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S For Stop Looking At My Ass!

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Summary: Faith Lehane has a little run-in with our favorite revolutionary, V. One-off, one-shot, whatever you call it.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Comics > V for Vendetta(Current Donor)deiticlastFR1818210692620 May 1120 May 11Yes
I do not own BTVS, nor do I own V for Vendetta. They are the property of their respective owners, which does not include me.



Faith Lehane was sweating.

She hated sweating almost as much as she hated England. London, to be specific.

The world had gone to hell in a hand-basket, governments toppling and entire regimes coming to power and losing their shirt in a matter of days, for some goddamn reason, she was still on the Top Ten Most Wanted List. You’d think it’d be different across the Pond, with America begging for Britain’s help, but no. . .

And so she was sweating, running her ass off trying to get away from England’s version of the Feds. She didn’t know what they were called here, but then again, she didn’t care, as long as she was able to avoid them. And she was doing a pretty okay job with it, too, until she ran smack dab into some douche in a cape and a fedora, sporting a Michael Myers-ish mask.

She was about to jump up and split when he threw himself on her, wrapping his arms around her and rolling them both deeper into the shadows of London’s dark alleyways. It hurt. A lot. And to make matters worse, when they stopped rolling, the guy had the nerve to lay right on top of her! If she hadn’t been a slayer, she was sure she would have been crushed to death. The dude was heavy!

She would have knocked him off of her in a heartbeat, but for the guys in suits and the other guys in battle armor running by, still chasing her as though she was still running. Which was a good thing, she guessed. But this guy!

When the Feds had passed, she pushed him off of her a little more roughly than was probably polite, given that he’d just saved her ass, but she was grumpy. He rolled several feet away before he could stop his momentum, barely missing a concrete barrier that would have knocked him senseless. “Who are you?” she roared at him before he had even stopped. The masked man leapt to his feet, drew a sword, and bowed, only to get his head kicked on its way down. Again on the ground, he groaned as Faith placed her heel on his neck and pried the sword out of his hand. “Who are you?” she demanded again, her voice edged with cold steel.

A muffled voice, straining against the pressure on his jugular, wheezed up at her: “I assure you, Madame. I meant you no harm.”

“Sure you were, with this big shiny sword in your hand,” she sneered at him. “But you did save me from the fuzz, so I guess I’ll let you live.” With that, she took her foot off of his neck and stepped back, dropping the sword at his side.

He was up in an instant, all bravado and weirdness amplified with his speech. “Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villian by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengence; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.”

Faith snorted. This guy was wuh-eerd! But she did kinda like what he did with all the “v’s.” Thinking for a minute, she pooled all of her high-school drop-out learnin’ and pulled one out of her ass. “Sanctimoniously supercilious in your silly stroking of your swollen sex in a soliloquy of a sloppy staccato in sound, straining for spoils of sex and sweat and the sticky satisfaction swimming straightway for celestial sin, sick with succulent strawberry sensuality. Screw yourself in sweet seizures, slipping sinistrally to your seat and sliding a slick shaft up your scape, simultaneously snuggling your sac.”

He stood there, stunned and speechless as she turned and disappeared into the night.

No sound came from his lips until he, himself, turned from where he was standing. With just a whisper of breath, he uttered “Bitch,” and set off, machinations of government reform resuming in his head.



Okay, so doing an "s" speech was really, REALLY hard. I hope you get the gist of what she was saying to him. If you don't understand it, I'll tell you if you want.

Let me know if you liked it!

The End

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