I shall now post the drabbles I wrote for it here. Why? Dunno, just because. I'm procrastinating, really. I have to go to the grocery store but it is, like, a million degrees outside and more humid than an oliphaunt's arse. ...yeah, okay, that metaphor made me cringe, but whatever. I'm in the middle of re-watching RotK instead of cleaning my apartment and going grocery shopping like I should be.
Passion. Passion in the blood, the reason for following the blood. Passion and power. Some have more, some less. Sara is passion personified. Driven. Without the proper fuel, Sara would burn herself out with her passion.
Her skin is warm and dry. She touches me more than she knows. And when she contemplates me, innocuous, resting on her arm, the intensity of her gaze burns. And I gaze back.
I am the coldest of metals, forged as a weapon to quench the flame of life. It is why I am drawn to Sara and her blood. Such fierce, all-consuming passion! She will last longer against my cold than anyone else, longer than any of my previous weilders, maybe. Certainly longer than any mere male could.
Her passion traps me, as I trap her. Her passion will keep her safe for awhile longer, but in the end, my coldness will win.
He used to think that he got more aware that Halloween when Max was hurt. He used to think that had made him more grownup.
He has vague memories of how he'd felt when Klarion had actually made him a grownup. He didn't think he'd been impressed with himself.
It shamed him to think that it had been his own pain -- not Max's, not anyone elses -- that had finally forced him into a bit more maturity. Just like it shamed him that Flash didn't trust him.
Bart's friends were changing, too. Superboy was gaining more perception in his relations and more circumspection in his rebellions. Cassie was more focused, too, but she was also more driven, and not in the good way. Bart hoped that she and Kal -- Conner, whatever -- could balance each other out, but sometimes he feared that they'd take each other on a wild joyride out of control and crash and burn. He'd read things about relationships like theirs...
There was less laughter at Titan's Tower than there had been with Young Justice.
Robin hadn't changed much, but then, Robin always had been more mature than any of the rest of them. Bart still didn't know what made him tick. He'd read everything about human psychology that he could get his hands on -- and since he could be at in library in the world in about a second, that was A LOT -- and he still didn't get Robin. Tim.
Take off Robin's mask and underneath was Tim. But Tim had Robin's eyes. Deeper and deeper, like mirrors reflecting themselves.
Bart had always been Bart. Impulse was a costume, Kid Flash a persona, but always Bart underneath. He wanted to... dissect Tim. Get inside, understand him. But it was hard.
The books he'd read suggested that this level of obsession over another person was a form of sublimination of sexual desire. Bart could go with that. Once he understood more about Robin, maybe he wouldn't have to subliminate anymore...
There was less laughter in growing up, but some things made up for it.
Red is the color of dance. Red, shimmering and wet, the color of blood newly spilled. Red like the Crimson Dawn. Red like rage.
She moves over the field of battle like Kali, dancing red in this field inside her mind. Betsy can feel the others. The professor, cool and calm, not red at all. The Frost woman, shining so brightly that she bleaches all the color from the mental landscape. Frost's damaged student, calling up dark destruction like a million silver needles. The only one of them that comes near to understanding the dance of mind is Jean. Jean is red and fiery. They can dance.
With a tendril of power, Psylocke invites Phoenix to dance. Swirling, together, bathed in a red so vivid it could never be mistaken for fire or for her own purple powers. Their dance is not a stately waltz but a frenzy, breaking off bits of their merged minds to throw at their enemies. The mindscape is bathed in red.
Maybe it's because she didn't know color for so long, and maybe it's because red has shaped Besty so much, but red is the color of dance and to dance the mindscape is her power. She dances...
The Fate of Lost Princes
Ah, but what can be said of the Ruin of Doriath? Fair Eglador, mightest and most beautiful fastness of the Sindar, gone long ago, lost to unwise oaths. Some glimmer of the hidden forest kingdom may still be seen in Lórien, but even there the golden trees are fading. The elves are leaving Middle-Earth and soon, soon even the memory of Thingol's Kingdom will be lost. All that will be left are the sons of Men who can count elvish blood in their ancestors.
These are the Dúnedain, those Men of the West that came from Númenor after the Downfall, who dwell in Arnor and Gondor and who are now seeing some of their lost glory return under the rule of wise King Elessar and his elvish wife, who is grandaughter to Elwing Star-Spray, daughter of Doriath's last King. But what of Elwing's older brothers, King Dior's heirs? Many know of the fate of the half-elven twins Elrond and Elros, one counted among the Elves and one counted among the Men, both with fates to shape the world. But what of their uncles, the lost princes, Eluréd and Elurín? None can say, for none ever knew.
Except perhaps a Man of the Drúedain, an ally of the Edain, who one day while scouting in the Twilit Meres came upon two half-grown lads, ferel and quick. Long it took for him to hunt them and longer still for him to tame them, soon it came to pass that the Man had wild beasts no longer but rather sons.
He raised his sons as Men and Men they did become and they were also great leaders of their people. Yet when the Edain went to Númenor, and many of the Drúedain left with them, the two brothers and their families did not. Instead they sought out secret places, and there lived in peace. Arien travelled the sky, the seasons turned, and Ages fell away. The brothers were counted among the Men and so died, but they lived long and so too did their children and their children's children. And in time they came to call themselves Drughu and they settled at the feet of the White Mountains.
Now who can really say that the Wild Men of the Woods, who practice arts and magics that none outside their company can guess, have among their ancestors not only Men but also Elves and Maiar? Perhaps they do not truly know themselves. Even before the wild brothers came to be chieftans of the Drû they hated the works of Morgoth and his ilk and were good and noble Men. Yet, from whence else could come their uncanny ways? It is as good a theory as any, but I doubt if Ghân-buri-Ghân would ever confirm it.
So it is up to you, my listeners, to ponder for yourselves: what ever became of Eluréd and Elurín? For it is known that all joinings of Men and Elves are guided by the hands of Eru and are fated to some important work. Could two such as that truly be lost?
-I don't understand.
Tet-chan blew a raspberry at his human friend. "Of course you don't! And how many years have you known Count D now? Stupid human."
Chris ignored the insult like he always did.
-Then tell me! They love each other, yet Count D will never... every time Leon tries to, Count D embarrasses him and they fight, but they still look at each other and even I can see it's love. Why won't Count D let himself love my brother?
Tet-chan tapped a finger against his nose. "Count D is. Well, he's being kind to your no-good brother."
"Look, kid, do you even really know what you're asking?"
Chris blushed but he didn't look away from his friend.
-I'll be seventeen next month, Tet-chan, I do know what my classmates do behind the bleachers.
Tet-chan snorted. "Heh. Alright, so you're all grown up. Well then. I guess... I'll show you why Count D is being kind."
Tet-chan was suddenly too close to Chris. Chris blink as Tet-chan straddled his lap, his claw-tipped hands caressing Chris' face. Tet-chan leaned forward and Chris was being kissed. Chris gasped and opened his mouth, whereupon Tet-chan slipped his tongue inside.
After the shock wore off, Chris felt like he was on fire. Every place that Tet-chan touched him was tingling with liquid heat. The air was heavier with incense than usual. He couldn't breathe and he was so heavily aroused by the slither of Tet-chan across his lap that he felt like he would explode. Chris reached up with his hands, clutching at Tet-chan's head, his hands pricking on Tet-chan's horns, and he moaned, clutching his friend, kissing him back.
Just as suddenly as he had swooped in, Tet-chan pulled away, although he remained on Chris' lap. Chris panted.
"There now, you see? And the farther we go, the less able you'll be to ever give me up. And if you were never allowed to touch me again? Why, don't you think that you would die?"
-Please, no, Tet-chan!
Tet-chan's eyes glimmered ferally in the twilight of the petshop. "You understand now, then, why Count D is being kind?" Tet-chan ground his pelvis down into Chris' and the boy whimpered.
"Good." Tet-chan grinned and leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "I, however, am not kind. Not at all." He nipped Chris' ear and went lower to suck on his neck, meanwhile shredding Chris' clothes with his claws, working ever lower.
Chris thought that kindness was overrated.
Ray and Ray were arguing again.
Fraser sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The night had started off well enough. They'd gotten together at the Consulate -- neutral ground, as it were -- to watch hockey. Fraser had invited Turnbull in the hope that his two friends would curb their vitriol in the face of a nominal outsider. Ray, however, was used to Turnbull now, having apparently decided that shared movie outings and such made him a fast (if weird) friend, and Ray seemed to think of him like family now that Turnbull was dating his sister.
Their argument was escalating. It had started over a disagreement in a call in the game and now seemed to be moving into a yelling match over the merrits of different species of monkeys. Fraser had no clue how one led to the other.
"They're sweet, aren't they, sir?" Turnbull said.
Fraser turned and looked at his fellow constable. Like usual, he had no idea what the man was talking about. "Sweet?"
"You don't think so? I just think that with all that passion in their relationship, they must love each other very much," Turnbull said, nodding to the arguing pair.
Fraser was speechless. Turnbull thought that Ray and Ray...? That was absurd! Although. Hmm. Ray really had been talking about Ray a lot lately. And Turnbull was spending an awful lot of time over at the Vecchio residence wooing Frannie, so maybe he knew something that Fraser didn't. And the two did tend to ignore other people in favor of each other when in the same room... It made sense. Fraser just wasn't sure that THEY knew about it yet.
He grinned. It was nice to see that his friends were getting along so famously. "Yes. Yes, they are sweet at that."
Ron raised his glass to Hermione, quirking his eyebow at her disapproving tone. She didn't like it when he drank.
Harry came up behind her and draped himself over her shoulders. "Now Hermione, you know it helps his pain." Ron wished that Harry would come drape himself over his shoulders, even with the pain in his missing right arm.
Hermione frowned. "Drinking to excess is bad for his liver. Ron, you shouldn't drink," she said, turning back to him.
"Why ever not, love?" He was already a bit drunk.
"You could..." her voice faltered, "die. You could die."
Ron's smile was bittersweet and filled with old pain. He reached up to caress her cheek. "Would that really be a bad thing? At least if I were dead I could touch you again." His hand passed through her form and Harry's.
"Ron." Harry's voice was sad. Ron sipped his drink. Tonight he wouldn't be consoled by their presence. It was the anniversery of their deaths.