BTVS and the Fast and the Furious franchise belong to their respective creators. I'm just playing with their toys.
A/N: You guys. It's my birthday. I had an amazing time tonight and I'm a little fucking drunk, so of course
the first thing I do when I'm plastered on my birthday and I have to almost crawl home in fear of finding myself on a vertical surface and puking- 662 words of foolishness.
Like most important things in her life, this one starts with sex.
No, wait- it actually starts with a fist. A fist, to be more precise, flying towards her face.
She dodges of course, she knocks the vampire chick right out and laughs as the demon snarls at her, exposing canines and fangs and flinging its reanimated body to try and hurt her again.
She swings her fists and fights with abandon and at the end of the fight, she’s the only one left standing as ashes float down around her. This is life for a slayer, violence and hardship and nothing normal or good or mundane
and she’s okay with that.
She really is.
So she goes to a bar afterwards. To celebrate. She dances by herself to the beat of some house song, feels the bass reverberate through her bones and drum into her blood- making it thump, thump
as she swivels her hips and throws her head back and laughs, laughs at the absurdity of the situation.
It’s good until she becomes aware of a particular pair of eyes on her, silent and stoic and assessing. Nothing like the hungry stares of the jackals that usually crowd the dance floor, looking at her like a piece of meat and trying for the best chance to slip up behind her.
She doesn’t respect them. Never has, never will. Sure, she’ll dance with them. She’ll fuck them. But at the end of the day, all they are is another willing body and she’s just somebody willing to go the distance. Nothing ventured, nothing lost.
But these eyes? They make the skin on her neck prickle, they make her stomach drop and she glances up, wary instinctively and trying to figure out where the gaze is coming from. Who it’s coming from.
When she sees who it is, she has to stop and pause. Because the man watching her? He’s a whole ‘nother level of good looking. Asian, tall, with floppy dark hair and fathomless black eyes- he’s wearing a hoodie over jeans but he might as well be dressed in a suit from the way he holds himself.
He watches her with interest, with something dark
coloring his gaze and she doesn’t know- doesn’t care even at this point, that his stance is a little rigid to be regular Joe Shmoe and that he’s probably carrying concealed based on the bulge under his pant leg.
He’s fucking gorgeous she thinks and steps away from the railing of the bar, puts a little bit of distance between herself and the good looking guy.
She’s never been lucky with the pretty ones.
Though she’s never had the self control to resist them.
So she dances for him, swivels her hips and grins smugly as his gaze grows more heated. She throws her hair back and runs her hands over her hips, over her breasts- throwing him looks that grow more smouldering by the second. She even goddamn becks her finger at him, crooks it- all polite like, and cocks her head so that he come over.
And so she dances by herself , losing her consciousness to the music thrumming its melody through her veins and tries not to think about anything until the second that she feels a warm palm wrap around her hips. He’s burning up and his touch scorches her, electrifies her before she throws her head back on his shoulder and grinds into his pelvis, dancing feverishly as the beat winds it hypnotic melody around them.
“What’s your name?” he whispers into her ear, his breath a hot burst of air that tickles the sensitive skin there.
“Faith,” she doesn’t hesitate in replying, “it’s Faith.”
It feels like he’s grinning, that his lips are stretching apart, far and wide and she smiles, can’t really help it in return as he bends his head down and licks at her earlobe before mouthing “I’m Han" into her skin forever.