Title: Wardrobe Malfunction
Fandom: BtVS
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Buffy, Demon.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 400
Setting: Season One.
Summary: Buffy realises her current outfit isn’t ideal for slaying.
Content Notes: None needed.
Written For: Challenge 381: Amnesty 63, using Challenge 348: Pants.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BtVS, or the characters.




“Should’ve worn pants,” Buffy muttered to herself as she went for a high kick her short skirt simply wasn’t designed for. She felt a seam give even as her kick missed its intended target, and she dodged back, out of range of the demon’s slashing blade.

She hoped the skirt wasn’t irreparably damaged; she liked this one, it was cute, and better still, it didn’t make her butt look big. Sometimes it sucked to be a girl; boys never had to worry about stuff like that.

Skirts and dresses for school, pants for patrol: that was her new rule. Why hadn’t Giles ever said anything? He was her Watcher; he was supposed to know… stuff. He could’ve told her there was a Slayer dress code, but instead he’d left her to face a demon and a possibly disastrous wardrobe malfunction.

Ducking under the demon’s blade, Buffy went with a sideways kick to its knee, hoping its legs were jointed in a similar way to a human’s. Judging by the way her opponent staggered, favoring its right leg, she’d inflicted some serious damage.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Buffy dropped her skirt and stepped out of it. That was better. Sort of. At least now she had more freedom of movement. She just really hoped nobody saw her fighting in her underwear. Could be worse though; at least she was still wearing her top.

‘Pants next time, definitely,’ she thought as she leapt, kicking the demon solidly in the side of the head. At the very least, she should maybe wear jogging shorts under her skirts, in case of emergencies. The last thing she needed was to get arrested for indecent exposure or something. How would she explain that to her mom?

No time to think about it right now though; she had a fight to win, and probably a demon body to dispose of. She drove the green-skinned monstrosity back with a flurry of kicks and blows, landing one on its wrist, making it drop the blade. A quick forward roll and she came up with the wicked serrated knife in her own hand. Letting her momentum carry her forward, she thrust the long blade into the demon, angling it upward, hoping to find its heart, assuming it had one.

It said something that sounded like “Urk!” and collapsed, dead.

“Yay, I win. Now where’d I leave my skirt?”


The End