By Minim Calibre
Notes: Remix of Dream Lover, by ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=3){kind=small}
angearia in Remix Redux 7. Thanks to the Squad for the beta. Willow/Willow, R, spoilers through S3. Originally posted here.
“Pretty,” she whispers. The fuzzy pink and green sweater your grandmother knit for your birthday gets pulled up and over your head, leaving you in just the plain white bra your mother bought you. You’re not sure what happened to your underwear. Her nose wrinkles and her deep red lips curl in a sneer as she tosses it away. “Poorly packaged.” Sneer shifts to smile, and she runs her tongue across the jut of your collarbone, flicks it into the hollow of your throat, tickling and teasing. “Better.”
She is you, but not you. You’re still having a hard time wrapping your head around that.
This isn’t what you feel like, skin soft and cool to the touch like sliding into the sheets of a newly-made bed. This isn’t what you taste like, incense and iron, artifice and vice. This isn’t what you look like, nipples pale and hard above black leather, tightly laced, eyes bright behind rings of kohl.
You’re the hot flush of embarrassment and anticipation. Sweat on your thighs and palms, hot and sticky, need and fear. You taste sweet and sharp: she’s licked the ghost of your shame back into your open mouth, so you aren’t sure you know where you stop and she begins. She strokes your back, this other you, dried-blood nails digging sharp against your shoulder blades, palms stealing the excess warmth from your skin.
“So soft.” You can feel her lips barely brushing against your ear, hear her voice echoing inside your head. “Play with me?”
It’s not a question. It’s just meant to sound like one.
That doesn’t mean you don’t nod your assent.
You do. Harder than you should. Even though you’ve got a sneaking suspicion you don’t want to know what she considers playing. Your mind fills in the blanks with whips and chains, her black-booted foot pressing your face into cement, demon-yellow eyes flashing with pleasure as her teeth sink into a vein, the image causing an unexpected flood of heat between your legs. Instead, it’s hazel eyes that watch you, malicious and unblinking, as she closes her mouth around your right breast and bites down, teeth scraping the nipple’s edge. Teasing till your hips jerk upward, pathetic whimpers coming from your lips.
She lifts her mouth and cocks her head. The cup of your bra has a bright lipstick stain. Your mother would kill you if she saw it. “What do we say?”
You remind yourself this isn’t real: after all, you sent her away, back to wherever it was she came. This is all in your head, so it has to be okay. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Play with me.” The echoed words mock you as you beg.
The smile is feral; cruel and bright. “Okay.” Nimble fingers slip the halves of the cheap white plastic clasp apart, push your bra away. You fight the urge to cover yourself with your hands. Her eyebrows raise, the smile widening, twisting across your face that’s not your face. She puts her hands lightly on your waist, thumbs pointing inward, palms slightly raised. “You’d be so easy to break.”
No, no breaking. Breaking bad. But you don’t say it out loud. If you say it out loud, you’re pretty sure she’ll take it as a suggestion. You would, if you were her. Take advantage of your weakness, your fears. Instead you bite your lip and look up, focusing on the shadows of dead insects collecting in the overhead light shade while she circles your navel with her tongue.
“Oh! Oh!” Startled out of you when her head dips lower and suddenly, it’s not your navel that tongue is circling, and oh. You’ve thought you might like Oz to do this. Someday. Soon. Maybe. If you can work up the courage to ask. She chuckles, low and rumbling vibrations that make you shudder and shake. Makes you raise your hands to the back of her head and push down, demanding. She bites a warning against your leg, nails clawing blood moons on the swell of your hips. Chastised, your hands slip back to the bed, fingers running through her soft, bright hair on the way down. It feels no different than your own. You guess something has to be the same.
Her murmur of approval makes your stomach twist, desire mixed with faint nausea and self-hatred. You-self, not other-self. What does it say about you that you want this? You’ve gone slack and still. She notices.
“Overthinking’s no fun.” She’s glaring at you, pouting. “It makes you boring. Stop it.”
You can do that. You think. Her head dips down again, hummingbird flickers of her tongue against your clit. Oh yes, you can do that. After all, you can’t exactly think when all the blood has left your head. She has you squirming, panting. Your thighs feel heavy, tight and wet, something spiraling between them, pressure nearly to the bursting point…
And then she lifts her head.
She’s right. You are easy to break. All she has to do is stop.
“Say you’re mine.” Calm and saccharine. “Say it and I’ll make you feel good again.”
Your pulse is pounding in your throat, and it takes a minute to catch your breath. “I’m yours.”
“Mine.”
This time, it’s hands and tongue, unrelenting, overwhelming, pushing licking sucking thrusting you over some invisible edge, picking you back up just to push you over once again. You’re boneless, brainless, sated.
Scared.
Alarmed.
Ashamed.
“This isn’t me.” You’re not sure who you’re telling. Yourself, maybe, setting a reminder for when you awake. “You’re not me.”
Mirror eyes roll at you, tongue darting out to lick your traces from your shared face. “I’m part of you, and you should know your place. You’ll see.”
You wake up, alone and flustered. It’s three a.m., the room is dark, and you’re still wearing your flannel PJs.
It’s three a.m., it’s dark, you’re alone, and your hand is reaching for the familiar plastic comfort of your telephone. Oz, you think, will be awake.
You pause, draw your hand back to your side. The questions you have aren’t ones he can answer. So you turn over in your bed, close your eyes, and wait for sleep to take you back again.