Questions

Written By: Sway Slayer

Rating: R? The sexy Slayers have potty-mouths, not me.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the nonsensical system of points that Faith uses. It’s a subsidiary of Sway points. Feel free to use it in your own life.
Summary: Buffy asks Faith a question, sparking off a veritable festival of in-depth enquiries. Or in Sway-speak: ramblings until I allowed them to get nasty.
Feedback: It’s been a while. My ego is wilting. Save me!
Distribution: Sasha, piper, Anne, Chantal, Miss K and Kit. Do with it what you desire, but it has to be a little bit kinky, ok?
Dedication: This is the first fic I have written in a foreign country, soon to be decidedly un-foreign as I make it my new home. To Melbourne – my very own Pleasantville, with white picket fences to match. I love my new home.
Author’s Note: Did you really think I’d be resting on my laurels? Hell no! I’ve been saving this one until I had internet access again! Be warned: it’s total mush and I think my brain lost the ability to cut away excess witty banter, so if you have problems with neurological functions, I suggest you read this under a doctor’s supervision. And I missed you all terribly *embraces the list*



“Have you ever been in love?”

The air around me explodes with a million dust particles, a number of which choose to settle on my face, clouding the confused expression that is firmly in place.

“What?” She repeats her question and slips the stake back into her jacket. I rid my mouth of grey ash and grin. “I once screwed the same guy twice. Does that count?” Exasperation. Annoying on anyone else, decidedly endearing on her. A pout follows and that nasty feeling known as guilt tugs on my veins. I shrug and shove my hands deep into my pants. I have no pockets and she sends me a sceptical look. “What? I’m cold”.

“It’s ok to say ‘no’ Faith. I’m not interrogating you. I just wanted to know”.

“Have you?” The words have barely left my mouth and already I’m mentally kicking myself in my dumb, thoughtless head. Of course she’s been in love. She’s the Queen of the Martyred Romance and I choose this moment to dredge it up from the recesses of her mind. She smiles sadly.

“You know I have”. I nod dumbly and look away, pretending to scan the surrounding area for prospective dust bites. I’m waiting for her to say something, praying that the babble mechanism she holds so dear will kick in and save me from answering the question. No such luck. She’s looking at me, a strand of blonde hair covering her one eye, anticipating my response. I give her my best ‘What-are-you-waiting-for’ expression but she stands strong. I inhale loudly, subconsciously puffing out my chest in the hope that it will give me the confidence to answer truthfully. The movement fails dismally and my chest deflates, taking with it any chance of honesty.

“Yes….” She smiles widely. “…and no”. Anyone else would have left it at that, but Buffy Summers is a far sight short of ‘anyone else’. She doesn’t even have to ask. I launch into the speech that I have used so often, it’s almost a part of my personality. “It’s ‘yes’ because there has been a time when I have felt something more for someone else, other than the need to get my rocks off with them, and it’s ‘no’ because the opportunity for that situation has never arisen”. She looks highly confused. This is a good thing. Hopefully, she will refrain from further enquiries due to her desire to maintain a modicum of intelligence. My hopes are futile.

“I don’t understand. You have been in love but it’s never happened?” I nod. I’m enjoying myself. I like the way her brow furrows as she tries to work out the essence of what is tangled in my obtuse riddles. “That doesn’t make any sense”.

“Who says it has to? Love never makes sense B. It’s a shitty emotion that was created by some sick individual in order to screw with the human mind. What other feeling wreaks havoc with both mental and physical facets? It’s the greatest torture of the modern world”.

“For a second there I almost believed that you were a romantic”.

“What second would that be?”

“The ‘love never makes sense’ second. Then you nestled comfortably into Cynical Land with the rest of that statement”.

“Excellent. I wouldn’t want to lose my Cynical Membership. I worked fucking hard for that”. I made her laugh. I rock. I make a mental note to award myself some nonsensical Faith Points, hoping that it will make up for the ones I lost when I criticised her pants. I attempt to redeem myself further. “And about those pants….”

“I know Faith! You don’t have to tell me again. They’re an ‘ostentatious representation of the hell known as consumerism’ and I am its slave”. I take a moment to absorb this. Firstly, she remembered exactly what I said. I think I read it in a magazine. Secondly, she’s still bristling from my earlier comment about her unnecessarily baggy beige pants. Work brain! Work!

“Actually, I was just going to say that if you’re going to wear something that’s completely unsuitable for slaying, it might as well be a skirt”.

“A skirt? Why a skirt?” Crunch time Faithy.

“Two reasons: one, you can distract vamps by doing cartwheels and showing your cotton panties and two, you’ve got good legs. Besides, you used to wear skirts all the time. I’ve seen photos of you when you were younger and they were basically the sole ingredient in your wardrobe”.

“I can honestly say that I have no idea how to respond to that”.

“You’re speechless?” I clasp a hand dramatically over my mouth before letting it fall back to my side and frowning. “I thought Giles said that we’d averted the apocalypse for this week? Bloody bastard”. She’s trying to keep a straight face but my horrific English accent tips the scales and she releases a high-pitched giggle. Definitely more points for me.

Oh, and if you haven’t figured it out already, I’m in love with her. Just FYI.

We fall into a comfortable silence as we circle the perimeter of the cemetery one last time. It appears that the undead are out for the night, either lying low in abominable crypts or lying very low as topping for the grass. Hell hath no fury. Period. The Sunnydale Slayers see to that personally. I’m contemplating a few drinks at a seedy bar on the outskirts of town, and while I am inclined to invite my fellow Slayer, I doubt that her response will be anything less than negative. Fuck it. I’ll ask anyway.

“B?”

“Hmm?”

“You got plans for later?”

“You don’t get much later than two in the morning”.

“Of course you do. But that’s a different conversation entirely. What I mean is do you have plans for….now?”

“If you consider going home to shower and sleep as a plan, then yes, otherwise, I’m planless”.

“Planless? You do realise that the Diction Police are going to find you one day, right?”

“Yup, but I doubt that Sunnydale exiles grammar criminals”.

“Stranger things have happened”.

“You speak the truth Wise One”.

“Nice change from all the shit that I usually spew”.

“I like your shit”.

“And I’m changing the topic before this gets totally out of hand. So you’re ‘planless’, because showering and sleeping do not qualify as a solid ‘plan’ and therefore I think you should join me in a post-slaying beverage. Feel free to decline, but know this, there will be a very disappointed dirty old man who has lost out on the opportunity to ogle you”. Another laugh! I’m racking up the points tonight!

“I’d never take that away from a dirty old man! Mind if I ask where we’re going?”

“I don’t mind at all”. I fold my arms and grin absurdly.

“Faith!” My turn to laugh. I like the way my chest rumbles when it happens.

“Ok! We’ve got two options. One involves me and my money-hungry moths schmoozing the bartender at ‘Catz’ and the other entails raiding the mini-bar in my equally dingy motel room. Take your pick”.

“How come I have to decide? I’ll have you know that while my genius-like brain functions never abandon me, they do tend to take lunch breaks every once in a while, and they usually depart around this time”. Why do you have to decide? Buffy! For the love of everything that is clichéd! I’m asking you out on a *date*! That’s why you have to decide you gorgeous blonde ditz!

“I was just being nice. ‘Catz’ it is”. I stroll towards the cemetery gate and hold it open for her. She walks by but stops before she is all the way past me. My body reacts violently to the proximity of hers and I have to physically grit my teeth and will myself not to draw back. Baby steps….baby steps….

“Can I change my mind? Or in this case, actually make a conscious decision that was offered to me originally?”

“It’s a free country”. I’m such an idiot. Is it humanly possible for me to be glibber? I immediately detract a large helping of Faith points.

“God Bless America. Way Hey USA. Very patriotic. Doesn’t mean much to me right now. I just wanted to know if we could go back to your place instead”.

NOBODY PANIC! PLEASE STAY CALM AND REFRAIN FROM OPENING MOUTH TO RESPOND! PURGE MIND OF ANY IMPURE THOUGHTS BEFORE CONTINUING! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! REPEAT: THIS IS NOT A DRILL!

“Sure”. I am the Master of my Domain.

************************************************************************

I turn the handle and open the door to my motel room. She looks at me quizzically. She’s have second thoughts *now*? For fucks sake! I was definitely a slug in my former life.

“No key?” What? WHAT? What is she asking?! “Aren’t you afraid somebody will steal something?” And I’m inhaling again.

“Not much here to steal except for me and my witty repartee”.

“At least you’re still here”. She grins.

“Very funny B”.

“Point proven. I don’t think that qualifies as repartee, in addition to the ‘wit’ factor being non-existent”.

“Bite me”.

“Where *do* you get your material?” She slides past me and I plant my hands firmly by my sides to refrain from touching her. Unfortunately, my olfactory senses are beyond my control and my head swims with her scent. Pure, unadulterated Buffy. If I could bottle it, I’d make it into my own personal perfume. I’d spray my clothes and sheets with it so that she would always be with me, following me with individual scents of wood, grass, sweet almonds, strawberry lip-gloss and gloriously tangy adrenaline. I compose myself fast enough so that no part of my momentary rapture is evident. I step inside and close the door, rubbing my hands over my arms in an effort to invoke some movement of blood. Truth be told, I’m freezing my ass off. I continue with my rapid arm-warming technique while watching her. Apparently, she’s quite at home, running her hands over the few trinkets that adorn my bedside table and testing the texture of my mattress. She’s sitting on my bed. She’s leaning back to rest on her elbows. She’s flicking her hair back. My arms aren’t cold anymore, instead, my body is a veritable vessel of heat, most of which is located in an area that mother’s warn their daughters about when they reach a certain age. My mother wasn’t alive to warn me. I learnt the hard way, yet somehow, the tingling between my legs feels unmistakably right.

Buffy Summers is lying on my bed. No further explanations needed.

It occurs to me, in my lustful haze, that my sister Slayer might be fully aware of the effect she has on me. Then again, that would definitely require some form of maliciousness on her part, and that is a quality I know she does not - and will never - possess. My arms have become disconnected from my brain and I struggle to find a resting place for them. I try folding them but I look like a stalwartly sentry. Placing them behind my back conjures up images of a coy schoolgirl being admonished for talking in class. I contemplate going the ‘non-existent-pocket’ route but the consequences of having my hands so close to the waistband of my pants is not desirable. I opt for the easiest, and most obvious pose. I let them hang by my sides. She’s looking at me strangely. I feel your pain B. I have no idea what’s come over me. I just spend the larger part of a minute deciding what to do with my bodily appendages. That drink is sounding so unbelievably good.

I stride over to the mini-bar, attempting to recall if there is any liquor in it before opening it and sighing inwardly with relief. Baby bottles of booze. The only good thing about seedy motel rooms and aeroplanes. It’s like being thrown into the alcoholic version of “Alice in Wonderland” with the words “drink me” floating around in your head.

“What?” Shit! Damn you mouth! You were given strict instructions not to operate without the full consent of the brain! Bad mouth! Bad bad mouth! Now I have to explain to the blonde Goddess on my bed why I’m nattering on about a children’s book.

“I was just saying that these little bottles remind me of ‘Alice in Wonderland’. You know, all the ‘eat me, drink me’ stuff…” I trail off unintelligibly and rifle through the drawers until I come upon two bottles of whiskey. I’m about to stand up and turn around when my senses smack me in the head simultaneously. Touch. She places her hand on my shoulder. Smell. Wood, grass, sweet almonds, strawberry lip-gloss, adrenaline. Taste. My tongue running over my cherry-flavoured lips. Sight. Her shadow looming over me in the dim early morning light. Audial. The words that emanate from her.

“Well, seeing that he wrote it while on the longest acid trip ever recorded in literary history, it would be interesting to substitute drugs for alcohol. Although, I don’t think it would have had the same impact on society if the March Hare and the Mad Hatter just hugged each other for hours yelling: “I love you man!” My panic disappears underneath my full-bellied laughter, images of sweater-clad fictional characters toasting each other with beer mugs swimming around in my head and leading to a rather uncalled for snort on my behalf. Oh. I. Am. So. Classy. Her hand is still on my shoulder and she squeezes it lightly, stifling a giggle….which turns into a snort. Ha! She’s human! I’m human! We’re all human! Ok, we’re technically *super* human, but that does not detract from our definitively human qualities. I’m a new fan of involuntary snorting. We giggle for a few minutes more, seemingly overcome with a large amount of lethargy and hyperactivity, until I haul myself off the floor and twist open the bottle caps. I’m about to knock mine back when I catch her staring at me.

Fuck! Fuck! What have I done now!? I rack my brain while pretending to examine the label on the miniscule bottle. Does she want a mixer? I don’t have anything except for a week-old carton of orange juice, and I doubt that me giving her food poisoning will win me any points. Ah hell, might as well ask her, just in case the ‘good intentions’ part reveals my saintly status.

“You want a mixer?” She scrunches her nose up at me. For my own piece of mind, I need to kiss this girl as soon as humanly possible.

“Nope. This is good. I was just going to make a toast – if that’s ok with you?” Is it ok with me? B, you could ask me to mix my drink with arsenic and I’d still tell you it was ok.

“Fine by me. What’s your toast? Oh! Oh! Wait! I have one!” I look at the ceiling, seemingly captured in thought before glancing at the bottle and then locking eyes with her. “To the single life, to double standards, to triple salaries and multiple orgasms!” I swig half the bottle and she does the same.

“Not bad”.

“The drink or the toast?”

“The drink. The toast was soul-destroying”. I stick my tongue out at her and she rolls her eyes. “I see that your witty repartee is still missing in action”.

“Are you going to let that go anytime soon? Because the line between ‘funny’ and ‘annoying’ is fast approaching and you’re *this* close to stepping into ‘annoying’ territory. In fact, let’s hear your toast. I’m sure it will be scintillating and far more exciting than mine”.

“This isn’t a competition Faith”.

“I never said it was. You implied it by your Nazi-like dismissing of my toast”.

“Completely unintentional”. I know. “Forgive me?” In a heartbeat. “Don’t make me pout…” Don’t make me kiss you.

“You’re forgiven only if you make your friggin’ toast already!”

“Friggin’? Did your potty-mouth go the same route as your witty repartee?”

“Just say the fucking toast B!”

“Much better”. She likes me swearing? Mental note to self: scatter conversation with ‘fucks, shits, goddamns, screw its’ and other profanities. She raises her bottle and I mimic the gesture. “To love, which never makes sense and is ‘a shitty emotion that was created by some sick individual in order to screw with the human mind’. Cheers”.

“I’ll drink to that”. The remaining alcohol burns my throat and I blink away tears, but the only thought buzzing around my head is that she remembered exactly what I’d said. Again. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that I was drunk, heavily entranced in a dream where Buffy is in my motel room, paying attention to everything I say and downing whiskey like it’s water. I contemplate pinching myself but dismiss it, purely because it would look really weird. Really fucking weird. Profanity Faith! Come on! Where’s that gutter mouth? “This stuff tastes like shit”. Good. Solid start.

“Understatement. This is worse than shit. It’s shit turned over twice”. Twice. She swore twice. I’m slipping.

“Then next time, you can supply the fucking alcohol and stop bitching about how shitty mine is”. And I’m back, grinning stupidly as the words leave my mouth. She places the bottle in the trashcan and snaps her fingers for mine. I extend my arm as if to pass it to her, but instead, lob it into the air and watch as it lands directly next to hers. “Three points!” She gives me a round of mock applause. I’m still basking in the glow of my glorious aim when she’s there. Right there. In my space and not going anywhere. I open my mouth to speak, but the link with my brain has been inextricably severed. I snap my mouth shut. She looks up at me and smiles. I would kill a million vampires a day if I got to see that smile directed at me. Untainted, genuine, honest and almost achingly pure. I’m glowing again, but this time it’s because I’m on the receiving end of this smile.

“Hi”. Hi? She’s greeting me? What lessons in etiquette did I miss? Since when do you greet someone halfway through an interaction? My face must be giving away my mind’s secrets again because she widens her smile and brushes lint off my shirt. “Have you never said ‘hi’ to anyone halfway through a conversation?”

“Not really. My specialty is usually the ‘bye’ part as I’m running out the door”.

“I’m surprised”.

“Why’s that?” She fiddles with a loose thread on my shirt.

“Because the ‘hi’ part is usually what leads to a ‘something’, which eventually leads to the ‘bye’ part. Only much later”. She’s not making much sense.

“Are you drunk?” Her eyes glaze over and I make another mental note to beat my head against the wall when she leaves.

“No. I’m not fucking *drunk*. Why does everyone ask me that when my behaviour doesn’t conform to what they’re used to? Can I not say what’s on my mind without being classified as ‘inebriated’? I thought you of all people would understand”. I was feeling guilty earlier. Now I’m pissed off.

“What do you mean ‘you of all people’? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you when you decide to let off a little steam and get criticised for it? Why should I give a flying fuck about your saintly reputation being torn to shreds? You can do whatever the hell you want B, but don’t expect everyone to just embrace your new-found rebellion…”.

“What are you *talking* about?!”

“I don’t fucking know!”

“Then why don’t you shut up!”

“Because I’m on a fucking roll and I’m tired of being speechless whenever you’re around! I hate that my goddamn brain doesn’t work when you’re this close to me and I hate that you send my senses into a screwy spiral by looking at me! I fucking love you but I don’t think that I can take this anymore! I need help! I need therapy! I need someone to tell me that I haven’t turned into the human being formerly-known-as Faith! And I need new fucking shoes!” Yes! Lots of profanity! A million points! She’s looking at me strangely. I quickly run through my rant in my head. I bitched, I yelled, I ranted, I raved, I whined, I….told her that I love her. Subtract a billion points. Book lobotomy.

“You need new shoes?” There’s a split second pause before the room erupts with laughter – my throaty chuckle and her infectious giggle. She repeats the nonsensical phrase again, releasing words in-between bursts of laughter. “You…” Laugh. “Need…” Giggle. “New…” Laugh. “Shoes?!” Raucous laughter.

“No!” I laugh back. “ I need new *fucking* shoes!” The walls are reverberating with the raised decibels of our chuckles and if my neighbour bangs on the wall and interrupts this moment, I will strangle her with her ugly green hair extensions. I wipe at my eyes and she does the same, leaning her hand against me for support as we settle into the ‘ah’ section of the laughing comedown. My chest is burning. I have to put some distance between us before I spontaneously combust. I try to edge away by pretending to look for a tissue but she stops me with her eyes.

“Don’t”.

“Don’t what? My mascara is running and I don’t want to be remembered as ‘Raccoon’ Slayer”.

“Don’t move away from me….and don’t play dumb either. I deserve a little more credit than that”. I’m about to object again but her hand finds its way to my hip, preventing any further protestations.

“I never meant to imply anything of the sort”.

“You did”.

“When?” Hand on hip is now moving. Her thumb is tracing small circles on my hipbone. I’m proud that I managed to release a word.

“When you assumed that I didn’t hear you say that you loved me. As magnificent as your rant was, one tends to pick up on things and declarations of love are high on that list of things”.

“I wouldn’t call it a declaration. More of a subconscious revelation”.

“If you’re trying to make this easier on yourself, stop”.

“You call this easy? I lose 90 percent of my brain function when you’re around”. She raises an eyebrow at me.

“Really?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I think I was dropped on my head when I was a baby”.

“Explains a lot”.

“Hey!” I punch her in the arm. She replies by placing her other hand on my shoulder. This isn’t so bad. Hell, this is easy! She’s not freaking, I’ve apparently dealt with my ‘mouth-brain’ link and I can be this close to her and not want to implode. Bring on the points! I’m so caught up in the effortlessness of the moment that I choose to share it with her. “This is easy. Why is this so easy? Should it be this easy? Is the easiness a cover for the extreme awkwardness that will follow?”

“Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re lucky that I find your neuroses endearing, otherwise loving you would be very hard”.

“Shit B, don’t go overboard with the compli…” I’m booking a second lobotomy. I swear I’m hearing voices. Actually, it’s one voice, and it’s B’s, telling me that she loves me. “How do you know if you have a brain tumour?” She laces her hands around my neck and tilts my head towards hers.

“When someone tells you that they’re in love with you and you respond with a medical question”.

“Then I’m safe. You told me that you ‘love’ me, not that you’re ‘in’ love with me. I’m saved!” She kicks at my boot with her shoe.

“You’re making it very hard for me not to kiss you”.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing”.

“Perish the thought”.

“Have we been sucked into some surreal nightmare where we’re only allowed to communicate in really bad idioms?”

“You ask too many questions”.

I was not a slug in my former life. I was Cleopatra, a woman of powerful means, ruler of a nation and a raging libido to match it all. As my lips find B’s, I surmise that I spend far too much time worrying about the past and way too much time obsessing about the here and now. I think I should take a peek into the future. I try to open my eyes but being involved in a kiss with this girl makes no room for sight. Everything that I could detect in her scent is evident in her taste. Her lips bloom with strawberry lip-gloss and her tongue is tinged with sweet almond. Her neck is rife with a faint dab of adrenaline and the shell of her ear teases my tastebuds with luscious grass. I press my lips to her forehead and run my fingers through her hair. Soft. Earthy. Wood. As soon as I’ve finished my exploration, I want to do it all over again, and she allows me. I start backwards, ending up with my lips on hers, murmuring somewhere deep inside me as she embraces every part of my mouth. I feel human again. I tell her this as we pull away, stroking each other’s lips and faces.

“I’m glad one of us does. I can’t feel my legs”.

“I’d be more than happy to feel them for you”. I grin widely and clench my fist before doing a mini-thrust into the air. “Well hello witty repartee! So nice to see you. Have a good trip? B was ragging me about your absence and I was *this* close to giving up on you when you made your appearance. Don’t go anywhere ok?”

“You’re not cute when you’re smug”. I wrap my arms tightly around her waist and pull her to me.

“And you don’t go anywhere either”.

“Kind of hard when you have me in a death-grip”.

“Oh just admit that you like it you sexy wench”.

“Wench? That’s it!” She slips from my grasp, grabs me around my waist, throws me over her shoulder and carries me to the bed, dumping me unceremoniously, on my butt.

“Damn B! You’re butch when you’re angry! Remind me to piss you off more often”. I start crawling around on the bed, striking ridiculously cheesy poses and shooting her my ‘come hither’ eyes. She watches me with hidden amusement.

“Is this supposed to be sexy? Because if it is, you’re failing dismally”. I run my tongue out over my lips and raise myself up onto my knees.

“I’m failing at being sexy?” I run my hands through my hair and close my eyes, pushing my chest out and stretching for an unnecessarily long period of time. I can feel her eyes on me. “I don’t mind the occasional mistake, but failing?” I slide my hands down the sides of my stomach, lifting my shirt and splaying my fingers over the tautness of my abdomen. “And failing *dismally*? Unacceptable”. I play with the hem of my shirt before using both hands to pull it over my head and throw it to the floor. No doubt about it. She’s ogling me. I perform a slick manoeuvre, whereby I flick my legs out from underneath myself and land expertly on my elbows. I don’t have to ask. She’s moving towards me like a panther stalking through long grass. I’m smiling, and I continue smiling until she whips off her shirt. Now I’m grinning. I continue grinning while she positions herself on top of me, but stop all expressions of glee as I feel her skin pressing against mine. She’s observant. She notices my fallen face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. This is just really intense”. She lays a soft kiss on my lips.

“It’s not meant to be”.

“I know. It just is”.

“Anything I can do to lessen the intensity?”

“Well, you could try not touching me but that would just be kicking myself in the head with a steel-toed boot”.

“I don’t like that idea. Give me something else”. I press my lips to her shoulder and trace the shell of her ear with my tongue.

“You can tell me that you’ll be here when I wake up. Then I don’t have to annoy you with my multiple neurotic fits”. She kisses me, god, so deeply that I can testify to my body becoming one with hers. “I’ll be here. Will you?”

“I live here, of course I will”.

“Faith!” I chuckle softly. She slides her hand down to my zipper. I stop laughing. “Tell me. I need to know, possibly more than you, so don’t make me ask again”.

“I’ll be here”. She smiles again and I know that I’m in heaven. Nowhere else could ever measure up to the place I’m in. She’s about to unzip my pants when I stop her. “Just one more question”.

“What’s that?”

“Why do you get to go first?” I flip her onto her back, ignoring her squealing protestations.

“Because I’m older!”

“That’s not a turn-on. Now shut up and kiss me”.

“You’re such a child”.

“Quiet Grandma. I’m not asking again”.

“You don’t have to”. She kisses me. “What was the question again?”

“There isn’t one. Only an answer”.

“And what’s that?”

“I’m in love with you”.

“Funny. I was going to say the same thing”.

“Coincidence?”

“Nah. Slayer thing”. The return of the witty repartee sparks off a rather long session of verbal banter. After ten minutes, my head is spinning.

“B?”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you now?”

“I thought we had passed the need for questions?”

“That wasn’t a question. That was a request”.

“So I can’t say that I’m in love with you as a reply?”

“You just did, and now I can’t feel my legs, and don’t even *think* about using my line because you will be severely punished”.

“I’m going to kiss you now”.

“About fucking time”.

So she kissed me again, although every time she does, it’s as if the previous times don’t exist. It’s always new and exciting, feeling her lips on mine, knowing that I am free to tug on her bottom lip, massage her tongue with mine or graze my teeth over her mouth. There are times when I question the immeasurable amount of happiness that has come my way, leading to a complete over-analysis of our relationship and massive sessions of neuroses, but she is here when it happens, and she always reminds me that the first rule in our relationship, is ‘No questions’. I follow my heart, she follows hers and we always end up together.

The End

RETURN TO MAIN                    Return to Mystic Muse

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