Okay, I lied. Envy is still coming soon. Instead I wrote Lust.

I really really wanted to get Lust out of the way, because even the word makes me blush, and I SO didn't want it hanging over my head as I was writing this. So now it's done. Yay! :)

I really didn't want this to be inappropriate, because…ick! I'm thirteen, dudes, and even though I'm probably capable of writing some random sex scene, I SO don't want to. :D I also wondered for SO LONG (!!) on how to fit Starfire to Lust, and I think I came up with something believable. But if it's not…oh well. I only really got rid of my writer's block as I was writing the end.

By the way, new poll! This one is basically your opinion on which member of Titans West has the most deadly cooking skills. D:

So…enjoy, my duckies! (mad cackling)

Ahem…I think Mad Mod kinda got to me there…:D

Here is Lust! Starring Starfire.

--

I am thirsty. I am so very thirsty.

One would suppose that water would slake my thirst. One would suppose that my thirst is caused by mere lack of moisture, and that it is as easily satiated as dehydration.

It is not dehydration. It is far, far worse.

My thirst is for the touch that sends shivers down a young girl's spine, or the soft kiss that causes a flush to spread over her cheeks. My thirst is for twined hands and desire-bright eyes and the sweet nothings that sound so perfect, so lovely, as they are whispered into your ear.

My thirst is never sated, never satisfied, and certainly never quenched. It is a thirst that will plague me for the rest of my life—and who knows? Perhaps this thirst is so intense that it will scourge me forever, even when my corpse is burned and my ashes float evermore in space.

I know why I am thirsty. I know how I came to be thirsty.

And I know that I will never be sated.

--

I was young when I met my first love. On Tamaran, age is meaningless, of course. Our life spans stretch through the epochs. I mention my age only because years are no clue to maturity.

I was a feather-brained child. Sweet. Innocent. I truly believed that if I obeyed my parents and ate my vegetables and spoke only the truth, my life would be full and happy.

My innocence evaporated so very quickly.

He was young, too, but not nearly so young as I. He had sparkling green eyes, as all Tamaranians do. But his were deeper. Clearer. They smoldered when he was angered and glowed when he was joyous. There were like miniature comets, always flushed with radiance. I was captivated.

He wooed me—no, he didn't woo me. He seduced me. He used his strong arms and crooked smile and fiery eyes to draw me away from everything. I neglected my studies, my family, my meals, myself…He taught me everything I had never known. How to touch someone…how to kiss them, carefully, and then not so carefully at all…how to whisper in their ear, whisper so wonderfully that their breath is stolen away. He taught me about love and lust and passion and intimacy.

He was the sun in my life, I will admit. I now know that I was nothing but an asteroid: forever circling him in an unbreakable, magnetic pull, but never close. Never important. But I believed that I was his sun, too.

He was deceiving me. He mimicked my love, copied my zeal perfectly. We were in a mirror game, although I knew it not—when I look back now, I realize he was too perfect, too lovely, too spectacular in all of his being. He was a fraud.

I wasn't unintelligent as a child. But we are all fools in love.

I believe it was his eyes that truly fooled me.

There were these times, when I looked deep into his eyes, particularly after he kissed me, when we were both panting and unsteady. If I stared straight down into the emerald depths…past the glaze of desire…past the shimmer of thirst…past all the yearning for me, for my body, for my heart…I thought I could see something deeper. Something stronger.

I felt as if there was a bond between us, an invisible one, but one so powerful, so deep, so beautiful, that it would last beyond our final breaths. I felt as if that bond would not be broken by absence, or time, or distance, or neglect. I felt as if my heart was his and his heart was mine, and we were both so truly and completely in love that nothing could ever, ever break us.

I was so sure, so absolutely certain that I was right.

I was so completely wrong.

He left me, of course. It was only a matter of weeks, perhaps a month, before a new woman sashayed across his mind. He left me for her: left me for her winning smile and feather-duster eyelashes and charming way of speaking. I saw them dancing together, one night. I saw him whisper sweet nothings into her ear. I saw the way he looked at her, exactly how I'd looked at him. I saw her bat those lovely eyelashes, saw him give her that wonderful smile. And then I saw them kiss, so sweetly, so tenderly…

I let them dance the night away. I let them dance across my heart.

My sun was extinguished. I was left to wander alone in the coldness of space.

I was broken, of course. I did not eat or sleep. I barely moved for my apathy—I curled into corners for days on end and let the waves of pain reach for me, pull me close, surround me with icy waves of numbness…and soon they sucked me under with the siren calls of their seductive voices. I submerged. I did not resurface.

And yet I did.

It took another man to lead me away from my despair. His voice was divine: like drowning in a vat of honey. I did not know why I was drowning, when I listened to his voice, or what I was doing a vat of honey at all. I only knew that it was the sweetest pain I could hope for, and I lapped it up as if it truly were the sweet golden nectar itself.

He was charming, and passionate, and brooding, and deep. I forgot about my first love. I threw myself fully and completely into this new man, this man who promised me relief from the numbness inside of me. I gave him everything: my heart, my mind, my body, my soul. I was even more in love with him than the first man—and so I gave him more. More time, more thought, more love. I was passionate as well: our fervor stole my thoughts away.

I gave him everything, in my naivety. And it only meant that there was more of me to break.

He left after half a year. He said he needed to find himself—he said he was trapped with me. He said I suffocated him, I ensnared him, I deceived him into contentment. He said he needed to be free. He said could not be free if he was lashed to my bidding. His honey-sweet voice made the harsh words all the more devastating.

I had six months of giving him more than I had; six months of touching him, needing him, loving him; six months of drinking deeply from the wine of passion. And then, in one shattering instant…he was gone. The cup was torn from my wine-stained lips. The bitter traces left on my mouth were all I had left of love.

Looking back now, I realize their proclaimed love was fake. Every shred of devotion those two men bestowed upon me was nothing but a charade, and although they did not know it, their illusions broke me beyond repair. But at the time, it seemed so, so real. I have always been susceptible to enchantments. I have always been one to believe the charade. And I have always been the one who cries when the illusion fades away.

My two illusions of love were gone.

I cannot convey with words my despair. In Earth years, I was fourteen years old.

It was far from the term you hear so often: heartbroken. No, my heart shattered. There is no glue for such a wound. I longed for a coma, one so all-consuming that I would never wake, and would eventually be killed in my sleep. I longed in vain. I stayed conscious all through the first day he was gone…and the next…and the next…and the next…

I fear that my mind was lost after that day.

At first I removed myself from the world. I did not allow myself to cry. I knew that if I cried that first tear, they would never stop—they would never cease until the worlds were flooded with them. I did not eat or sleep for weeks. I faded away to nothing. I clung to the ghost of his memory as if remembering his sumptuous voice would bring him back. I became numb to emotion.

It changed, one day. I was shaken from my numbness. I felt afraid.

I was afraid that I would never love again. I was afraid that I was broken. I was afraid that I would never be whole again. I was afraid for a long time—so long! One would suppose that after a year or two, the feeling would fade, but it did not. Relentless horror was my only company for a long, long time, and its company did nothing but starve me of the love I craved.

Eventually I found a way to sate my hunger.

In the beginning, I shied from the attention I received from the male inhabitants of Tamaran. I was afraid to get close again. I was afraid to be broken. I let them kiss me, only slowly, only softly. And the warmth of their affection thawed me, just a little.

During this time, I was fragile in the most extreme way possible. I was so malnourished that my father unintentionally snapped my arm in half while embracing me.

But soon the emotions that shuddered through me as I was kissed became…familiar. I grew used to them. They became nothing to me. And I still longed for the warmth of someone's touch, perhaps more than ever.

And so I dared myself to venture further—to move a little faster, to kiss a little deeper, to touch very lightly. The warmth came to me again. And then, predictably, it faded. I pushed myself further, doing the things that I used to with the men I truly loved—and soon, doing even more. My emaciated figure was of great use to me. I suppose males are attracted to malnutrition.

In due course, I held the throne over nearly every male on the planet. They wanted me, I wanted them…

They lusted after my body.

I lusted after their lust.

I was addicted to the warmth that overcame me and the hope that soared through me when I realized I could still feel. Their lust…my drug…it fell easily into place. Too easily. I was too-easily fixated with this drug of mine. It too-easily took over my life.

--

Now I live on Earth, with four people who I have come to know and trust, even in my fragile state.

Oh, I eventually got around to nourishing myself. I eventually regained my strength. I eventually learned to mask my inherent lust, and to portray someone else instead. I modeled my blissful behavior after my grandmother, the happiest woman I have ever known.

All of this is a charade of sorts. Beneath every smile, beneath every laugh, there is the longing for a touch. Beneath everything I appear to be is a well-cloaked desire. I have never shown it to anyone.

On Earth, my thirst is limited, but not by my choosing. There are three males in the Tower. I lust after only one, because he is the only one to respond to my suggestions of romance.

Robin is a gentleman. A careful, chaste gentleman. He is honorable and kind of protective and strong.

If I was not so completely and utterly broken, I would love him. I wish I could love him. I wish my heart was whole so I could shower him with the adoration he deserves. I wish I was not addicted to the feeling of warmth that has taken over my life. I wish I had never met those two men, those men who demolished my young soul and damaged me beyond repair. I wish I was able to heal myself.

I know the harm is irreversible.

And so I cannot give Robin the love he deserves. Instead, I lust only after his body, not his heart. I desire only his touch, not his thoughts. I want warmth. Not a boyfriend.

And even if I receive Robin's body, even if I obtain the warmth I crave, the thirst will still be there—undying…insatiable…And he will be left broken, just as I was. Fate has never cast a crueler illusion.

More than anything, I wish Robin could sate my thirst.

But I know he never, ever will.

--

Next: Avarice