next to the coast made of gold shimmering stars...

KH: 358/2 Days

2009-10-27T07:05:52Z

Maybe I just haven't played a legit handheld game in just that long, but tell me, is anyone else experiencing the same finger cramps as me? I had some free time today, so I decided to crack out the thing since I'd been neglecting it for an obscenely long time. And now I feel like someone spent the day tapdancing on my hands. THE CRAMPS OH LAWD THE CRAMPS

World Ends With You totally spoiled me with its nifty use of the stylus. WHY OH WHY couldn't they have used a similar system for the new Kingdom Hearts? WEWY gave me way fewer difficulties and strain. D: Is this just an attempt to maintain some semblance of similarity between Chain of Memories? Because I hated that battle system even more than this one. I just can't deal with any game that brings cards into the mess. DX How I dealt with the YGO! fad is beyond me. For seriously.

Aside from the finger bleedry, this game is almost painfully addicting. I think it's the fact that you can't save until after you complete your mission that does it. Very clever, Nomura-sensei. Very clever.

And Xion, wtf~? I don't like Mary Sue types! It took me the better part of my childhood to accept Kairi and a small part of my adolescence to get used to Naminé, but now they give us another?!?!?! WHYYYYYY >__<

I really could do without her...and Riku is not butt-ugly so far, so I am cautiously content.

~~why, yes! I did spend the entire day playing video games. what of it??? :D~~

S AIGHT :B

2009-10-23T01:24:42Z

You totally know you go to school in the ghetto when your campus is on lockdown for like two and a half hours because some sketch is skulking around with a gun. :0 I've been trapped in here and I have to say that I find this all very funny. I've lived in areas with people who liked to pretend they were ghetto (whoever keeps calling Toronto "T Dot" because it sounds cool needs to stop. It's actually sort of lame and I always want to facepalm when I hear it. Toronto is anything but ghetto.), and the comparison is pretty hilarious. XD Like, when I first came to visit my school back in application days, I was like, "Whoa this place is seriously ghetto" because, well, it IS. I legit am afraid to go out alone past a certain time at night, like more than I was in New York City (lmao) and Toronto (goes without saying, lmfaoooo).

But apparently this is a fairly common occurrence... I was speaking to some of the sophomores and upperclassmen, and they were all like, "Yeah, well, a guy running around with a gun is the least interesting thing that's happened here. There have been:

Students held at gunpoint in their own dorms
Ten reported rapes in the past year
Numerous accounts of students and groups of students being being held at gunpoint or knifepoint in broad daylight
Instances of creeper locals getting into school buildings because students let them in...
X
Y
Z

:0 This is going to be a fun year. The only way it could get any worse was if the drunk kids were constantly playing Miley Cyr---OH WAIT! That's already happening. DX

Naruto Secret Santa Obligatory Advert

2009-10-23T01:01:24Z

LET'S DO THIS MOTHER, 'TTEBAYO!!!!!!!!!! 8D

/shamelesspimpage

MY NAME IS JOE AND I AM CANADIAN

2009-10-22T03:13:36Z

I'm admittedly getting a little tired of explaining Canada to people :0 The USA is a kind of funny place sometimes. Luckily, I haven't had any questions about igloos (yet), so I am going to remain cautiously optimistic. Questions about speaking French are okay for now. (I don't. God no.) And, why, yes! Toronto is in Canada. :D Silly~

Having lived in both the USA and Canada, I can attest to a lot of unnecessary tension, but c'est la vie! :O I personally swing in favour of more cooperation and less of our respective populations muttering about each other. ~~(cooowardalwayspretendstobesoneutralsopushyandbosyandwaytooaggressive)~~

:3 I love both countries very much and I think they both have their greater and weaker points. :D And they're pretty bitching siblings if you ask me~ Longest unprotected border in the world, you guys! Let's be proud. *shot*

This about (not "a boot" ppl~) sums Canada up.

I also think it says something about Canada that I felt it prudent to use a beer commercial. XD what can I say? It's Canada.

~~*goes back to her essay on Nahua people 8D*~~

I'm noticing a definite trend in posts

2009-10-08T20:34:29Z

This being that many of them are based on fangirling over videos. So, here's another. Conformity and predictability are the delicacies of normality <3

Um, so, if any of you guys watch television, you might be familiar with this. The new, shiny trailer for Halo, dubbed "We are ODST." I think I nearly attacked the television when I first saw this. It's so...MOTHERFUCKING EPIC.

Like I probably sat and watched it on youtube for at least a good hour. On repeat. ~~Because I'm so cool.~~

And I can't possibly be the only person who saw this and wished with every fibre of one's being that there was a Halo movie. In Hungarian. With more intensely chilling Welsh score.

Or at least a novel or something... I really don't have much desire to read a graphic novel at this time.

~~...or we could at least have fanfiction...~~

drooool

2009-09-29T04:04:42Z

So, you know how Glee is on Wednesday nights at 9? DX I have a writing seminar from 6:30 to 9:10, but usually my professor lets us out early...ish. So I like, legit sprint across campus, because, OF COURSE, my dorm building is on the opposite side from where my class is, and like burst into my dorm and turn on the television and anxiously check the clock to see how much of the damn programme I've missed.

DDDX It's a vicious cycle...and it's about to continue tomorrow night.

Have I mentioned how much I love Kurt? DX ~~AND HIS LEGS ARE SO FEMININE AND BEAUTIFUL AND I WANT TO HUG THEM.~~

It's a small world...

2009-09-29T03:54:13Z

And it's getting smaller.

I've gotta say, that whole statistic that 10% of the population is gay (or, if we want to be politically correct, LGBTQOMFGWTFBBQ) is totally phony; it's way more than that.

Example, let's take a group of six people I became friends with in junior high. A clique of females, shall we say. One is bisexual. Two are gay. Two are straight. One is confused.

This is a very peculiar thing. :O Of course, it's probably just attributed to some bizarre beacon that all gay (LGBTQOMFGWTFBBQ) seem to be born with. Or are nurtured into. :0 Whatever.

So let's look at another group. This one is of mixed genders. Five are straight. Three are bisexual. Four are gay.

And these are groups that have artistic types, jocks, nerdy peeps, geeky peeps, musicians, etc. And lots of immigrants. Especially the second group.

I guess those creeper shirts from Hot Topic that say "We're everywhere" actually have some truth to them. XDD

Long story made short, I woke up ~~late~~ the other day to the sound of my phone vibrating from some text messages I got while I was sleeping. First one was from a good friend of mine. "Hey! I just had this amazing realisation about myself. I'm a lesbian. :0"

I sort of squinted, wondered if she was joking, collaborated with another friend, then decided that this would be a convenient time to tell her I was gay, too. XD

HA!

2009-09-15T01:19:17Z

Living in a dorm where I'm surrounded by guys has its moments of hilarity/disgust.

THE NEXT DAY:

It's all very funny. Like, really.

Frats, Alcohol, Thursdays, etc. (A Bitch Rant)

2009-09-11T18:39:27Z

So...I live on the quiet side of my campus. And by quiet, it's more like the noise is reduced to a dull roar. But we can still feel the music pounding and vibrating in the ground from waaaaaay on the opposite side of campus where the frat houses are. No joke, yesterday was Thursday -- "Thirsty Thursday" -- and my building was honestly shaking, and outside there was this group of guys being like "It's Thursday!!!!" And like...I get that many people think that alcohol = good time, but I sort of wish they'd stop bringing it right to my face. Especially since I highly disagree with that notion. Like, to the highest degree possible. It's a vile substance that isn't made to make you happy. It's a depressant and is capable of altering one in the most sordid ways...and once you do shit, you really can't go back and change things. And that's when things start getting really, really ugly.

American culture is very twisted if it encourages such poor behaviour and the absence of judgment in the face of the uncertain. Saudi Arabia got this right. Alcohol should be hidden away. It's too influencing a substance and honestly does nothing positive in the long run.

And it's not like the modern American student isn't aware of all the things that drinking can do. Why are they so dumb? Just because your "friends" or whatever drink is no incentive for you to. Succumbing to a reason as pathetic as that shows no character and just speaks of personal weakness. There is no excuse for behaving dangerously, and saying that you want to "lose control" or something like that is just as pathetic. Alcohol is not about losing control. It's about giving it to someone else, and, more often than not, the people you give it to are not responsible with it.

Do people think they're cool when they drink or do drugs or whatever? Not really. It's unattractive and speaks volumes about lack of self-confidence and responsibility; not to mention it makes you look so unreliable and untrustworthy. Ooh, you are soooo unique and are such and individual. You drink every weekend. Golly! I hope you go and get pregnant with some unknown guy's bastard. You deserve it. :D

Alcohol is extremely flammable. Sooner or later, this place is going to burn to the ground. And I personally wouldn't mind starting the fire.

So. Yeah. Why are people such idiots. /bitchrant

In university! D8

2009-09-04T19:23:35Z

Moved into my dorm room the other day. Single. Hell yes.

It's been interesting so far~ I'm in a hallway where I'm the only girl. And the girl's washroom is on the other side of floor. This is very inconvenient when I need to use said washroom. D8 And the irony of this is that there was a single dorm in the girl's hallway. It's occupied by a guy.

WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

COOKIE: "Plan F"

2009-08-03T20:10:00Z

Um. Just...don't ask.

I literally wrote this down in English class two years ago when I was bored. I even did childish handwriting for it. I dunno. It gave it more character. XD Perhaps this will be continued. I'll need to be considerably high to, though. :0

Title: "Plan F"
Author: zed_azrael
Fandom: South Park
Rating: PG13
Warnings: pro-Hitler, offensive slurs...
Summary: Like his beloved Fuhrer, Cartman creates a plan to rid the world of people he hates. And, like his beloved Fuhrer, he's quite happy to let the whole world know, starting with his English teacher.

Dear Hitler,

Our lameass English teacher gave us this gay assignment (HAHAHA, assignment!) where we have to keep a correspondence going between ourselves and our idols, so obviously, I chose you, cos, y'know, you're totally awesome and shit.

Quite frankly, I'm not even sure where that woman pulled this idea from. Craig thinks she must have been high at the time. I personally agree, but I'd never let Craig know that. Cos he's a black asshole.

Since this effing paper has to be like a page long, I guess this means I have to talk to you about whatever shitty idea I pull outta my ass. (No pun intended, dude.)

So, let's talk about some of the stuff going on in my life.

Aside from this stupid assignment, I still have to get back at Kenny for calling me fat. You would never believe just how goddamn stupid Kenny is. I've told him time and again not to call me fat. I am NOT fat, goddammit! I'm just big boned!! I'm thinking I'll just "accidentally" drop a container of rat poison into his soup. He can die for all I care. That stupid asshole deserves it, anyway.

Aside from getting back at Kenny, I've got this other plan that I'm working on. Oh my god, when you hear it, you'll pop a lung laughing, for seriously!

Okay, okay, you see, there's this Jew in my class named Kyle Broflovski.

Yeah. I hate him, too.

So, like, I've got this plan to totally humiliate his kike ass. See, I know that everyone hates that Jew-rat as it is -- I mean, who wouldn't? -- but I've got this awesome scheme to make everyone hate him even more! How sick is that?!

My plan is simple, but genius. I'm gonna make him look like a fag! (More than usual, I mean.) Y'see, Kyle and his lame pussy of a friend, Stan Marsh, are what I like to call Faggots. Now, you may be thinking "What the fuck is this outrageously brilliant young man talking about? I know plenty of no-good faggots." Not to worry, though. I have seen my share of fags, too. (Don't even get me started on that retard, Butters.) So, trust my judgment when I say that Kyle and Stan have an especially severe case of Faggotitus.

Unfortunately, it seems that I am the only one who notices their gaiety. Therefore, it is my social responsibility to the people of this great nation to help others realise the true nature of those asslickers.

See, this is where my plan comes in.

I have decided to call this scheme "Plan F." (Because it's so effing awesome. Or it will be, anyway, once I actually figure out.)

Those of fainter hearts might wonder why I have taken it upon myself to see this plan to fruitation. Well, I've already said that it is my civil duty. but, more than that, I want Kyle to be miserable. You know what they say, misery loves miserable company, and I love miserable company.

Especially when I'M the one that's making them miserable.

Rest assured, Hitler, my Lord. I will make Kyle miserable. That stupid Jew is going down.

Faithfully yours,
Eric Cartman
(Kickass Asskicker of Jews and Fags and Jewfags)

***

Eric,

While it fills me with joy to find you putting forth such passion into a school assignment, I must request on behalf of Kyle Broflovski that you change the addressee of your assignment. The subject matter and the overall tone of your letter has struck the school administration as offensive.

Perhaps you could write to a more positive figure in history? Like President Obama.

-Mrs. Hendrickson

***

Dear Brainwashed English Teacher,

Kiss my fat, hairy ass. I am writing to mein Fuhrer and him alone. Telling me to do otherwise is a violation of my rights. It's wrong. IT'S WRONG!

Heil Hitler!
Eric Cartman
(Defender of Truth, Justice, Free Speech, and the Glory of the Third Reich)

P.S.
And why in the sweet name of Jesus Christ would I write about President Osama? Osama is black. Duh.

Fangirling probably has a limit...

2009-07-28T04:47:21Z

It's probably a bad sign when one is so into slash and fanfiction and fanfiction slash that one starts plotting scandalous bromances between one's friends...right?

See, my best buddy for sixteen years (meaning since I was in diapers and he was learning English) has somewhat recently become involved with one of his friends. One of his very attractive friends. One of his very attractive male friends.

And this is where the nosebleeds and migraines begin.

I've known this guy for basically my entire life, and vice versa, eh? And it absolutely breaks my mind to know that he's having sex.
LIEK OMFG MY MINDDDDDDDD DX

truthfully, he's been having sex for a good four years now, but I never liked his girlfriends and I'm actually sort-of-kind-of-srsly-am friends with his boyfriend

But at the same time, I find it all very alluring and very, very hot. D: Like, these guys have had an amazingly horrible past with each other... They were forced to become roommates and didn't get along in the slightest; they're totally different in lifestyle, morals, and interests; the other guy slept with my biffle's (lol) sister in retaliation for something... Like, DUDE.

There's definitely something wrong with me, but HOW CAN I NOTTTTT?!?!?!?! DX I totally ship them. It's like fanfiction in the flesh! It's perfectly canon and there are a zillion plot twists that are completely inconceivable where most fanfiction writers are concerned. It's just PERFECT!!!! There's so much muthafucking angst and drama and it's ALL REAL! And I'm leeching off this like some pervert hiding under their beds. It's absolutely delicious! I love it so much and I'm kind of dying to write something either about them or (heavily) inspired by them... the melancholy tale of Shmoshua and Shorin, ftw! 8D

So...yeah.

My friend and his boyfriend kind of make me salivate.

Except in normal conversation with me, because then I can't take them seriously. XD

...and then my mind starts to torture me DX

I can't be the only person who's excited...

2009-07-24T23:05:54Z

For seriously? Between Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland and Glee, I'm looking forward immensely to the next school year. :D

D8 For the television and movies, anyway. The homework, not so much...

I swear to God. I am so excited for that....

...and this...

Dear lord, the show has barely started, and I'm already obsessed. 8D

COOKIE: "Little Brother/Sister"

2009-07-20T03:52:15Z

Ughh...something I've been working on for a while. D: It's sort of weird. It's nowhere near finished, but here's a preview...

Title: "Little Brother/Sister" COOKIE (working title)
Author: zed_azrael
Characters: Belarus (+more in the final product)
Rating: PG (NC17 in final)
Warnings: trans!Belarus...?, male!Belarus.
Summary: A young man enters a jewellery store. He is not quite a man.

Enter the jewellery store. The floors are a clean black marble, polished into a dark mirror, and the glass display cases that proudly glisten with jewels are lined in black satin and velvet. The riches sparkle teasingly from their beds tucked neatly into the walls, hinting at the wealth that lies just beyond the near-invisible glass, peaking out of the darkness like colourful stars. It is here that the finest jewels in all of Europe slumber, waiting to be sold, nestled in their sheets of bright silver and gold. It is here, among this glimmering wealth, that a youth wanders.

This youth is at that awkward stage in life, in which he is too young to be a man but too old to be a boy. His body is torn between childhood and manhood, and the thin limbs and contrasting round face and large eyes express such opposing ages. His cheeks are still too soft, not yet defined into a strong jaw, and he has yet to sprout his first traces of facial hair; his skin is as pale and smooth as the day he was born.

He is neither man nor boy.

“Я могу вам помочь?” The jeweller emerges from the back of the store. He is a man with a face like white leather and dotted with liver spots in his old age. He polishes his half-moon spectacles on a silk handkerchief and replaces them on his face so he can peer at his possible client.

The young man has a posture worthy of royalty; his back is stiff and his chin is held high. He is dressed in a neatly-pressed military uniform, but not one that the jeweller recognises. The boy—this almost-man—is clearly Slavic. Beneath snow-coloured skin are the quintessential sharp features and the eyes that peer out impassively from under colourless eyelashes are a pale blue-violet, the colour of approaching twilight on the snow-capped roofs and mountain tops. The young man looks like a snow-capped mountain himself. A faint dusting of white powder sits quietly atop his fur hat and shoulders, seemingly unnoticed. Like the softly falling snow, the boy’s silvery blond fringe slips from beneath the dark fur of his hat and into his eyes. His hair has a distinctly windblown appearance to it, and though somewhat haphazardly cut, the longer strands carelessly curling around his ears, it is clearly well taken care of.

“May I help you?” the jeweller asks again, scrutinising the soldier’s appearance and swallowing his disparaging response to the dirty snow the man is tracking on the floor.

The boy nods slowly and taps a glass case with a single gloved finger. “Так. Колькі?”

At the jeweller’s confused expression, the boy frowns slightly and tries again. “Сколько это стоит? How much does it cost?”

His Russian is accented, the jeweller notes. Ukrainian or Belorussian, perhaps.

He glances down into the case. Engagement rings. “Which one?” he asks as he fishes the keys out of his breast pocket. The man’s eyebrows knit together thoughtfully; after a moment, he jabs at a ring. The jeweller nods and pulls the ring out. The ring is mercifully simple, a plain silver band encrusted with three modest diamonds. Its simplicity is elegant.

The man’s eyes mist as he gazes down at the ring. “How beautiful,” he murmurs. He looks up at the jeweller, faintly veiled hope in his eyes. “May I…?”

“Of course.”

He reverently lifts the ring out of its stand and turns it around carefully in his hands, admiring its clouded lustre. “It’s perfect,” he breathes. He brushes a finger over a smoothly cut diamond. “As exquisite as a Faberge egg…”

Pride swells in the jeweller’s chest. “Thank you,” he says, rejuvenated with glowing confidence. “I take it you have a young woman waiting for you back in…where are you from?”

The soldier blinks. “Belarus.”

Ah. That explains the accent. The jeweller nods again and says jovially, “I’m sure your woman will look absolutely stunning in it. A ring like that is fit for a czarina herself!” he boasts, his cheeks reddening proudly. “That ring can make even the poorest beggar a gorgeous woman. It will make anyone a lady worthy of great riches.”

The soldier glances upward, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. “Really…” In a fluid motion, he lifts one of his hands to his mouth, tugs his glove off, and slips the ring onto his finger. The jeweller stares at the man in shock. This boy, this young creature not yet a man, looks up at the jeweller hopefully, pleadingly, and raises his hand to display the ring. “Am I a woman, yet?” He clenches his fingers into a trembling fist. “Am I?” he demands, his face growing dark with frustration. “Am I a beautiful woman, now?”

This poor, poor boy. As torn as his body is, crossed between the ages, the greatest divide in him still is that which lies within his mind. For he is neither man nor boy.

Enter Belarus.

Um. It's quite unusual... Anyway, the finished product will have a sort of onesided Belarus/Russia sideplot (as all fics with Belarus do) and will include Russia, Lithuania, Poland, Ukraine, Latvia, Estonia...Thailand. ;D

So...wip?

I could really use some comments/critique, too... I've been dying in the abyss of a writer's block. /shameless begging

Uh. Okay...

2009-07-02T05:23:46Z

Weird...

Name: zed

Date: 7/2/2009

Colorgenics Number: 04132576

Presently, you are trying to break away from a situation that is causing you considerable worry and concern. Things are getting on top of you and you are feeling depressed almost to breaking point. Obviously there must be a way out - but at this time the solution seems to be escaping you. You want to 'get away from it all' and as a consequence you appear to be sullen and introverted and refuse to get involved in any discussion or arguments which could aggravate the situation. Accept the fact that 'as you feel - so your body will respond' and 'pretend' to the world about you that everything is going beautifully as, if you act as if 'all is going well' everything will, whether you believe it or not, work out as you would like it to.

Always anxious to accept the role of the leader, as indeed you often work well with people - but try to stay out of the limelight. You'd like a life of ease with no one to rock the boat and someone who understands you is so important in your life.

You feel that you should be appreciated far more than you are but no-one seems to care! You feel that you are receiving less than your share and the main problem is that there is no-one to whom you can turn to for sympathy and understanding. The inner stress that you are experiencing makes you quick to take offence but you realise that at this particular moment in time there is little that you can do to relieve the situation.

You are an emotional, sincere and impressionable individual experiencing frustration and unnecessary stress. You vehemently resist any form of pressure from outside sources, insisting on your independence as an individual. You want to be a decision maker - to make up your own mind without interference. You wish to be able to draw your own conclusions and arrive at your own decisions. You detest uniformity and mediocrity as you want to be regarded as one who gives authoritative opinions. Your favourite expression could well be that 'I may not always be right but I am never wrong'. You're a perfectionist and even though you may feel that the other person's point of view may be right, you find it extremely difficult to admit that you could be wrong.

It is strange that the anxiety that you are experiencing at this time is of your own making simply because of your desire to be respected by your fellow man and with those whom you work with. You are not satisfied. The normal congenial 'you' is becoming quite introverted. This is becoming increasingly more obvious because you seem to shy away from participating in everyday activities. You are refusing to allow yourself to become involved or to participate with others and it is the reluctance to communicate that is the inherent cause of your problems.

O, Canada...

2009-07-02T04:59:19Z

I gotta say....compared to the United States, Canada's a little boring D:

Like, I was watching the fireworks for Canada Day, right? And I couldn't help but compare it to fireworks spectacles down in the States. This one was pretty sorry looking, honestly. In the U.S., like in Disney, they've got crazy fireworks going EVERY NIGHT, and those are absolutely breathtaking. And the Fourth of July? God.

And there was this kid sitting a little behind us who was like, "WHOOHOO, CANADA!!!!" and that's cool and everything, patriotism is great...but like... Seriously? Canada is a bit lacking. It's like not nearly as dramatic or interesting as the U.S.

Canadian independence was a pretty solid, clean deal. British Empire offered independence, Canada was like, "why not". End of story. We're still like a commonwealth, though... Pretty lame. There was no romantic war against the bleedin redcoats or whatever. Just a little offer and that was it. XD

So, yeah...

America, fuck yeah! 8DDD

Analytical Thinker, my ass :O

2009-07-01T23:47:01Z

That was interesting and all, but let's be serious...

Happy Canada Day!

2009-07-01T22:43:04Z

Just saying,

HAPPY CANADA DAY, EH!

8D anyone else going to see the fireworks tonight at Ontario Place? X3 Hopefully it won't rain D:

FIC: "The Discovery of Haošyaŋha"

2009-06-27T18:35:31Z

As a person who used to live in Tehran, the recent events that are taking place in Iran have really struck me. This piece is for all Iranians and Persians fighting to let their voices be heard. It is for Neda, the "voice" of the revolution. It is for all people who are fighting and dying for what is right.
I only wish I could have made this piece better for you all.

Title: "The Discovery of Haošyaŋha"
Author: zed_azrael
Characters: Iran
Rating: PG13
Warning: Violence. Inspired by the fallout to the Iranian election.
Summary: Amidst the protesting and the gunshots, a girl is dying in Tehran. Her voice will not be silenced.

Ashem Vohû Vahishtem astî
Ushtâ astî Ushtâ ahmâi,
Hyat ashâi Vahistâi Ashem.

Righteousness is the best of all good and it is happiness.
Happy is he who is righteous for the sake of perfect righteousness.

(Ashem Vohû, Khorda Avesta)

The Discovery of Haošyaŋha
There is something vaguely familiar radiating in the streets of Tehran. He pushes through the hordes of screaming people, keeping a wary eye on the armed Basiji. He can feel it building up inside him, bubbling from deep in his belly and rising up, the tremulous voices moulding together into one. He feels like he did thirty years ago, with the fire welling up inside his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. He can feel their flurry of emotions rippling through his skin and pulsing in the air.

His eyes wander over the faces of the people and he tightens his grip on his cellphone. Its twitters are muffled by his white knuckles.

“Allah o Akbar!” a man shouts, brandishing the Iranian flag in front of him like a sword; the cloth flutters in the air like a dancing butterfly. His words rain down on Iran’s face like burning irony. A crooked smile touches his face and he turns away from the man.

Allah o Akbar… Was that not the cry that pierced the air back then, too?

Iran pulls away from the crowd and ducks away behind a group of young men and women—students, most likely. He watches them, fascinated by the sparks in their eyes and souls. And while their energy sets his spirits aglow, it blackens his heart with failure. Ever since his father, the Mighty Persia, passed his reign on to him, things have steadily charred to ashes.

If only Persia could see him now.

He remembers things… He remembers when he was a child, sitting quietly in the Zoroastrian temples, the smell of the burning sandalwood perfuming the air and watching the sacred fire twirl in its shining chalice. When he closes his eyes, he can taste the saffron and the chelo kebab. And Persia smiling down at him, telling Iran he was to inherit the earth.

That was before Iran converted. Now things have begun to fray noticeably at the edges, the intricate designs of the tapestry of Persian grandeur unravelling beneath Iran’s feet. Like Rostam from the great Persian epic The Shahnameh, Iran has also killed his child—his children—unknowingly. He bows his head, lowering his eyes to his feet.

There is suddenly the rapid staccato of gunshots, and screams of terror fill the air and Iran snaps his head up, hazel eyes growing large as he sees a woman crumple to the ground, not one yard in front of him. Iran runs to her and touches a hand to a pale cheek. Blood blossoms from her chest and her lips are stained red as they move soundlessly; her eyes are wide and…shocked. Iran drops to his knees and pushes his hands over the bullet wound, molten tears slipping down his face as he joins the fight to keep her alive. Women are screaming. His lips are moving quickly, trembling as he cries out a single word to her over and over, “Natersid! Natersid!” Do not be afraid. “Natersid!”

Everything he has done—for my people! for us all!—has ended in sorrow and drowned in blood. He was a puppet to the British, allowed his shah to turn sour, tried to erase the remnants of Old Persia and paint over him with new. He permits his bosses to massacre his people in the streets! His negative energy has been turned against the distant figures of America and Israel for so long, that he has almost forgotten about himself. It was only when he sat down, relaxed and watched the election, that he noticed the aching cancer eating at his insides, the fire threatening to consume him. And now, seeing the clear farce that is his boss’ victory, he cannot remain silent. Fury courses through the blood of his children, and no amount of ablution can cleanse the bosses of this. Not only is this deceit sinful, but it is simply unjust.

It all makes sense now, Iran realises, it is all becoming clear, shining out of the darkness like a lone candle battling the temptation of sleep and the lingering risk of being extinguished, like the hope in the eyes of all these people. He knows. For too long, he has been in the hands of murderers, men who seek to push him back into the darkness. And he let them.

Iran holds a dying girl in his arms, tears falling freely as he watches her gasp for air, blood gurgling in her lungs. He can feel the lingering ache and sharp pains biting into his side. “We will be free, mashallah!” he whispers fiercely, more to himself than to her. It is a promise to all of them. He will make this end.

An older man by Iran’s side, by the side of the girl is weeping. “Neda, Neda!” he moans, tears flowing. Her father? How many fathers and mothers have cried for their dying children while he slumbered in his negligence? How many sons and daughters? Brothers and sisters?

Blood begins to stream steadily from the girl’s nose and mouth, forming garish lines down her pallid skin. Iran lets out another shaky cry, “Natersid!” This cannot continue to happen anymore. It will not happen again. Blood wells up in the girl’s tear ducts. Her haggard gasps begin to slow. Her feeble pulse weakens. “Natersid!” She sucks in another shaky breath and

Iran stares.

Her eyes roll back into her head. The screaming gets louder and blood gushes. Iran feels his vision waver and flicker like a threatened flame. His heart skips a beat. “Na…natersid…” Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Do not

Iran holds a dead girl in his arms, a smouldering fire raging deep within his soul, burning through his skin and threatening to set him ablaze. Her blood runs down through his fingers, forming a sickly puddle, a grotesque halo about her head. The man beside him cries, “Neda! Neda!” Iran feels his fingers go numb, the white of his clenched knuckles painted over in the blood of this girl, the blood of his regime.

There is a sharp burning behind his eyes and he feels a wave of nausea crash into him. His hands are red and sticky. Do not be afraid. He clenches his eyes shut, grits his teeth and presses frantically on the girl’s chest. Do not be afraid! His chest tightens and he throws his head back lets out a long, broken scream of anguish.

And the crowd around him grows, all crying the same name, “Neda! Neda!” And Iran joins them, hands bathed in blood and fire burning in his soul. “Neda! Neda!”

Do not be afraid.

Notes:
-- The Khorda Avesta is a sacred text in the ancient Persian religion Zoroastrianism.
-- In Zoroastrianism, fire is the most sacred element and is worshipped in temples.
-- The most celebrated Persian literature is Ferdowsi's epic poem The Shahnameh, or The Epic of Kings.
-- Hooshang, or Haošyaŋha, is a Persian prince from The Shahnameh. It is he that accidentally discovers fire.
-- The Tragedy of Rostam and Sohrab is arguably the most well-known story from The Shahnameh, depicting the sorrow of a great warrior king who unknowingly kills his son in battle.
-- This piece is clearly based on the events following the Iranian 2009 presidential election, which is popularly believed to have been rigged in favour of the former president, Ahmadinejad.
-- The girl, Neda Soltani, is a young woman who was shot and killed in the streets of Tehran while protesting the election. Her death was captured on camera and has circulated across the globe through the internet. Neda has become the face and the "voice" (the translation for the Farsi word "neda") of the revolution. Her death will not go unnoticed. RIP.

YA NEDA!

2009-06-23T01:17:21Z

(CNN) -- When the sun went down, their voices did not.

Riot police on the street in Tehran on Monday.

"Allah O Akbar!" the crowds on the tops of building chanted over and over.

Cell phone footage shows the nighttime scene in Tehran, Iran, which was sent to CNN's iReport. As the camera pans with a jerk from building to building, protesters whistle and shout loudly while cars are heard honking in support.

The phrase, which means, "God is great" has become a rallying cry for protesting Iranians who have risked their lives and clashed with riot police because they believe the nation's recent presidential election was rigged.

CNN spoke with the man who shot the footage. He didn't want to give his name. Doing so might jeopardize his impending escape from Iran and entry into Belgium, he said. He was reached by phone while driving in Tehran Sunday at 10 p.m. ET after he sent the video to iReport's headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia.

He described seeing candles across the city which had been lit around 7 p.m. in Iran. Many were placed on rooftops in the memory of a woman known to the world as "Neda."

A widely circulated video of the young woman shows her apparently in the middle of protests over the weekend with an older man, believed to be her father. It looks as though she is shot in the chest and drops to the ground. Blood runs from the side of her mouth as a few people, including the older man, press on her chest and shout her name. One pleads, "Do not to be afraid." The camera closes in on her face as her eyes roll back and are still. She appears to die on camera.

Another shocking video sent to CNN's iReport was also filmed from a rooftop, this time looking down at what seems to be an extremely violent scene on the roof of a shorter building. A group of men in black, members of the nation's Basij militia, the iReporter says, appear to gang up on one man and beat him with batons. The footage shows him lying motionless as the men in black walk away.

Riot police and Basij militia tried to keep large crowds from congregating in Haft-e Tir Square and on Monday arrested at least eight people, witnesses said.

CNN's international desk producers monitor official Web sites of the Iranian government. There has been no reaction to the violence posted on those sites, but the Iranian government has previously said that it does not approve of street protests.

Internet posts on Twitter and Facebook continue to be come from across the globe. Hundreds for Neda. "More helicopters flying over Tehran today than any previous day" someone from inside Iran tweeted Monday.

Please donate!! Every bit counts!

2009-05-22T06:18:50Z

Hmm... Is anyone interested in donating to my Relay for Life team?

In light of the recent loss of my granduncle to stomach cancer, I have gained a slightly better understanding of the magnitude cancer can have on one's life. I have come to comprehend that there are few things in life more disheartening than witnessing the deterioration of a strong willed person at the hands of something we, as friends, family, and caregivers, are utterly helpless against. It is sobering to realise that while mankind has figured out how to send people into space, we are still unable to cure all cancer, and thereby constantly made victims both to the disease itself and to the void it leaves behind in wake of its destruction.

It is tragic that so many people have suffered at the hands of cancer, whether through diagnosis or through emotional bonds. As such, I am extending my deepest request that you find it in you to donate to this cause; to lend your support to those fighting against cancer and their families, to celebrate and remember the lives of those who have fought, and to strive to create a future where cancer no longer has the power to take lives and tear at so many souls.

In order to make this dream a reality, I am calling upon you for your assistance. I would be grateful for any contributions, which may be made by accessing the link to my teampage further down. Please support our cause and pass this on to your friends and family. And please remember that every amount, no matter how small, makes a difference and provides hope.

Thank you in advance for your support.

Relay Page ~ Please Donate

Moron.

2009-05-13T06:41:23Z

:D It's quite a relief to actually be done with my high school education. No pressure, really... =w= It's like, for once in my life I can finally kick back and enjoy some form of serenity.

Or not.

While all the other IB teachers are indulging in senioritis and allowing us to watch irrelevant films(i.e., in math we are watching Ten Things I Hate About You. There is no legitimate way to relate mathematics--calculus!--to that.), my history teacher, who is a serious douchebag with a shitload of historical accuracies (OH!!!! THE PAINNNNN!!!!!! He doesn't even know his fucking subject!!!! DX ) is trying to make us do further assignments for him.

I would like to say that I owe him nothing. :D Except an essay. But he never noticed, and what I did hand in was written very, very candidly. :0 I've done so much reading and research on Hitler that I simply can't write seriously about the bastard anymore. DX And the fact that I literally wrote about Hitler for all of both Papers 1 and 2 really got on my nerves. Furthermore, that guy did not teach us anything worthwhile. Or at all for that matter. Rather than giving us information about Juan and Eva Peron, he made us watch Evita. Twice. DX For review for the IB exam, he gave us a study packet that, between all four sections of IB History, definitely killed a small forest. And the real kicker? The information he included in there was incorrect. CANADA IS NOT THAT MESSED UP, YOU IMBECILE. DDDDX AND DETENTE DID NOT START IN THE MID SIXTIES, YOU STUPID WORM.
AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS SACRED, JIMMY CARTER WAS A GOD-AWFUL PRESIDENT. HE WAS NOT THE NEXT MESSIAH!!!!!!!!!!!!

And good lord, if I have to hear him butcher Iranian history one more time I will flip the shit (again). He gave this long speech about how Iran is a pretty crappy country, and under its current leadership, it is stupid to disagree. But then he started getting events and chronology mixed up and elevated Soviet importance in the history, and went on to say that Iran and its people are pretty fucked up.

I'm Persian, god damn it.

And then he kinda glanced at me, presumably saw me having seizures in the back of the room, and basically tried to remedy the situation by quickly blathering about how "But this is not to say that Iranians are bad people! In fact, many of them are quite reasonable and are hard-working, honest individuals. And Jimmy Carter rulezz :D"

Is he trying to humour me or something? He and I have gotten into a number of arguments over the past year, and, I swear to God, it's because he's always blatantly wrong.

And I'm not being conceited or arrogant here, I'm being truthful and am not exaggerating in the slightest.

Examples of his bullshit:

"The Soviet Nation has always hated the United States. It's been a long forming dislike, dating back to the end of the 19th century. When Americans fought against the Russians and pushed them out of Manchuria during the Russo-Japanese War."
Okay. Let's think about this for a moment. At the end of the 19th century and into the mid-20th century, the United States tried and, to a certain degree, maintained a fairly isolationist policy. They were not randomly attacking Russians.
And even more appalling is this peculiar thing. This was during the Russo-Japanese War. Let's think about that for a moment. The Russo-Japanese War.
JA-PA-NESE.
I mean, for God's sake, wtf is THAT? The Japanese were the ones that clobbered the Russians!!! That's how they got that kickass reputation before launching on their imperialist campaign to rape all of Asia and to join the AXIS OF D00M. D8<

and

"Hitler abused education in Nazi Germany by teaching all students a revised version of history, saying that German history began with Bismarck."
If there is one thing that can drive me crazier than his mangling of Persian history, it's the mangling of WWII. Part of my independent study focussed in-depth on World War II, and I come from a family of history buffs. Hitler is a common topic over dinner.
Under Hitler, German history traced back to the Holy Roman Empire (lol, Hetalia!). That's why Hitler's Germany was the Third Reich.
(1) Holy Roman Empire
(2) Bismarck
(3) Hitler
See that? There are THREE German empires.

My point is that I have argued (read: corrected) him so often that it's gotten to the point that he just ignores me. He once confronted me about my open scorn of his lesson on Iran. ("Do you have some kind of personal connection to Iran?" "I lived there." "Oh. Was there anything I said that was inaccurate?" "..." *long awkward pause*) I gave him reading material in response.
I'm pretty sure he hates me. I have never gotten a quarter grade higher than a 94 in his class, and with more rigorous and intelligent history teachers, I pull off an average between 97-100. I actually participate in class. And I do his bullshit assignments and get full credit. I got a 105% on a Hitler presentation. He is messing with my grades, because they should definitely be higher.

...

But I digress.

He is trying to get us to continue doing assignments for him. FUCK THAT. I refuse to do anything for him. Everything I have learned about history this past year has been through my own personal research and, embarrassingly, Axis Powers Hetalia. This teacher is not capable of teaching history. And I've been keeping track of his absences, too. He's been gone 22 days. That's not counting days we were off on field trips or at assemblies or tests. Otherwise the number would be well over thirty.

He is just a total numbskull, and if he honestly thinks that we are going to continue working for him, he's even more dense than I thought.

It's even gotten to the point that my father, who is a total hardass on schoolwork, is calling him a fool. I openly agree.

/bitching
/rant

IB IS OFFICIALLY OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-05-01T21:49:28Z

Today, ladies and gentlemen, is a glorious day.

Because I am now officially finished with the hell that is the IB Programme. 8D

Like, words cannot even begin to describe how fucking relieved I am, guys. Sure, the culmination of these past two years of studying will only really hit next week--with the beginning of the actual exams--but at the moment I'm as high as a kite! (And, most importantly, this euphoria comes without the aid of drugs or alcohol or fanfiction. DOUBLE YAY!!!!)

FIC: "Our Struggle"

2009-03-19T21:44:32Z

Another bit for the "When There's Nothing Left to Burn" disjointed thing... I actually wrote this way back in the day...just forgot about it for a while... <_<

Title: "Our Struggle"
Author: zed_azrael
Characters: Germany, Prussia, Northern Italy
Rating: PG
Warnings: Hitler
Summary: It wasn't his fault.

Our Struggle
No matter what they say, know it was not your fault. No. It was not your fault.

You were just as unfortunate a bystander as all the others involved. It was really as simple a matter as a signature on an unchecked blank piece of paper and a series of phone calls, and suddenly you and Brother Prussia were called away early from your summer cruise.

And for what? Four long years condemned in mud, surrounded by death and despair.

Austria pulled you into this unforgivable mess—mark that! Austria and his damn. disappointing. heir. What exactly were they thinking, waltzing into Serbia like that, so flamboyantly, so arrogantly…and on a national holiday, too! Of course the day would end in spilt blood, spoiled over the soil of another, sowing the seeds for the beginning of your destruction.

You recall Brother Prussia—beloved, beloved Bruder Preußen—reading the news with unabashed disgust. “Really,” he had said with a scoff, tearing the paper to shreds and casting the remains to the dancing sea wind. “What exactly did Edelstein expect? A welcome party with champagne and a shower of edelweiss petals? Idiot,” he sneered, flicking his fingers and the taint of Austria’s news away. He had cast his ruby gaze on you, and you remember thinking how Prussia’s cold stare did not reflect the priceless wealth of the stone it mirrored so much as it did the promise of blood and fire. Prussia leaned back in his chair, arms crossed resolutely over his thin chest. He scowled darkly at the clear sky overhead and muttered beneath his breath, “That stupid imbecile…” Prussia never did care much for Austria.

You remember watching the shredded telegram floating on the dark waters of the North Sea, slowly drawing in moisture and disintegrating, becoming one with the churning ocean. From the corner of your eyes, you could just make out the solemn face of your boss, anxiously drumming the fingers of his good hand on his thigh. You vaguely remember Brother Prussia getting that faraway look in his eyes and mumbling something along the lines of, “This idiocy never would’ve happened with Fritz…”

You mentally added, or with Bismarck, for that matter. But you are always careful with your words, and made sure this thought never escaped your lips. You were—are—still very young next to Prussia and Austria, and you dare not upset them or your bosses. They have been nothing but good to you, after all. They helped you grow so strong and so quickly. So in return, you granted them your silence

“We must return to Berlin,” your boss had said at last, rising to his feet. His face was grey and expressionless. “This has gone on neglected long enough, I think.”

And you all returned to Berlin. And the rest, as they say, is history.

And this history never seems to favour you. If Russia, that hulking menace, had not gotten involved, this whole dreadful nightmare could have been easily avoided, and you would not be standing there, watching them drag Brother Prussia away, kicking and screaming and clawing. You remain silent, motionless, watching your brother roar his injustice as centuries of hard-earned territories are stripped from him and you are tugged from his side. France is openly gleeful, his elegant features twisted into the most grotesque and spiteful way possible. His lips curl as he watches Brother Prussia feebly struggle and spit curses. You can’t watch this anymore. You avert your eyes. Austria and Hungary have been forcefully separated, as have all others from their mansion, some more joyfully than others. Hungary’s eyes are large and disheartened, her hands are primly folded in her lap, but you can see her fingernails cutting into her skin; you can see her trembling. You settle your eyes on Northern Italy. Something catches in your chest. Feliciano’s face is unusually sombre and his eyes are downcast. When he raises his head just enough to catch your gaze, your stomach flips unpleasantly. His dark eyes are filled with hurt and unspoken apologies. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek and swallow down the wave of bile and the tang of blood. Your eyes bore holes in Feliciano’s head. You should have been there for me. How could you leave like that? Are you happy? Look what you’ve done! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

You feel the frustration and humiliation rising in your chest, catching in your throat, threatening to overflow. You clench your jaw and slide your eyes shut. Your teeth grate against each other as you fight to suppress the torn scream of misery from escaping your lips.

It’s not fair, you tell yourself even as you numbly sign away your freedom and your power. They don’t have the rights to do this to me. I am the German Empire! I am the greatest military machine in Europe! I—

But then your signature is dry and your thoughts die away. Because it really is just that simple. It is as simple as a forced acceptance of guilt and of a war debt that is just impossible.

But you have no choice. You leave Versailles with your dignity in shambles.

Your home is no longer the way you remember it—you are no longer the way you remember. Weimar Republic. It sounds weak. It is weak. You are weak. It’s unorganised and weak, and if Prussia could see you now, he would be disgusted.

It’s beyond painful. Your heart aches as you see what you have been reduced to. Where once you were a proud and imposing empire, you are now a tired and destitute nation. And from America’s sudden misfortune, things only become worse.

Matters at home are stressful and Ashkenazim’s less damaged state of affairs has done little to soothe your irritation. That stupid Ashkenazim… Always has been such a thorn in your side, hasn’t he? Him and goddamn France and their treacherous Treaty of Versailles. None of them can possibly contemplate how far you’ve fallen. They just want to see how much further you can fall…

You take to burying yourself in these dark thoughts, bemoaning your fall from grace and quietly resenting those you deem guilty. What you would do for an opportunity to show your worth… Just one chance to show that Germany has not yet been beaten. Then…then they’d all see.

“You want another chance?”

You look up and see a cold hand stretching out to you. The man reaching for you is pale and sallow with dark eyes and a toothbrush moustache. He is cleanly dressed in a snug brown coat and military-issue trousers. The red of his armband is striking and you stare at it for a moment, hypnotised. The man smiles at you, but it is not a smile that reaches his eyes. “Come,” he says, gently coaxing you to your feet. “Come with me, beloved Fatherland. I will make you great. I will restore your honour. I will restore your glory. I will restore Germany.”

You slowly nod. You place your hand in his. You do not smile.

No matter what they say, know it is not your fault. Oh, God! What have I done? How could I have let this happen? I should have tried harder to stop him. Oh, God what have I unleashed upon the world? All those people—God! Someone help us! Someone save us… Good Lord, have mercy!

No. It is not your fault. Yes, it is! If I hadn’t let him in…if I hadn’t been so desperate…! Oh, my God… What have I done? What have I done?

No one ever hears your cries—you can never bring yourself to say them loud enough. Not then, not now. Not ever.

Es gibt keinen Gott. There is no God.

It really is that simple.

For further "reading":
-World War I
-Treaty of Versailles

About the title... Obviously alludes to Hitler's "Mein Kampf".

Here. Now leave me alone to DIEEEEE.

2009-03-19T03:13:10Z

I'm outing myself on this fic. Just because I still can't fathom that I wrote this. *not Christian* Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. DX *SHOT*

Title: "Diplomatic Negotiations"
Author: zed_azrael
Characters: England, America
Pairing: America/England
Rating: ...NC17. *SHOT*
Warnings: Explicit sex. Basically a PWP. KILL ME NOW.
Summary: Fill for the kink_meme. "England tries to negotiate something or the other with America, and ends up being fucked on America's desk. Needless to say, the negotiations went smoothly. 8D "

2 April 1917. Washington, D.C.

It is difficult not to give in to the overwhelming sense of shame and disgust bubbling in his chest as he feels America’s gloved hands glide through his hair, long fingers carefully tracing the soft contours of his face, brushing gently over his downturned lips. The hands that explore him as unrelenting as their owner, the touch deceptively gentle. America’s blue eyes are clouded with a flurry of emotions: rage, betrayal, shock…lust. England steels himself against the wandering fingers that curl around the back of his neck and thread through his hair. “Do you believe me, now?” he grits out, his eyes sliding shut in an attempt to hide from the hungry eyes of America. America makes no effort to reply and instead lazily drags his fingers down Arthur’s chest to the buttons of his jacket, leisurely undoing them one by one. “America,” England says sharply, willing his voice to stay strong and even, “Understand that Germany is not thinking in your best interests, as revealed by the Zimmerma—aann…” His voice hitches as America places a feathery kiss on his neck, just beneath his ear. England flinches away from the unexpected touch, and America laughs breathily in his ear when the grass-coloured eyes snap open in surprise.

“Still talking politics, Arthur,” he murmurs, voice husky. “So persistent…” Lips are suddenly at his neck again, placing light kisses on shivering skin. England shudders and wills himself to be silent. To suppress the gasp at the tongue outlining the shell of his ear. To maintain the stoic persona he had worked so painstakingly to build. To not give in to the hot mouth smirking against his neck.

“B-be quiet,” England hisses, inwardly cursing the stammer in his voice. “The Zimmermann Telegram,” he begins again, glaring furiously at the ceiling—at anything but America. “I alerted you to it in February, and you denied its legitimacy.” The lips on his skin still, and England feels a small surge of relief. “Now I have given you substantial proof of Germany’s treachery and confirmed our suspicions.” He swallows and continues, “Maybe now you’ll see that this war is something you cannot possibly avoid. It is in your best interests to—mmf!”

America messily crushes their lips together and a tongue forcefully pushes into England’s mouth. Recoiling in horror, England’s hands fly to America’s broad chest, fingers digging into the leather jacket as he feebly tries to push the other man off him. America chuckles into England’s mouth and slips his tongue alongside Arthur’s, sending electricity shooting up the slighter man’s spine. Repulsed, England savagely bites down on the invading tongue, sending America reeling backward, a hand clapped over his mouth, eyes wide and livid.

England glowers up at America, forcefully shoving the seed of apprehension in the farthest corner of his mind. “You,” England growls, clenching his shaking hands into fists, “are joining us. This ‘neutrality’ of yours is complete bollocks! We are dying out there, and there is nothing for you to gain by sitting by idly and waiting for more attacks like Lusitania and the possibility of making an enemy of Mexico!”

Shocked, America stands, hand still at his mouth, expression unreadable. Then his face stones over and he carefully wipes a trail of sickly pink saliva from his mouth. His eyes lower to stare down at the pink drops on his glove. His face darkens. Slowly, slowly, he raises his gaze to England’s pale and defiant face. His mouth thins into a grave line and he shakes his head, blue eyes hard. “England.”

Instinctually, fear wells up inside Arthur and he unconsciously shrinks into himself, green eyes watching the larger man cautiously. He licks his lips. “Ameri—”

And suddenly his back is slammed into a wall and America is staring down at him, his body pinning England, leaving him immobile. “England,” America says again, his voice barely a whisper, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

The kiss is forceful and dry, lips moving harshly against each other. America’s tongue breaking into England’s mouth, gently running across the roof of his palate before boring down to meet England’s tongue. England baulks at the sudden invasion, but America holds him steady. America plummets down on him, biting England’s neck and swiping his tongue over the blooming welts. He rips the other’s shirt open in a clean movement, sending buttons popping in all directions. America’s hands are a flurry of movement, lacking all pretence and searching only for one thing: dominance. His gloved fingers glide over England’s exposed chest, brushing teasingly across a nipple.

England lets out a choked gasp, flushing darkly and shutting his eyes. America chuckles and lightly runs his thumb over it again, smirking as England arches into the touch and tosses his head from side to side, eyes clenched shut in deep shame and arousal. America grabs him by the chin. “Look at me,” he says. England silently refuses and America roughly cups him through his pants. Green eyes fly open and he inhales sharply, his shoulders tensing. “Look at me,” America demands. England reluctantly moves his eyes over to America. America’s face is carefully blank. “Why the hell should I join you?” he asks. “I don’t even like you.”

It’s for my people. Arthur swallows, stares America in the eyes, and says, bitterly, “I need you.”

America stares at him for a moment. He nods firmly. “Fine.” His lips are back on England’s, gentler, this time, delicate and soft. His hands are now careful, sliding around England’s waist and running down the man’s spine, coming to a rest at his hips. He places a kiss in the crook of England’s neck and murmurs, “But only by my own terms.”

Nodding feverishly, England mutters, “Fine.”

The pressure of an iron body against his is relieved, and England hazily feels himself led away to America’s cherry-wood desk. He’s placed on the desk, shedding the remnants of his shirt and wiggling out of his trousers. He’s helping America fumble out of his air force jacket and uniform, peeling those detestable gloves from long fingers.

The first contact of bare skin is jarring. The confines of clothing are gone and everything happens quickly. Foreplay is almost nonexistent, America is fully aroused and grinding his hips desperately against England’s leg, his lips and teeth nipping and swiping over Arthur’s neck. A warm hand wraps around England’s cock slowly coaxing it to life. England lets out a strangled whimper and writhes beneath America’s touch. His eyebrows are knitted together and his eyes are half-lidded and glazed with awakened lust as he fights to thrust back into America’s grip. With a feral smirk, America holds England down steady and pumps him at a languid pace.

“A-Alfred!” England gasps, desperately struggling to move his hips. America ceases his ministrations and England ducks his head, burying his face into America’s shoulder. America can feel the tears of frustration and injured pride slipping from Arthur’s eyes.

And then America drops to his knees, hands still firmly in place, and slides his tongue over England’s length, barely stopping him from jerking his hips in response. America holds England steady and gazes up at the other man. “Don’t move,” he instructs. “If you move, I won’t help you.” England nods weakly and his thighs twitch weakly beneath America’s hand. A pink tongue peeks out from between America’s lips and slowly circles the tip of England’s cock, fingers lightly ghosting over and fondling his balls. England lets out a quiet sob. And America dips his head and takes as much of England’s length as he can into his mouth, sucking gently at first, bobbing his head up and down. England’s breathy gasps pushing him on, America’s own erection throbbing painfully as he fights to take in more of England’s cock. He works quickly, sucking and licking and caressing, earning garbled moans and shaky fingers tangling in his hair. England’s abs and thighs shake uncontrollably as America continues to suck him off, forcing Arthur’s erection down his throat with each bob of his head. Finally, with a rough shudder and a low groan, England releases deep into America’s throat, fingers digging tightly into America’s skull. America continues to mouth fuck him, still sucking deeply on his trembling cock, prolonging England’s orgasm and taking him in deeper.

When America removes his mouth, it’s immediately replaced with a large, callused hand, and skilled fingers pump the column of flesh back to full hardness, his grip slick with semen and saliva. England lets out a low groan and is soon undone a second time, semen spurting from his cock, spilling over America’s hand and splattering onto the lenses of his glasses.

With a haggard sigh of relief, England’s fingers loosen from America’s hair, and the larger man rises to his feet and stares down at the older nation. England’s breathing is shallow and uneven, his legs and stomach are still twitching beneath America’s touch, his usually pale skin is flushed with colour and shining with perspiration, his fringe and hair is matted and clinging to his brow, and his green eyes are still dark and misty with arousal.

Arthur has never before looked more attractive.

Alfred ducks his head and softly kisses Arthur, whose calloused, yet feminine, hands shyly reach up to touch America’s face. This kiss holds none of the same bitterness or desperation as the others. It’s gentle and unhurried and tastes of satisfaction and semen. It’s the kiss of a settled agreement.

“I’ll get my boss to have Congress to declare war,” Alfred mumbles into Arthur’s mouth. “But I’m just going to be an Associate Power. Not an ally.” England nods wearily in approval, slipping his eyes down from America’s face. America’s cock still stands proud, erect, unattended to, and leaking precum. When England raises his eyes back to America’s, a small smirk appears on his lips and Alfred baulks at the uncharacteristic expression. England takes his legs up onto the desk and stretches between his spread legs for America’s erection, smearing the precum across his palm and pumping rapidly. America quivers at the touch, moaning unashamedly and thrusting into England’s hand. Alfred places his dry hand on England’s knee and takes his semen covered hand and reaches forward, sliding a single, wet finger into Arthur’s entrance.

England doesn’t wince at the intrusion and his pace never hesitates. He smiles wryly and tilts his head to the side. America smiles and laps quietly at England’s neck; he pushes a second finger in.

Arthur reacts to this, faltering in his movement and arching his back, brushing his chest against Alfred’s and groaning helplessly as a third and fourth finger are pushed in without further warning. America flexes and wriggles his fingers within England, carefully watching the man’s face for signs of pain. England’s face is a blend of euphoria and the underlying tinge of pain. His mouth hangs agape, chest heaving as he twists his body unconsciously, adjusting to the sensation. When overt signs of pain die away, America removes his fingers and shifts England into a more comfortable position. America moves himself over England. Arthur lies splayed over the desk, his legs thrown and crossed over America’s hips, his arms wrapped loosely around Alfred’s shoulders.

The thick head of Alfred’s cock is nestled against England’s puckered entrance. In a single, fluid movement, America pushes himself completely inside England. Now there’s pain. England’s eyebrows knit together and he clenches his jaw at the sudden entrance. He lets out a low growl and throws his head back, eyes shut tight. America presses their lips together, smothering the snarls of pain slipping from England’s lips. England’s body is fighting to remove him. It’s tight and hot and it feels so good…

Fighting his more selfish desires, America stays still, waiting patiently for England to adjust. Deep inside England, his cock twitches. England’s green eyes flutter open and he lets out a hiss of pain. And America can’t take it any more. He begins mercilessly thrusting into England, hips snapping and jerking. There’s no rhythm to it, and England gasps through the agony, clawing America’s shoulders and grimacing, taking the pain.

America continues to bury himself again and again in England. And at last, England’s gasp of pain is replaced by a low, satisfied moan. America stops, completely taken aback by the foreign sound, and stares down at the man beneath him. England’s flushed face glares up at him, his eyes even greener against the pink of his skin. “Why did you stop, you prick?” England hisses. His pupils are dilated. “Typical. Just when it starts to feel goo—” Alfred swiftly kisses Arthur and begins thrusting into him again. Then Arthur is rolling his hips back in time with Alfred’s. Lips are brushing clumsily over each other, tongues dancing and saliva mixing. Alfred pushes eagerly into Arthur, lifting England’s hips off the desk and changing his angle, searching to impale him even further, to get in deeper and fill him completely. Arthur spasms beneath Alfred, tightening around his cock, egging him on and closer with soft moans and gasps of pleasure. His cock bounces between them as Alfred ploughs into him, riding him and groans in his ear.

They’re fucking. Their sweaty bodies are tangled in and around each other and moving in synch, completely caught up in each other and trying to get as close—closer!—as physically possible. They’re a single form, pushing in and against each other to achieve the same euphoria. Words are falling from Arthur’s lips, but none are distinguishable and they all slur together. And he’s coming. Hard. His back arches off the desk with a cry and semen erupts from his cock and slides between their bellies. And Alfred thrusts even harder and deeper into Arthur, riding out the man’s orgasm to achieve his own, revelling in the contracting heat around him. And then he too falls over the edge. He empties himself, groaning in ecstasy, cum shooting deep into the still-quaking Arthur.

They stay like this for quite some time.

It’s not quiet and it’s not numb. Everything is resonating, echoing and growing. Every breath, every gasp, every jumbled whisper, and hot touch is amplified. When America finally pulls his softening cock from England, the sensation of semen overflowing and slipping away is startling and Arthur lets out a choked sob and spasms. Alfred mumbles something unintelligible and clumsily kisses his eyelids and lips with a tenderness he did not know he had.

When America finally cleans up his office, he finds soiled documents. There had been several letters sent between him and Germany for some time, now. Before England had come in, carrying the actual ciphertext of the Zimmermann Telegram and all associated paperwork, America had been reviewing this thread of communication. All communications had been lying on his desk. All communications are now destroyed, splattered with semen and sweat; completely destroyed by England.

When England finally leaves to return to a land torn by war, he takes with him a limp and America’s promise of aid.

He also takes something else. Deep within him are seeds, planted by America, that will forever create a bond between the two nations and ensure their entwined futures of mutual success and destruction, in spite of their troubled past.

I shudder to think this was my first attempt at smut...how shameful...