Title: Colorless
Author: SullenPlaything
Rating: PG-13ish
Summary: The feeling's mutual.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, but if I did they'd be doing much more interesting things than fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on a very frequent and regular basis...without their clothing.
Author's Note: This is the companion fic to 'Red'
He hates it.
He really, really hates it, that color. It's not gold, but it's not silver or white. He's not even sure it's a color at all. Either way, he hates it. It matches perfectly with deep green robes to almost, but not quit, form that pair of colors he just can't stand. It's the color of his hair. Gleaming and polished, like cool platinum. He hates when it's slicked back, glazed with ice to match that sneer. He hates it even more when it's not. When it falls free about his pale white face looking so, so- touchable. He hates how it demands attention, standing out in the most crowded room because really, no other color could even come close to that elegant, pure ice. He hates the fact it makes him fidget, his skin suddenly feeling too hot and tight for his body. And the way it makes him think of things, -things that he'd take a bar of soap to his mouth himself if he described them aloud, much less than wait for his mother to. Things like smooth, flawless white skin and hands, and mouths, and –ah! He can barely think he gets so hard and hot and needy. He hates the shame he feels when he gets that way and has to cover up and excuse himself, only to suffer those sad, confused looks he gets from his friends when he does. He hates that sometimes he looks at raven locks and wonders how they would look stripped of all color. He hates that the only way he gets to touch that pale flawlessness is with violence, and he hates that deep down he knows he fights far more than he needs to, just for those opportunities. He hates that color. Really, he does. Or at least he tells himself that, because it's far better than admitting that he loves it.
Author: SullenPlaything
Rating: PG-13ish
Summary: The feeling's mutual.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, but if I did they'd be doing much more interesting things than fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on a very frequent and regular basis...without their clothing.
Author's Note: This is the companion fic to 'Red'
He hates it.
He really, really hates it, that color. It's not gold, but it's not silver or white. He's not even sure it's a color at all. Either way, he hates it. It matches perfectly with deep green robes to almost, but not quit, form that pair of colors he just can't stand. It's the color of his hair. Gleaming and polished, like cool platinum. He hates when it's slicked back, glazed with ice to match that sneer. He hates it even more when it's not. When it falls free about his pale white face looking so, so- touchable. He hates how it demands attention, standing out in the most crowded room because really, no other color could even come close to that elegant, pure ice. He hates the fact it makes him fidget, his skin suddenly feeling too hot and tight for his body. And the way it makes him think of things, -things that he'd take a bar of soap to his mouth himself if he described them aloud, much less than wait for his mother to. Things like smooth, flawless white skin and hands, and mouths, and –ah! He can barely think he gets so hard and hot and needy. He hates the shame he feels when he gets that way and has to cover up and excuse himself, only to suffer those sad, confused looks he gets from his friends when he does. He hates that sometimes he looks at raven locks and wonders how they would look stripped of all color. He hates that the only way he gets to touch that pale flawlessness is with violence, and he hates that deep down he knows he fights far more than he needs to, just for those opportunities. He hates that color. Really, he does. Or at least he tells himself that, because it's far better than admitting that he loves it.