"but at the same time, i wish there was something i wanted"

[Fanfic] In Which in England Isn't to Blame

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 00:26:39 GMT

Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Words: 573
Pairings: France/Canada, England

Francis knew the boy wasn't stupid. He shouldn't be, unless he caught a serious case of it from Arthur but Francis was pretty sure that wasn't how things worked. No, he was more sure that Matthew had inherited Alfred's knack for not "reading the atmosphere" which wasn't anyone's fault but did cause an epidemic of The Annoyed.

Of course it couldn't be an epidemic if Francis was the only one who caught The Annoyed, except he knew he had a habit of projecting his bad moods on Arthur. Arthur in turn projected his bad everything on everybody else which led to everyone telling him to bugger off (in their language of choice), which led to Arthur being depressed over his lack of friends (not that he would admit it) which usually led to drinking, which led to pining, which led to Francis taking his bar stool next to Arthur while they both watched their billfolds empty and the shot glasses line up.

The only difference in this routine was that Francis joined in the pining three hours and twenty-four shot glasses ago, and Arthur hadn't quite picked up that Francis' foul mood wasn't dissipating with the usual banter. That might be because Arthur was at a point where he was finding it more comfortable to sprawl on the bar counter rather than sit. Francis couldn't really judge him for that though, because while he was still upright, every time he turned his head the room would spin and that usually was a sign he would be making friends with the porcelain god tomorrow.

"All right, what's your blasted problem?" Arthur slurred, managed to be concerned and irritated in the same tone.

Somewhere in Francis' head he explained he didn't blame Arthur for anything, really, but his thought came out, "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?"

Arthur squinted with glassy eyes and frowned, "What?"

"Matthew. You did something to him." Francis realized how very drunk he sounded now.

"What are you going on about?"

Francis glared at his fuzzy-eyebrowed, completely baffled friend and banged a fist on the counter, "I tried to do things the right way you know." He swallowed, "Polite conversation, lunch, jokes that could be taken either way, but NON." The counter shook with another pound from Francis' fist and he pointed accusingly at Arthur, "YOU. That boy --" Oh dear, the room was swaying, "He's just not picking up that I WANT TO DO HIM." Francis huffed, satisfied with himself and let his forehead meet the counter.

Arthur raised his head and blinked, "Have you tried, you know, asking him on a date?"

It was Francis' turn to squint and frown, "What?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, then seemed to regret it and buried his hands in his hair, "He probably thinks you're just being nice." Arthur mumbled, "I mean, no one else pays attention to him."

Francis stared, not quite comprehending what just happened, "You do realize you just gave me permission?"

Arthur peeked from his hiding place behind his arms, "You do realize the only time you don't try to claim Matthew as yours is when he's being daft?"

"Well, I attribute that part of him to you, non?"

"And when he finds it in himself to be obnoxious I attribute it to you."

"Better stubborn and witty than stupid I suppose."

"Yes, well, fuck you."

"Certainly."

Somewhere in Canada, Matthew sneezed, and his bear remembered that he was in the room.

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 03:45:00 GMT

http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=5958871#t5958871

Arthur really didn't know what he was thinking. Not much at all, apparently, because he was starting to believe he had one too many drinks and that what was urging him to do this. Or maybe two too many drinks.

Perhaps eleven.

He would probably be giggling to himself too if it wasn't Francis he was leaning on for support and if this situation wasn't Very Dire. Dire wasn't quite the word. Ridiculously Important was more like it, and if they didn't find the answer Right Now Arthur would owe Francis twenty quid and he really didn't want to owe Francis much of anything.

Maybe, just perhaps, that's why he didn't feel too guilty when he startled Matthew from his half-sleeping slump at the bar. That's where Matthew had been hiding from everyone for the night, more likely "abandoned", when he got tired of matching Alfred drink for drink. Arthur could see from the collection of shot glasses that Matthew hadn't stopped and was probably feeling All Right himself. He wasn't much for being the center of attention, but maybe the boy wasn't quite as dull as he had thought and oh my, wasn't he pretty anyway blinking sleepily at him like that?

Arthur released himself from Francis' support and leaned against the bar next to Matthew. Always one for the direct approach he started to slur, "We have a question for you--"

And Matthew was listening but Francis grabbed Matthew's chin and turned him away from Arthur and right into his own lips.

Irritated but accepting a challenge, and that Francis' way would get them to their goal fastest, Arthur buried a hand into that pretty blond hair to also find Matthew's lips and make that flushed embarrassed look less embarrassed and more flushed. He felt Matthew's mouth open and a faint moan and Matthew's hand reached to grab his neck and pull him closer. Arthur opened his eyes to look triumphantly at Francis, who only rolled his. Francis pressed against Matthew's back and gently pulled him away (much to Arthur's discontent) and murmured so only the three of them could hear, "Will you join us?"

Matthew nodded dazedly and Arthur urged him off his bar stool and ushered him to the exit. Matthew turned to say something about his tab but Francis had already lay down some bills and followed them. They moved like stumbling ghosts, dodging people and their drunk babble and blurry faces and friendly pats on the shoulder. All three watched Alfred challenging Ivan to vodka shots, their onlookers, and they passed unnoticed.

Fresh air hit them like cold, waking water, and they all stopped to breathe and see the stars which were too clear and too blurry and too bright and too dizzy and completely beautiful and overwhelming. Then they as a unit pressed forward, Arthur and Francis sandwiching Matthew between them. They all used the other as support and touched and laughed and tripped and spoke in giggles.

At some point their thinking did begin to clear and Matthew asked what exactly they were doing. Francis only laughed and said, "I think we are either too drunk or not drunk enough!" Francis apparently decided the latter because he procured a wine bottle from his jacket. Arthur started to protest but then there was glass in his mouth and sweetness down his tongue which wasn't good but not bad. Matthew grumbled about mixing beer and wine but then there was a mouth on his to shut him up, then a different mouth, then a bottle, and he was soon laughing at nothing again. Their heads were lost, and scenery lost with them but they knew where they were headed. They were staying at the same hotel, which lent itself well to drunken excursions when they all needed help back.

None of them were really sure when the swish-click of their hotel room card came to be, or the heavy shut of the door behind them or one queen-sized bed. After what felt like "soon" Matthew was being pushed onto said queen-sized and Arthur more or less pounced to kiss him because Matthew did kiss nicely and sweet and Arthur liked that Matthew touched back with his tongue and pressed back with his body. Francis tutted and pulled Arthur off and standing and pressed a kiss to Arthur's neck. He murmured something to him while Matthew watched through his haze. Francis gently pushed Arthur aside and leaned into Matthew, brushing their lips together and pushing his hair back, "We do have a question for you, mon cher."

Matthew nodded and looked at Francis lazily and started to ask "what" but there was a shift in the bed and Arthur's arms around his shoulders and Arthur's tongue on his neck lighting a heat that crept straight to his face. Matthew shivered and leaned into Francis' kiss, squirmed when he felt Arthur nip his ear and touch his chest and and pull at his shirt and his cloths felt too restraining and itchy and he wanted them gone. He interrupted Francis' mouth to remove his shirt, apologized by relieving Francis of his. Francis smiled and captured his lips again, Matthew moaned when he felt teeth pull his tongue. Arthur's fingers clumsily opened Matthew's pants -- clumsy because Francis was pushing them backwards and Arthur was getting a lap full of French, but he reached for Matthew's hips and lifted him enough to slip his pants down. Francis released his mouth and ducked to find his neck, his collar bone, lightly licking and kissing his way down while Arthur trailed his fingers up. Matthew squirmed and writhed at their light touches and was soon a ticklish horny mess and desperately wanted his cock touched.

Francis met Arthur's fingers and took them in his mouth before they could leave. Matthew felt the shudder behind him and pressed further into the chest supporting him. Arthur pressed his cheek against Matthew's neck before taking his chin and turning his face, and Matthew responded, lapping and nipping at Arthur's lips and reaching for him when he realized Arthur was still dressed. Francis realized what Matthew was doing and abandoned Arthur's fingers to sit up and mouth Arthur's neck, pulling at Arthur's cloths. Arthur let a weak moan of surprise but didn't fight Francis relieving him of his shirt and certainly not Matthew unbuttoning his pants and oh, never would he fight that warm wet tongue stroking his cock. Suddenly he was dizzy, and leaned onto Francis and sloppily kissed Francis' collar bone needing to press on anything because he had been supporting Matthew for so long.

Francis laughed and bestowed a brief brush of lips on Arthur and eased Matthew away from Arthur's cock, "Be careful mon cher, he might come too quickly." Arthur glared and Matthew laughed, but Francis herded them to the center of the bed and the teasing was forgotten for a teasing of a different kind.

Matthew lay on his back near the headboard, squirmed when Francis pet his hips, spread his legs when Francis took his cock his mouth. Arthur sat by their sides, leaned and took Matthew's nipples in his mouth, biting lightly and rolling them with his tongue and pulling back to blow cool air. Matthew moaned and moved into Arthur's touch, rocked his hips as far as Francis would let him and felt them pull and push and suck and pet and make him open and raw. He looked down blearily when felt Arthur move up and stopped, lips hovering over his, "Which one of us do you want?" Arthur breathed.

Matthew almost answered but instead arched and threw his head back, and Arthur looked to see Francis sitting up with a smug smile and his fingers working between Matthew's legs. Arthur nearly snarled but checked himself, and opted to swing a leg over Matthew's body. He leaned and grabbed Matthew's face between his hands to kiss the boy silly.

Francis smirked as he moved his hand slowly in Matthew's hole, watching Matthew's hips tremble and twitch whenever he touched a good place. He spread his fingers, gently working in a third from his other hand, wet from lube he always kept in pocket (just in case). Francis looked up to see Arthur still kissing Matthew even more senseless than he was. Their tongues were still meeting and Arthur's hands still pet Matthew's hair and shoulders and arms. Loath Francis was to say it out loud but Arthur was good, if Matthew's hazed gaze and quiet whimpers and his clutching to Arthur's hips as though for dear life were any indication.

Arthur reached and fumbled for Matthew's flushed and leaking and Francis bussed Arthur's hand away with his nose to capture Matthew in his mouth and lap the precum which dripped from him. Matthew whined and thrust, Arthur looked over his shoulder discontentedly but Francis only smiled the best he could with a penis in his mouth and handed Arthur the lube. Arthur in his drunken haze stared at the tube for a few moments before registering what Francis wanted. He frowned and turned back to Matthew who was gasping prettily and clutching the pillow behind him. Arthur lay his hands across Matthew's chest and nodded to catch his attention, and when Matthew seemed to try and listen, "It's going to be Francis, is that all right?"

Matthew nodded and there was a pleased sound from Francis and Arthur grit his teeth and told himself Francis hadn't won yet (because yes, there was still that Very Important Question). Arthur rolled off Matthew to give them room. Francis urged Matthew to sit up against the headboard while he resettled between his legs, and Matthew shuffled clumsily and shivered when cold wood pressed his back.

[Doujinshi] Next to Me (raw, FRUK)

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 04:08:39 GMT

Summary: It's 1776, America goes to Spain and France for help. England pwnage happens. Then buttsex.

Scanned By: sliefoxx

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If you could translate this I'll have over 9000 babies just for you. Or if you don't like babies you'll get my worship.

Original post here

[Fanfic] America/England and England's Eyebrows (NC-17)

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 10:00:22 GMT

Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Words: 1740
Pairings: America/England
Notes: England's eyebrows as an erogenous spot. LOOK AT WHAT YOU GUYS MADE ME DO.

It was Arthur's little secret.

He was mostly sure no one else knew. Not even Francis knew, and Francis had tried many times to find that spot. When Arthur had figured it out it had been an epiphany more than anything, and with it he knew there was no way he could let anyone else know. At least, over his dead body. It was so embarrassing.

See, while figuring it out he realized he liked to have Francis cut his hair. It had been a little kid thing, really, perfectly innocent. It was something that felt good, and he wanted to feel it again. Not until he was older and with his epiphany did he realize what was happening.

His eyebrows.

Arthur stopped letting Francis touch his bangs.

He didn't let anyone run their hands through his hair during sex either because they usually started at his forehead. It got him off too quickly. He could pass as not liking his hair touched, which was more normal than telling someone his eyebrows were an erogenous spot. Though he suspected the Italies went through something similarly embarrassing (Feliciano was a little too touchy about that curl), he didn't relish the idea of confiding to them. Besides, he didn't want anyone knowing what he was doing when he touched his forehead during their longer, more mundane meetings. No, he shouldn't do it, but there was a thrill in pleasuring himself in plain sight and no one had a clue.

Francis wasn't kidding when he had announced Arthur was equally perverted. Another thing Arthur wouldn't share willingly.

But he should have known it would be Alfred to figure out he was up to something.

Alfred, nosily caring, surprising perceptive Alfred. Frustratingly well-meaning Alfred.

Alfred had thought Arthur had a headache the first time he'd seen the Brit's fingers combing through his own bangs, the look of concentration mistaken for pain. Arthur had accepted the water and light teasing, "Meetings too much for you, old man?" and Arthur made a note to be less obvious next time.

And he was more careful next time. And the time after that, and after that.

His care wasn't enough, he realized, when one day he saw Alfred watching him with a strange expression and Arthur tensed. He had become completely focused on the tabletop and was ignoring a question directed at him. He took stock of himself and could feel the heat coming off his own body, the flush in his cheeks. He'd taken it too far, and when he answered he voice shook minutely. A dead give away. He glanced at Alfred when he was finished responding, and the smirk he saw spelt absolutely no good for him.

Alfred didn't say anything for a while. He didn't hint that he'd looked at Arthur as though he would devour him alive. Arthur was starting to think he'd imagined the whole moment, until ...

"Hey Arthur."

"What?"

Alfred leaned close and peered at Arthur's face and Arthur clutched the pile of documents he held and leaned away.

"You're not looking so good. Kinda," Alfred pulled a concerned face so well Arthur didn't have a moment of suspicion. "Flushed."

Before Arthur could respond Alfred's hand was on his forehead and Arthur started to jerk away, but Alfred's thumb skimmed over his eyebrow, shocking him. Arthur's legs nearly gave out. He dropped his papers.

"S-s-stop!" Arthur jumped back with his hand clamped over the spot Alfred had just touched.

Alfred shoved his hands in his pockets, "What's wrong?" He leered, "You're acting kinda jumpy."

Arthur knelt to gather his now scattered papers, "Don't just touch me like that. It's rude. Help me pick this up."

But Alfred just laughed and walked away. Arthur flipped off Alfred's retreating back, not without a little drop in is stomach. He had definitely, definitely been found out. He didn't touch his forehead during meetings anymore. He was glad it was a gesture that not many would notice the lack of, he did it often enough. Lucky for him Alfred didn't try to "check his temperature" again. The incident was almost forgotten after Alfred had come to Arthur's house several times and didn't try anything. Arthur let himself relax again. That was very silly on his part.

Then again, he supposed he shouldn't complain too much.

Alfred wanted another movie night. They'd had so many that Arthur didn't think twice about saying, "Yes. Sure, I'll get popcorn, bring your brother if you want." He wasn't surprised when Alfred was alone except for several McDonald's bags and a few DVD cases under his arms.

They had settled on Arthur's couch and were a ways through the second movie when Alfred looked over, and Arthur glanced back but turned back to the tele, before realizing Alfred wasn't looking away. He frowned and looked at him again, "What?"

"You have something on your face." Alfred said, and started to reach over.

It occurred to Arthur a millisecond too late that Alfred was very, very patient. Also that Arthur had fallen into a trap. That was before there was a thumb on his eyebrow and Arthur jolted, with only a couch arm to escape to.

"What are you doing!?" He wailed, and he was aware that Alfred was hovering over him.

"Experimenting." Alfred grinned, and dragged his thumb across the brow, making heat pool in Arthur's stomach and a gasp escape his throat. Alfred's voice was suddenly distant and Arthur vaguely heard, "I knew it." when Alfred reached with both hands and cradled Arthur's face before the Brit could finish his graceful attempt to fall off the couch. Arthur ended with his legs propped on the couch and his rear on the floor while Alfred awkwardly leaned over him. Arthur grabbed Alfred's wrists and started an odd shimmy to get away but only succeeded in dragging his pants down a bit. Alfred moved with him, sliding down to the floor and straddling the panicking man, watching as Arthur's breath got heavier even has Arthur gave a weak glare.

"Let. Go." Arthur ground out, trying to pull Alfred's hands away despite the flush reaching his face and that his hips were steadily starting to move in time to Alfred's stroking.

Alfred hummed and brightened as he shifted forward to sit on Arthur's waist, smirking when he felt the weight of Arthur's cock press against him, "I don't think, eh, 'Big Ben' agrees." Alfred chortled, rocking his hips in time to his thumbs on Arthur's eyebrows and relishing the squirms and muffled gasps and thoroughly embarrassed glare.

Arthur clamped his eyes shut and bit corner of his lip as the shocks from his forehead led straight to his groin and belly. He couldn't help the small arches even with Alfred sitting on him. He still tried to kick himself away using the couch as leverage, realizing belatedly that he was just rubbing his cock on Alfred's ass and that felt very, very good. The heat rushed to his neck at this realization and though he still very much wanted to get away his struggles only served to heat his body much to Alfred's delight and amusement. Soon Arthur wasn't fighting, but clinging to Alfred's wrists and desperately angling his hips to ride against Alfred's leg. He rocked in time to Alfred's strokes. He shook and wanted to spread his legs, let his own cock free but satisfied himself by pressing into the body above him. He moved to force that swelling in his gut to expand, and Arthur finally let a low moan that made Alfred's grin split from ear to ear.

Alfred lightly dragged his nails across the brows earning another moan and a violent thrust. When Alfred tugged to pull Arthur's head back, Arthur went without a fight and Alfred leaned to kiss the writhing Brit's neck. Alfred rewarded the reluctant compliance with a rougher rub, a gentle nip to the throat and Arthur seized and let a strangled groan noise despite himself. Alfred moved to Arthur's ear and lapped at the lobe, still scratching and petting Arthur's brows and Arthur hissed, rocking his head to the side. Whether this was consent Alfred didn't know, but he took advantage and sucked hard on Arthur's neck. If the whimper and shudder that raked through Arthur was any evidence, Arthur really didn't mind.

Somewhere behind his closed eyes Arthur registered there was going to be a bruise but he couldn't think beyond the heat. Instead he moaned when the sensitive spot was pressed against by Alfred's tongue and Arthur grabbed harder at his wrists, feeling himself arch and the shakes that rocked him along with Alfred's grinding. Arthur noticed his bottom lip chewed raw; he licked at it and more heat flushed his face. Sensitive. His nerves were on fire.

He whimpered when he felt Alfred's lips on his forehead. His legs skittered in a weak attempt to sit up but Alfred pushed him back down and scooted to sit on Arthur's belly. Arthur's eyes nearly crossed, and they did start to well in frustration when he realized his cock had nothing to grind on. Alfred murmured something, or maybe hummed, Arthur didn't know but he was thrusting into air and his pants were not nearly enough friction.

Then he felt Alfred's breath on his forehead and braced himself. It should have felt gross. Instead Arthur keened and slackened his grip on Alfred's wrists as Alfred's tongue found its way across his brow. His cock throbbed and his toes curled and the heat behind his eyes exploded and he found himself swearing in time to Alfred's long, wet licks.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,"

Arthur was aware he could see Alfred's clothed erection if he looked down. A part of him wanted to rectify this, to see if there was anything about Alfred that would reduce him to this. But, thought was gone when Arthur felt his orgasm ripple through him, vision blurring and whiting and he heard his own cry echo in his ears.

When Arthur came down shaking and limp Alfred was still sitting on him but pulled back and watching. Arthur, in his haze, couldn't identify Alfred's expression but it wasn't completely amused, but maybe showed a little curiosity.

Alfred's slight smile broke into a grin, "Holy shit that was awesome."

Arthur gave himself permission to fall asleep. Which he did, spectacularly.

UNFINISHED YO

Tue, 25 Aug 2009 05:35:32 GMT

1817

He was watching his own movements, gestures, footsteps chasing footsteps, sight behind himself and the person he was following. He could only see the back of their heads, and when he came back to himself he was struck with the severity of the situation. He had not expected America to rise to his challenge.

That had been very foolish of England, and he wouldn't make another mistake tonight. He trained his vision to America's shoulders, shoulders that weren't quite done growing, clad by a jacket that never suited him and never would. Those shoulders were meant for heavy labor, sweat and sun. England wondered what his own shoulders would look like to America.

No, no. He couldn't think about this. He was detached, impartial. He didn't care what happened afterward. America was only a colony (ex-colony) and England would treat America the way he treated any other colony.

England was teaching America a lesson. That's right. A cold gaze, pressed lips and matching stare is what America would see when he opened the bedroom door and stepped aside. England looked from America to the entrance and walked in without a second glance to the younger would-be nation.

England wasn't intimidated in the slightest. He couldn't be, not by cockiness, not by the four-post bed covered in patchwork quilts, the bed engraved with carvings England couldn't quite see.

Except America wasn't being cocky now, not anymore. England could feel the nervous energy behind him and the hesitant step on a hardwood floor. The click of the door. England looked over his shoulder to see America still holding the door handle, also staring at the bed. America's own bed. America had four guest rooms and had chosen his own bedroom. England looked away.

"I'm filthy."

America jolted, "Pardon?"

England didn't look back, only stared at the dark bed and its cut curves, "I've been traveling all day and need a bath." he turned to look at the slightly open mouth, the incongruous stare not quite meeting his own detached one, "Do you have a servant who draws them for you?"

America pressed his lips together and settled into a glare. That was comfortable, that was alright. "No. I do them myself."

England let the silence draw out before he interrupted it, "Do you mind? I don't know where your well is."

America huffed but jerked the door he was clinging to open. He was ready to bolt. England should have known.

"America."

America froze.

"You will join me."

For a second England knew what America saw. A stocky older man with a stone face and bright green glare. His mouth was frowning where it used to smile for him so often, so often. This man was giving America the business side of things. They were cutting a deal. England could still be told no.

America responded by ducking out the door and going the direction in the hall that led to where England knew perfectly where the well was.

They were cutting a deal. A cold deal. A detached deal.

... this isn't what their bosses wanted.

Today was supposed to be ... a peace offering. An olive branch in the form of tea.

"This is a chance to be civil with him." England's boss had said. "Please show him that we have no ill feelings."

Except, England did have ill feelings. Sick feelings. He had told his boss so. His family, his charge, his child, his little brother had betrayed him, and England knew America wasn't so daft as to think everything would be okay afterward. England resented their bosses for trying. He understood them for trying. It was too much to see America's face so soon ...

America still looked so young.

There was no drop in England's stomach at the thought (Liar). No jump of nerves. No pang of guilt. No, that jolt was something else. England didn't know what it was so he ignored it (Liar). Instead of thinking, England searched for a terry robe in the wardrobe and lay it on America's bed. Everything was so detached, like he watching his movements as a third person. He recognized everything but didn't belong here anymore. This was America's place. He left the room to where he knew the linen closet was (he had helped build this house, after all) and found the spare robe, the larger towels and some rags, then slid into a spare bedroom to undress, gently closed the wood door behind him.

He was taken aback by how different this room appeared from when he remembered it. The room had been rearranged and repainted. England didn't recognize the blankets and the candles were new, illuminated by the dim light from a dusty window. The sun was going down. England could hear America's shuffling in the hallway.

England wrapped himself in the white robe and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the weariness of the day sink in while he sank into America's mattress. He reminded himself just how old he was, and suddenly didn't want to do this anymore. Anything, ever. Maybe he could find a remote spot on his island and tell his bosses to bugger off, to leave him with his faeries and stories and not be an empire any longer. England smiled and lay back, eyes closing as he shifted into a shallow sleep, listening to America's restless activity.

When he woke the light was still dim but nearly gone. He strained to hear the heavy moments from before, tensing as he prepared to sit. His eyelids fluttered as they tempted him back to sleep, but there was no more time for that. He couldn't back out. He couldn't say no.

==
America found himself wrapped in his robe, hunched on a stool as he stared at his tub. The porcelain claw foot tub England had given him a long time ago. It was larger than most because England could afford it at the time. Enough room to fit them, at least.

He couldn't think about this. Not this. His father, brother, mentor, and they were about to ...

"My, my, you're playing with the big kids now, aren't you?"

America's stare hardened at the smooth white sitting before him.

"Pillaging a peoples, acquiring debts, establishing roots and now your own, new, empire.

"I wonder what else you've learned from France and Prussia. You know," England leaned back, laced his fingers over his lap and regarded America in a way that made him feel as though he was being looked at like a specimen of bug. It made him squeamish. "The older nations have ways of," England paused and tilted his chin thoughtfully, "Well, we have habits at this point, with each other."

America felt his neck twitch, and clenched his hands on his lap, "Habits?"

"Yes. 'Habits'." England gave a misleadingly friendly smile, "I see Francis hasn't properly shown himself to you."

America took a deep breath and silently, valiantly kept himself in check. Of course he knew how France was. England was baiting him, and there was no way he would fall when England was being petulant...

"Then again I'm not surprised. Some are a little too young even for him."

Tea hadn't gone the way he had hoped.

England had propositioned him.

England had propositioned him.

England had propositioned him.

America was sure England had been bluffing but ... but. He couldn't let England mock him. He saw this game England was trying to play. America hadn't meant to draw it like this, this dance that America had accepted. America knew this whole ordeal was England being hurt and angry and they shouldn't have to do this. Not like this. But England had a very good poker face and, America didn't know how to break past it to find England's soft spots, to match his steps. England was more experienced in this, thing that was happening and America didn't know how to gracefully step out and so he didn't.

America jerked when he heard the bathroom door open. England padded in quietly then shut the door, holding a pile of towels and not quite looking at him. America suddenly felt very small hunched on his stool. He felt even smaller when England paused to look at him evenly, the space between them glass which England could walk through and shatter at any moment. The first step to their dance. Once they started they couldn't stop.

America couldn't run away, not anymore. He had accepted England's hand.

They were silent as England lay the towels next to the basin America usually used to sponge himself in. He patted the towels flat and looked at America, stepped forward and America stood to face him. England reached for him, an arms length apart. There was a hesitation, an uncertain glint before England's fingers found America's neck and pulled him close, touched their lips, light and undemanding. America could hear England's close breath, could nearly hear his voice on the air, "Please don't make me do this," Neither spoke when England touched his shoulders as lightly as the kiss, fingered the loops on the robe before he trailed to the belt, pulled it away.

America let England push the shoulders of the robe down, felt England's hands pause at his elbows, helped by slipping his arms free. England looked up from America's chest and nodded toward the tub as he folded the cloth in his arms. America knew then England wouldn't look any lower than he had to. Modesty and decency. Hah.

The water still steamed as America stepped into the tub and hesitated to grip the porcelain sides, suddenly feeling exposed. He wanted to look over his shoulder to see if England was looking but thought better of it, settled himself in the tub as quietly as possible. Even the sloshing water was too loud. When he found it in himself to look up, England was already neatly folding his own robe. When he lay it atop America's robe he settled his hands on the fabric and stalled. America looked up the line of England's pale back, studied what muscles he could see, saw the many faded scars and some fresh ones still pink and creeping into England's short choppy hair. America had seen him like this enough to not be surprised, but he wondered how much of a beating England had taken a decade ago. He dismissed the thought. He couldn't feel sorry for him now, not for an Empire.

England turned jerkily and made his way to the tub. His eyes would not meet America's, not that America would have allowed them because he turned his head to the wall. This was too strange.

He felt the water rise, their legs tangled as England stretched and heard the jarred breath leave England's lungs when he leaned back and America still couldn't face him --

"Turn around."

It was a normal speaking voice but made America cringe, but he looked up and England was wetting some cloths, was rubbing one with lye.

"What?"

England raised an eyebrow and looked at him evenly, and America had heard perfectly so, he stood and resettled with his back to England. He jumped when he felt the roughness of a cloth and stinging lye press on him, curled his legs when he realized England was washing him first and something tugged at America's chest. That was so ...

So fucking parental of England, wasn't it?

The rag pressed his neck, America obliged and bent his forehead to his knees, willed that slight tremble to end as England's hands calmly passed over him in a familiar way. Water trailed down his arms as the rag found his ears, his neck. America tensed when he felt England's free hand touch his hip under the water and urged him to scoot backwards which he did, hesitantly, and England's arms wrapped around him, England's chest against his back and England's forehead pressed his neck.

"Sit up." This time his voice was barely a hoarse whisper, but it echoed in America's ears and in the breath on his back.

America obliged again, closed his eyes when the rag touched his chest. He was too aware of the hand which pressed through the cloth, circling and dragging and America clenched his jaw when he noticed his jaw was shaking. He couldn't stop the tremors and only assumed England felt them too. He willed the flinch away when the rag passed over this nipples, an unfamiliar shock sent to his belly and he would have moved if there had been anywhere to go. England's hand shifted to his center and moved to his stomach. America sucked in air, frozen, and England paused. Both stilled as the silence waited to be broken but nothing was said.

England shifted closer, pressed lower, slower and finally America started to resign himself when the cloth grazed his hips to his thighs, the outsides first before dipping to the insides. America didn't think it possible but he tensed further, closed his eyes (When had he opened them?) when the rag ventured close, tickling and too light to even have the pretense of cleaning.

Then there was England's lack of movement, and America looked again, a hand resting high on his inside thigh and England's breath steady on his neck. America scowled: He wouldn't be scared out of this.

England sensed America relaxing and leaned back, pulled the rag from the water and twisted it dry.

Kink-Meme Fill

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 06:31:27 GMT

http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10456.html?thread=16436184#t16436184

My request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10530.html?thread=17728546#t17728546

[Doujinshi] NC-17

Sun, 09 Aug 2009 11:01:19 GMT

Megaupload | Sendspace | Savefile

Translator: Anonymous
Scanner: aechla
Editor: sliefoxx

Originally Posted Here

[Fanfic] I Will Think of Something

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 08:08:53 GMT

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Words: 2948
Pairing: None. Canada, France centric
Notes: Gift-fic/fic trade for historyblitz, who has some lovely writing of her own. No historical relevance.

I Will Think of Something

His boots cracked on the dirt path that led to his reclusive home in a place where trees were everywhere, a sky that stretched for miles before the dizzying fall to a nearly untouched earth. Francis took a deep breath, tired and unsure if he would be able to handle Matthew's enthusiasm when he saw the boy.

Francis had built a house for visiting his new land named "Canada". It was a shack compared to his great home back in France, but he amused himself with the rustic quaintness of it. Francis had decided Matthew deserved more than log cabins. That he deserved more than those piles of wood Arthur had built for America that Canada had been so awed by. The gesture had not gone unnoticed by Arthur, though as much pleasure it brought Francis to know this, it really didn't matter. The boy had been cowed and all eyes and "oo's" and "aa's" while he ran around his new home, not quite sure what to make of it. Francis had been proud but, more importantly, his charge was happy.

When Arthur had been making grabby hands at this new land, Francis had been ecstatic to see the resemblance of himself in this new country hiding in the woods. Francis had whisked the boy away and safe from That Punk Brit, held him like a doll and taken a look at the bright child, light wispy hair and shining blue eyes, "I'll call you New France!" Francis had declared.

To which the boy had blinked down at him and said quietly, not without some question, "I already have a name."

"Oh?"

The boy had smiled and nodded, "It's Kanata."

Francis had melted and hugged his new charge, "Then we will call you Canada for now." And Canada had been perfectly happy with that, just as he had been with his new house.

Francis saw a blond head poke from inside the front door, peering, assessing, before a happy cry reached Francis' ears and he could see a flurry of white streaking down the path. Still young enough to wear a dress. Francis felt a little less tired and took the small hands into his own when they reached for him.

"Big Brother!" Matthew giggled; Francis spun Matthew in a circle then let him down. Matthew grinned and trailed along while Francis made his way to the house, "I caught a fish today!"

"Oh?" Francis looked down at the little sprite hopping alongside him.

Matthew beamed, "Yes! In the river!" he skipped ahead a few paces, "The trappers said I should cook it on a fire, but I said France would want to do something with it."

He had saved it for him. How thoughtful and endearingly unnecessary, but, Francis couldn't help the pleasure in knowing that Matthew had thought of him.

Absently, Francis wondered how the humans reacted to Matthew saying a country's name as though it was a person. He had seen the trappers watch Matthew play in the rivers they followed, confused but ultimately accepting and heartened to see something so carefree. They were not gentle men, but Matthew seemed to infect everyone with joy when he was joyous, and melancholy when he was sad. He was soft-spoken and sweet and Francis hoped that never changed.

To be honest, Canada was not France's most important colony, but was Francis' favorite. All the others had been well into their teens by the time he arrived, had established themselves and were quite difficult to deal with. Canada was still young enough to mold and shape in his image. More importantly, Matthew didn't seem to mind his visits. He realized this would probably change in the future, but until then ...

"What would you like me to make with your fish?"

Matthew's face flushed and his voice grew timid, "Well ..."

Francis bent and scooped the boy in his arms, pausing to open the front door with his shoulder, "Yes?"

Matthew wrapped his arms around Francis' neck and ducked his head, "Will you show me how to make something?"

Francis' inner chef swelled with pride, "Anything in mind, dear Matthew?" Francis tightened his hold when he felt the head buried in his neck shake. He grinned, "Then I will think of something."

--
When Francis was trying to think of a human name for his little Canada, he conceded that he did look a bit like Arthur. Actually, he looked quite a bit like America ("Alfred" as he was now, what a horrible name) who sort of looked like Arthur. Whatever Canada looked like, it wasn't completely Francis which was a bit disappointing. Still, Canada was a gift no matter who he looked like and Francis intended to treat him that way.

"Matthieu," Francis had said aloud, and Canada had known in all his little kid wisdom that it was another name Francis was bestowing. He stood from his place in front of the fire and ran over by Francis' knee, who was sitting with a book.

"Matthew!" Canada repeated, and Francis could practically see the spelling difference (it mattered to him), "Is that mine?"

Francis paused and studied the inquisitive face staring up at him, before smiling and laying a hand on a muss of blond hair, "Yes, it's all yours." Canada made a pleased noise and batted Francis' hand away from his head. "You know," Francis started dramatically, waiting for that turn of the head, the leaning in to make sure he didn't miss a word. Francis boinked Canada's nose, "Only the most important colonies get human names. You know what this means, right?"

Canada stared until the recognition dawned, and Francis had never seen him smile brighter. Matthew squealed happily, rocketing off the floor and into Francis' lap.

"Thank you Big Brother!"

Francis didn't think he had hugged a colony tighter.
--

Ever since Alfred left, Matthew got the feeling that no matter what he did Arthur was watching him a bit more carefully than before. It had been a tangible change in Arthur's demeanor, unspoken and made Matthew more than a little uncomfortable. Still, he enjoyed Arthur's company more than not, and since America was no longer any sort of shelter, Matthew invited Arthur to his home. They gladly talked about nothing, filled Matthew's kitchen with the smell of tea and baking.

It was the house Francis had built. Matthew had refused to destroy it despite Arthur's not-so-subtle suggestions. He loved all the things Francis had given him. No matter how long Arthur had tried to bat Francis' influence away, Matthew refused, stood fast and gently (sometimes not so gently, they had their rows) told him that there were some things Arthur could never will away. Matthew knew there were things about Francis that Arthur didn't mind, though Arthur would never admit it. Matthew tried to take whatever Arthur saw of France within him and make it positive.

So, Matthew understood the reaction to the dish he placed in front of Arthur; His eyes narrowed distrustfully, though the plate's contents looked more extravagant than anything Arthur had tried to concoct outside a cauldron, "What's this? I didn't teach this to you." he demanded with suspicion.

"It's not burnt enough for you to have taught it to me," Matthew teased. He laughed when Arthur pouted at him, "It's Sole Bretonne, Francis taught it to me a long time ago."

Arthur looked at the dish for a moment, then took a mouthful despite his complaining. Matthew settled in the chair across from him with his own plate. Arthur chewed, paused, then sniffed, "It's mushy," he grouched, then took another bite.

Matthew smiled, and shrugged the way Francis did when he thought Arthur was being cute. Arthur didn't mind because it was Matthew, and Matthew never meant anything by his teasing. They ate in companionable silence.

"May I ask you a question?" Matthew asked suddenly, partway through their meal.

Arthur looked up and smiled an almost imperceptive smile, "I believe you already did," he met Matthew's eyes to signal that he was listening, "It depends on the question,"

Matthew appeared a little embarrassed, "Well, um ..." he twirled his fork nervously before setting it down, "What would you have named me if you had found me first?"

The raise of thick eyebrows and leaning back in his chair was Arthur's only betrayal of surprise, "Well," he started thoughtfully. He smiled when Matthew relaxed; Matthew had thought he'd be angry, "Probably Alexander, or Arnold."

Matthew wrinkled his nose, "Arnold?"

"It's a very dignified name," Arthur responded prissily.

Matthew just laughed, picked up his fork again.

"Why?" Arthur asked after a moment.

Matthew shook his head, "Just curious." He hesitated, "Why those names?"

Arthur shrugged, and when he didn't say anything further Matthew made no effort to persue the conversation. They would think of something later.

--
"When did you learn to cross stitch?"

Matthew paused in his handiwork to look at Francis, who leaned over his chair to peer at the cloth in his hands.

"Oh, not too long ago," Matthew responded, and held up the hoop so Francis could see, "When Arthur showed me and Alfred how to mend our clothes, I asked him later if there was anything more uh," Matthew smiled in an embarrassed way. "artistic."

Francis nodded and pulled away to go to the chair he designated as his own while visiting. Matthew watched Francis settle himself with a book, relaxed and focused.

He played with the cloth in his lap before asking, "Does it bother you?" It prompted Francis to look up questioningly. Matthew tried to explain, "That I'm doing something Arthur taught me."

Francis sat surprised, before he snorted and waved a dismissive hand. "Of course not dear boy, why on earth should it?"

Matthew fidgeted. "Well, Arthur always gets irritated when I cook a recipe of yours, or say something in French ... so I thought..."

"Arthur is a stubborn ass, holds grudges like no other and doesn't like me influencing his colonies," Francis said more shortly than he intended.

Matthew flushed and looked down, thought of his words carefully, "You've made no attempt to make things better with him." The younger man pointed out quietly.

Francis smiled and leaned further into his chair, tapped his fingers on the open book on his lap, "So is the nature of our relationship," he said a little more than matter-of-fact and not begrudging, "We're content not entirely hating each other, not entirely rejecting the other. It's been like this from the start." He looked at Matthew who was listening, blue eyes bright and absorbing everything his ears could not. His face betrayed no desire to ask anymore questions, and how like him, Francis thought, to listen and learn, and not question and not discourage further responses. Like a reflection, he observed. Francis smiled wryly, "You do things the way Arthur showed you all the time, I can't possibly be upset about all of them."

The question came to Matthew's eyes this time, but Francis chose to ignore it. Instead, he tapped his forehead in a 'silly me' gesture. "I was just thinking that it never occurred to me to teach you to sew, despite my fabulous wardrobe."

Matthew smiled. "Ah, well all the good it would have done me. I'll never have your fashion sense. I just wanted something nice for the wall."

Francis brightened. "You must make me something next! I'm afraid your statues don't quite fit with the rest of my decor."

Matthew hummed and returned to his stitching, "Then I will think of something," he responded musingly.

--
Francis didn't know when he had started knocking when he arrived for his visits. At some point the little boy he knew would wait for him, had to be called for (though his surprise visits were never a surprise, “How did you know I was coming?” Francis would ask, “I could feel you on the water!” little Matthew would respond as if it were the most obvious thing in the world). The visits began to get less frequent; Arthur had won Matthew a long time ago, there were wars, there were diplomatic issues, things that Francis had long been used to but Matthew was still learning.

Francis hoped Matthew understood, and figured he did since Matthew still greeted him warmly and without hesitation.

Speaking of which, when was the boy going to answer the door?

He knocked louder, quirking his head when he heard a shuffle from inside and a pained yelp.

“Matthew?” Francis called, “What are you doing?”

The door finally cracked open and a blond head poked out. Matthew looked up at Francis, flustered, “We should go out to eat!” he blurted while he kept the door as closed as possible.

Francis gave him a confused study then attempted to peer around the door, “Nonsense! “ he stood tiptoe when Matthew’s arm shot up to hide whatever crack Francis might be able to see over. Francis reached for the door handle and pulled, not entirely surprised when Matthew proved stronger, “What are you hiding?”

“We should really go out!” Matthew insisted, pulling harder when Francis wedged his foot in the door and gained leverage.

It occurred to Francis to check that Matthew was fully clothed. He grinned despite that he was indeed, fully clothed. “Are you hiding a pretty girl in there?”

Matthew turned red, “What!?”

Francis became a little more determined and nearly pulled the door from Matthew’s surprised grip, “Oh! I must see her! I’m sure she’s quite the beauty!”

“Stop it!” Matthew cried, falling forward when he underestimated Francis’ determination to potentially see a naked lady. Matthew shoved the door forward, surprising Francis backwards and Matthew stepped outside. The door slammed shut.

Francis gathered himself and looked at Matthew expectantly who was practically sprawled across the door protectively.

“Um…” Matthew flustered, he looked down, and Francis bent to see Matthew’s embarrassed face, “It’s filthy in there.”

Francis blinked, “Huh?”

“I haven’t cleaned in ages. You don’t want to eat in there,” Matthew looked away, “There’s a nice place one of your people just opened in a nearby town, we can …”

“You don’t want me in there because you haven’t dusted?”

Matthew’s face darkened, “It’s more than dust.”

Indeed it was. Francis was almost impressed at the amount of boxes, books, knickknacks, furniture, clothes, electronics, paperwork and pens strewn across the house. Artwork that hadn’t been hung, projects that hadn’t been finished and least of all, dusted. It was a relief to see that there was no visible kitchenware.

Francis looked at the floor in front of the front door and saw that there were mud tracks all over the tile. He cleared his throat, “How long has it been?”

Matthew hid his face again, “Since you last visited …”

Francis paled. His eyes glinted with determination, “Show me the kitchen, Matthew.”

The kitchen at least, was in perfect shape. No rodents here, probably. This made the whole mess almost forgivable. However, the dining room was in as bad shape as the entrance.

“Well,” Francis started, “I guess you’ll be lending me a t-shirt.”

Matthew’s face went blank. “What?”

“We need to clean this up before we can eat.” Francis pouted at him, “How could you treat the lovely home I gave you this way? Honestly.”

Matthew’s eyes became glassy, and he had the grace to look ashamed before running upstairs to grab his neglected cleaning supplies.

--
They didn’t get through all of the mess, but were hungry, dirty and tired after several hours, and after their showers, Matthew made Francis sit as far away from the stove as possible (Francis liked to be nosey on food matters) while he cooked.

“I see you are like your brother in several things now,” Francis mused while he stretched.

Matthew smiled as he stirred a saucepan of vegetables around, “I guess we’re both kind of pack rats,” he said absently, then looked over his shoulder, unable to help being a bit embarrassed that Francis was watching him, “We get attached to things.”

Francis' eyes glinted, “Attached to all that dust?”

“And all the things the dust is on.” Matthew turned to turn off the stove’s heat, then moved to dump the skillet’s contents into a corning ware dish already filled with fish.

Francis crossed his legs and started bouncing his foot, “You’ve grown a lot.”

“Hmm?” Matthew glanced at the man sitting on a lone chair on the far side the kitchen, before he knelt to put his dish in the oven.

Francis continued to watch him, “Well, some of that paperwork looked positively dull!” He gestured dramatically despite his lack of audience, “I’m afraid my brain started leaking just looking at it.”

Matthew smiled, his eyes shining mirror-like before he started cleaning the stray flour on his counters. “You can thank yourself for that. If you hadn’t found me I wouldn’t have had paperwork.”

Francis’ face fell a little. “You are disappointed you were found?”

“Of course not. I’m glad it was you who stayed around.”

Matthew pulled a stool next to Francis’ chair, propped his hands on his knees, looked at Francis directly, “The Nordics found me first and I chased them away. I couldn’t chase you away.”

Francis pouted, “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

Matthew’s smile softened, “Not bad, it just is.” When Francis looked at him with question, Matthew pushed forward. “Just like most the things you and Arthur have taught me. It’s not good or bad.”

Francis hummed and stretched again. “Perhaps you'll teach us one day.”

Matthew grinned and watched Francis stretch in his chair. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

[Fanfic] Switzerland/Gun, Voyeur France - NC-17

Tue, 26 May 2009 04:43:09 GMT

Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Words: 3133
Pairings: Voyeur France/Switzerland/Gun
Notes: 1800-ish. After Switzerland was made into a satellite state by Napoleon. Also, French manners say that both your hands stay on the dinner table. If Wikipedia is to be trusted, Switzerland pretty much has the same manners. Oh, and this.

ALSO, FOR THE AWESOME GUYS ON IRC. I WOULDN'T HAVE FINISHED IT. REALLY.

AND THEN FRANCE FAPPED FURIOUSLY~

Switzerland was a little too uptight, France thought. That much tension couldn't be good for Switzerland's health, he needed to take a break. After all, who wouldn't want to live in his house? France had culture, he had money, he had good food, and his army was spectacular right now. The best in the world even! The way Switzerland acted when France had generously invited him to his house was appalling. France attributed it to his German side. That was it. Maybe Switzerland enjoyed living like a peasant.

France hummed to himself as he chopped greens meant for tonight's meal. Maybe he could get Switzerland to be a little more ... agreeable. No one could say France wasn't accommodating to the willing. After all, France didn't like having unwilling guests in his house, but war was war and sometimes it just couldn't be helped. France had given him a comfortable room, treated him to his cooking (he could get the servants to cook whenever, but no, France opted to do it himself, how nice of him!) nevertheless Switzerland had complained. Loudly, that was sure. Something had to be done. Couldn't have uprisings out of his little neighbor, could he?

Two pots sat on France's stove. Their contents were identical until France dumped the greens into one. He took a breath as he watched them boil. A satisfied grin spread over his face. Yes, he would get Switzerland to be more agreeable.

Switzerland jumped when he heard a light knock at his door. The desk France had provided him was covered with papers and maps and he had been hunched over them for the last few hours. His back cracked as he sat up and shoved a few stray notes into a top drawer. His door opened to reveal a servant.

"Dinner is in half an hour Mr. Helvetii."

Switzerland openly cringed at the name but nodded. The servant bowed and left.

Helvetii was the name France had given him. He hated it. It had been France's boss' idea to try and change him, and where better to start but with his name? His identity. Switzerland would be sure to mention it at dinner, if he didn't shoot France in the face first.

Switzerland reached beneath the desk and felt for the loose panel hidden. He hooked his fingers in the rough wood, smiling wickedly as a heavy weight fell into his palm. Pausing to make sure he didn't drop it, he ran his fingers over the smooth wooden handle of his pistol. France didn't know he had it. It was the only thing he owned right now that made him feel in control, and he couldn't even represent his people with it. France would effectively crush any true rebellion from him, Switzerland knew. He clutched the handle and slid the pistol inside his vest. His clothes were getting loose, France wouldn't notice the steel pressing against Switzerland's ribs.

France was chattering with the maids when Switzerland arrived in the dining hall. The table was too long for just the two of them but only one end was set. France's face lit as Switzerland wordlessly took his place at the table.

"Helvetii! You are on time!" France said, delighted. He placed a kiss on Switzerland's cheek before flitting off, missing Switzerland's face screwing up in disgust.

France took his own seat, pausing to look at Switzerland's face and pouting at the sour expression, "Oh please, Helvetii, don't be so dour. You'll ruin the meal." France clapped his hands cheerfully and took up his napkin, "Bon appetite!"

Switzerland stiffly placed his napkin on his lap. Ruin dinner indeed. Switzerland couldn't recall a pleasant dinner since he had been in this house. He kept his voice in check and replied softly, "Perhaps I wouldn't be so dour if you called me by my name."

France smiled indulgently as he ate his salad, "You know my boss doesn't give me much choice on the matter. I will call you what my people call you." He took another bite. Switzerland's hand slipped off the table, and if France noticed the gesture he didn't mention it.

"I would be grateful," Switzerland ground out. He stabbed his own salad roughly, "if you didn't call me by that name."

France studied the infuriated blond pointedly as he drained his wine glass. Setting it down, he leaned forward with the back of his hand on his cheek and smiled charmingly, "Helvetii."

The table rattled as Switzerland slammed his hands down and stood violently, "Good night." He snarled, and pushed his chair back.

"Helvetii." France frowned and watched Switzerland's retreating back. "Helvetii." France swore, "Zwingli."

Switzerland froze. France didn't smile this time, "You will at least eat the soup I worked so hard to make you." he said gently. Tensely, but gently. Like an irritated parent instructing their disobedient child.

"I'm not much hungry, thank you." Switzerland's throat strained as he refrained from screaming at the man behind him. He started to walk again.

"Vash," Smooth. Switzerland hesitated at the dark tone in France's voice, "I see you getting thinner. You will eat or I will have my servants tie you like a pig and drain scalding soup down your throat."

Switzerland had no doubt he would. He sat down, glaring at the table as his mostly full salad plate was removed and a bowl of soup came into his vision. His hands trembled as he took a spoon and scooped out a potato. There. He ate.

"All of it, Vash." France said absently. He wasn't even looking. Switzerland mentally let loose a plethora of curses and continued eating.

When he was finished, and after France forced him to eat a second bowl, Switzerland lay his spoon on his bowl, "Thank you." he said thickly, "May I leave now?"

"Hmm."

Switzerland stood. He could feel France's eyes as he walked away. Watch all you want, Switzerland thought vehemently. He would have preferred another dramatic, loud exit but after the cool way France was regarding him it would have been petulant. Instead, he took comfort in letting his hand stray to his side and feeling the hard metal beneath his vest. He'd get away eventually. He always did, and no one would have any say in his affairs any longer.

France smiled brightly when the dining room door closed.

**
There was a hollow wall in Switzerland's room. France was honestly surprised that Switzerland hadn't discovered it yet, not that he was complaining. It had been installed for spying of the non-voyeuristic kind, but France was always willing to find new uses for things. That's what "experimentation" was, right? France grinned to himself. Yes, he was conducting an experiment.

France wondered vaguely if Switzerland had "been" with anyone else before. He knew Italy and the Holy Roman Empire had tried to take his house before (that prick Austria then, perhaps?) but Switzerland always found a way to kick them out, eventually. He was a bit of a hermit. Probably never touched himself either. Ohhoho, that would change tonight.

France stifled a yawn. He had been in and out of his hiding place four or five times to check on his guest (Musk was really not an appealing scent, it was bothering him), and Switzerland never moved from his spot hovering over paperwork. No, Switzerland had stood up once to stretch his back, and France had given a sympathy wince at the loud pop which came from it.

Then Switzerland had sat down.

And hadn't moved from his place since.

France pouted and decided that the boy (Boy, man? He was old enough to be a man, sure didn't look it. France could work with that) was made of ice. His "special" soup worked every time. Maybe he hadn't put enough herbs in? Or maybe Switzerland had learned to kill any form of desire out of sheer desperation and isolation. France gave a horrified gasp at the thought.

He started when he heard a low moan come the other side of the wall. France leaned into his peephole and could see Switzerland sprawled over the desk. He must have fallen asleep, France thought, and squinted in hopes of any signs of life. Switzerland's hands twitched and he shifted his head against his arms, but nothing else. France sighed and pulled away.

If Switzerland was going to sleep through the effects he might as well leave now, France grouched to himself. He pouted and gave one last peek. Of course, something interesting happened right then.

Still asleep, Switzerland breathed in heavily, almost gulping before letting out short, small breaths against his arms. His eyes fluttered open, confusion glossing his features. He stretched his legs, sitting up dazedly, giving an unconscious stretch with his torso before flopping backwards in his chair, still breathing heavily.

France allowed a devilish grin; This was encouraging.

**
He was hot. Not the kind of outside-hot that made him sweat, or the kind of inside-hot from exercising, but a fuzzy kind of inside-hot that made his head cloudy and limbs heavy. Switzerland blinked as he tried to focus on the wallpaper above him. His head rolled against the chair, a sudden shiver running up his spine and he gasped again.

He needed to lie down.

Switzerland pushed his chair back, stumbling as he found the bed and threw himself on it. He buried his face in the plush covers, reveling in their untouched chill.

His pistol was pressing uncomfortably against his side. He shifted so the metal didn't poke his ribs as hard. The movement rocked his hips against the bed.

"Hnn," Switzerland shuddered and rocked his hips again, again. Heat built up in the small of his back, his fingers curled into the bedspread as he continued moving, and rocking and moving, stopping only when he heard the explosive moan from the back of his own throat.

Oh lord, he knew what that feeling was now. Switzerland rolled over and covered his face with clenched hands.

"Fuck." His legs shook as he shifted his waist up, unconsciously trying to relieve the pressure. Switzerland took a deep shuddering breath, trying not to focus on his straining trousers.

He lightly bit his palm in frustration, feeling how flushed his face was against his hands. He tilted his head back and breathed. And waited.

**
France was aware that his grin had turned into a smirk. His fingers flitted across the waist of his trousers as he listened to Switzerland swear. France couldn't say he wasn't used to used to it from England. Except from an outsider's point it got annoying watching someone let their frustrations build up when there were... obvious solutions. Except Switzerland wasn't like England, was he? Not a bit. England wouldn't be trying to will away that painful looking erection.

"Oh no," France thought gleefully, "That's not going anywhere," and his smirk grew when he realized Switzerland was working at the buttons of his vest.

**
Switzerland realized his hands were shaking. Somewhere in his foggy brain he wondered why he had never been this worked up before, and why simply waiting had worked but not this time. Usually he was too preoccupied to be worrying about the regions below his waist. They weren't vital compared to the troubles France was giving him right now ...

And then it dawned on him: France. Dinner. He must have slipped him something. Switzerland swore loudly.

His pistol nudged against his side, and he slid the weapon out of his now open vest, warm from being so close. Holding it up to study the intricate designs in the metal, the lines of tree rings in the handle, it wasn't his favorite. It was lovely though, Switzerland thought, absently chewing the pad of his thumb. He dropped his hand and the pistol to his thigh, flinching when a jolt ran from his groin to his gut.

Tilting his head back, Switzerland stared blearily at the ceiling. Hate him as he might, he was feeling pretty good, Switzerland admitted begrudgingly. The hand he was chewing made its way south. Switzerland let out a relieved breath when he palmed the prominent bulge, hips rocking gently into his hand. His fingers flexed against the pistol. Without thinking, he moved his arm, slowly dragging the pistol up his hip, shivering at the cooling metal. It felt like sparks were coursing through his skin. He chewed his lip lightly as he absently kicked off his shoes and spread his legs, bracing his feet against the mattress. He ground the heal of his palm against his crotch, dragging the barrel of his pistol from his hip to his stomach, nudging it up his undershirt. He shivered at the hard pressure against his belly.

What was he doing?

His hand traveled from groin to pelvis, fingers pressing in the dip and fingertips trailing and scraping lightly. He shivered.

The thumb on his pistol strayed to the hammer. Switzerland's breath caught as he flicked it.

**
France nearly wept with joy.
**

Click.

The thin barrel pressed into his skin, his heart jumping at the movement of the pistol's hammer.

Click.

Switzerland watched. It felt like he was observing instead of making the actions himself. His undershirt bunched around his neck as he trailed the metal up his chest, paused and pressed the barrel onto a nipple.

Click.

It was over his heart. His index slid onto the trigger. His breath shuddered.

Click.

His fingers slipped beneath the still buttoned waist his trousers, pressing lightly on his pelvis, avoiding the subtle curve that marked the beginning of his erection.

Click.

His eyes slid closed. Pulling his hand away from his groin he dragged it up his stomach, passed his chest and buried a hand in his hair. His palm gently pushed against his temple. He groaned quietly as his hips rocked up, feeling the friction from his own cloths pull at his cock. The pistol found its way to his lower lip, pressing. Switzerland opened his eyes slightly, peering down at his own hand. His tongue flicked out, experimentally touching the metal against his mouth. His trigger finger twitched.

Click.

It was in his mouth. A shiver of shame ran through him as he ran his tongue over the curves and patterns of metal, faintly tasting gunpowder. The hand in his hair moved over his side, down his back and to the back of his thigh.

Click.

Switzerland pulled the pistol from his mouth and pointed it away, looking at the saliva clinging to the barrel. His fingers drummed nervously over his thigh, tapping hesitantly before trailing around and down and pushing against his still clothed sac. His cock give an interested jump. The pistol lie on his stomach with the barrel pointing down. His thumb rubbed against the wooden handle, his index finger still twitching against the trigger.

**
France was gaping. Oh, he had seen plenty in his days and this really was nothing. He just hadn't expected it. A quick couple of jerks, some more swearing and then Switzerland would sleep.

He hadn't expected the sight of Switzerland practically writhing on his bed, back arching, skin flushed and was he licking the gun? Oh Switzerland was a lovely little specimen if France had ever seen one. Now if he could get him to do something about that stupid haircut ...

Click.

France shuddered when he heard a high-pitched moan come from the other side of the wall. He leaned into his peephole again and nearly bit his tongue. There he was, head thrown back, hips rocking rapidly into his hands. His pistol was pressed into his balls and free hand grasping what it could of his cock through his trousers. Switzerland's shoulders flexed against the bed, sending his back into an arch, legs spreading wide, wider.

Click.

France was sure they both moaned.

**
He was panting. Switzerland alternated between biting his lips and licking them, feeling them swell, turning his head into his shoulder as he gasped with each little tug and pull, each tremor down his spine.

I need to... Switzerland groaned. He released his cock and started working one-handed on his trouser buttons. The pistol pressed against his groin, shifting with each twitch and raise of his body. He needed something to press against, something to make ease the pressure, make the heat in his body build. His fingers trembled, fumbling with each button as he rocked desperately into his own hands.

Click.

His fingers tingled against the metal. His legs shook as he pushed his trousers down his thighs.

Click.

Switzerland swore when he realized his stockings were still tied, and settled for bunching his trousers around his knees. He paused for a moment to shrug off the vest that was still clinging to him, and yanking off his still buttoned undershirt. Too many fucking buttons.

His breath still shuddered when he lay back down, resting his hands lightly on his stomach. The air suddenly felt cooler than it had, making him aware of his nipples hardening, his now exposed cock. Switzerland closed his eyes and released a tremulous breath before reaching and grabbing himself roughly.

A violent shudder ran through him and he bucked, hard.

His free hand played absently in the bedspread, he moaned at the feeling of his own precum spreading cool over his fingers. He arched. His knees strained against the confinements around his knees, and he pressed his hips down, shivering. Switzerland opened his eyes, peering down at the pistol that still lay against his thigh.

He reached for it.

Turning it over gently, he slid the smooth wooden handle over his sac, pressing up, rocking with the movement, then moving lower. He wasn't sure, but thought he heard a whimper choke from his throat when he pressed the pistol's handle not quite against his asshole, a whimper with a cascade of heat and sparks and shudders washing through him. He pressed the handle up hard, jolting with wave of pleasure, pulling the hand around his cock up roughly and arching, moaning loudly ... and then, and then, it was gone.

**
Switzerland wasn't sure how long he lay there idly stroking himself, but once his head came back from the clouds he was horrified at his state. He glared at his hands, dripping and crusting with his own spend and he knew, he had to take it out on someone.

He turned his eyes to a spot on the wall. He lifted his pistol and aimed.

The shot rang in his ears and his hand jerked from the rebound but he smiled viciously at the smoking hole in the wall.

"Get out." He snarled.

**

France was glad, the next afternoon, that Switzerland neglected to comment on the singed parts of his hair.

[Fanfic] Spain/S.Italy - NC-17

Mon, 18 May 2009 00:20:11 GMT

Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Words: 875
Pairing: Spain/S.Italy
Notes: Prompt: PINK. FUCKING. CUSHIONS. Done for some lovely anons. I hope you like!

His face was on the ground, that wasn't new.

His ass was in the air and a sweaty chest pressed against his back, that wasn't new either.

He was getting pissed off, and that definitely wasn't new.

Lovino moaned quietly as he felt his hair being pushed aside and a set of teeth latch on to his ear. He tilted his head back, shoulders arching into the man behind him. He felt Antonio's lips curve into what was probably a smirk (the bastard) as the Spaniard's tongue lapped at his lobe, then that spot behind his ear and on his neck. Antonio's fingers skimmed across his thighs, over his stomach, dipping into his pelvis but of course, avoiding what might have distracted Lovino's rage from growing.

Lovino was being teased and that wasn't new. It also wasn't what was pissing him off.

The color was hurting his eyes.

Of course he couldn't see the horrible color when he closed them at the feeling of Antonio's cock pressing against balls. Lovino shivered as he felt Antonio's hips press into his ass, lips coursing down his back. Lovino's eyes fluttered open, but at seeing that color again he squeezed them shut and buried his face in his arms.

Annoyance tugged at his chest when he heard an amused "Hmm," behind him, and those fingers flitted against his balls, pressing up and sending shivers through him, and low moan slipping out with his shudders as Antonio's dark hands massaged. Lovino hooked his ankles around Antonio's knees, pulling him closer and throwing an irritated glare over his shoulder.

Antonio gave what would have been a charming grin had Lovino not taken it for just being another sign that Antonio was a smug bastard who thought he was better at this than he was. Not that Lovino really ever had a reason to complain but he would never tell him that.

Lovino felt Antonio's hands pull him up by his chest and Lovino went with the motion, hesitating when Antonio turned his head to brush his lips against his. Lovino reflexively pulled back, stopping when Antonio ran his hands through his hair, pulling at a certain erroneous strand. Tremors ran down his spine and straight to his groin. Lovino moaned, didn't fight when Antonio pulled his mouth to his. Rather he opened and flicked his tongue against the other's, moaning louder when Antonio pulled his hands through again. Lovino started to turn his upper body into Antonio's, but his face was gently turned forward and a hand left his hair to occupy one of its favorite places on Lovino's ass.

Lovino lowered himself on his arms, knowing what was coming next. He scowled. There they were again.

Pink. Cushions.

Pink. Fucking. Cushions.

Did Antonio know they were there?

It wasn't unusual for Antonio to keep pillows in random places in his house for convenient napping. That wasn't new.

Pink was definitely new.

It was pissing him off.

He shuddered when he felt Antonio's fingers slip between his cheeks, pressing gently against his asshole. Heat flushed his cheeks and he let out shuddering breath and forced himself to relax. His vision blurred as he felt Antonio's thumbs spread him open and an open-mouth kiss pressed against the small of his back. One hand left him, and after a moment of shuffling Antonio's dry fingers were damp and Lovino gritted his teeth when two pushed into him.

He almost bit his tongue when he saw a blur of pink.

Lovino groaned, "What the hell ...?"

Antonio could hear Lovino's cursing as he stretched the younger man, occasionally pulling a hand away when he felt Lovino's muscles seize. He would run his palms over Lovino's hips, push gently against his balls, cupping and wrapping his fingers around the base of Lovino's cock, not quite pumping him, but firmly enough to remind him that he hadn't forgot.

Antonio frowned when he felt Lovino's cock softening.

He leaned forward to see Lovino's face. The Italian was glaring at something, that wasn't new.

"What's wrong?" He asked, voice coming out a little rougher than he intended.

Antonio started when Lovino looked over his shoulder, fuming. He went through his list of things that pissed Lovino off. He hadn't done anything to make Lovino complain today, well, loudly, but the Italian was usually good about not thinking too much during sex so it must be something important to warrent delaying what was going to be an amazing orgasm.

Lovino snarled and pulled himself from under Antonio. Antonio stayed on his knees watching dumbly as Lovino marched to a corner of the room and snatched up a pile of pink Antonio had thought he had stashed away quite nicely.

"These," Lovino growled and shoved three bright pink pillows into Antonio's arms, "Are ugly. Just like you." Antonio started to protest, interrupted by Lovino taking a cushion back and whapping him with it. "I will not have sex in a room with pink cushions. That's fucking gay."

Anontio chose not to think about the irony of the statement as he watched Lovino's naked ass leave the room, leaving him with an armful of pink cushions. He looked down at them and squished them in his hands. They were soft, pefect for napping on.

He was suddenly aware of his balls trying to crawl up inside him. He laughed thickly.

"Well, shit."

--Gasp~

Loquacious - Gasp on Words

Thu, 23 Oct 2008 08:50:33 GMT

I like to think of myself as The Big Three: Reading, writing and editing. Maybe it's more like The Big Two, since editing is probably not at the top of most people's Enjoyment List. The point is that I like words. Every word has a meaning and every thing has a word for it. Words are names. Unfortunately I'm not very good with names and that's why I edit; I'm not a writer.

Let's talk about the word "loquacious".

I was very excited to remember "loquacious" because I have such a small vocabulary, and being a three-syllable word it fits well with my Impressive Sounding Words that I keep in my Just In Case arsenal. Sadly they're usually negative words like "misanthropic" and "lackadaisical". Note that those are about the extent of my Impressive Sounding Words (I always have a dictionary nearby when editing, Just In Case).

"Loquacious", while negative, starts with an "L", and "L" is probably my favorite letter. But that's not the only reason I like "loquacious". Loquacious makes me think that it might be the name of a ridiculously evil character like "Lucius" or "Silvester". It's a silly word for a silly person. But "loquacious" is said lovingly, like all adjectives that begin with the letter "L".

I know a few people who are loquacious, and while I sometimes want to beat them with the largest book nearby, I listen listlessly and pretend to be a very intent wall while I'm talked at. But that's okay too, because I'm an editor and it's not my job to create (or create conversation). I sit on the sidelines judging everything you say by how you say it. If you're not a loquacious person though, you don't have to worry if the person you're talking to is an editor or not. You should be careful with your words, you don't know who or what's name you'll be taking out of context.

--Gasp~

The Ouroboros

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 12:28:04 GMT

Anthropologists claim that the triangle pointing downward represents female sexuality, and the triangle pointing upward, male sexuality; thus, their combination symbolizes unity and harmony. In alchemy, the two triangles symbolize *"fire" and *"water"; together, they represent the reconciliation of opposites.

http://www.menorah.org/starofdavid.html

The right-hand image is claimed to be the actual Theosophical symbol. It's from Wikipedia, so I need to confirm this.

The Ouroboros seems to generally represent 'rebirth and death', the continuation of all things, and the immortality of earth, despite it's constant change: The snake feeds itself with itself, and spits itself out. It has been used to represent many things over the ages, but it most generally symbolizes ideas of encyclical, unity, or infinity. This symbol is based from the real Ouroboros, which doesn't have the bat wings and triangle shapes (Duh, Star of David) in the middle. This Ouroboros is also based from the symbol for Theosophy, which represents 'Eternal Truth', as it holds symbols from religions in its circle [1]. The Theosophy symbol is also in part, the Ouroboros, so that might show the immortality of still changing religions ... mrr ... I'm also probably thinking on too small a scale.

[1] CONFIRM.

The Theopsphy symbol has the crown, which is present on the Caduceus shown on my page. Actually, the real Caduceus is two snakes, so technically this is the Staff of Asclepius, a great physician back in the Greek days. I think the interpretation was supposed to be of the Caduceus though, because the snakes supposedly represent negative and positive energy, and the wings a greater state of knowledge.

That being said, I'm not sure what the bat wings on the Ouroboros mean (Later note: Bats generally symbolize rebirth). Plus, even though I know the triangles in the center are for the religious symbols in the Theosphic symbol, I'm not totally sure why those religions were chosen.

[LATER EDIT] Theosophical Society and Theosophy are New Age-ish trains of thought that everything is universal, that everyone is conscious, and that reincarnation is real but that you cannot regress (Evolution).

Sadly, the use of the Swastika as part of the NAZI regime was used to represent the superiority/rise to greatness of the Aryan race -- Non-Aryans are described as intellectually and spiritually inferior and "base races". The Swastika has a much richer history than that. It generally means "good luck". Used primarily by Hindus in the beginning. Historically, typically, represents "symmetry", though if the flipping of it -- turning the right-facing Swastika to a left-facing one-- has any symbolic value is unknown.

The Ankh: "Life" or strength/health.

The bat is a symbol of the challenge to let go of the old and create the new - death and rebirth. To many this is distressing, thus so much negativity around it. They symbolize the facing of fears - entering the dark on the way to the light.

I'm going to revise this later...

[Fanfic] Waiting

Wed, 31 Oct 2007 19:35:25 GMT

Game: Kingdom Hearts
Words: 208
Pairing: None; Luxord centric
Notes: For 20_heartbeats Please criticize.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦
Waiting
♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

He could hear himself breathe a cold breath, surrounded by creatures that danced a deadly dance.

Waiting...

Waiting...

Waiting, in a dead silence that Luxord would swear he could touch, the thing that bothered him most was that the Heartless moved so perpetually, yet they never made a noise. He never heard a footstep from their dances in the endless space around him. This silence always happened when he was waiting, and almost seemed a formality to any approaching battle.

‘That I should die in ‘a world that never was‘, is too...’ Luxord couldn’t describe the situation properly; “Ironic” would be correct but not quite accurate, “appropriate” was almost too harsh.

“Sad” was not a word in his extensive vocabulary.

And Luxord could only smile and wait and come to terms with that maybe this opponent simply had more natural talent than he. Skill certainly wasn’t an issue, and luck could only take a person so far. ‘Good show, Sora,’ Luxord congratulated silently, ‘You’ve certainly proved that you have more heart in the matter than we.’

He laughed, the only sound in a soulless world. It was the only sound breaking him from a cold silence. And then, he knew it was time for his role to end.

--Gasp~

[Fanfic] Thoughts Toward Void

Sun, 27 May 2007 02:36:01 GMT

Game: Kingdom Hearts II
Words: 234
Pairing: None. Luxord-centric
Notes: Not betaed. First KH writing EVER. For 20_heartbeats. Constructive criticism is welcome.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦
Thoughts Toward Void
♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

He was bored. He had been bored since their mission had taken the turn for the worst, and it was obvious to see how the game was going to be played. Predictable games were tedious. But the gambler in him had seen the challenge in daring to hope their cards would change, that somehow one of them would be competent enough to take a bad hand and turn it in their favour. The thrill was in knowing that there was nearly nothing to gain but everything to lose, for though they were Nobodies they were terrified of nothingness. They were terrified of the possibility that they truly never had a chance for Identity.

Not that they could feel terror, oh no, everyone else denied that they could so it must be true. Though, he supposed he should feel something more when looking upon the nine seats that stood abandoned and void. Their place of faux power Once Upon a Time, was now exactly what they feared: vacancy, white, echoing, and reflecting the emptiness which they fought so desperately against.

All he had now was to think about these things and plan tactics, because like any good player he refused to back away regardless of his lack of something. He refused to be terrified because the others had lost their rounds. Luxord was in this for the thrill, the challenge, and nine missing cards was nothing.

--Gasp~

20_heartbeats Challenge List

Sat, 26 May 2007 01:34:03 GMT

I chose Luxord, and Axel/Roxas. I'm going to flex my drawing muscle and try to draw Akuroku, and every Akuroku I draw, I'll write Luxord. And huzzah for html! It makes check boxes possible x3

Lux.| Akuroku
☑☐ 01. Absent [what do i do when you're not here] Lux.
☑☐02. Breath; Footfall [the only sound in the world] Lux.
☐☐03. Connected [coiled inescapably]
☐☐04. Create [anyone can destroy, but this is far harder]
☐☐05. Devotion [faith as sweet as a promise, sharp as a knife]
☐☐06. Figment; Fragment [is this really all you can be?]
☐☐07. Guide [take it step by step, one foot then the other]
☐☐08. Holy [to bathe in water so pure...]
☐☐09. Ink [words written on my heart]
☐☐10. Joker [you're not very funny]
☐☐11. Late [missed the best part]
☐☐12. Morning [even the deepest night gives way]
☐☐13. Noise; Scene [make doves scatter]
☐☐14. Poison [corrupted from the inside out]
☐☐15. Renewal; Reset [not everyone gets a second chance]
☐☐16. Royalty [smothered by luxury]
☐☐17. Truth [an honest answer isn't always a kind one]
☐☐18. Violence [does it make you stronger?]
☐☐19. Waiting [learned helplessness]
☐☐20. Year [faces that stay with you forever]

Bonus:
Simple [an innocent wish to be with you]
Clean [the rest of the world melts away]
Sanctuary [to lay down hopes and dreams, with you]
Light [sudden awakening]
Passion [searching for you from within the twilight]

I. Xemnas
II. Xigbar
III. Xaldin
IV. Vexen
V. Lexaeus
VI. Zexion
VII. Saïx
VIII. Axel
IX. Demyx
X. Luxord
XI. Marluxia
XII. Larxene
XIII. Roxas

Vexen (04)
Lexaeus (05)
Larxene (12)
Marluxia (11)
Zexion (06)
Demyx (09)
Xaldin (03)
Axel (08)
Xigbar (02)
Luxord (10)
Saïx (07)
Xemnas (01)

Locke Essay [92/100]

Sat, 26 May 2007 01:05:45 GMT

Locke on Identity

From reading Chapter 27 of Locke's An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, I came to two conclusions: 1) That personal identity is an assumption, and 2) That Locke says identity exists simply because two things cannot be the same. By "the same", I believe he meant the same "substance", which he so inadequately describes, generally as "what we're made of". That's not saying the same "kind" of material, but rather the same being existing in the same place, at the same time, or the same being existing in two separate places. It's impossible, because for something to exist in two different places, it must be two different things, and for something that is itself existing in the same place, it must be itself and none other (210).

Locke defined principium individuationis, "existence itself", as having several modes (versions). He lists inanimate objects, living beings, vegetables, animals and man (209-211). According to Locke, should something be taken apart, it will cease to be what it is. He applies this only to inanimate objects, and this is where I begin to disagree with him. Locke uses the example of an atom; I use the example of a china teacup. If there are two parts to a teacup, a piece of china for the handle and a small bowl to hold the liquid, those parts are of themselves and are not yet a cup. Until they are molded together are they a cup, but they still exist separately because they were separate originally. At least, that is how I came to understand Locke's theory as. But let's say a large piece from the rim of the teacup is broken off, then it ceases to be a teacup, for it is now lacking "something". "The mass, consisting of the same atoms, must be the same mass, or the same body, let the parts be ever so differently jumbled. But if one of these atoms be taken away, or one new one added, it is no longer the same mass or the same body" (210). By that same token, if that teacup was grabbed by a child and painted on with thick, tacky paint instead of leaving it be, it would cease to be a teacup. If the handle was broken off, the teacup would cease to be a teacup; If a noticeable scratch happened upon it, the teacup would cease to be a teacup. My issue with this thought is that until an inanimate object become unrecognizable does it loose its definition, or is it no longer what it used to be. We assume an item is what is, because that's what we recognize it as, or have experienced and defined it as (211).

If the teacup was shattered, one would say "That used to be a teacup", and in terms of living beings, when a person dies--becomes unrecognizable as living--does anyone say "They used to be alive" because it is tactless to say "That used to be a human but is now a mass of immobile carbon, oxygen, and trace amounts of unknown." "Their identity depends not on a mass of the same particles, but on something else" (210). Locke defines this "something else" as consciousness, and not merely an "organization of parts in one coherent body" (210). He uses the same definition for something living for the bodies of men/humans, as he does vegetables and presumably plants, and that is what made me question as to why the identity of man is any different from a teacup. I will address this inquery later.

By constantly fleeting particles of matter, in succession vitally united to the same organized body. He that shall place the identity of man in anything else, but like that of other animals, in one fitly organized body, taken in any one instant, and from thence continued under one organization of life, in several successively fleeting particles of matter united to it, will find it hard to make an embryo, one of years, mad and sober, the same man, by any supposition , that will not make it possible for Seth, Ismeal, Socrates, Pilate, St. Austin, and Caesar Borgia, to be the same man. For if the identity of the soul alone makes the same man; and there be nothing in the nature of matter why the same individual spirit may not be united to different bodies (210-211).

So, what makes a person different from another is that the same "thing" cannot exist simultaneously, and consciousness, not the soul. But I believe this applies to personal identity only, not the identity that one is human or otherwise. Personal identity comes from reason and reflection from which a person can conclude that they are themselves rather than someone or something else. Locke takes a very Descartes point of view with

"consciousness which is inseparable from thinking, and, as it seems to me, essential to it: it being impossible for any one to perceive without perceiving that he does perceive. For, since consciousness always accompanies thinking, and it is that which makes every one to be what he calls self, and thereby distinguishes himself from all other thinking things" (211).

To me, consciousness is what distinguishes a person from a teacup, but not from "lower thinking" animals.

Locke defines animals as no more than machines with motion coming within rather than being inspired from the outside (Arguments of motion not being considered, for it is a different matter). If the soul is not what makes humans different from animals, then there is only the assumption that humans thinking more complexly than say, the common house cat. Because we are aware that people perceive, we assume that this allows for personal identity the distinction of one person from another. But the same idea can be applied to a teacup in China and a teacup in England: The only differences besides the physical are that those teacups have been through different experiences. What separates a teacup from a person is that a person can reflect upon those experiences.

Locke, John. "An Essay Concerning Human Understanding". Modern Philosophy. Forrest E. Baird and Walter Kaufmann. New Jersey: Upper Saddle River, 2003. 208-12.

--Gasp~

The Legitimacy of the Flying Spaghetti Monster [95/100]

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 23:07:54 GMT

Notes: This here is satire. This is in no way meant to be taken seriously.

The Legitimacy of the Flying Spaghetti Monster

"Thus it is brought prominently before us, that superstition's chief victims are those persons who greedily covet temporal advantages; they it is, who (especially when they are in danger, and cannot help themselves) are wont with prayers and womanish tears, to implore help from God: upbraiding Reason as blind, because she cannot show a sure path to the shadows they pursue, and rejecting human wisdom as vain; but believing the phantoms of imagination, dreams, and other childish absurdities, to be the very oracles of Heaven." (Spinoza, Theologico, 232-3)

Baruch Spinoza did not have the faith in God that his parents did. For questioning his faith by first questioning the existence of angels, he was excommunicated in 1656 for refusing his own Jewish tradition. Spinoza's rationalist views and train of thought were, and probably still seen as blasphemy to Christianity and also, to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Empiricism (knowledge derived from sense experience) and theology question the faith, logic and legitimacy behind all religions, and that should not be an issue or thought for "True Believers". True believer should follow blindly, should be guided as sheep and by their faith in order to reap the rewards of being loyal and good, whether that reward is in personal satisfaction or one of the various forms of heaven. Men, “thinkers” such as Spinoza seem to underestimate the power of faith, and even ignore irrefutable scientific evidence and religious text. Believers have faith that the Flying Spaghetti Monster created us as we are now and all scientific evidence is merely to satisfy the ignorant.

I am not here to argue the existence of the Christian God, the Mormon Elohim, the Muslim Allah, the Greek Zeus or the Hindu Ganesh (Or Vishnu, or Shiva, or Brahma). Following one of the laws of my own beliefs, "I'd really rather you didn't use my existence as a means to oppress, subjugate, punish, eviscerate, and/or, you know, be mean to others. I don't require sacrifices, and purity is for drinking water, not people" (Henderson), I respect the right for people to believe what they wish. I am here merely to argue why I believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

"There are natural systems that cannot be adequately explained in terms of undirected natural forces and that exhibit features which in any other circumstance we would attribute to intelligence" (Dembski). The Flying Spaghetti Monster simply cannot be adequately explained. “Thinkers" such as Spinoza would attribute this inexplicability to ignorance,

"And thought the Theologians and Metaphysicians distinguish between and end of need and an end of assimilation, they nevertheless confess that God did all things for his own sake, not for the sake of the things to be created. Nor ought we here to pass over the fact that the Followers of this doctrine, who have wanted to show off their cleverness in assigning the ends of things, have introduced a new way of arguing: by reducing things, not to the impossible, but to ignorance" (Spinoza, Appendix 139).

But who is anyone to call believers ignorant when text thousands of years older than he clearly say that the Flying Spaghetti Monster created us as we are now in the beginning? 53% of people nationwide believe that we were created as we are now (Dan Vergano from USA Today). Who is to say that over 10 million followers of the Flying Spaghetti Monster are wrong? Just because the FSM cannot be completely proven with a wall of numbers does not disprove his existence: The Flying Spaghetti Monster is an axiom in itself, a truth that cannot be questioned, and his noodly appendage should not be mocked, just as any other religion demands respect.

Why do I use Spinoza as a prime argument against my own? Spinoza still does not accept that blind faith is acceptable in religion. His challenges to the typical “Intelligent Design Gods” are those of atheists and lost souls that want for an explained god, that has not been explained in a way that makes sense, as is the case with most modern religions. Understandably, the non-believer would ask for proof and logical reasoning behind a foreign god’s existence, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster “cult” has attempted to appease such questions with science.

The Flying Spaghetti Monster is not in fact, a monster. Rather, He is a highly intelligent complex-carbohydrate omniscient being that created the universe. There is plenty of scientific evidence as FSM is based on Intelligent Design (Some may argue that the theories of Intelligent Design are not scientific because of the lack of evidence, but FSM believers know this is not so). FSM believers are aware that such tactics as carbon dating the actual books of religious text and other holy objects behind FSM is ultimately useless. He has built the world to make us think that it is older than it actually is. The Flying Spaghetti Monster can and does interfere with the results, and this is supported and explained in many FSM texts but would take too long to explore. Rather, an attempt at more concrete evidence has been compiled to support the reality and science of Intelligent Design, and thus proving the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s existence.

Pastafarian scientists have discovered that there is an affiliation between Global Warming and the number of pirates in the world . In 1620 there were approximately 35,000 pirates and the GAT (Global Average Temperature) was approximately 14.2 degrees Celsius. In the year 2000 there were an unidentifiable number of pirates that was less than 20 but more than 17, and the GAT was approximately 16.9 degrees Celsius (venganza.org). One may question the legitimacy of these numbers, as they were provided by the high priest and initiator of Pastafarianism, Bobby Henderson, who could be accused of being biased. Undoubtedly Henderson would not create these numbers without them being related just to attempt to prove the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s legitimacy and involvement in creationism. If anything, these numbers prove the alarming decline in believers: Realism and logic has help destroy the sanctity of FSM science.

Dembski. "The Design Revolution". 27.

Henderson, Bobby. Kansas School Board. 2005. "Open Letter to Kansas School Board".

"Intelligent Design" Wikipedia.org.

"Realism" Wikipedia.org.

Spinoza. "Appendix". Modern Philosophy. Ed. Baird, Forrest E. and Walter Kaufmann. New Jersey: Upper Saddle River, 2003. 118-169.

Spinoza. "Theologico-Political Treastise". 232-3.

Venganza.org.

Vergano, Dan. "'Spaghetti Monster' is noodling around with faith". USA Today

--Gasp~

Kingston/Sijie English Composition Essay [93/100]

Tue, 17 Apr 2007 00:24:00 GMT

Notes: I'm particularly proud of this essay, mainly because it challenged me to relate to completely unrelated topics to each other. I'm suffering the same problems with relating Global Warming and pirates to each other, and like to use this essay as an example to myself that yes! I can do it!

The essay won't make much sense unless you've read Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie and, No Name Woman by Maxine Kingston.

The Seamstress and Kingston transcend society through story-telling. In their own ways, story-telling allows The Seamstress and Kingston to look at worlds and possibilities they might not have considered; They look at worlds beyond their own. The Seamstress realizes her own self value through Balzac's writing, while Kingston wants to negate Chinese stereotypes by stripping characters in a Chinese society to their basest--Human emotions. Kingston’s imagination runs with a curiosity about a woman she'll never be able to ask of, just as the Seamstress runs with a curiosity that she was determined to satisfy, about the city her lover and friend had come from.

"If I want to learn what clothes my aunt wore, whether flashy or ordinary, I would have to begin, ‘Remember Father's drowned-in-the-well sister?’ I cannot ask that" (Kingston 585). Because her parents imply that The Aunt is an unspeakable topic in their household, Kingston creates several scenarios on what kind of woman her aunt could have been. The Aunt takes on the personalities of a compliant worker, a beloved daughter, an vain young woman, and a daughter sold into slavery, and a victim of incest. The Aunt is described brushing her hair, noticing the small details of a possible lover’s face and fretting over how to walk around him. While attributing each vision of her could-be aunt with uniquely Chinese habits (Or more accurately: Habits not commonly found in American people) each version of The Aunt is easily relatable. Hate, desire, and fear are not specific to any culture, and when the rituals specific to the Chinese are taken away, all that are left are human emotions, and the descriptions of vanity and love are feelings any girl or young woman are able to recognize.

"Now, of course I expected The Warrior Woman to be read from the women's lib angle and the Third World angle, the Roots angle; but it is up to the writer to transcend trendy categories. What I did not foresee was the critics measuring the book and me against the stereotype of the exotic, inscrutable, mysterious oriental" (Kingston 596). While writing to achieve her goal of transcending Chinese stereotypes she achieves the opposite, or at least, her stories end up being improperly compared to the presumably loved notion that the Chinese are unfathomable. She seems to maintain the goal of transcending stereotypes throughout all of her writing involving Chinese culture, yet repeatedly critics and reviewers choose to speak about the mysteriousness of her Chinese-American writing. In No Name Woman Kingston presents the character of the Narrator's aunt in a very relatable manner recognizable in any culture once the unrecognizable mannerisms are ignored.

Emotions are vibrant in Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, as is evident when Luo displays an interest in The Seamstress upon first meeting her. He explains to The Narrator that she is not “cultured” enough for him to really like her, but once the means of obtaining books is available, he and The Narrator begin to “culture” the Seamstress by reading Western words to her. "He [Balzac] touched the head of this mountain girl with an invisible finger, and she was transformed, carried away in a dream ..." (Sijie 62). Unexpectedly, The Little Seamstress transcends Luo as the teacher after hearing Balzac's writing and learns to think for herself and indulge in that dreaded individualistic, "intellectual" spirit that Chairman Mao so presumably hated, and is sent to a world where free-thought and individualism is allowed. Her own self-worth is also discovered, something that The Seamstress does not seem to reveal until the end of the novel.

"She had said she had learnt one thing from Balzac: that a woman's beauty is a treasure beyond price" (Sijie 184). Much like The Narrator, the Seamstress finds individualism through story-telling. The Narrator discovers that he can tell stories just as well as Luo, without Luo's help, and start people's imagination with great verbal imagery.

"The artistry of the great Dumas was so compelling that I forgot all about our guest, and the words poured from me. My sentences became more precise, more concrete, more compact as I went along... "Right now," Luo whispered to me, "You're doing better than me" (Sijie 125). The Narrator "finds himself" each time he is made to take on personalities that are not his own, like when he pretends to be Chairman Mao when visiting the Old Man, when he pretends to be Luo while speaking to Four-Eye's mother, and when he pretends to be a deaf man while in a waiting hall full of pregnant women. The Narrator discovers his “self” each time he acts like something he isn't. The Narrator is allowed the freedom of creativity in a world where creativity is discouraged, suppressed, and punished. He is allowed to realize human desires which he otherwise would not have dreamed of had he not read of a fictitious man who experienced them also, The Count of Monte Cristo. The Narrator and Luo each find this freedom, and desire to pass it on to The Seamstress, who consequently will learn of her own desire for knowledge.

Like The Narrator and Luo who find such freedom through acting, The Seamstress finds her own individualism each time she hears of a world that isn't her own. Finally, she is not satisfied with staying in her world and changes her cloths, taking on her own new role as a city girl, "The lovely, unsophisticated mountain girl had vanished without a trace" (Sijie 179) and sets on her own journey towards the city without looking back. "At my first shout she hastened her step, at my second she broke into a run, and at my third she took off like a bird, growing smaller and smaller until she vanished." (Sijie 184). The Seamstress finds a way to break away from a life she was forced live in, like Kingston’s aunt, and like The Narrator and Luo.

Kingston, Maxine. "No Name Woman." The Arlington Reader: Canons and Contexts. Eds. Bloom, Lynn Z. and Louise Z. Smith. Boston. Martin's, 2003. 582-597

Sijie, Dai. Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. New York Anchor Books, 2001.

--Gasp~

The Lesson of the Moth

Fri, 13 Apr 2007 05:38:12 GMT

The title of my journal is the last three lines of this poem. The Lesson of the Moth is one of my favourite poems ever, having kept the message of it with me since the first time I read it. This is the only poem I can remember that has actually effected me emotionally, not inspired a sneer or a sigh from obvious attempt to convey emotions in short, corny lines. I hate poetry. But I love this poem.

If I remember correctly, the poem was supposed to be from the view of an ant that could type, and so the lower cases are on purpose. I hope you enjoy this.

==
the lesson of the moth
by Don Marquis
==

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

--Gasp~

Descartes Essay [93/100]

Thu, 12 Apr 2007 22:22:05 GMT

Descartes Talk-Through

My initial reaction to Descartes' second meditation was that it was incorrect as far as regarding mathematics. I had also not read the entirety of his six meditations and so had no other knowledge to draw from at the time. So through a conversation with my professor, I dissected Descartes' theory with help and will attempt to redeliver my thought process. Descartes questions the reality of the physical world around us, including mathematics, at one point deciding that our senses cannot be trusted, but no matter what, that he exists because he thinks and that math can be the only true thing besides his existence that is real. He goes on to question mathematics further, setting forth the idea of a "demon deceiver" that could possibly be manipulating his perceptions, forcing him to believe that 1+2=3 to the extent that something so self-evident is in reality, not true. With this, Descartes proves to himself that nothing he knows cannot be questioned and disproved; however abstract the means of disproving.

"For whether I am awake or whether I am asleep, two and three together will always make the number five, and the square will never have more than four sides; and it does not seem possible that truths so clear and so apparent can ever be suspected of any falsity for uncertainty."(page 21) "I will therefore suppose that, not a true God, who is very good and who is the supreme source or truth, but certain evil spirit, not less clever and deceitful than powerful, has bent all his efforts to deceiving me... That is why I shall take great care not to accept any falsity among my beliefs and shall prepare my mind so well for all the ruses of this great deceiver that, however powerful and artful he may be, he will never be able to mislead me." (page 22)

I questioned this, attempting to find a truth in which absolutely no numbers were involved. Even imagining that I had no concept of what a number is and that a possible demon deceiver was warping my perception of what is true I continuously came to the same conclusion. A thing with a thing is more than a single thing. One plus one is greater than one. I was finding it impossible to create a reality in which math was not true, and so was told, "Well, this demon deceiver must have a great hold on you!" (Professor Chandler, no less) and was forced to consider that maybe there is no number one, that nothing is separate and that reality should be seen as a massive blur with no distinctions, even from the self. By then I was forgetting that I must assume that there is nothing around me, that my body is not real, that the chair I sat in was not real, and that I was thinking in terms of the physical. Anything outside of the mind could be false, so I had to disregard anything that could interfere with my attempt at a true vision of reality.

To assume that nothing around me was actually real, what did that leave me with? The same conclusion Descartes had come upon: That I think, is true; that there is an "I" to have a thought, is true. Surely, that creates two truths then? That there is an "I" and there is a "thought" so these must be separate from each other. Things can exist without having thoughts or knowledge of them, so the thinker could have existed before knowing that they did. But if nothing exists outside the mind, and I did not have a thought, then I could not have been there to have the thought. But I have had one, but I can still only be sure that I exist because nothing outside the mind is true, and I could not exist if I was not aware of it. Thinking and "being" are one in the same. One cannot "be" if there is no thought, and there must be a being to have a thought. Anything besides that fact could be a lie or deception because thoughts are not always true. Only that there was a thought is true. So to think is to be, and to be you must think, which creates one truth.

To have one truth, that implies that there can be no truths, or "zero", thus creating "two" numbers. In regards to "truths" though, to say that there can be no truths is incorrect because there is one sure truth -- that you must think to exist -- so the idea of "zero" cannot be true. But "zero" is nothingness, none, and no, which may be true because that there is a "no" to the idea of "nothing in existence" is true. So zero is not a number, rather an idea that can be represented as a number. And because to have one truth you must have "no or wrong truths" zero must be a number in order to represent that idea. This creates two numbers: One and zero. Based off this, there must be two truths then: That to think is to be, and that there is a number one, and to have a one is to have the beginnings of math, thus math is true, at least at it’s basest.

Descartes, Renee. "Meditations on the First Philosophy". Modern Philosophy. Forrest E. Baird and Walter Kaufmann. New Jersey: Upper Saddle River, 2003. 9-28.

--Gasp~

[Fanfic] Working Order - NC-17

Thu, 12 Apr 2007 06:08:15 GMT

Anime: Fullmetal Alchemist
Words: 1,614
Pairing: Alphonse x Hand
Notes: Done for fma_fuh_q. 'Tis my first porn. :)
Originally posted under sliefoxx

==
Working Order
==

He'd been fascinated the first time he'd really seen himself in a mirror. Of course, this wasn't the first time he'd stared at his face, amazed that he no longer was perfect planes of metal and worn, rough leather. Alphonse almost hadn't been able to get enough of looking at a mirror and had been playfully accused of narcissism by his brother. He relished in that he had gained something, unlike when he had lost his body. He had eyes and a nose, lips and ears and a neck that wasn't supposedly hidden by a guard.

His hands had fine ridges and wrinkles and veins. He had blood now, and he could feel it rushing through him when he breathed deep, focusing on a heartbeat that thrummed in his ears. His legs ached when he ran, his knees bruised when he fell. Hair got in his eyes, and his skin itched when he received a bug bite. He could smell the rain before it fell, and his skin turned red in the sun's heat. All those things had amazed him after being deprived of such discomforts and pleasures, and for a long while, his best friend had been the bathroom mirror.

Edward had had to drag him away from the bathroom on more than one occasion, when Alphonse was so stunned that the person looking back was him, his body, and not just a shell. His enthrallment with his new self had led Edward to find him distractions - preferably distractions that required touch and smell to be successful in. Even then, Alphonse would sometimes go into a facinated daze, reveling that he could taste what he cooked, he could feel the dry dust of chalk. All these things had made him forget that organs other than the vital ones were also alive again, and besides when he felt giddy that he could feel the sharp pain of a stitch in his side after running, he didn't think about it.

So when he woke one morning with a pleasant pressure warming his belly, he didn't think about it, and crawled out of bed toward the bathroom, believing that he had to pee. It was just early enough for him to still be hazy-minded as he flipped on the bathroom light and stumbled toward the toilet. It still didn't register that his body was doing something new until his night pants were down his hips and he felt the weight in his hand was different than usual. He looked down, and stared at the half-hard length resting in his palm, blinking stupidly with bright grey eyes, because he wasn't sure for a moment what his body was doing. Al took a moment allow the gears in his brain to warm and fully assess the situation, then laughed at himself for not noticing before.

Alphonse grinned deviously to himself - He should have remembered the other things he was capable of. Well, now that he had just been reminded, he could add 'morning erections' to the list. This certainly required some expiramenting since touching it was supposed to feel good, and he was nothing if not curious. Yes, he should rectify his lack of experiance. Alphonse carefully ran his fingers across the flesh, closing his eyes as a shiver walked up his spine. His hips reflexively moved, creating more pressure with his own hand, the left raising to idly rest on his hip. His cock swelled, and he sucked in a breath as he ran two careful fingers down either side, sending unfamiliar rushes of heat over his body. He memorized the feel of this, of himself, something he hadn't had a chance to do until now. He focused on the tenseness building in his body, seeking to know control of this pleasure he just realized he could give himself, and wanting to feel how high it could bring his already floating mind.

His breath released slowly, only to be sucked in again as his hand went lower, rubbing against the base, inspiring another shiver as he dragged his hand back up. His muscles tensed, making it difficult to stand, so he unconsciously arched backwards, realizing it only when his eyes fluttered open to see the ceiling. They closed and Al focused on the pressure in his groin, gasping quietly when the heat of the pressure seemed to to be spreading to his thighs and belly, pulsing with his steady heartbeat. His cock hardened more and he looked down curiously, pulling at the head, watching it swell with the action (Oh that feels good, he thought) and shuddering. His left hand shifted absently, rubbing his thigh and making his leg muscles relax and bringing more focus to his twitching cock.

Gotta lean ... He moaned quietly, pressing his back against the wall and feeling his legs tremble with the slight relief. He gripped himself more firmly and gasped again, his left hand clawing gently against his pelvic bone and inspiring another shiver. He licked his lower lip almost nervously at these new feelings, unused to the flush creeping its way up his neck, unused to the unsteadiness of his hands and shuddering breaths. He palmed himself absently before deciding that he liked his hand closer to the head, slowly moving it back up and running a thumb over the tip and letting his hips spasm forward when he felt a pleasent jolt through him. He closed his eyes again and felt the heat running up his sides, and was suddenly aware of his chest moving heavily. He forced his left hand up and pressed his palm against his belly to feel its heaves, pausing at the navel and tracing it curiously before continuing upward again.

Al brushed his fingers over his bare collar bones, tilted his head back and pressed his fingers against his throat. He could feel his heartbeat beneath vulnerable skin, he could feel the air being brought in and pushed out, and the blood that pulsed with it. He could feel the slight tremble with every movement and every tingle that they sent elsewhere, and he whimpered at the fact that he could feel this much. He followed along the side of his neck and touched the soft skin behind his ears, wondering if there it would be even more sensitive for it to be someone else's touch. He moaned, and his right hand pulled on his cock again, this time easier than the last because of the precum beginning to leak over his hand.

His eyes opened again, vision blurred and eyes crossing as he tried to focus. Al moaned, moving his right hand down further and inspected what was there, shivering when his balls tightened at the touch. A weak groan left him and he couldn't stand any longer; he let himself sink to the tiled floor, realizing belatedly that his night pants were keeping his legs from spreading. He reluctantly released himself to fight with them for a moment, his cock screaming at him to Touch me dammit! as he kicked the pant legs off. The pants decided they wouldn't be abandoned in his hurried fit, so he let them stay bunched up on one knee.

As soon as his grabbed himself again heat rocked through him, his hips pushing up and his hand pulling down. He moaned in relief, and pumped himself again and again and felt his cock swell with its impending release.

Then there was a knock at the bathroom door.

Alphonse gasped then whined, unable to stop his hand and hips from twitching almost spastically.

"Al? Are you okay?"

Brother! damn you, brother ... "I'm fine." Al rasped, shocked to hear how hoarse and irritated his voice came out.

There was a moment of silence, and the shifting of the doorknob alerted Al to the fact Ed could open the door any damn moment he pleased. "You don't sound all right. Are you sure?"

Ed, not now ... "I'm sure. I'll be out in a minute." Al's hips rocked forward insistently; he moaned again.

"If you need help ..."

Like hell. "I'm fine. What's for breakfast?" Anything to let Ed know he was just peachy. Or would be if his dick would stop crying. Which it would if Ed would leave.

Edward sounded relieved, "I made eggs and biscuits. Did you want anything else?"

Oh my god... Al gritted his teeth, chancing a glance down at his hand and gasped when he saw the angry swollen cock staring expectantly at him. It can be expectant now? It can STARE? "No, no, just some tea, if you haven't made it already."

"Oh!" The doorknob shifted again as Ed removed his hand from it, "Yeah, I'll do that. The rest is almost ready ..." Edward's heavy footsteps announced his leaving.

"'Kay ..." Al squeaked out, his back arching when his hand finally moved. He whimpered and moved with his hand, pulling once, twice, three times and an unintentional hard press at the tip sent sparks through him. His vision blurred as his muscles tensed, that heated pressure washing over him and finally, Alphonse could let himself be boneless.

A few minutes after letting himself float in a warm daze, Al was aware of the smell of eggs wafting from the kitchen. Right. Breakfast. He weakly pulled himself up, using the sink as a crutch and leaning against it while he got his bearings.

A glance at the mirror showed him the mess he was.

His blond hair was more tousled than usual, his face was still flushed and dammit, he got cum on the counter.

Alphonse stared at himself and laughed.

At least everything was in working order.

-Omake-
So when he woke one morning with a pleasant pressure warming his belly, he didn't think about it, and crawled out of bed toward the bathroom, believing that he had to pee. It was just early enough for him to still be hazy-minded as he flipped on the bathroom light and stumbled toward the toilet. It still didn't register that his body was doing something new until his night pants were down his hips and he felt the weight in his hand was different than usual. He looked down, and stared at the half-hard length resting in his palm, blinking stupidly with bright grey eyes, because he wasn't sure for a moment what his body was doing.

Then it registered. Al's face lit up and without thinking, he burst out the bathroom door with his pants still down. He should have remembered the other things he was capable of. Well, now that he had just been reminded, he could add 'morning erections' to the list.

"BROTHER! LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!"

"What ...? Aaaug!"

~*End*~

--Gasp~

[Fanfic] Control Freak - R

Thu, 12 Apr 2007 06:02:03 GMT

Anime: Fullmetal Alchemist
Words: 1028
Pairing: Roy x Ed
Notes: I was in weird mood and this came out ... this isn't even my usual writing style. Not betaed, so I'm happy to accept criticism.
Lyrics that inspired this: Modest Mouse
Originally posted under sliefoxx

==
Control Freak
==

"I'd hate to have God's job."

"... he's a control freak."

"... you said you didn't believe in God."

"... that's what he would be ... an asshole, control freak." A pause. An intake of breath and a gentle thump. "If he's so damn all mighty, where's his fucking watchful eye in my direction?"

It all comes back to that day, the day my best friend was buried. The sky wasn't raining. Who the hell was I kidding? I was crying my heart out in front of someone who relied on me, and it was the most shameful thing I had done in a while.

That's a lie. That's a lie as if I'd ever convinced myself.

I'd missed his wedding.

I'd watched his wife cry like their daughter.

And I could only think take me with you, take me with you. You're supposed to be by my side, let me be by yours. Touching? No, I'm selfish for wanting to stop where I was and die with him, selfish for watching his family suffer and not saying a goddamn thing.

I'd hate to have God's job, to be the one to create this. To be the one to see pain blossom for, who knows? His own amusement, maybe. I'd hate to be the one responsible for creating these climaxes again and again, and then they start over again because God's own unoriginality calls for repeat history, to see the human will crumple and crawl away and hide in the body like the shiver of weakness Will really is.

The characters to get tortured the most are supposed to be the author's favorites.

We must be on the goddamn pedestal.

Or so a certain little alchemist mumbled one drunken night, slumped against a bar too tall for his chest to reach even with a stool, clutching a glass of amber, half drank, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular and his mouth pulled down in a scowl that doesn't suit him. No, no, rumpled suits him, but not sad. He looked like both, like a dog that was displeased rather than sad that it had just been kicked. He's used to being kicked. He's tired of it.

"God's a fucking asshole."

"You don't believe in God."

He darted his eyes at me, the frown pulling deeper. "... that's what he would be ... an asshole, control freak." He snickers, and tilts his shot glass toward his mouth and swallows what gets in, letting the rest pool on the counter like drool. Sloppy little brat.

I'm already going to Hell. What would it matter if I said something to disagree?

Hell is void. Nothingness, or so that little alchemist once said. I wouldn't doubt he that he knows what he's talking about. His brother's gone, living in nothingness. His limbs are gone, torn to nothingness. His mother is gone, reduced to nothingness.

I missed my best friend's wedding. He was gaining something, I lost something precious, preciousness lost to nothingness.

Contrary to popular belief, we weren't fucking. There's a level of intimacy that doesn't involve our dicks, and Hughes was the first person to ever give that to me. To give me something, rather than that void that came with taking the life out of bodies and watching their eyes loose brightness, their flesh turn inside out and sometimes the sickening thumpheave that came when their corpses hit the ground.

He gave me companionship, and the comfort that there was life beside me.

And that bitch took it from me.

...

I like Gracia. I wish nothing on her. Nothing else that hasn't already happened, because she deserves the world on a platter, sunshine-filled days and daisy chains so she can raise darling Elicia in peace.

This was before I realized that there were others beside me, that there was, and they would be my lifelines beside Hughes.

At the time, I couldn't watch someone I relied on so wholly to be taken from me. Unlike Edward, I couldn't watch my limbs be torn off.

Maes found me hiding in our bar, slumped against the counter with my cheek pressed against the wood top, staring at the half-full glass of amber. "You're a selfish asshole, you know that?" He'd said, as he'd pulled back a stool and sat on it, "I'm not gone yet."

And I'd laughed. A dry laugh because it wasn't funny, and because I had to respond. I had taken a finishing swig from my shot glass. "I'm a selfish asshole, you know." I'd said, hitting the glass base against the counter with a thud. "I'm a fucking possessive, control freak."

Maes had grinned wickedly at that, pushing the glass away when the bartender came to see it refilled. "So I'm your girlfriend now?"

I'd met his eyes with a slightly glazed gaze for that, I'd had to let him know I meant anything that I said. "More important than that." I'd slurred.

And he'd understood.

I puked over his reception suit that night.

Gracia let me sleep on their couch without saying a word the next day. Not about what my absence implied, not trying to understand Hughes and my's relationship because she probably thought she wouldn't understand.

I don't know, I can't speak for the woman.

==
"God's a fucking asshole." Fullmetal muttered, with his mouth pulled in a frown that didn't suit him. "You're a fucking asshole."

"We're talking about this again, now?" I muttered back, receiving a smack to the head, "I'd hate to have God's job."

"... he's a control freak."

"... you said you didn't believe in God."

"... that's what he would be ... an asshole, control freak." Fullmetal suddenly gasps and sucks in his breath, tilting his head back and exposing his throat. His metal arm flies back, smacking the wall with a weak thump. "If he's so damn all mighty," He pants, "Where's his fucking watchful eye in my direction?"

I look up from my position between the boy's legs and smirk to myself, not taking his babbling seriously. Contrary to popular belief, we are most definitely fucking.

I'm already going to Hell, what would it matter if I gained a little something before it?

--Gasp~

Spinoza Essay [94/100]

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 07:10:01 GMT

Thoughts on Spinoza's Appendix

The appendix begins by summarizing his own theory,

"...he exists necessarily; that he his is unique; that he is and acts from the necessity alone of his nature; that (and how) he is the free cause of all things; that all things are in God and so depend on him that without him they can neither be nor be conceived; and finally, that all things have been predetermined by God, not from freedom of the will or absolute good pleasure, but from God's absolute nature, or infinite power." (137)

Taking note of the use of the word "good", Spinoza said that God is not good, and that he is only called such because men tend to "humanize" God's attributes and limit God's power by their own definitions. This is because men assume that God created all useful things to benefit them, yet are confused when natural "catastrophes" happen (earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes) and also assume that such occurrences happen when God is angry. The cliché "Why do bad things happen to good people?" might be used as an example: This question seems to seek to place the blame on a cause more focused than nature, not taking into thought that events happen because it was necessary for them to, without reason. I will emphasize on this subject later in the paper.

It is my understanding that Spinoza, like Descartes, believed that logic and reason do no good when searching for self-evident truths. In P7 (axiom seven), Spinoza states "It pertains to the nature of a substance to exist. A substance cannot be produced by anything else; therefore it will be the cause of itself, i.e., its essence necessarily involves existence, or it pertains to its nature to exist." (121) To try and use logic on something self-evident that cannot be proven or disproved through “why” questions, is redundant and pointless. Also, moving further with that quote, I believe Spinoza meant "a substance" to be the equivalent as God, as with my personal confusion over P6, "One substance cannot be produced by another substance" (120) I could not accept that statement as fact without pertaining it solely to God's Nature. "...because the laws of his nature have been so ample that they sufficed for producing all things which can be conceived by an infinite intellect." (141) Though this statement was in response to a question of human reason, it can be applied evenly to the rest of Spinoza's theory.

Basically Spinoza has said that God exists simply because he exists, that nothing else could possibly exist without God's substance, and that God's attributes are infinite because God is everything.

By saying "God is good" or "God is vengeful", we are putting limitations on God's power because by saying he is one thing, we imply that he is not the other. To say that he is not something, or lacks something, we've just made God imperfect and said that God can desire. "For if God acts for the sake of an end, he necessarily wants something which he lacks." (139) If God is everything then he cannot want. If God as a substance is what we are made of, are what the objects around us are made of, then he cannot lack.

"But if the things which have been produced immediately by God had been made so that God would achieve his end, then the last things, for the sake of which the first would have been made, would be the most excellent of all ... And though the Theologians and Metaphysicians distinguish between an end of need and an end of assimilation, they nevertheless confess that God did all things for his own sake, not for the sake of the things to be created." (139)

My initial reaction was "Then he says this is a selfish God?" But I was mistaken; God acts because it is in his nature to act. He has no goal because he has no need, God simply is. Thus there is no cause for God to exist because he is everything.

Admittedly, this is difficult for me to accept because I have a lifetime of believing that God has a will. Spinoza goes on to dissuade this as fact when he explains that all actions are of necessity because, like God, actions and reactions are of themselves and without reason. The only difference is that actions/reactions are not substance like God, because something had to trigger a reaction, which was in turn was a response to a different action and so on. The only action that is not a reaction to another is God. Once God "actioned", or "created", for lack of a better term, it was inevitable for the rest of the reactions to come about, and so are thus of necessity.

Spinoza. "Ethics (Sections I and II)" Modern Philosophy. Forrest E. Baird and Walter Kaufman. New Jersey: Upper Saddle River, 2003. 118-169

--Gasp~