Fever Dream is a famous short story by Ray Bradbury. If you know the story, you will see that it is not just the title that I have unashamedly stolen. His story is much creepier, and less smexy than mine. And eleventy billion times better. Obv.

This probably doesn't actually qualify as fanfic. No characters are named. Just random self-indulgent weirdness that leaks from my brain. It was written for my imaginary friend Nik.

I never, ever click on songs and playlists that authors post with fic. But, y'know, if you like that sort of thing, you could listen to this while you read.

http:/ www . youtube . com / watch?v=xAXOblSkQmQ&feature=fvwrel (delete the spaces)

The narrator is female.

AH / Het (gasp) / M

YES YOU READ THAT RIGHT THIS IS NOT SLASH. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. *giggles*


I'm asleep.

I'm awake.

It's so hot. The air is heavy and damp. I'm sure I opened the windows last night. I'm naked under the heavy blankets, curled in on myself in the darkness. My skin is slick with sweat, legs sliding against each other. All I can hear is my own breath, rasping painfully in and out.

Too hot.

I throw off the blankets and a chill breeze hits my shivering flesh. I must have left the windows open last night. I reach behind me to drag them back over me. I can move my arm but the rest of my body is formless clay, slowly melting into shapelessness, losing definition, heavy, wet, hot.

I'm awake.

I'm asleep.


The blankets are too heavy. They are damp, pressing down on me, smothering me. I try to lift my head a fraction, searching for cool air to drag into my burning lungs. It's too hard. Too heavy.

My hair is plastered to my head, clinging to my neck. It feels sticky, uncomfortable. I wonder if my arm still works, if I can raise it far enough to push the hair off my skin. I burrow my hand upwards under the blanket, scraping ineffectively at the damp tendrils a few times before I give up. Too hard. Too heavy.

I'm dreaming.

I hear a low chuckle behind my head. Gentle fingertips collect the hair that hangs across my face, smoothing it backwards.

I'm not dreaming. It's you.

Blunt nails dig at the slippery skin on my neck, persuading the sticking hair to move, a few strands at a time. I smile into my pillow, unable to raise my head or acknowledge your sweet gesture. When you are satisfied that all the locks are swept away, you run the pads of your fingers over the exposed skin.

I shiver.

I feel your breath before your lips touch me. Your sweet breath, which should be so hot as it flows over me, feels cool against my burning flesh.

Sweet kisses.

Sweet, sweet, slow kisses, your mouth open, lips and tongue tasting, my neck, my jaw, licking the salty sheen from my skin. I want to turn, to capture those lips, to return the tender, loving caresses with my own, but I can't move. My body is clay, damp and slick, compressed under the heavy blankets, hot, formless, still. All I can do is submit to your attention, waves of heat washing over me.

I'm asleep.


I'm awake.

The blankets are too heavy, heavier than before. They press against my side, weighing me down. The weight on my side moves - oh, it's not the blankets. It's your arm, resting on top of me in the dip of my waist. The heat behind me is you, not touching but close, only connected where your heavy arm pins me down, sinking into the clay. It's comforting to have you near, feeling your limb forming the curve, defining its shape.

Your hand lays flat on my stomach and starts to move. You are stroking lazily, up and down, swirling, drawing patterns, decorating me. Your passes get longer, reaching up higher, until you can cup your palm under a breast. You mold each one in turn, making them the perfect size to fit in your hand, teasing out the nipples with your finger and thumb, sculpting the malleable flesh to your exact requirements.

I shudder with pleasure.

Your hand feels delicious as it sweeps back down, erasing the patterns on my stomach, rubbing the damp surface to make it flat and smooth. Your thumb trails over my hip, exploring the bone that juts out, making circles around it, making sure it doesn't dissolve into the clay beneath.

The shudder is on the inside.

Your fingers trace the crease where my leg meets my body. My knees are bent and my legs pressed together. You push the top leg down, dividing the clay to make two separate limbs, one bent, one straight. You reach into where they join, where the clay is soft, liquid, melting against your fingers.

A quiet sigh of surprise escapes me.

I can still feel your breath on my face; I inhale it and the shape you have given me starts to come alive. I can move, just a little, shifting against your searching fingertips as you open me up. More shivers run through me as you scoop me into shallow folds, splayed out under your hand. You trace every line, returning again and again to the point that sends flickers of heat deep inside me.

You move closer until your whole body is touching mine, my back fitting flush with the contour of your chest. I am soft, pliable, yielding against your solidity, until we fit together like puzzle pieces, made for each other.

I can feel your hard cock pressing against the curve of my ass, and I know we can fit together even closer. It becomes a need, for you to be part of me. You have sculpted the outside of my body; now I need you to define the inside.

But you don't move, other than your fingers, rubbing maddening, wet circles over my sensitive flesh, dipping inside me for brief moments, exploring every inch, pinching and pressing. I can't decide if I need to press forward onto your hand, or back into your body. I need both; I need you everywhere.

I inhale again, and you have given me a voice.

Please, please, please.

I hear you laugh again, and the sound fills me up with joy.

You murmur into my ear.

Anything, anything for you. You were made for me. You are mine.

I can finally feel the tip of your cock right where I want it, and my new body surges. You press forward and I press back. Smooth, wet, perfect, slowly filling me up, making me whole.

I am alive. I am awake. I am complete.

We are still for a moment.

It's so hot in here, so hard to breathe. My chest is heaving, dragging heavy, wet air into my body. Your mouth is open, your lips against my shoulder. Your teeth will leave indentations in the smooth new clay there.

You press in harder, grinding up into me. I moan and press back, needing more. I cover your hand with mine and push your fingers firmly to where I need them. The rocking of your hips becomes more insistent; I feel you slipping out and pushing in, first just inches, out and in, building up until you are almost all the way out before you thrust. Your rhythm is steady and smooth, each new stroke opening me further.

Your hand slides away from me but it doesn't matter because my own fingers are stroking faster, pressing harder, movements becoming ragged and desperate, sparks beginning to form. The heat is overwhelming, threatening to consume me from inside and out, and I welcome it. I want to burn. Clay needs to be fired so that nothing can change it again.

You grip the hipbone that you so carefully sculpted, sliding your length out of me once more and then pulling me back sharply, slamming home. Over and over you crash into me, a rage of friction and heat and need, until I ignite, bursting into flame. I can hear the voice you gave me screaming as my body ripples in the haze of fire, clenching around you, holding you in, keeping you where you belong. I feel you pulsing as you still behind me, fingers digging in, teeth biting down, leaving your mark at the last moment before the clay sets.


I feel different. New.

I think maybe I had a fever, but the fire has burned out it out and the heat is receding. There is a cool breeze flowing over my skin. I must have left the window open last night. I curl into your arms and sink into blissful, dreamless sleep.


I'm awake.

The room is cool, but I am comfortably warm; the blanket feels light resting on top of me. I can turn easily, missing your weight, feeling for your heat pressed against me. The sheet is chilled beneath my back as I roll on to it. You are not there to warm it.

My skin is dry. My head is hazy as I try to piece together my dreams. You were here, loving me, weren't you?

Your hand drew my contours, my wet clay flesh easily flowing under your skilled fingers. I couldn't have dreamed that. Your thoughts burrowed into my brain, as easily as your body claimed me. I was formless and you defined me.

So, where are you now? What is the point of me, without you?

I stand. I am neither hot nor cold. The blanket falls away and I regard your creation. I search for your mark on my shoulder, but I can't see it.

I'm awake. I remember now.

You weren't here. You were never here.

I am not clay, after all.

I am stone.