Communion

by FaithC

Copyright © 2003

faithcorvid@yahoo.com

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Written and read for enjoyment not for money.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net
Please email me first.
Feedback: Yes, please! I really do read everything I get.
Spoilers: Not really, takes place in Season 6.
Author's Note: I've gotten some feedback recently asking me if there is more to the "Compassion" series and if I am ever going to finish it. Yes, there is, and No that is not what this story is. It does take place during the series though. I hope you enjoy and please send feedback. It means a lot to me, and it definitely inspires me to write.
Pairing: Buffy/Tara

"I was borrowed."
– Tara, "Restless"

Sometimes she still thinks Tara missed something – that she did come back wrong. But not for the obvious evidence – that Spike can hit her, that she finds herself pushing the core of her animal instincts further and further into the bleeding edge of darkness. Her uneasy truce with darkness and death was broken forever the night she clawed her way out of a coffin, and she's come to reconcile her need for Spike is feeding a real, physical craving that can no longer be satisfied by killing demons.

If anything, the way she screams into the darkness of Spike's crypt feels right, somehow. She remembers hearing that soldiers who die in battle cry out with their last breaths for their mothers. She didn't cry out at the moment of her death. For her mother or anyone else. She went quietly, feeling at that moment the sort of spiritual peace and balance Giles had tried for years to teach her and never had.

She knows that a baby's first breath is followed by one long shrill howl. Anger, fear, joy, excitement – no one can really say what a baby is thinking, but Buffy remembers being pulled out of heaven and thrown back into body. She remembers the horror, the utter bewilderment. But she didn't scream then either.

In the weeks and months that followed her silent re-entrance into the world she sometimes wonders if she's lost her voice forever. She seems something of a stranger to herself. She wonders where Buffy Summers, with her endless supply of puns and snappy come-backs, has gone. She wonders who this stranger is – this sullen, moody, watchful, silent Vampire Slayer who has a hard time with sentences and language. Each word has become like a chain of beads she is trying desperately to string together. But the beads are hard to hang onto, almost impossible to thread, and everyone loses interest in what she's trying to say long before the words are out of her mouth. They finish her thoughts for her, and she's too tired to correct them. It had been, until recently, easier to go on patrol and then to escape to Spike's. They don't share words, but it gives her the chance to scream until her throat is raw and not to have to explain to herself why.

Lately she's found herself remembering the warning of the First Slayer. She had always secretly feared the loneliness the First Slayer had predicted for her; funny how that never came to pass, and how she almost wished now that it would. She had never realized before that the words "I have no speech" was prophecy. It had never occurred to her how much of a source it was of the First Slayer's pain and anger.

Perhaps that's why she finds herself avoiding and ignoring the release she knows she'll find with Spike. Instead she returns night after night to hear the sweet, soft voice of the woman who had, in that dream so long ago, truly a lifetime ago, taken it on to speak for her when she was unable to speak for herself.

Tara's room is blank and ascetic. Except for the white fairy lights and a few candles, there is nothing in this room to indicate that the same woman who had been her best friend's lover lived here. Buffy finds this comforting. Although she knows, and a part of her really does care, that it's wrong to come here she's not sure she can stay away right now. She needs Tara. She needs to hear her voice – that voice that haunts her days and echoes in her dreams -- whispering her name in the darkness. She needs to feel the heat of Tara's body lying under her. Needs to feel over and over again Tara's breath and tongue on her breasts, her belly, her thighs and the source of pleasure between them. Needs it because she can never remember, later, in her own cold bed what it feels like. The emptiness stretches out beneath her like an obscene, mouthless throat – the Hellmouth – wanting to swallow her whole but never, never spit her back out. In these dark blank nights she remembers Faith. "Again with the grunting."

"Buffy… Nothing."

"I don't care."

"Want. Take. Have."

And when Buffy remembers she doesn't cry, but she shivers violently and uncontrollably in her bed. And sometimes she leaves a scribbled note for Dawnie and Willow about urgent Slayer business and runs all the way across town at a dead heat not stopping even to catch her breath or tie her loose shoelaces until she reaches Tara's door.

What frightens her the most is that one night Tara might not let her in. Because she's not sure anymore what she's capable of. And she's not sure she'd take No for an answer.

But it hasn't happened yet and it doesn't happen tonight. Instead, Tara stands in the doorway, her white loose nightgown hanging off her shoulders and falling all the way to her feet. She holds the door for her, wide, blinking in the harsh industrial light of the hallway.

"Buffy."

She closes the door behind her and Buffy goes into her arms. Tara is still half asleep but Buffy is completely awake, adrenaline from both her waking nightmare and the race to the university surging through every nerve and every muscle. She's trembling, terrified and excited and this need is clawing at her like a cat in the rain. She places her tiny hands on either side of Tara's face, runs her fingers through the silky honey-blond mane and pulls Tara to her.

She feels Tara's pulse beneath her soft skin begin to quicken, hears her breath release with a high-toned sigh. Her voice is never sweeter than when she just beginning to feel that flush of desire, when the heat of her body is beginning to rise and her mind to anticipate the pleasure they bring to each other so well. "Buffy." Her full, flushed lips part and her long lashes lower as she steps closer still, filling the empty space between them, pulling the tiny, shaking woman into her warm embrace. "Buffy. Oh Buffy…"

Yes, she thinks. Yes, I am. I am Buffy. I am.

She doesn't need words here. And, here, now, she doesn't need to scream or to cry either. The sounds Tara draws from her, the sounds Tara fills the room with are softer. They are the whispers of dawn breezes. The caress of the ocean against the sand. Memories of half forgotten places and a childhood where she was never afraid of the dark. Tara pulls her into her arms. She lets Buffy kiss her, first, licking out and tasting her lips and tongue.

Then Tara breaks the kiss and moves her mouth down Buffy's neck, caressing her jawline and licking out to her collarbone. She murmurs something, a name, perhaps, an endearment. Buffy neither knows nor cares. What matters is the sound of her voice, the touch of her fingers, the smell of rainwater and lavender as Buffy moves closer still and lets her face be caressed by Tara's hair. She hears the sound of her own breath fill the hollow space between Tara's neck and shoulder. She hears the soft, muffled sound of flesh against cloth as Tara begins to undress her.

Buffy is in no hurry to have this moment end. She's never in a hurry here. She never worries here. She gives herself over, swaying slightly, eyes closed, feeling Tara's lips on hers. Wet sounds of fierce, protective kisses. Soft, teasing sounds of lips touching her flushed, warm face. Uninhibited, possessive murmuring as Tara slides the jacket off her shoulders and begins work on the buttons of her blouse.

She takes her time. She knows that Buffy loves this part. Sometimes she almost comes just from this slow, sensuous removing of the barriers between them. Tara lets her hands linger on Buffy's skin as it is revealed to the night air. She smoothes the tumbled golden hair from Buffy's temples and shoulders, stroking her head gently while she moves her lips to rest between Buffy's breasts. She listens with every fiber of her being, with her body and her psyche, to Buffy's contented sighs. To Buffy's soft, breathy moans, becoming higher, sharper more urgent, but still not penetrating or destroying the stillness between them.

She guides Buffy to her bed. Tara knows Buffy won't open her eyes, so she gives her gentle directions in the sweetest voice Buffy has ever heard.

"Here darling, come with me. Lie down, Buffy. Darling, sweetie, lie down here." She does. She does whatever Tara tells her, trusting, waiting, overjoyed to be beyond words and to be with someone who doesn't need words, who has never needed words to know what the people around her are thinking and feeling. She knows, Tara always knows, and tonight is no exception. Buffy fumbles weakly for her, a muffled squeak escaping from between her lips. "Darling," Tara tells her. Only that. "Darling." But she sits back and quickly pulls the soft cloth of her nightgown over her head, and kneels again between Buffy's knees. She takes those tiny, deceptively thin and fragile-looking wrists in her own strong hands and places them above her head on the pillow, and Buffy moans softly. Her head is beginning to toss a little and she hears the breath harsh and low and lovely to her ears.

Tara stops for a moment and simply stares at the vision beneath her. She knows she isn't dreaming, although she wasn't sure for the first few minutes after Buffy knocked on the door. She opens her mouth to tell Buffy how beautiful she is but the only thing that escapes her lips is one long high moan. But it is enough. She lowers her head again between Buffy's breasts. She listens to the Slayer's heart pounding hard beneath her lips. Hears it get just that much louder as she pulls one flushed, hard nipple into her mouth. She covers the peak of Buffy's breast with opened lips, sucking hard and rolling the nipple very gently between her teeth. She moves her hand to fondle and stroke and tease, loving the sounds of Buffy's soft breath in her ears.

Buffy will never say her name. On these nights that they are sharing with more and more frequency as winter turns to spring she will never ask Tara for anything, although she sometimes, in some moods, demands with the strength of her body more than Tara thought she was capable of giving. But she rarely speaks, and she never pleads. It doesn't matter. Tara knows what Buffy craves. Knows what to give to her, and when to hold back.

Tonight she will hold back, just a little, for just a little while. Tara lays the back of her hand against the inside of Buffy's thigh. Smiles against Buffy's breast as she hears her gasp expectantly and move her legs further apart, as though to take in deeper fingers which have not yet even touched the entrance to her body. She moves to the other breast and runs her tongue across it over and over, never increasing or decreasing her pace or pressure, changing only the path and the destination. Buffy whimpers and arches her back, rolls her hips higher, begging Tara in the only way she can right now. Tara can feel the heat and damp between Buffy's legs increasing, smell the perfume of her arousal fill the room and still she waits. Still she teases, caresses, worships Buffy's breasts, patiently pulling pleasure from every nerve, every minute patch of soft or hard skin.

Until drops of moisture begin to fall from the soft, vulnerable flesh above her fingers, coating them without having given Buffy the touch she's desperately waiting for. She lifts her hand, rubs the liquid onto her lips. Savors the taste. And then paints tiny circles on each of Buffy's straining swollen nipples. The girl beneath her bucks at the slippery warmth against her sensitive flesh and then shivers hard from the spine as Tara bends her head once more and cleans up every trace with her warm, strong tongue.

Buffy begins swallow air with audible, whimpering gulps, almost unable to stand the slow torture, and yet unwilling to disturb the shapes of pleasure Tara's is painting on her body.

At last, just when she's sure it's going to be too much, this time and her self control is finally going to break, Tara moves her hand to the hot flesh between her legs and runs two long, gentle fingers up the length of lips, releasing some of the tension that is building inside her body, and coating Tara's hands with a fresh flood of liquid warmth. The sound rolls out from her throat and doesn't fade as she tilts her hips up to catch more, as much as she can, of this touch.

Tara moves two fingers inside her and closes her eyes to the music of Buffy's soft cries of delight. Tara kneels between Buffy's thighs and breathes deep, savoring the musky, intoxicating scent of a woman approaching fulfillment. This is the part Tara loves best. This is the part she always takes her time with, every time, as though it is the first or the last. She licks out, tasting her lover and rolling that taste on her tongue and lips. She will not waste a drop of this precious liquid; desire made palpable. And, for tonight at least, all hers. She runs her tongue over Buffy's lips until the moisture is almost splashing into her mouth. With all of her senses she can feel the approach of the limit of Buffy's body to withstand more pleasurable torment, and she moves her tongue up to the hard, pulsing clit that more than desires – demands – the expert ministrations of her skilled lips, teeth, tongue .

Buffy almost sobs with relief and joy when she feels Tara's mouth on clit. And she does hear herself crying softly when her lover takes her. Takes her completely. With her mouth and teeth closing tightly and possessively over her clit. And fingers filling her, stretching the inner muscles of her core as though granting unspoken permission. Stretching and releasing her, releasing the tension coiled so deep and hard and unyielding inside her.

Tara feels the muscles clamped around her fingers begin to shake uncontrollably as Buffy's climax begins to sweep through her. She lifts her eyes as she catches the essence that spills out of Buffy's body and onto her waiting tongue, the way she always does at this moment. She loves to watch Buffy come. It gives Tara a measure of serenity, to know that she can give this to Buffy. Give Buffy this moment of communion and joy that is able to exist outside the boundaries of time and space. A jump into oblivion and silence.

Tara draws out the waves of Buffy's pleasure as long as she can. She uses her tongue and her hands and her breath. She watches Buffy's beautiful face become even more beautiful with every new tremor that travels from her core and out to every part of her body. Watches her hips roll up, pushing her beautiful deep-flushed skin further towards Tara's mouth as though she will never, ever get enough. Watches her hands grab at the sheets beneath them, as though cradling or bandaging the faint traces of scars that still linger on her knuckles and fingertips. Watches until finally, the trembling slows into one final, body length shudder. And then she is still. She does not open her eyes.

Tara lies beside her. Pulls the hands into her own. Threads her fingers through Buffy's. Smiles into the darkness. Says only, "Buffy." And again: "Buffy."

Tara loves the feeling of her naked limbs intertwined with Buffy's. Loves the way Buffy's damp warm skin glides so easily over her own as she pulls her closer and rubs the length of her body against all of Buffy's hard muscles. When she's like this it's like touching iron beneath silk. It's everything – all the hardness and the softness and everything in between. Tara tosses her head on the pillow, throwing her long golden hair out behind her and pulling Buffy's face close to her for kisses that are no longer soft and gentle but urgent and possessing. Tara is no longer conscious of whether she is making love to Buffy, or being made love to by her. She's not sure if it is her own golden hair lying against her breasts or if it is Buffy's that is caressing and tickling her neck and teasing. She's not sure whose voice is pleading in wordless murmurs, doesn't care. She only knows that she can't stop shaking, cannot stop touching this skin beneath her fingers, cannot resist the wave that is crashing through her, does not want to resist, does not the want tide sweeping her away to ever let her go, does not want this night that is surrounding them to ever end.

Almost as one they gasp, the reverse of a scream. And each beat of their heart echoes off the other's as their frenzy slows into something still warm and damp, but filled only with silence and with the almost-silence of their breathing. Tara knows that it will end soon. She knows that Buffy will leave her bed soon, go back out into the cold darkness again. Tara knows she can't stop the inevitable. These thoughts frighten her, and she's not sure why. Sometimes, when she holds Buffy against her breast, strokes her hair back away from her temple, lets her hands smooth lightly across her back it's like she's on the verge of discovering something or remembering something, but never quite does. But for right now she doesn't have to give into the inevitable. Not at this moment. Not yet. She does not let go.

Buffy moves languidly into Tara's arms. Part of her wants to speak but she knows she can't. It doesn't matter. Tara covers her mouth with her own, pulling all the words and thoughts and feelings Buffy can no longer express deep inside her soul. Keeps the words safe, in case a time should come when the Slayer will once again need Tara to speak for her.

The End

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