Drabble: (n) Set by the Birmingham University SF Society as thus: a self-contained vignette of exactly 100 words, no more, no less, with up to 15 more words are allowed for the title. Hyphenated words are in dispute. The term originates from a Monty Python skit: "Drabble. A word game for 2 to 4 players. The four players sit from left to right and the first person to write a novel wins." Drabbles started in British SF fandom in the late '80s. A half-drabble is fifty words long; a double drabble is 200 words long.

*All drabbles on this page copyrighted Mickey M. 2002-2007

Ricky's hands are tendrils of fire sliding here and there over JC's body. He's consumed by the fire, sure if he looks down he'll see nothing but ash.

Then he does look, but there's no ash, just hands touching him, holding him, loving him. JC whines low in his throat as one hand slides lower and lower, pausing just below his navel and holding there.

Hot whisper in his ear when he wriggles impatiently. "Something you want?"

"Touch me," JC says, the words low and throaty. "C'mon, Keek, please."

The world explodes behind his eyes in technicolor when Ricky does.

They almost never get sick, either of them. Injured, sure. It comes with the business. But not sick. And it's Sammy who's sick, which is just tilting Dean's world with the wrongness. If anything should happen, it should happen to him, not to Sam.

Still, the smile Sam gives him -- dark circles under his eyes and all -- when Dean props the pillows up and brings him chicken noodle soup and ginger ale, well. It's a special, takes-his-breath-away sort of smile that Dean knows he'll store away as a special memory, to take out whenever he needs a pick-me-up.

Early morning breeze coming in through the open window, and it's salty and sharp, and there's nowhere in the world better than here. The air is cool, almost chilly in the pre-dawn, but there's warmth beside you. He's on his belly, sheet riding low, exposing the broad expanse of his back, caramel-colored skin begging for kisses. You lean in, breathing in the scent of him, of heat and sex, and it's sharp and salty, too.

You taste him, mouth moving over his skin, tracing invisible patterns. He shudders and rolls, mumbles, "awake, Caro?"

Your answer is lost in his kiss.

There are voices in his head. Words-song, prayer, chants, pleas; he doesn't know, can't sort them out. They dance around, a wild choreography of dizzying color and sound that slows every so often to tease him, phrases catching on gleaming webs in his mind, lingering to taunt him.

...I can't believe you're here... ...don't stop... ...can this last?

...don't leave.

I'll be back.

Love you so much.

They're just words, voices; random, soothing and maddening, but one stands out. One voice he knows. Knows it, loved it, loves it, needs it. His mind offers up one last word: JC.

Moonlight spun into bright light, white and sharp against his eyes even when he squeezed them shut.

Too white, too pure to be daytime; to be anything safe and comforting. It made his eyes burn, but it was cold, so cold. Like his world now. Nothing left of warmth, nothing left to take refuge in. He longed for the familiar touch, for a soft voice whispering to him.

When the sharp whiteness faded it became the blackest of shadows, enveloping him.

There was nothing left but the quiet sound of his last breath hanging in the air; one word.

"JC."

The rain makes him think of tears; probably because his mom always said it rained because the angels cried. Right now it makes him feel cold and alone.

If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he thinks the sun is shining somewhere; as a bright smile and blue eyes that crinkle up and disappear when that smile grows. Thinking about it makes him warmer, makes him feel less lonely.

He's so lost in his thoughts that the strong arms wrapping around him startle him. JC laughs softly. "What're you thinking about, cat?"

"Sunshine," Chris says quietly, turning into the embrace.

"How's it feel?" Chris grins and rubs again, and JC growls.

"I like it. Put it to the test, dawg." He pushes Chris down gently.

He licks upward, and it tickles, a little. More, when he nuzzles, and it's soft, and prickly, depending on which way Chris rubs. JC wants to reach down and stroke his fingers over it -- still new enough he's entranced by it -- but Chris grabs his hands and grins, bites JC's thigh.

"Nuh-uh. Be good." He licks again, nuzzles some more. He's gonna have a rash there, in the morning...and JC really doesn't care.

Joey loves surprises, and Chris loves surprising him. Which is why he's up at ass-o'clock in the morning, sweating over a recipe Phyllis sent him, to get the cookies just right.

For Joey.

Because he's been down lately, hasn't been his usual happy self. And Chris loves him no matter what, but he really wants to see him smile again. Wants to see those gorgeous eyes twinkle and sparkle at him.

Later, when Joey's still smiling, and his kisses taste like gingerbread and spice, Chris knows it was so worth it. And he would do it again in a heartbeat.

The first time JC saw Lance, he was struck by how painfully young and ill-at-ease he looked. He wasn't shy, but he was out of his element, and it showed.

He grew into himself slowly. JC watched, measured, smiled when Lance gained confidence. Cheered him on silently, and sometimes not so silently.

It's strange to look at Lance post-Russia, tanned and confident, and compare him to earlier, before Europe and fame. JC misses that boy sometimes, until Lance leans in, lips brushing his ear and whispers softly. Then JC remembers he loves the man just as much as the boy.

JC's humming something under his breath as he hangs ornaments, and Justin's not entirely sure but he thinks it's 'The Night Before Christmas'. The garland is kind of crooked on the tree, and he wishes the lights were more evenly spaced, but when they turn the lights off and the tree on, and he steps back, it looks absolutely perfect.

"Nice work," JC whispers, body warm against his as he presses up. "It looks good."

"It does, doesn't it?" He smiles and leans back with a sigh.

"Gonna be perfect." Soft kisses against his ear, and Justin nods. It will.

Holidays used to be fun, until they became a twenty-four hour layover in between frantic showcases and performances. No time to plan or enjoy, to remember and savor the traditions you'd grown up with.

You let the meaning of the seasons pass over you, until you hardly remember them.

Thanksgiving brings Chris, flying in on a red-eye, looking tired but happy when you open your door. He kisses you hello and hugs you tight, then whispers how much he's missed you.

You think maybe the meaning of the season is the people you spend it with.

Chris' nose is always cold these days, but he gives off more heat than ever before. JC's stopped trying to figure it out; he doesn't know if it's metabolism, or just sheer...animalism. He pets and scratches, and talks to Chris, though he's certain Chris doesn't understand anything he says beyond his name.

Some days he can forget who Chris is...was. Most days he's painfully aware. He wonders if Chris is, underneath it all.

He misses Chris the most at night. Even curled up against him, warm breath ghosting over JC's skin, fur silky against his fingertips, it's not the same.

It's windy; a sharp, thin caress that cuts straight through his skin, down deep inside him. His mouth is dry and full of grit, a nothing taste. He's walked forever like this, aching and alone, chilled so far down he doesn't think he'll ever be warm again.

In his mind's eye he sees blue eyes, clear like a summer sky. He feels warm hands touch him, feels moist breath against his lips before more warmth touches him, soft and sweet as berries.

He calls out a name and listens as the wind carries it away, leaving him cold and alone.

"I dream of death," JC says softly. He's not sure who he says it to; just knows someone's listening. "All the time. Dark skies, trees with branches shining in the moonlight like polished bone, wind whistling like a last breath."

His room is dark and silent as a tomb. He shifts onto his side and curls inward. He's not alone; hasn't felt alone in forever. "I dream of death," he says again, then falls silent, waiting.

Words fall cold against his skin. "I dream of life." The chill moves like fingers stroking lightly, drawing him closer. "I dream of you."

"Hush little baby, don't say a word..." Lance's voice fades into a soft hum, no more words, just deep, quiet sounds that wash over you, around you, cutting through baby hiccups and gurgles.

He comes here when you fight, to rock Briahna, and forget for a while.

Muted light from a cheerful star nightlight shines on damp tracks on Bri's cheeks; you wonder if he cried, too.

"Let 'em alone, C," Joey whispers, drawing you away from the door. You'd stand there all night and watch, if he let you. He never does.

Everyone has their role, even the lullabye.

Watching JC is like watching words come alive, seeing them live and breathe and smile. And not just random words, but words combined in beautiful ways, words that flow effortlessly. Poetry.

Sometimes the words hurt, icy slivers that bite your soul. You wish there didn't have to be pain, but think sometimes he doesn't mind. Always afterward, he shines more brilliantly.

You wish you could tell him how you feel, but your words aren't beautiful like his; they feel awkward, unwieldy.

You realize later, when he's twined around you, breathing slow and deep, maybe you do tell him...just without words.

He moves further away with each day; each breath takes a bit more from you.

You cried that first night without him. Not tears anyone would see, but tiny prickles of cold dripping through your skin...ripping through your skin. You don't cry any more, but every night you're colder than the last. Winter lives within you.

You see him every day, hear his laughter, feel his hand on your shoulder or arm, an easy, friendly touch. Only friends now, nothing more. His name is a hiss of breath between your teeth.

Inside you mourn. Outside you smile.

You always smile.

He dreams of things he can't have.

They haunt him, threads of want and desire that weave around his thoughts, tangling him in cotton candy strands that should be fragile as spun sugar, but are strong and sticky, colored steel bands trapping him neatly inside his head.

Colors wash over him, hues of orangeyellowred, painting him with warmth while cool bluewhitesilve tickles beneath it. Butterfly wings brush his skin and he smiles and reaches outward, wakes when his fingers touch Chris'.

The warmth fades, reminding him that silvery soft threads hold him tight, making him want what he can't have.

JC sighed when he saw the new arrival standing in the great hall. Chris was forever sending him 'tribute' from battle.

This one, though, was...beautiful. There was no other word for it. His hair was brown, streaked with gold, like he'd been kissed by the sun. Red slash of a mouth, bottom lip slightly swollen. As he drew closer, JC saw green eyes that made him think of new spring leaves. He wore rags, bloodied and muddied, but JC could see he had noble blood. He carried himself proudly.

"What's your name?" He asked softly, but firmly. The new arrival pressed his lips together tightly, as if his name were a secret to be closely guarded. JC smiled. "That's fine. You can keep it to yourself for now. I'll just call you-slave."

Proud shoulders stiffened and JC looked down at hands clenched so tightly, the man's knuckles were white. He bit his lip to keep from smiling when the slave cleared his throat.

"My name is Lance." A deep, rich voice. Pleasure rippled through JC in a slow, easy curl of heat. He wanted to hear that voice moan with desire. "What. Who're you?"

"You may call me Master."

Sheets rustle when you move, and you shift to rub fully against them, leaching the coolness into your heated flesh.

Touching yourself is good, so good. Slide your hand down your chest, skate fingertips over your nipples, shivering when they harden into aching points begging for more.

Your stomach muscles twitch when you stroke lower, teasing. Moisture slicks over your fingers and you groan, firm your grip. You spread your legs wantonly and stroke lower, press on the tight muscle there.

Warm hands grip your thighs and slide upward and you come with his name on your lips, "Chris--."

"How do you do this?" JC kneads the knots in Chris' shoulders, enjoying the smooth, warm skin flexing beneath his fingers. Of course, he'd also like to punch Chris, because this is the third time this week, and really. His back's gonna give out at this rate.

"Would you believe stretching?" Chris shifts restlessly and JC slides his hands up to rest lightly on Chris' shoulders, just touching.

Chris freezes, then relaxes; allows the touch. Under the stillness, JC feels him quiver. He inclines his head, brushes a gentle kiss over warm skin, and the quiver blossoms into a shiver.

Sometimes, JC wakes in the night to watch Chris sleep. It's peaceful, that time before dawn, when the sky outside is still dark, and the room inside is shadowy, and the air is cool and fresh. He sees Chris peaceful and quiet, breath coming slow and even, nothing hurried or rushed.

Sometimes, he touches Chris, gently, his fingers stroking over soft, plush skin, outlining the hard contour of muscle beneath. Sometimes he kisses him, mouth ghosting along pale, moon-kissed skin.

And sometimes, Chris wakes up and smiles sleepily, and those are the mornings the sun shines more brilliantly than before.

He's beautiful, Chris thinks, settling carefully against the wall to watch JC.

It's a long-time habit, this watching. One he'll never grow tired of; one he never wants to have to give up. It's his version of comfort time, a sort of Chicken-Soup-for-the-Soul sort of thing.

When he naps in the sunlight, JC stretches out, arms above his head, sometimes a sliver of belly showing where his shirt rides up.

When he sleeps in a dim, cool room, he curls into himself, huddling against the dark.

When they sleep together, JC curls around him, a warm, living blanket. Comfort, indeed.

"Bitch." He touches your neck, slides his finger down to circle a nipple before drawing the corset strings tighter. You wriggle, breathe out, feel him whisper against your throat, "slut."

"Yes." It's all you can say; the fabric binds you so tightly, cuts off oxygen and words, leaving you adrift in nothing but sensation. Chris skims his hands over your waist, then bites your neck.

"Look," he whispers, and nods at the mirror. You shudder at the man-woman staring back and watch Chris turn toward you. "My dollslut," is kissed into your skin.

You close your eyes and whisper, "Yes."

You see the world now in two colors: dark, and light. In between those is a rainbow you can feel, smell, hear...but will never see again, with your eyes.

"The sky isn't blue today. It's cloudy, so it's gray, with streaks of darker gray-like charcoal-mixed into it. And bits of white, like cotton."

"The sun looks like a fireball, all orange and yellow-you can feel how hot it is. It's like flames in the sky."

"The sky is a tapestry tonight. Black velvet, studded with glittering diamonds."

You see with his eyes, and his see with love.

"Don't say it if you're not gonna do it." Chris glares at JC, squeezes his leg to keep it still. He's nervous. He thinks JC is, too.

"I mean it." JC steps closer, reaches out to touch Chris. He can't stop his flinch backward. "Chris."

"No, dude. Not doing this again." The wall's behind him; he can't go any further.

"You like it. Want it." JC leans in, breath warm against Chris' face. He closes his eyes.

"No." He shakes, but it's not fear. Never that.

"Yes." JC's closer now, mouth so close. "Yes, Chris."

He caves. Every time.

"Yes."

Passion is red, fiery and hot, burning like the sun. Chris is passion. His caresses send heat rippling all through you.

Comfort is yellow, warm and gentle, easing you with it's touch. Joey is comfort. You can rest your head on his shoulder and forget the world for a time.

Affection is blue, light and easy, wrapping around you like a blanket. Justin is affection. There's no price on it; it's freely given, happily accepted.

Need is quicksilver, fluid and restless, surrounding and prickling you. Lance is need. It hurts sometimes, but you like it.

Together, they make you whole.

They tell you both not to get your hopes up, not to expect too much. What you'll hear is all there'll ever be.

You hold JC's hand, ignore the fingernails digging into you.

"Love."

Each sound is nails-down-chalkboard harsh, the sort that make your ears seem to bleed the longer it goes on.

"You."

Each syllable hurts; you feel your throat work as you watch his, and you can't shut your eyes, because his are watching yours.

"Chris."

Each word burns, claws its way inside you, slices you open with shiny, jagged edges.

His voice, his words, your soul.

The first time is JC holding Chris' hand to his throat, squeezing lightly. He comes with rainbow prisms sparking wildly behind his eyelids.

Afterwards, Chris licks the bruises he left and whispers, "Fuckin' hot. Do me, next time?" JC nods.

The second time it's him buried in Chris, his fingers around Chris' throat. The more pressure he applies, the hotter Chris' eyes flash, urging him onward soundlessly. There's a flash in those eyes, brilliant whitehot heat, then Chris shudders, going lax as he comes. Adrenaline rushes through JC's body, exploding outward in orgasm.

They do it again, the next night.

You stare at Chris kneeling in front of you, eyes dark and hungry, wanting what you can give him. Will give him. He shudders when you step closer, mouth opening just enough for you to see a flash of pink, slick and ready to welcome you. You take yourself in hand, rub over his mouth, his lips, shudder when he does. Your dick throbs and you breathe deeply, slowly, savoring.

It's empowering to watch his eyes slide closed, to see his shiver when warm wet touches him. Eyes closed, mouth open, golden droplets falling on his lips, down his chin.

It hurts, but it's meant to.

The pain is cleansing. Freeing. Opens you up to all the possibilities: things you aren't, but could be; things you'd like to be. Things you want to feel, but can't attain on your own.

Your skin is on fire; each inch is a live flame, dancing and jumping with every new sensation. Soft strokes from his hand feel like hard blows, and you wait, quivering and panting, for the next stroke, the next blow. You hear the crackle of leather, taste the salt on your lips when you lick them, and try to relax.