A/N: This was written years ago under the guise of a different pen name. I decided to excavate this ancient artifact from the bowels of a floppy disk, give it a good spit shine and put it back on display.
Dawn is my provisional filler, bubblegum tofu and candy twizzle puppet. She's all glitter dust and sweetness where B's worn leather lapels, rougher, but still tender sugarcoated perfectionism and vanilla mist, sticky saccharine where it counts. Sometimes when her wetness drizzles onto my tongue, lethargic and sultry, condensed like sweltering honey, I can taste her. Tap water B and the seltzer fizzle of pop. Dawn is the harbinger, where Buffy is raw and husky smoke sizzle. But they feel the same under me, above me, inside, they feel the same. Stick your finger into the heat and you'd swear to hearing two whimpers. Taste it, suck the balmy syrup off your finger and you'd swear to tasting two. Two. An interesting number. Two translucent pairs of lips anywhere. B and Dawn, one and two.
They even smell the same, hurt the same, bleed the same. But they're not. The same, that is. Nope, they're two. Different, but ... similar. Mine anyway. Both of them, mine. Mine. A funny word. When we kiss I wonder whose tongue I'm sucking on and when hands crawl between my legs I wonder whose finger-fucking me to oblivion. But I guess it doesn't matter 'cause they'll always feel like one. One blur of lilac molasses and cinnamon stick touch, pink crayons and bristles stroking over my ebony soot licks and poison kisses. Dawn is B, molded from her rib and lathered with beauty, the kind of beauty ensnared by coils of buttered light, beams of sunshine and twists of whorling straw and whittled gold, or wispy sand-caked brown, like the leaves I used to rake in October.
Dawnie's more of a talker. When I'm sashaying kisses down her inner thigh or when we're swaying together, slow and delicious, thrusting, being, her mouth perches against my ear and her words slew through the fissures, drip and squiggle to comprehension, always in the form of a question, "Do you love me?" And then I wonder why she can't be more like B, quiet, reserved. We're fucking and all she can think of is love, do I love her? Do I? No Dawnie, I don't.
"Yes, baby." Just keep rocking, Dawn. Make me come and I'll lie. Tell you what you want to hear. But she wants more, supplementary nothings, cherry gravel and menthol-filter cigarette smolder strokes. She always wants to hear me say it.
And soon enough she's whimpering feted whispers, my persistent doll, "Tell me." I want to make her croon to make up for B's silence. My B, she never moans or fills my belly with throttled pants. Oh yeah, she's open and willing, takes everything I got to give and buckles under my lips like slippery ice. Never flinches under my fists, even when I cry, won't beg to hear me say what Dawn craves. Maybe if I make Dawn bawl and purr enough it won't bother me. And I know she's waiting for my response, can't come without it because she won't let herself so yeah, I'll tell her, because I can't come unless I hear her scream.
"I love you."
Her lips are wet around my tongue. She looks me in the eye; the inky indigo goblets are dripping with something innocent that makes me prickle with edge. This is my favorite part, when she gums my body to pellets of downy fluff and starches my eyelids with her glossy candid strawberry glow so I can't look away.
"I love you, Faith." I know, baby. We're tight against each other and she twists into a stiffened hollow and trembles, wrapping me in pink bubbles, whining sigh after sigh, careening into a jagged moan--she's coming, and so am I.
With B, I'd flop over and tumble into the shower because it hurts her just like she hurts me. But Dawnie is transparent gauze, doesn't hold anything back so I let her indulge in snuggles and pixie dust.