Parts

Written By: Sway Slayer

Disclaimer: Buffy and Faith do not belong to me, although I did name my new car ‘Faith’ and she *does* belong to me so nah nah nah nah nah…. Rating: R-ish? Might be a little more than that but censorship sucks anyway.
Summary: I still hate the title but I couldn’t think of anything else. Don’t let the rating and the title mislead you - this is still relatively fluffy. I’m working my way up to full-blown smut again. Oh. Right. The actual summary…LOL…I get so caught up in my own babble. Faith’s POV on her and Buffy’s relationship. Boring hey?
Feedback: I need it for my ego. It’s cheaper than therapy.
Distribution: It’s easy.
(1) Mail Sway.
(2) Ask Sway for fic.
(3) Perform sordid sexual act.
(4) Leave with fic.
Dedication: To Kit, for bringing out my cheesy one-liners and oddly repetitive phrases and to E: I delivered. Your turn.
Author’s Note: Two weeks ago, this was my third fic in four days. I presume I was a) very bored, b) going through nicotine withdrawal, c) going through alcohol withdrawal or d) bored, going through nicotine and alcohol withdrawal and deprived of sex.

Teeth. Nipping at her skin, breaking the tiny capillaries in order to leave a mark. She’s mine. I know this, she knows it, but hell, it’s just too much fun watching her wearing polar necks in summer. She whimpers and I see stars, as she informs me that my predatory tactics are not appreciated, with a well-placed smack to the head. I growl and lift my head in order to shoot her a death look. Problem is, whenever I am this close to her eyes, I lose all sense of purpose, and all I want to do is stare into them until I get dizzy. She tells me that I do the same for her, but I think my talents lie elsewhere. We complement each other. I achieve a higher plane of spirituality by connecting with her on an intimate level and she achieves immeasurable pleasure by communicating with me on a physical level. I am by *no* means just a fuck to her. She knew better than to toy with me when we first gave in to our carnal desires. Besides, she’s proved herself on numerous occasions.

The first was at a meeting. The usual suspects gathered around for the weekly report and, feeling decidedly frisky, I slid my hand along her inner thigh, under the table and in a most covert way, began fiddling with her pants’ leg. I watched her for a reaction. Her cheeks adopted a somewhat pinkish hue before she reached down, drew my hand up, placed it on the table, patted it with hers and linked her fingers with mine. I don’t remember who was speaking, but whoever it may have been, they stopped. It was my turn to blush, but she just smiled at me and squeezed my hand, urging the speaker to continue. If I hadn’t convinced myself that she loved me, then that was the turning point. I was like the cat that ate the whole fucking bird sanctuary, grinning widely and making a mental note to attempt to feel her up again later.

Hair. As much as I love running my hands through her smooth locks, I hate ridding my mouth of her long blonde strands. I used to try and remove them surreptitiously – now I spit and splutter while she calls me ‘unrefined’ and ‘piggish’. Tired of being berated for my lack of grace, I yelled at her, asking if she’d like *my* hair in *her* mouth as a main meal. I was fuming, spurred on by the novelty of being in the right, breathing fire and brimstone in her direction, until I noticed that she had this sly smile on her face. Her green eyes were twinkling with undeniable amusement as she ran her tongue over the full extent of her lips. “What?” I was having none of this. Apparently, neither was she. Crawling over to where I was, she whispered something in my ear, something so decidedly sexy that to repeat it would detract from its initial impact, and besides, it’s just not the same when it’s not being delivered by the object of your desire. I remember those words with a fond sense of nostalgia, seeing that they were the last ones I heard before my vocabulary diminished to nothing but: “B….B….B…..B!”. Needless to say, I don’t complain about her hair being in my mouth anymore.

Fingertips. I have always held an unexplainable fascination for the smooth skin that is responsible for our ability to feel. The pads of the fingers are sensitive to any surface, be it hot, cold, rough or soft, and they relay the myriad of sensations directly to the brain, causing the hand to either withdraw or continue. However, my fascination is more closely linked to the fact that my fingertips *never* withdraw from her, they never venture too far so that I cannot reach out and touch her. My favourite activity involves an experiment whereby I place my hand on the lower part of her stomach and note the reactions of my fingertips as I perform various touches on her.

I start with her face, kissing her cheeks and forehead and dragging my bottom lip over her mouth. She sighs softly and her skin relaxes beneath my fingers. I move to her ear, my breath preceding my tongue as I trace the outer shell slowly. I shift quickly so that my tongue dabs at her pulse point, pressing my lips down hard on her neck. Her skin ripples and tiny goose bumps nudge the pads of my fingers. I pay some more attention to her neck before focussing my mouth on her upper body, kissing a path between her breasts and using my free hand to caress each curve. She emits a slight murmur and her skin informs my fingertips that it is relatively warm. Good, but not great. I surmise that I can do better.

I’ve always taken a fair amount of pride in my mouth, viewing my camera-worthy pout with its blood-tinged hue as a veritable asset, and it serves me well in this circumstance. I focus all my strength, power, passion, lust and love on her mouth as I capture it lightly between my lips, teasing her with the knowledge that I know what she likes – and she knows I’m going to give it to her. Her skin has been radiating a soft, consistent heat for a while, but as soon as my tongue enters her mouth, it sets itself ablaze, scorching my fingertips. I do not withdraw. I content myself with kissing her, my body screaming with pride as my experiment reaches a most pleasurable conclusion: she drags her fingertips over my skin.

Scars. Admittedly, this is a fetish, a vice that, like smoking, I allow myself to indulge in purely for my own pleasure. However, it’s not the obvious scars that I concern myself with. I do not care to examine the long strip running down her shoulder – compliments of an 11th Century axe – nor do I care to pay any attention to the luminescent white streaks that adorn her back, put there by a demon with a Cat Woman whip obsession. No. I like the tiny, round scar above her eyebrow from when she had chickenpox. She was told not to scratch, but as is the will of B, she did. I am forever placing my pinkie finger over it, marvelling at how my lover’s personality was defined – by herself of all people – at such a young age. She is also in possession of the ever-present playground scars, put there by a collection of swings, balancing beams and tree houses. The faint white line on her chin that is often mistaken for a cleft can be attributed to her shaky dismount off the swing where she landed chin first in the gravel. A small stone found its way into her youthful skin, marking her the way she has marked my heart. Forever.

Sweat. Technically speaking, this is more of a by-product of a part than a part itself, but this is by no means a technical exercise. Besides, it would be a great injustice to exclude it, seeing that it is undoubtedly a defining characteristic of our relationship. As Slayers, we are built to function on the strength of ten men, impelled by forces greater than ourselves to drive through pain, tears and fury, all for the sole purpose of killing demons. However, it is after the fight that the true worth of a Slayer is tested. In those quiet moments after battle when the dust has settled and the anguished howls have disappeared into the night, only the strongest are able to swallow the foul taste of death and ignore the incessant beating of blood through their heads. We are the strongest. We are the Two.

The sweat that covers our bodies classifies us and not unlike the two of us, it is adaptable. When I run my tongue over her upper lip after a fight, her skin tastes salty, tinged with an almost bitter topping of adrenaline. I can feel her heart pounding as I pull her against me, matching mine in short staccato beats. There are times when our hunger overwhelms us and the need to feel another human being’s skin against our own is too great to be staved off, but these moments have decreased in occurrence. For me, it is purely because I do not want to cheapen anything that we have, and while I am often tempted to lay her down on the wet grass and fuck her within an inch of her life, I wait. For her peace of mind, as well as my own, I wait and I am never disappointed. She takes her time showering, washing the grime and dirt off her body while I brush my teeth and pretend not to stare. This is our ritual. It’s safe and familiar, but most importantly, it’s ours. Soon after, clad in her crisp, clean white shorts and tank top, she performs her cleansing routine, intent on keeping her skin blemish-free while avoiding my naked form in the shower. We always do this. Patience is the greatest aphrodisiac.

And then we are done. Finished our duties and alone at last. The sheets on our bed are inexplicably fresh and she purrs softly as she settles under the covers. I’ve taken to wearing sleepwear, even though I wake up naked every morning, having decided that there is definitely something to be said for having my clothes removed by the woman lying next to me. I exhale loudly and stretch my arms towards the ceiling, aware of every muscle as it finally achieves some release. She turns to face me and props herself up on her elbow, scrutinising my features. I frown slightly and cock my head to one side, enquiring as to what she is doing. She replies by stroking my face with her fingertips and leaning in to kiss me. I wrap my arms tightly around her and a minute has yet to pass when I can feel the first beads of sweat gathering at my forehead. I slide my hand up her shirt and confirm my own state of heat by the soft sheen of sweat that stains my palm. She licks at my upper lip and I know what she can taste because I taste it too when I drag my tongue along her collarbone. A heat similar to a slow-burning candle intermingled with a hint of musk and packaged as light dots of sweat.

Clothing graces the floor without so much as a whisper. Sheets are tangled in a matter of seconds. Voices increase in urgency with every touch. My lover is gentle with me tonight, somehow privy to the fact that my body is in need of unabashed tenderness. Her motions are slow, her movements precise, yet above all else, her touch is consistent, incessant and unwavering. Her body is tight against mine, mirroring the way her fingers are sliding in and out of me, and I am about to beg for breath when she buries her face in my shoulder and brings me to my climax. The sheets are rife with the sweat of our bodies and we lie still, imprinting our love on the cotton. She is still pressed against me and the sensation of her skin against mine takes away my last ounce of restraint. I glide my hand down between our bodies until I find the soft patch of curls between her legs, sliding a finger inside her and simultaneously biting her neck. She smacks the side of my head, informing me that my primitive side is not desirable, nor is her motivation to pull out her winter wardrobe. I grumble and am about to stare her down when she smiles and asks me to tell her what I love about her. Where to begin? Well, I say to her while nestling into her arms, there’s teeth…..

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