Warnings & Disclaimers: I do not own the book, in a nook, like a crook,
with some spam, legs of lamb, or standing on a freeform structure and
giggling like a loon.
Feedback: If you would be so kind? ^_^'
Pairings: Hp/Dm and vice versa I'm sure
Additional Warnings: The following fic contains, confusion, dreams,
wandering hands, and boys with other boys in sexual situations. Beware!
Dreaming In Technicolor
Visions should always come to one at night in the deep darkness behind closed eyelids. When the dream begins, it's always the same. There's a hand, long and slender, pale and shapely. The nails on it are clear and cut short. It always begins with this hand; sometimes it ends with it too.
In the dark, shadowed by curtains and bedclothes, he watches as the hand tugs, toys and then slides along his skin. It seems to contain a will of its own, until the second hand begins its journey as well. They coast, slide, caress over ribs and hips, the nails leave little crescents in his thighs, half moon shapes on his chest. It seems so appropriate in those moments, to be marked by these hands.
When he tilts his head to the side, a mouth joins the hands, nipping, until a tongue, hot and wet slides along the juncture of his jaw. If he reaches out he might feel bare skin beneath his fingertips, he might feel cloth. He never reaches out.
He lies silently in this strange dream, writhing on his bed, becoming nothing more than a body that's willingness itself. As morning comes, and alertness with it, he opens his eyes and wonders, wanders the halls all day, and thinks on it. Who is the mystery? Whose hands are they, whose mouth and body?
In class he glances from student to student, sometimes he even wonders if it's a teacher. His hands tremble on his desk, and he breaks open his pen, the ink spreading across the paper of his notebook in a pattern that resembles a Rorschach test. He sees hands, and wonders what this means in the psychological sense.
At dinner, he remains silent, eyes roving from table to table within the cafeteria. Once they catch on someone else's eyes and he blinks. Staring across the way he slides his gaze down, concentrating on the hands that are held on the table. Pale and smooth, long fingered, tapered with glass-like nails cut short. He finds he's salivating and takes a bite of food that tastes of nothing.
In the night, the dream slips before his eyes like fog and he falls deep beneath the waves of slumber. The hands slide, glide, and feather. They're light and teasing, then demanding and beautiful. In the dream, he hears a voice, soft in his ear, faint with lust and husky.
Morning again finds him twisted in his sheets and craving something he can't define. Classes blur by, meals fall hollow, he waits again for night, for the dream, tempted to take a nap just to force it to come to him.
He's amazed when walking the hall in the evening he stumbles across something familiar. The eyes that meet his own are glimmering in the half- light of a flashlight. Unconsciously his gaze lowers to the hand holding the light, and there it is again, the hands from the cafeteria the evening before. Long, smooth, the fingers alone make him tremble.
As he looks up to meet the eyes, he again hears the dream's whisper of seduction and the boy standing across from him, smiles.
Dreaming In Technicolor
Visions should always come to one at night in the deep darkness behind closed eyelids. When the dream begins, it's always the same. There's a hand, long and slender, pale and shapely. The nails on it are clear and cut short. It always begins with this hand; sometimes it ends with it too.
In the dark, shadowed by curtains and bedclothes, he watches as the hand tugs, toys and then slides along his skin. It seems to contain a will of its own, until the second hand begins its journey as well. They coast, slide, caress over ribs and hips, the nails leave little crescents in his thighs, half moon shapes on his chest. It seems so appropriate in those moments, to be marked by these hands.
When he tilts his head to the side, a mouth joins the hands, nipping, until a tongue, hot and wet slides along the juncture of his jaw. If he reaches out he might feel bare skin beneath his fingertips, he might feel cloth. He never reaches out.
He lies silently in this strange dream, writhing on his bed, becoming nothing more than a body that's willingness itself. As morning comes, and alertness with it, he opens his eyes and wonders, wanders the halls all day, and thinks on it. Who is the mystery? Whose hands are they, whose mouth and body?
In class he glances from student to student, sometimes he even wonders if it's a teacher. His hands tremble on his desk, and he breaks open his pen, the ink spreading across the paper of his notebook in a pattern that resembles a Rorschach test. He sees hands, and wonders what this means in the psychological sense.
At dinner, he remains silent, eyes roving from table to table within the cafeteria. Once they catch on someone else's eyes and he blinks. Staring across the way he slides his gaze down, concentrating on the hands that are held on the table. Pale and smooth, long fingered, tapered with glass-like nails cut short. He finds he's salivating and takes a bite of food that tastes of nothing.
In the night, the dream slips before his eyes like fog and he falls deep beneath the waves of slumber. The hands slide, glide, and feather. They're light and teasing, then demanding and beautiful. In the dream, he hears a voice, soft in his ear, faint with lust and husky.
Morning again finds him twisted in his sheets and craving something he can't define. Classes blur by, meals fall hollow, he waits again for night, for the dream, tempted to take a nap just to force it to come to him.
He's amazed when walking the hall in the evening he stumbles across something familiar. The eyes that meet his own are glimmering in the half- light of a flashlight. Unconsciously his gaze lowers to the hand holding the light, and there it is again, the hands from the cafeteria the evening before. Long, smooth, the fingers alone make him tremble.
As he looks up to meet the eyes, he again hears the dream's whisper of seduction and the boy standing across from him, smiles.