unapologetic. “Nah, you’re just scared you might like it.” The edge in her smirk softened, something flickering in her expression—concern, maybe? But it was gone too fast to name. “Relax, B. I’m not here to spook you. Just thought you’d wanna know, Giles and Wes are getting all twitchy about this Vortrekh guy. Apparently, he’s big-time bad news. Like, ‘Mayor’s evil twin’ level bad.”
She shrugged, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “If that thing you’re packing is part of the deal, maybe you should clue them in. Hate to think you’re keeping secrets if it’s, y’know, important.”
Buffy forced herself to wave a hand dismissively, her tone deliberately flat. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s just an old piece of junk with a little magic hum.”
Faith tilted her head, watching her for a beat too long, her smirk returning with a sly twist. “Sure, B. But it’s just… funny. You don’t usually keep the spooky stuff under wraps. Just remember, if that thing’s got a hold on you…” She leaned back, her grin widening. “I’m here for backup.”
Buffy managed a laugh, though it sounded hollow to her own ears. “Duly noted. But trust me, this is nothing.”
Faith’s chuckle was quieter this time, almost an acknowledgment. She stepped back, her eyes never leaving Buffy’s, and the smirk faded just enough to let something softer peek through.
“Anyway,” Faith said, her voice breezy again, “guess I’ll leave you to your deep, broody thoughts. Looks like you’ve got plenty to keep you company tonight.” She started to turn, then hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder. “But hey, B… whatever’s got you all twisted up? Just don’t let it eat you alive. You’re no good to anyone if you’re too busy fighting yourself.”
The words landed heavier than Buffy expected, slipping under her armor before she could stop them.
“Faith, I—” Buffy started, but Faith cut her off with a wave of her hand and a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Don’t sweat it,” Faith said, her tone light, dismissive—but there was something else in her gaze, something that lingered. “You know where to find me if you need a hand—or a sparring partner.”
With that, she turned and sauntered off, her movements confident, though Buffy thought she caught the faintest hesitation in her step before the darkness swallowed her whole.
Buffy exhaled, her breath misting in the cool night air. Her fingers brushed the amulet in her pocket, its heat thrumming like a second heartbeat. Faith’s words stayed with her, stirring something deep and unfamiliar. Something she wasn’t ready to face.
“Get a grip, Summers,” she muttered, dragging her hand away from the trinket. But even as she moved deeper into the cemetery, her focus on the night’s patrol wavered. Faith’s voice lingered in her mind, mingling with the steady hum of warmth against her thigh. It’s just a trinket, she told herself. Just another Slayer artifact. Nothing I can’t handle.
But deep down, she knew better. The amulet wasn’t just another piece of magic. Not after what it had stirred in her. Not after what it made her confront.
Her jaw tightened as her steps slowed. It wasn’t like the amulet was controlling her, and she wasn’t naive enough to think otherwise. No, the unsettling truth was that the amulet didn’t force anything on her at all. It only coaxed out what was already there—urges, feelings, longings she’d buried so deeply they barely felt like hers anymore.
The warmth spread through her again, subtle but insistent, and she let out a frustrated breath. Control. That’s the point. That’s the job. As the Slayer, she was supposed to be the steady one, the focused one. The one who didn’t crack, no matter what came at her. Control is what keeps me alive. It’s what keeps everyone else alive.
That was why she had to be so careful, why she couldn’t let herself slip. People like Faith called her uptight, mocked her for not cutting loose, but Faith didn’t get it. Faith, despite being a Slayer herself, didn’t carry the weight of a destiny that constantly demanded more, that twisted her choices and forced her down paths she never asked for. Or did she? Buffy hesitated. Faith dealt with her lot in life so differently. Who’s to say Faith’s devil-may-care attitude is worse? Maybe it’s just… different.
Buffy clung to her self-control because it was the one thing that was hers. The only thing in a life where so little was truly her own.
And yet… Buffy stopped walking, her hand brushing against her thigh. And yet. The amulet’s pull wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t some external force taking over. It was her. It was her—pieces of herself she’d kept locked away for years. It didn’t demand; it invited. And that was the scariest part.
Her cheeks flushed as a memory flared in her mind—the last time she’d been alone, when the amulet’s heat had built so steadily it was all she could think about. She could still feel the relief, the way she’d let herself give in, her hands sliding over her own skin, her breath catching as she let the tension spill over. And for a moment, just a moment, she’d felt like herself. Not the Slayer, not the protector, but Buffy. Just Buffy.
And then the guilt had come rushing back in. It always did. Because what kind of hero couldn’t keep herself together? What kind of Slayer needed to slip away and indulge these feelings while people were counting on her?
Her fingers twitched at the memory, brushing the edge of her pocket. She pulled her hand back sharply, wrapping it into a fist. “No,” she whispered, forcing the word out like a mantra. This is what happens when you lose focus. You can’t let it win.
But as she started walking again, her thoughts strayed. She couldn’t ignore how heavy this year had been—the constant fights, the relentless losses, the way everyone always looked to her for answers she didn’t have. Being the Slayer meant being the hero, but that didn’t leave room for much else. She’d learned to shove her feelings aside, to wear her control like armor. It was how she survived. How she kept going.
And now, here was this stupid little piece of magic, brushing against her skin and coaxing out parts of herself she’d almost forgotten existed. Feelings that were hers. Needs that were hers. And even though it scared her, even though it infuriated her, there was something intoxicating about it too. The amulet wasn’t just a distraction. It was a reminder that there was more to her than what the world demanded her to be.
She stopped again, her breath hitching as Faith’s words came back to her. Whatever’s got you all twisted up… don’t let it eat you alive.
Buffy swallowed hard. Twisted up. That’s exactly how she felt. She was still in control—she knew she was. But maybe control wasn’t as simple as she’d always believed. Maybe part of her didn’t want to fight so hard against the feelings the amulet stirred. Maybe part of her wanted to let go.
She shook her head, forcing her legs to move. “It’s fine,” she muttered, though her voice barely carried in the still air. “I’m fine. I can handle this.”
But the warmth thrumming against her thigh said otherwise. And as she disappeared into the shadows of the cemetery, her fists clenched and her resolve tightened, the truth whispered through her like a confession she wasn’t ready to make. It’s not the amulet, Buffy. It’s you.
It was humiliating, knowing she’d let herself get dragged into its hold, feeling things she could barely explain to herself, let alone to Giles or her friends. Just imagining Giles’s expression if he found out what the amulet was doing to her made her stomach twist. She could already hear his voice, that cautious, “Buffy, you should have told us about this sooner,” and Willow’s worried frown. The thought of them knowing she had to—needed to—slip away and take care of things left her mortified.
“If Giles or Willow knew…” She shook her head, shuddering. No, that wasn’t going to happen. No one was going to find out about this. She’d handle it on her own, whatever it took. Because the alternative—her friends knowing what it had reduced her to—was unthinkable.
And yet, as she clenched her fists, trying to focus, the warmth of the amulet pulsed against her thigh, radiating toward her groin, soft and steady, an insistent reminder that it was far from done with her.
Buffy hurried through the cemetery, her heart pounding as the amulet’s warmth pulsed insistently. She was still reeling from Faith’s earlier remarks, feeling more unsettled than ever. Her cheeks flushed, her thoughts scattered—embarrassment driving her to seek privacy before she completely lost control of herself.
Finally, she spotted a dense stand of trees, the shadows and branches offering a secluded place to stop and try to regain some sense of composure. Buffy ducked behind the largest tree, leaning her back against the rough bark and letting out a shaky breath. Her fingers brushed over the amulet’s cool surface, feeling the strange warmth rise through her again.
She glanced around one last time, reassuring herself that she was alone. Then, with a resigned sigh, she slid down into a crouch, positioning herself behind the tree trunk for maximum cover. She closed her eyes, hesitating, her fingers resting on the button of her jeans. The pull of the amulet was overpowering now, each heartbeat making it harder to ignore.
Swallowing her pride, she finally unbuttoned her jeans, leaning her head back against the tree as she hooked her thumbs underneath her panties and drew them down over her hips along with her jeans, just enough to feel some of the cool night air on her exposed throbbing vulva.
The feeling brought instant relief, and she took a steadying breath, focusing on calming herself before doing what she knew she had to do.
But just as she mustered the courage, she felt a prickle of awareness—a familiar tingle at the back of her neck that snapped her back to reality. Her eyes flew open, and her stomach twisted as she saw a small figure standing just beyond the edge of the trees, its wide, glowing eyes fixed on her, watching with unsettling intensity.
Buffy’s cheeks flushed a deep red as she scrambled to pull her jeans back up, fumbling with the zipper in her haste. She pushed herself to her feet, straightening her clothes, her heart racing. “Are you… actually kidding me?” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the demon. “Did you actually… Were you watching the whole time?”
The demon’s grin stretched wider, twisted with smug amusement. “Ah… an opportune moment, Slayer. A rare sight, even for me.” Its gaze dipped briefly, its tone oozing mockery. “You truly are perfectly formed in every way, aren’t you? Quite the specimen. No wonder my master is so captivated.”
Buffy’s face burned, her mortification so fierce it almost drowned out the amulet’s maddening pulse. For a moment, she was frozen in place, the full weight of what the demon might have seen sinking in. Her puss… She couldn’t even complete the thought. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her voice sharp and biting as she stepped forward. “Wow. Dream come true. Nothing makes a girl’s night like being spied on by a walking slimeball.” Her glare cut through her embarrassment, though her cheeks betrayed her. “So? You enjoy the show?”
The demon tilted its head, clearly savoring her discomfort. Its dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “My master thought you might require… guidance,” it purred, its gaze lingering far too long for her liking. “It seems his gift has left quite an impression. Or am I mistaken?”
Buffy’s stomach churned as the amulet pulsed again—a steady, maddening beat against her skin. She gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to squirm. “Tell him his ‘gift’ is about as welcome as food poisoning,” she snapped, her voice sharp with sarcasm. “And if he thinks I’m going to join his creepy little fan club, he’s seriously overestimating his charm.”
The demon chuckled softly, its gaze still fixed on her, delighting in every flicker of her unease. “Resist if you wish, Slayer, but you can’t hide from him. He already knows your struggles… your desires.” Its voice deepened, thick with insinuation. “The amulet’s heat, the pull you feel… it draws him closer with every beat.”
Buffy’s fists clenched, a mix of anger and shame bubbling up. Her mind raced with thoughts of staking this smug creature and ending the humiliation here and now. She stepped closer, her voice low and deadly. “You know, I could just kill you. Right here, right now. Make sure there’s no one left to talk about what you think you saw.”
For a moment, the demon’s smile faltered, but its composure returned quickly, a low chuckle escaping its throat. “Destroying me will not sever his bond. Vortrekh already holds you close, Slayer. The more you fight, the deeper his hold grows.”
Buffy forced herself to breathe, the heat flaring again, a frustrating reminder of her current situation. Her voice sharpened with sarcasm. “Let me guess. This is the part where you tell me to roll over and ‘accept’ his oh-so-generous ‘gift,’ right? Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll just take all this lying down.”
The demon’s laughter rang out again, echoing against the gravestones. “Acceptance is not required, Slayer. You already carry him within you. The connection grows stronger whether you deny it or not.”
Buffy’s face burned hotter, the demon’s words pressing uncomfortably close to the truth. But she refused to falter, squaring her shoulders as she stared it down. “Tell Vortrekh this,” she said coldly. “I’m done with his ‘gift.’ And if he thinks I’m going to be his next trophy, he’s in for a rude awakening.”
The demon’s smile widened again, as if her defiance was exactly what it expected. Without another word, it dissolved into the shadows, leaving her alone.
As soon as it vanished, Buffy exhaled shakily, leaning against a nearby gravestone. Her heart pounded, her body still buzzing with the amulet’s pull. There was no way she could focus now, not with everything the encounter had stirred up. Her gaze darted toward the trees beyond the cemetery, her mind scrambling for a solution.
“Nope,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “Not here. Not now.”
Gritting her teeth, she pushed off the gravestone, her steps quickening as she headed toward home. A hot shower—and a locked door—suddenly seemed like the only viable plan.