It was about time that I posted. I've been writing shit here and there, but not with much variety. Very unbalanced writing diet. Either way, enjoy.

Trigger warnings:
•Sexual assault (mentions, brief descriptions)
•"Snuff", aka stuff that includes being aroused by murder and committing said act for arousal.
•Racism
•Slight biblical implications
•Brief Gore
•Animal death
•Abusive familial environment
•violence
•Depressing atmosphere

Dead dove, do not eat.
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Many countries are normal. Completely fine, typical joes who commute on their daily lives without a care in the world. They have a routine, and they follow it closely.

On the other hand, there are those who fall on the further sides of the spectrum.

Some good, some utterly evil.

And evil cannot thrive on neutral.

Upon a throne of wood thorns and silk vines, there lay a beast of unimaginable evil. So dark and depraved, he can hardly look the part of a man. He is hardly a man at all, a silhouette of darkness and utter despicability. He oversees all of these countries, these people who live normal lives..

But then there was the radiant dove.

A tiny speck of white among a sea of grey, winged and beautiful. His eyes were such a light gold, just a beautiful, radiant yellow. His hair a platinum blonde, glistening like white gold in the sun. His feathers were white as snow, untainted by dirt or blood or grease, silk-soft and beautiful.

To the beast atop his throne, all he could see was the most delicious meal he'd come across in centuries.

To the radiant little dove, the sweet little bird, he saw a monster to whom his affiliate had befriended.

"Israel," The beast snarls, offering its hand out to him. It was clawed, sharp looking, and bigger than his head. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"USA," Israel could barely say the name without stuttering. "I feel the same." He shakes the USA's hand, but slowly.

Hunger swirled in the eyes of the beast, and Israel could see his own horrified reflection in those terrifying blue eyes.

Was the little dove already coaxed into his cage?

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Ode to Clytemnestra

The rage and red-hot anger that came with many other potent emotions was almost overpowering. To feel it wash over your body like a hot wave of water, to swallow you up and to fill you until there is nothing but hot rage inside of you, it was a cathartically lethargic feeling.

Catharsis came from the words, hot as that water, came spilling from his mouth, burning into the floor beneath them. Setting fire to their surroundings. It fills you with endless satisfaction, enough to fuel you through everything else you'd do.

Satisfaction comes from driving a knife through their guts. Feeling the hot blood spill onto your hands and watching the pain light up in their eyes like lights on a Christmas tree. Hearing their screams ring out shrill as owl screeches, sweet as church bells.

Ecstasy came from their dying cries, watching them writhe beneath you. It's all too easy to roll your hips on theirs as you carve the knife deeper, and they're in too much pain to care. Lather yourself in their blood, slick and sticky, bury yourself in their fading warmth as they scream and scream and scream. When your time is up, so is theirs.

The Greeks always love fucked shit, don't they? Of course, there's always someone in their literature who likes stuff like you do. Clytemnestra may just be my mother for how I've inherited her taste. Her songs and ballads to me read like letters from a faraway mother to her son, off in college to make her rich and proud.

This is an ode to my mother, Clytemnestra. A beautiful lady and woman, and a sick bitch, whom I love with my soul. May she enjoy this letter to her with all of her being.

Orestes shall continue on.

Spain Madrid.

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To be faced with the sight of a true dragon claiming its meal is quite the sight.

Alex thought that his sister was a pretty big dragon, comparatively speaking, she could take up the whole living room space without issue. But her compared to this thing? She was but a hatchling. A baby. Her thick skin was but paper soaked with water to this monster.

It opened its great jaws and sank its teeth into the flesh of a beast larger than their house. The meat and muscle is torn from bone in an instant, and it disappears down the throat of the beast. Blood oozes onto the ground like a river, if whatever majority of the blood hadn't already been spilled onto the grass and trees around them. Pieces of skin and stray flesh bits littered the clearing, but no coyotes or vultures dared to come close.

Nothing dared to move so much as an inch too close to the monster.

Alex placed his hands on the soft side of his sister, her draconic body coiled around him like a snake. She looked too gentle and tender to be scary, but he hoped she would do the job. The beast lifted its head from its kill, staring down at the two siblings with menacing eyes and a bloodied face. His sister's serpentine face contorted to reveal she sported a nasty set of gleaming fangs. Her feathers ruffled defensively.

The dragon replied with a snort.

Then it took a step to move around the carcass, which still had meat clinging to it, and the beast's form disappeared. What came around the carcass was instead a finely dressed man, a tall one at that.

And.. familiar.

The man grins, revealing a set of razor sharp teeth. Did that dragon turn into a man? Or did the man turn into a dragon? Alex's head spun in circles thinking about it.

His sister dared to relax, even a little, but she still remained coiled around him. The man chuckled, almost fondly. "I save your little asses from a stormer and I don't even get a "hey dad"? C'mon. I know you know better."

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"What happened to you, Ame?"

Eyes lock, souls connect. Icy, arctic seas meet warm springtime meadows, neither caving to their opposite forces. Fire and ice, heat and chill. Both clash, but never yield.

"Really, 'Nada? You don't know?"

The larger of the two, astoundingly the younger, shrugs. Indifferent. "No. I don't."

The elder scoffed. "It would be unlike you to pay attention all this time." Was that snark?

The younger tutted. "It would also be fairly out of left-field for you to not make a jab at me. You disappoint me, America."

America's brows furrow, creating a crease between them, and his muzzle over his mouth shifts ever so slightly. "What doesn't disappoint you, brat?" He spits.

Canada placed a hand over his chest. "Ouch, brother, you hurt me."

"I could do worse."

"Not with that muzzle on. Looks pretty tight."

He shrugs. America's not afraid of the muzzle covering him. As he tosses his head from side to side and swings it off of his face, he proves exactly why.

Canada falters.

"'S loose."

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"Zea?"

New Zealand turns her head to face her friend, her best friend, Maori. Her beautiful, curly brown hair is pulled back by a ribbon that Zea had tied in her hair not all that long ago. Little feathers an spiral seashells hung on small earrings in her earlobes. Interesting designs were painted from her bottom lip to her chin. Something specific to her people.

"Yeah? What's up?" Zea chirps, like a little songbird. Daddy always said she sounded like a songbird. One that he wanted to crush for interrupting his work.

"What's it like at your house?" Maōri asks, clutching her bundle of flowers close to her chest. "Why are you picked up by horses?"

"Daddy has a lot of money." Zea answers simply, truthfully. Daddy had a lot of money, because he was a scoundrel of a man, that's what Mommy said. "He's employed by the king himself."

"The king?" Maōri parrots, awe dripping from her tone. "That's awesome! Do you live in a castle?"

"Oh, yes!" Zea exclaims. "I do! It's beautiful. Daddy got me my own horse! It stays in the barn, but mommy's getting me a tutor!"

She's lying through her teeth. Daddy never built a stable, and never bought her a horse. Mommy wouldn't get her riding lessons unless wine was involved.

Maōri was certainly fooled by Zea's tall tales, thus fueling the fire to keep lying. Maybe if she kept lying, she'd believe it too. "That's so cool! I wish I had your mum and dad!" The little indigenous girl is absolutely dazzled by the painting Zea made of her family.

Zea wished she had that mum and dad too.

A slightly arrogant grin spreads over her face. "Of course you do! I only have the best parents ever!"

"Yeah." Maōri giggles. "Can I live with you?"

Zea freezes.

"Uh.. sorry, uhm.." She stumbles. "I can't bring you home. Daddy's strict about that, not unless he's met your mummy and daddy."

"Oh." Maōri looks a bit crestfallen, but she shrugs. "That's okay. Just tell your daddy about it, okay?"

"Yeah! I'll ask daddy tonight. I'm going home now, see you tomorrow!"

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America stares back into his lifeless blue eyes in the mirror.

They're so dull. They feel colorless. Had America not blinked and double checked, he would have thought that the azure-blue became the most lifeless grey he's ever seen. He would have reeled back, or startled, or done something to express his surprise, had it been two years earlier.

But now? He simply sighs through his nose.

It's so minute, so muffled, that it sounds like any other breath. Nothing to it.

Oh, right. There's something on his face.

His eyes train themselves on the mirror's reflection, and they hone in on the dark, cold muzzle that was ruthlessly strapped to his face with no regard to his discomfort or his objections. All they saw were the teeth, and they jumped on him.

The holes on the side and front allowed for breathing, but he longed to take off this dog muzzle and clean it. He was sure he spat blood into it a couple times.

Maybe in a week, they'd come back and take it off him, but chain him to a wall to clean it. Then they'd shove it back around his face, the stinging scent of clorox and chemicals held against his nose and mouth like a rag of chloroform.

How he longed to bite them. To hurt them.

He remembers Martha saying something about violence. "It gets you nowhere, America. It just makes the techs more scared of you." And at the time, the predatory part of him snarled and reared its head within his constraints, howling up a storm about how much he wanted the techs to be scared of him, to see the fear in their eyes. To watch them tremble and stagger away from him and beg to be spared from ending up in the belly of the beast.

But that was a while ago. And a lot of while-agos ago, violence got him many places. Respect in some ghetto bars, meals when it was rough, fear, and power. Plenty of power. Hurt the right people, kill whoever was asked of you, and boom. You're golden.

Thinking about it now only made him tired. He wanted to trudge back into his room and sleep forever, never wake up. Who the hell said he was able to get better? They're a fucking fool to believe it!

America breathes in, then sighs. It's louder this time, and the chain connecting the collar of the straitjacket to the underside of the muzzle clinks. He flicks off the light switch and trudges out of the bathroom, straight to his room.

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"And cut!"

The actors heaved a sigh of relief from their lungs when the cameras stopped recording, their stiff and rigid postures relaxing into comfortable, pliant positions. Their facial expressions rendered neutral, and then relieved.

One actor, who was on the ground, took in a deep breath and exhaled loudly. His body was coated in a thick faux blood, shirt cut up in odd places and pieces of rubber "flesh" stuck to the cuts on his shirt, gushing with the same mix of corn syrup and reddish-blue dye. It had the same consistency as blood, but not the same taste.

"Damn, Washington, you fucked me up." The actor remarked, and the other actor, who'd pushed himself up from the scene and wiped his "bloodied" face with the back of his hand, scoffed. The stuff stuck to his hand like sticky syrup.

"Want me to kiss it better?" He shot back, a small smirk crossing his face.

"Sure, take a few more organs out while you're at it."

"My pleasure, Roo."

"Don't actually, though" The actor pushed himself up from the ground and sat normally, his arms laying in his lap as he hunched over. "That would be kinda rude."

The taller of the two shrugged. "You know I won't. Been through therapy for years to not do that shit, I'm not about to piss off Martha with a relapse." He tastes some of the fake blood, and hums. "Definitely doesn't taste like real blood."

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Aaaand scene. That's it, that's all for now. I've been busy with entrance exams and grades, so I haven't had time to write as much as I'd love to. Behold, the fruits of my labor, mostly finished, but unedited or revised. Y'all have a safe Halloween, love you <3