Evil_Alternate_Universe
patreon
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Lucky Day (Part 2)
🕑 Added 2021-09-17 01:32:20 +0000 UTCDylan stiffened with fear. The Glaberetch demon was waking up.
He craned his neck to the side to see through the hole in the wall, watching as the creature flailed, trying to rise but trapped in the wreckage of the air conditioning unit.
“Nrghh…” the Glaberetch grunted, kicking its feet and grasping with its arms, “Unnghh…”
Suddenly pale, heart pounding for a new reason, Dylan cursed and threw himself off Buffy to get out of sight. He fell to the floor, scrambled to his feet, scattering much of the gear he’d pulled out of his pack in the process, then stumbled towards the kitchen. Once well away from the hole, he dropped down and pressed himself against a cabinet, hugging his knees to his chest and becoming as small as possible.
More cursing came from the demon, then a crunch and a groan of metal as the creature began attacking the AC unit in frustration. There was a crash of breaking glass as a larger piece was thrown through the window of a nearby house, then more, louder cursing. The AC unit didn’t sound like it was going to last long.
“Shit… shit shit…” Dylan gasped, deciding to hide.
He turned around and yanked open one of the lower cabinets, staring inside. It would be tight and the pipe from the sink would be digging into his back, but he would fit. On the other hand, he could already imagine trapping himself inside, then waiting in the dark until the demon yanked the little door open and reached for him.
He licked his lips, whimpered, then turned around to wedge himself in back first. He sat inside and pushed with his feet until his back hit the pipe, then tucked his knees to his chest and prepared to close the door behind him.
He stopped when his eyes fell on Buffy.
She was lying on her chest, utterly still, peacefully, even innocently sleeping. Vulnerable, helpless, ripe for the taking.
Perhaps he didn’t like the idea of a pretty girl being killed by a demon. It could have been the lust still coursing through him, his one taste of dominance adding a bit more steel to his spine. Whatever the case, he swallowed and made a decision: he’d come this far and he wasn’t going to let his chance escape him. He wouldn’t just let some demon eat her while he was so close to getting what he’d fantasized about so many nights.
As the demon yelled, accompanied by a shriek of metal and a sound like a giant spring, Dylan scrambled back out of the cabinet. He scraped his back on the way, but ignored it, panting as he ran over to his unconscious prize.
Once standing over her, Dylan danced with nervous energy, hesitating for several seconds. He hadn’t planned how he was going to hide them both or even how he would move her. Now his intelligence got in his own way, several elaborate plans coming to mind that he instinctively worked through step by step when he should have been acting.
There was another crunch followed by a surprised cry and a grunt.
Dylan looked out the hole to see the Glaberetch having yanked itself free so violently it had fallen on its face. The creature snarled and began pushing itself back up, its heavy shell working against it but still only seconds away from getting to its feet.
All the plans went out the window. Dylan bent down, took Buffy by the wrists and pedaled backwards as fast as he could, dragging her across the carpet back the way he’d come. He made it to the kitchen, both his and Buffy’s sneakers squeaking across the tile floor, then bumped into the cabinets and dropped onto his butt. Buffy lay face down between his spread legs, still breathing gently, unbothered by the movement.
“SLAYER!”
The demon’s roar made Dylan freeze, his back pressed to the cabinet. He looked down at Buffy, then toward the asymmetrical hole that led into the house’s living room. They weren’t in line of sight from outside, but once inside all it would take to see them would be a turn of the head. Not daring to move, he clenched his fists, hoping the Glaberetch wouldn’t come through the hole. Or better yet, would remember an important appointment and stumble away.
“I know you’re out there, slayer!” the demon yelled.
Footsteps came closer, offset and clumsy. The creature was limping.
“Stop hiding!” it yelled again, “I’m… I’m not scared of you! Or your silent predator routine! You wanna piece of me, then come out!”
Dylan held his breath, putting a hand over his mouth to stay as quiet as possible. After imagining Buffy groaning in her sleep and giving them away, he put a hand over her mouth too.
The footsteps were drawing closer and he began to smell the creature, the scent of bad seafood. Its feet crunched on the grass until Dylan was sure they were right outside the hole.
Then they stopped.
For several endless seconds, the creature didn’t move. There wasn’t even the chirping of crickets; it was almost complete silence. Dylan could hear Buffy’s gentle breathing and thought it sounded catastrophically loud. He pinched his thumb and forefinger over her nose, his own lungs starting to burn from holding his breath.
The grass crinkled as the Glaberetch shifted its weight.
“I’m… I’m not scared, I’m mad!” the demon’s yell sounded forced, “You made me waste that magic and… and I’m ready to fight you, if you want!”
A slight pause.
“But-but I’m not going to just wait around for you either!” the creature cleared its throat, “So, come out! Or… or I’m leaving!”
Another pause. The creature’s footsteps retreated a few paces, backing up.
Dylan dared to draw in a quick breath, then held it again, hoping the creature wouldn’t hear.
“Okay!” the creature snarled, “If that’s the way you want to play it, then I’m leaving! I don’t have time for these games! I’m gonna go!”
More footsteps backing away through the grass, growing fainter. They changed to scrapes and scuffs when they reached the driveway.
“I’m leaving!” it roared, “I’m gone!”
The footsteps crunched down the empty road.
“So… good bye!” the creature finished lamely.
Then the footsteps padded away until they became too distant to hear.
Dylan waited another second after they were gone before releasing his breath with a gasp. A second later he remembered to let Buffy breathe too and her breath whooshed out between her lips.
For several seconds he remained still, afraid any movement would bring the demon back. He waited, back stiff against the cabinets, ears perked for any sound, eyes darting around, half expecting to see the creature peering in through a window.
But as more time went by, even listening as hard as he could, he could only hear his own labored breathing. Buffy breathed deeply and evenly, her breasts slowly rising and falling beneath her snug tank top, but other than that nothing moved. There were no footsteps, no sniffing of a returning monster trying to track them down. It was silent, empty, even lonely.
Gradually, the chirping of crickets returned, singing in their repetitive, distant squeaks.
The overwhelming pedestrian, normalcy of the sounds caused a giggle to rise from Dylan’s mouth. It grew as relief washed over him, becoming a breathless, halting laugh.
There was no on there. It was just him in this partially destroyed, unfinished house.
Him and a helpless, unconscious slayer.
“H-ha!” he laughed, “Yeah! Ha ha! Hokey religions and superpowers are no match for wits and preparation at your side, kid!”
No sooner had he said this, than Buffy groaned, her eyelashes fluttering.
Dylan looked down at her, his smile fading for a moment.
The slayer’s pretty brow furrowed, almost pouting as she began to stir. She looked like she was having a bad dream or a nasty headache, but clearly she was waking up.
Dylan was less concerned this time. His grin quickly returned, eyes twinkling with mirth.
“Nuh uh. I don’t think so.”
Getting up, he carefully stepped over the drowsy girl and skipped his way back to the potion-soaked cloth. The nice thing about the magic unction Henry made was it was fairly foolproof. You couldn’t overdose someone on it or smother them to death like you could with chloroform, any level of application would keep someone asleep as long as they breathed it in. The downside was that if it you stopped breathing it in, you woke up pretty quickly.
However, that was easily fixable. Dylan snatched up the cloth and made his way back to Buffy, who was only now slowly trying to peel her eyes open.
“No, no, no,” he chided her, “It’s not time for you to wake up yet.”
Returning to her still shaking with nervous excitement, Dylan knelt down with the cloth in hand. His other hand cupped behind her head and cradled it up, like a nurse about to feed water to a wounded soldier.
“Nnnh…” Buffy blinked lidded eyes in his general direction, her lips pouted with a hint of confusion.
“There’s no way I’m letting you make a last-minute escape now,” Dylan grinned down at her, “Not after that. Nope.”
He pressed the cloth over her mouth and nose.
“You’re coming with me,” he giggled, “You’re coming with me, back to my lair!”
Buffy didn’t wake up enough to form a coherent thought, much less struggle.
“Mm…?” she mumbled, lashes fluttering as her eyes began getting heavy again.
“Mm hmm,” Dylan told her, “Yeah. Back to sleep, slayer. Go back to sleep.”
Buffy barely managed to look at him, fixing on the sound of his voice. There was no recognition in her gaze, her expression only softening as she sank back into the warmth of unconsciousness. With every blink, her blue eyes sank just a bit lower.
“Hnnhh…” she sighed as she finally let her weary eyes close.
“Yeah,” Dylan watched her slip away with almost child-like fascination, “That’s it.”
Buffy’s pretty face relaxed entirely, consciousness slipping pleasantly away. Her chest rose and fell, breath whispering into the cloth, even and deep.
“Nighty night.” He giggled again.
Buffy didn’t hear him. Any hint of her usual toughness and wisecracking spunk had melted away. She looked innocent, almost angelic in unconsciousness, her dark lashes lowered, large eyes closed and untroubled. She even appeared satisfied, enjoying a nap that was long needed and deserved.
Dylan held the cloth over her mouth almost a minute after she’d slipped away, watching her like a hawk. The fingers of the hand holding her head stroked haltingly through her soft, tightly bound hair, while his eyes roamed over her pert, apple-sized breasts, filling out her tank top, a tight cleavage disappearing into the neckline. He licked his lips but didn’t dare touch yet.
Once he was sure she was deeply unconscious, he laid her back down to the floor. It naturally rolled to the side, her bun making it impossible to rest face up, so he cupped the cloth around her mouth then drew back, making sure it kept its perch.
The cloth slipped a bit but stayed in place over her mouth and nose. It more than likely would slip the rest of the way off given time, but he didn’t need long.
Getting up, he hurried to his backpack and dug out a white dust mask, like a painter would wear to keep from inhaling fumes. He came back to Buffy, knelt again, then pressed the mask over her face, slipping the elastic band over her head. After giving the straps little tugs to cinch them down, he waggled the mask, making sure it, and more importantly the cloth, would stay in place over her mouth and nose.
They did. That cloth wasn’t going anywhere now.
He paused before getting up and laid his hand on the slayer’s breast. He considered for a moment, then gave a quick squeeze, grinning like a guilty child. After only a brief, anxious feel, he got up and left her there to repack his gear.
Frantically, he scraped up the odds and ends that had fallen out of his pack, then stuffed them back inside. Like anyone given a boon they didn’t think they deserved, he had an irrepressible notion that someone was going to take it away from him. Feeling someone’s eyes on his back, he shoved his stray gear away with feverish intensity, panting and occasionally cursing. If an item was cheaper or not as useful, sometimes he’d even kick it out of the way and leave it where it fell. He continually glanced at Buffy, making sure she was still unconscious, then went back to work.
Once everything was packed or out of the way, the burgeoning villain slung the rucksack over his shoulder, then cinched down the straps. Its weight still wobbled him slightly, but he barely noticed, his mind already latched onto the next steps. He had to get back to the van then drive back and park as close as he could to load up Buffy, which still felt slightly surreal. Then he had to haul ass out of here; the sooner he was back at his lair, where he had more tools to keep her under control, the better.
Bent over under the weight of the pack, he hurried towards his van, but stopped. Pausing just at the hole in the wall, he turned to look over his shoulder at Buffy. The slayer was still lying flat on her back, looking smaller than he thought of her in his mind’s eye, sleeping guilelessly. Despite that, he stared at her for several seconds, hesitant to leave, imagining her being gone when he got back.
Finally, he shook his head and took off at a run.
For almost a minute after the last of his hurried steps crunched away across the well-manicured lawn, there was silence in the unfinished house. The distant chirping of crickets continued, the occasional song of a night bird trilled from the trees, and Buffy Summers breathed with the sound of the faintest of sighs. No one disturbed her, the citizens of Sunnydale instinctively knowing not to be out after dark without knowing precisely why. If they had known, and likewise known the girl that protected them from the creatures of the night was lying captured and sedated on the kitchen floor of a vacant house, they would have been even more afraid.
The tires of Dylan’s van screeched as he almost passed the house and slammed on the brakes. He threw the vehicle into reverse, the tires squealing again as he floored it, then thumped over the curb and onto the lawn. Clods of turf were flung up as he tore across the yard, then slammed on the brakes again. The van skidded, digging trenches in the not-yet-rooted grass, and its rear end struck just beside the hole in the wall, breaking more plaster and wood with a small symphony of crunches and cracks.
Buffy didn’t even flinch.
Barely remembering to put the van in park, Dylan threw open the driver’s side door and jumped out. He ran around the side of the van, smacked his shoulder on a rearview mirror, and through the hole in the wall, looking round wildly. He half expected to see Buffy gone or leaning against a wall with a hard look on her face, on her lips a dry comment about his foolish belief that he could get away with this.
Instead, she was lying on the floor, just where he’d left her and just as he’d left her. She was just waiting to be gathered up.
Well out of breath from the run and his own near panic, he stared at her for a moment, still not quite believing his luck. Buffy Summers, the slayer, was helpless and in the clutches of his magic and now all he had to do to capture her was get her into his van and drive away. His fantasies, the fruit of so much planning and thought, were lying right there in front of him. He was about to capture the slayer, prove he was a real super villain, and simply… win. It felt unreal.
After several seconds of gaping, he shook himself and went to work.
Darting around to the rear bumper, he unlatched the double doors in the back of the van and threw them wide. One of them swung open easily, but the other bumped into a hanging plank of wood that had once been a wall support, then rattled back closed.
Dylan ignored it, already hurrying towards Buffy. He only needed one of them open anyway.
“Come on…” he hissed, “Come on. Time to go.”
Stepping over her, straddling her, he bent down and took her by the biceps. With a grunt, he pulled her up, then reached around behind her back to drag her into a seated position.
At that, he paused. He hadn’t exactly planned on how to pick her up and found himself in an awkward position. Now sat upright, Buffy’s head nodded forward, chin to her chest and forehead almost into his crotch.
He held her there for a moment, trying to decide if this attempt was salvageable, then bent down further to wrap his arms under hers. Bending his knees, he hugged her to his chest, then squatted as low as he could before standing back upright, trying to pull her with him.
Although this process had the pleasant side effect of pressing her breasts against him, it took a good deal of effort and back pain to pick her up that way. Super villains always made carrying heroines off look so easy. He supposed he should have practiced more, but then again how did you practice picking a girl off the ground?
Once Dylan had the slayer upright, he paused again to catch his breath, but couldn’t wait for long. Hugging her tight enough to keep her from slipping was quickly wearying his arms and if she fell, he’d have to start over again.
He wasn’t going to start over again. He had her this time, and he wasn’t going to let her go.
“Come… on…” he gasped, encouraging himself.
Then he dropped down, fast enough that she fell over his shoulder, looped his arms around the backs of her legs and stood upright again, lifting her up. He stumbled but caught himself, squeezing her thighs in case she slipped, but she didn’t. She stayed right where he wanted her, drooped over his shoulder, arms dangling down his back.
Flushed with victory and exertion, the teenaged sorcerer laughed breathlessly.
“Heh… heh ha…” he managed between gasps of air, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
He’d done it, he’d gotten her up. More than that, he’d captured her. Feeling her weight on his shoulder, the firm thickness of her thighs in his arms, it began to sink in that… this was really happening.
He bounced her, shifting her weight more comfortably on his shoulder, like she was a bag of mulch from the hardware store. As he did, his grin broadened.
Buffy Summers, the slayer, was subdued and in his arms, helpless. She was at his mercy now, unable to stop his plans or him from doing anything he wanted with her.
One of his hands came up and tested the firmness of her bottom. The plucky shapes were held tight in the seat of her cargo pants, but he could still feel their pleasant give.
Anything he wanted with her, even make her his slave, like he’d always imagined. Even…
His heart was racing for an entirely different reason now. He suddenly couldn’t wait to get her home.
Turning, he hustled back to the van, bouncing the limp girl in his eagerness. Her head knocked against his back and her arms flopped around with his hurried gait. Yet for all this, the mask didn’t slip an inch and Buffy stayed in a deep, oblivious slumber.
The giddy young villain carried her to the open van door, then bent down to lay her inside. He tried to do it gently, but in his haste, he bent over too fast, and she thumped heavily onto her back, banging her head.
“Whoops!” Dylan giggled, already scooping up her legs.
Picking her legs up under the knees, he tossed them inside to get them out of the way of the door. I turned her hips turned sideways, directing her bottom towards him. He couldn’t resist giving it a hearty smack before he hopped in after her and slammed the door shut.
He, Henry, and Al had taken the back seats out to make room for any number of large devices they’d used in various plans… or just for them to play DnD on the floor. It also offered a few features for slayer transport.
Bending down, he took Buffy under the arms and dragged her back across the carpeted floorboards. The movement pulled her legs out straight so he could gently lay her down flat, then reach for the ratchet straps he’d hooked into what had been the anchors for the van’s seats. He had to wiggle it out from under her then laid the yellow band across her stomach. Once in place, he worked the crank back and forward to tighten it down with a series of clicks.
He’d installed the straps to hold down expensive equipment or magical items, not to hold down a slayer. It wouldn’t hold her down if she decided to break loose either, but it would do to keep her from sliding around, possibly dislodging the mask.
“Don’t want you…” he panted as he worked, “Banging into things… just think of this as a… seatbelt…”
The strap pushed down on her tummy, seeming to create a shelf for her round breasts, certainly uncomfortable if she’d been awake to feel it. As it was, her dark lashes never fluttered, not even when her captor strummed the tightened strap, watching it vibrate like a guitar string.
Convinced Buffy was well secured, Dylan laid his hand on her breast, giving it a quick squeeze.
“Heh. Sleep well, Slayer,” he whispered, “You’ll wake in my lair.”
With a final grope, he left her where she lay and got into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over with a rattle, he threw the vehicle into drive and floored it. The wheels spun for a moment, tearing up the yard even further, before they got traction. He hit the mailbox on the way out, banged back over the curb and revved off down the street.
Buffy was jostled by the motion, her head rolling side to side, but the strap kept her firmly in place and she was otherwise undisturbed. Once they were on the long, straight road that led out of the housing project, her face turned towards her shoulder and stayed there, expression soft and peaceful.
Dylan glanced back at her and snickered with barely controlled excitement, then turned his attention back to the road. There weren’t many cars out, but he still needed to pay attention. He didn’t need to watch his captive; she wasn’t going anywhere.
Though the boy’s heart was hammering at first, the drive was completely uneventful and inevitably his mind drifted from the impossibility of his victory onto more practical things.
Like what he would do first with a helpless Slayer.
* * *
Al and Henry were still hard at work on their video game when they heard the van pull up into the driveway. Their eyes flicked to the time and back to the game seamlessly.
“Two hours thirty-two minutes,” Al said, sticking his tongue out as he concentrated, “Toldja. You owe me your Star Wars prequel special editions.”
“And I said no bet,” Henry replied, pounding the x button on his controller.
Above them, the front door banged open louder than usual, like it had swung into the wall. The two boys clearly heard Dylan cursing, the floorboards creaking as he stomped into the house, then kicked the door shut with another bang.
“He sounds pissed,” Henry’s eyebrows raised from behind his glasses.
“No duh,” Al drawled.
Dylan’s footsteps continued to the stairwell then pounded up the steps, one after the other. They were deliberate and slow, heavy footfalls, like he was either intentionally stomping or limping.
Henry began to frown, looking concerned. He even glanced up at the ceiling, then looked at his friend.
“Do you… think he could be hurt?”
The two boys considered that, listening to the thudding footsteps move upstairs, growing fainter.
“Nah,” Al shrugged, “He’s just pouting.”
Henry nodded slowly but continued to glance up at the ceiling. He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable.
“Maybe we should just check on him?”
“No way!” Al rolled his eyes, “He’ll just yell at us again! I bet you 500 bucks he sulks up there for a while, then comes down and tries to pretend like he never left.”
“No bet.” Henry said reflexively, still looking up at the ceiling.
-----------
Halfway up the stairs, the novelty and fun of carrying an unconscious slayer almost wore off.
Dylan panted raggedly, his back aching, his left arm feeling like it was going to break off. Each step strained his legs, making them clench until they ached, unable to keep from stomping every step. He hugged her thighs with both arms, afraid she might slip off his rapidly drooping shoulder, having to lean forward to avoid losing his balance. It was the hardest workout he’d maybe ever had.
But despite being red-faced, beginning to sweat, his grin never left his face. Her legs were so firm, though not as full as the perky butt he could reach up and squeeze at his leisure. He could feel her breasts pressing into his back, her hands occasionally bumping into his hip as they dangled lifelessly. He could have set her down to rest, gone downstairs and asked his friends for help, but he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world.
Plus, any time his strength began to wane, the thought of having Buffy Summers alone in his room was more than enough to motivate him to continue.
His breath was rasping as he reached the second floor and shuffled down the hallway to his door. Bent over, he grunted and bounced his nubile burden up with a heave of effort, managing to straighten himself before he reached his room. He cursed the fact that he’d laid a warding charm on the door, necessary to protect his things but extremely inconvenient at that moment. He panted his way through the counter charm, wobbling in place, then shoved through the door fearing his legs would give out.
It was all he could do to stumble to his bed then fall onto it, toppling Buffy off his shoulder and landing on top of her in the process.
The sheer relief of depositing his burden made the young villain groan into Buffy’s shirt. He slumped, letting the sting in his muscles fade, panting against her upper stomach. Yet even as he wallowed in relief, he noticed her feminine scent, the soft svelteness of her stomach. Even her clothes were soft, like the very fact that they belonged to a girl made them feathery and pleasant to touch.
Still panting, but the trembling weakness in his body fading, Dylan slowly pushed himself up. Though her knees dangled off the edge of the bed, Buffy lay further onto the mattress than him, so he had to crawl forward to get on top of it… and her.
He stopped when he was poised above her, his panting, wide smile making him look like a fox over a chicken dinner. Buffy was still deep in the grasp of the sleep potion, unaware of his wild, predatory look, nor doing anything to free herself from the provocative position underneath him.
He’d done it. No one could take this from him now. He’d captured the slayer and now he had her where he wanted her. She was game now, unable to stop him, at his mercy.
On a sudden impulse, he clamped his hands down on her wrists, pinning them to the bed. It was unnecessary and actually pointless, as if she woke up she could throw him off as easily as she would a blanket, but it felt good.
Her face was turned to one side, still breathing peacefully into the dust mask, and the villain leaned down towards her slender neck.
“Bet you wish you’d taken me more seriously now,” he whispered, “You won’t get a second chance, though. No one’s ever escaped my lair.”
The fact that he’d never had a captive in his “lair” to begin with didn’t dampen his enjoyment of saying the words.
He pressed his lips to her neck, feeling the warm, tender skin. She smelled so good, so delicate and… girlish. He took a deep inhale and smoothed his lips over her skin, before beginning to give her throat gentle pecks.
“So… good…” he murmured between kisses, “Yeah… this is… how… it should be…”
His lips made a trail up her delicate jaw, to her cheek, before he drew back enough to look at her pretty face. She had a slightly serious expression even as she slept, or maybe that’s just how it seemed to him after facing her annoyed scowl so many times. In fact, he’d never been this close to her before without a glare scrunching up her cute features.
The boy grinned. He could be as close as he wanted now, and she wouldn’t say a word.
“I was your greatest threat all along,” he whispered, “I’m the one who finally vanquished you. And to the victors go the spoils.”
His eyes flicked mischievously downwards, then back up.
“And speaking of your spoils…”
Propping himself up, Dylan sat back, resting on her hips. He got himself comfortable, paused to twiddle his fingers like a magician before a trick, then reached down for the waist of her top. It was time to have a peak.
Slowly, almost reverently, he began rolling her tank top up over her stomach.
Dylan’s room was quiet as a mouse as he worked the slayer’s thin, black garment over her chest. He didn’t say a word, his eyes wide, his heart thundering, but almost holding his breath as it rose higher and higher. It had the air of a religious experience. When the crumpled garment rolled over her black satin bra, then the tight, shining bulbs of her breasts, his gaping expression would have made anyone watching think he was seeing the face of God.
“Wow…” he breathed.
On Dylan’s walls were a number of posters of both super models and superheroines, all buxom and built with perfect figures. He stared at them often as he slept, memorizing every contour.
In comparison, Buffy’s bosom was healthy, not nearly as ample, yet immediately he was struck by how exquisitely round the two shapes were. They were pert and even defined rather than weighed down, held tightly together like a pair of ripe oranges. Not to mention they were real, close, and moving, exponentially more fascinating than a poster.
The boy barely even noticed that he’d pushed the shirt up over Buffy’s head. His arms were on autopilot, slowly and clumsily performing their task while their owner’s attention was locked elsewhere in a slack jawed stupor. If the house had caught on fire, it would have taken Dylan several seconds to realize it.
Which is why he didn’t hear Henry come into the room until his friend made a strangled sound, like he’d swallowed his tongue.
Dylan jumped like he’d burned himself and almost gave himself whiplash whirling around. Eyes wide, he froze, gaping bloodlessly at the other boy, his hands still cupped around Buffy’s breasts.
Henry wore a similar expression, but his eyes were locked on the topless slayer lying on Dylan’s bed. In complete shock, his hand froze halfway to pushing his glasses up his nose, leaving it hovering just to the side of his face.
No one moved for several seconds.
Dylan was the first one to recover. He had been surprised in a moment of guilty pleasure, but now that he realized it wasn’t anyone there to get him in trouble, he relaxed. In fact, remembering how neither of his friends had come with him on the hunt, totally disregarding his chances of success, he felt no small amount of satisfaction seeing the look on Henry’s face.
He’d told them he would do it and his team quit on him. Well, he’d definitely gotten the last laugh now. Seeing his friend’s shock made him feel suddenly more confident in contrast, a smirk pulling at his lips.
His eyes flicked down to Buffy, then back to Henry. Watching the boy’s eyes bug out, he gave the soft orbs in his hands a quick squeeze.
“Hey, Henry,” he drawled, painfully nonchalant, “What’s up?”
Henry couldn’t respond. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, and hadn’t even breathed from the instant he realized what he was looking at. If he’d been a lot older, Dylan would have been afraid he was having a stroke.
Dylan sighed and turned his gaze back down to his slayer, patting a little drum beat on her breasts. They bounced but almost immediately regained their firm shape, so he took them from the sides and pressed them together. Plump and springy, they molded in his hands, utterly malleable and soft.
At the display, Henry squeaked, and his coloring rapidly transitioned through several, consistently darkening shades of pink. His chest heaved and he slowly blinked, his lips moving but never managing to form words.
“A-a… a-a…aaa…”
Lips pulled wide in a smug grin Dylan looked up at his friend while still playing with his captive’s breasts.
“You okay, Henry?” he asked, “Need your inhaler?”
Henry gulped loudly and finally managed to lower the hand from his face.
“A… a-a… aa… A-Al?” he stammered, before raising his voice, “A-A-AL?! AL! AL!”
Al’s return yell came muffled through the floor, “What?”
Deciding he was done playing with Buffy’s boobs for the moment, Dylan climbed off the bed and reached down to pick up one of the girl’s limp feet. Matter-of-factly, calmly focused on his task, he untied her sneaker and began working it off, pretending not to notice his friend’s presence.
“AL!” Henry yelled again, “AL! G-GET UP HERE!”
There was a pause before Al replied and Henry slowly approached the bed and its blonde occupant. He was stiff with both caution and shock, inching only gradually closer, like if he moved too suddenly the slayer would come alive and attack him.
“Why?” Al finally called back.
“J-JUST GET UP HERE!” Henry sounded almost hysterical.
While in the basement, Al sighed, paused the video game and begrudgingly tromped towards the stairs, Henry continued to stare in awe as their mutual friend casual worked at stripping the vampire slayer.
Dylan worked off Buffy’s shoes and socks one at a time, even giving one of her feet a tickle before letting it drop down to hang off the bed. Still pretending like he was alone in the room, he began to hum to himself as he leaned over the slayer to remove the silver cross from her neck.
“C-CAREFUL!” Henry shrieked.
Dylan ignored him. He worked his hands under the nape of the unconscious girl’s neck, feeling for the clasp of the silver necklace. Seeing his friend so nervous was making his confidence grow by leaps and bounds.
“She’s out, Henry,” he fiddled with the clasp, “She’ll be out for days before we need to freshen the unction on the cloth, remember? Relax.”
The necklace was unclipped and he slipped it from her neck, the gothic cross rising from where it had been resting in her cleavage. Dylan held it up briefly to inspect it, saw nothing of note, then set it down on his bedside table.
He glanced at Henry, making sure his friend was still watching with the proper amount of awe, then proudly patted Buffy’s thigh.
“This slayer isn’t going to be slaying anybody for a while,” he let his hand rest on her leg, giving it a squeeze, “Or ever again, actually, unless I want her to.”
The increasingly cocky young villain smoothed his hand down to her knee, then back up to her hip, taking a moment to admire her before reaching for her waist.
“Now, time to answer the million-dollar question,” he unbuckled her belt, “What kind of panties… does a vampire slayer wear?”
As Al’s footsteps thumped up the stairs, then down the hallway towards them, Dylan drew open the belt and unsnapped Buffy’s cargo pants. He drew down the zipper, spread open the tan garment to expose a thinner, sky-blue garment beneath, then began working the pants side to side to get them off her hips. He continued to hum to himself, his eyelids hanging and lazy with sheer smugness.
Henry watched intently but would come no closer.
As her cargo pants worked their way from under her bottom, her bare thighs began to show, hugging the V of a crotch nestled in shining blue underwear.
Al entered the room just as Dylan got the pants down to her knees.
“Okay, so what’s—HOLY SHIT!”
Dylan continued to hum to himself, crouching down to slip Buffy’s panties off her ankles.
Although he didn’t have as dramatic a reaction as Henry, Al still froze for a couple of seconds in shock before he managed to speak.
“You…” the boy gulped, “Y-you…”
Dylan held up Buffy’s pants and shook them. Her cell phone and keys fell out, then he tossed her pants to the side and bent to gather up her belongings.
Shaking his head, looking momentarily faint, Al paused before coming closer. Equally curious and cautious, he stepped closer to the bed to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw.
Seeing his friend approach gave Henry the courage to follow him. Both boys shuffled to the edge of the bed, side by side, staring with almost the same dumbfounded expression.
While Dylan worked her shirt up off her arms and tossed it off the bed, the other two boys shared a quick look.
“Is…” Henry finally asked, “Is that really…?”
“I-it can’t be…” Al mumbled, “Has to be… a c-clone or something…”
Dylan smoothed his hand over her stomach and sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching back, he took Buffy under the shoulders and sat her up, pulling her forward so she was nestled beside him. Pulling her close, he let her body slouch into him, head resting on his shoulder. She nestled there contently, eyes closed, still breathing gently into the sleepy cloth.
“Face it boys,” Dylan looped his arm around her waist, “I bagged the slayer.”
The other two gaped at him, speechless.
“Toldja so…” Dylan grinned.
For a moment, Al and Henry just stared at the sight of Buffy Summers slumped against their friend in just her bra and panties. She didn’t look much like the stern, tough superhero they’d seen before. Now she looked small, cute, even fragile. It took them some time to reconcile what they were seeing.
“What are…” Henry looked to Dylan, “We… going to do with her?”
The defacto leader of the trio just squeezed Buffy a bit closer and narrowed his eyes knowingly, having been waiting for that question.
“Everything’s already set. We just have to follow the plan… and the slayer is mine.”
