Patriot Acts
She can feel a whisper of ribcage beneath the sweat sweet skin as she trails fingers like little girl dancers across the pretty so-damn-soft
Faith torso, across and down. Jade irises bleed into emerald and darker still with each exhalation, heavy, from the turbulent body below
her. Buffy's astride like a cowboy, a master, and somewhere inside where Faith can't see she's smiling because she is the master of this
domain; every hill, every valley, every wet hot heat that she wants to dig into with those no longer little girl dancer fingers, finding mother
earth's core. She wants to cause a new eruption. She wants to shift the tectonic plates in this home of the brave and she will if she can just
get rid of these cow-kill pants and into her land of the free.
Her body's not resting, more kneeling over Faith's and warmth recapitulates warmth where their not yet bare thighs press. There's a tiny
moan from somewhere beyond the Catskills that bites her skin like butterfly kisses and she remembers to look north. Then she forgets to
breathe. If beauty were an action, it would be the way Faith is seeing into her right now; the only time Buffy gets to witness such surrender,
the only time the younger girl can look so pure. A gesture, Faith's bottom lip between her teeth is so sexy and so rare, and so… affecting
that Buffy finds herself breaking, just a little. A small sound blazes a path from her rapidly beating heart to the space between her own lips
now and she's pretty sure it felt like a whimper.
She wants to seize, to possess Faith's bottom lip, but for now she's got more enticing territory to claim. Buffy frees a button from its
prison; drags a zipper down along jagged teeth to rest intimate in a little black nook. She ventures questing hands to the waistband of the
lovely leather nuisance, gripping there like it's for dear life and knowing it just might be. She shifts, her legs amicably going their separate
ways, but only so her captor slides down more easily over Faith's brilliantly raised, newly bared hips. She banishes it to the floor with
inhuman, but not so impossible speed before returning her attention to the art of war, divide and conquer. With those never idle hands
Buffy divides twin thighs, leaning in and inhaling deep. She thinks of scruffy gothic teenagers huffing paint and sniffing glue and how it can't
possibly get anyone quite as floating as she is at this moment. Olfactory senses are linked she knows, and her mouth quickly begins to
water, but one look at the juncture of Faith's thighs and she can see it's not the only place that's irrigated. In her cotton pajama bottoms,
she can feel this too. She notices she's getting all five senses involved in her expedition now. Absently she thinks about those tingles they
share and wonders if maybe it's six instead. Doesn't really matter.
She can feel Faith looking at her, knows the dark girl's eyes have been as focused as she has, but with the disrobing gloriously complete
she risks a lust-hazy look back at that coffee framed, near tearstained face. "B…" is desperate in her ears and she knows she's tripping the
line fantastic about to fall, already falling, fallen maybe. She lifts a hand away, her right, and brings it to rest light on the crest of Faith's left
ankle. Softly, like whispering, she slides it up, up, along the strong muscles of Faith's calf, to the deep bend in her knee, then back down on
the inside of a smooth, bow-bent-taut thigh. Buffy, now so close to her destination, takes a moment to admire the scenery, languorously
playing a game of tease with still dancing fingers in the dampening chocolate waves of grain.
A moment later the grain is shifting and she realizes it's not a breeze blown through. The woman beneath her is rotating her hips, aching
for contact in God knows the only place that counts right now. Buffy is, of course, more than happy to oblige. With her pointer she moves
down to stroke the dewy landscape from bottom to top, lingering there to swirl lightly on Faith's clit until the beauty's breath snags in her
throat. Buffy leans over her wide open wonderland and places placid kisses on full lips, along a glistening column of throat, a gently jutting
collarbone. She's between the mountains again, soft, soft rock, but she circles the base of the east with a fluid tongue before scaling to the
pretty pink peak. She laps at a boulder, appropriate maybe in a milky sort of way, before swallowing as near whole as she can, sucking
like it's her sustenance, hers and Faith's.
She gives no "look out below," just quick slick slips a rigid finger into the liquid Oregon Trail and Faith jerks, prays, calls her God. It
amazes her how so much intense heat fails to evaporate the water in this well and she's got to take care of it somehow. She draws out that
finger slowly as her tongue glides south to the marshes and surveys them river quick, trying at the same time to drain them dry. Buffy thinks
she could die just like this, deep in a watery grave. She's hunting treasure now, in and out over and over, fast, bringing the bounty to the
surface before diving back below.
Moments later her tongue is flat against Faith's weakness and she's two knuckles deep, curling to find the cliff that sends her lover
keening. Success has her drowning again, smiling, and Faith hasn't stopped praying yet. There's an earthquake now but she's a born and
bred California girl so it's not so hard to ride out. Up north, Boston is catching her breath; brown eyes sealed tight, slowly trying to ease
back into place. She's not there yet but she's reaching anyway and Buffy's breaking again, just a little bit more. As she molds her body to
Faith's, she feels the other girl's breathing decelerate. She closes her own eyes; thinks maybe she can make this her home on the range.
END