Author's note: This erotica novella was written by Little Red Riding Wood and edited by B.J James.

Artwork created by Saff (or is that Naff?) Editor's note: Don't take this seriously, although it is an excellent piece of erotic fiction it is not intended to insult or criticise anyone in any way. Of course, some characters may share some similarities with certain people on Twitter, but hey, because I didn't say your name it's not directed at you right? *cough* BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO GET SU3D NAMES HAVE BEEN ALTERED Chapter 1

"It's okay if you can't get it up. A lot of guys have that problem." Geather repeatedly reassured PP after he had, yet again, failed to open Twitter up. It had met him with the typical faulty 'sessions' response after a demanded verification, a verification that had truly provoked him. "It's your fault. I need you to help me." He responded bluntly. She reached out and started groping around in his server, in the frivolous attempt to get it up. Infuriated, humiliated, victimized, antagonized; all emotions that he had begun to categorise into folders on his computer, based on his thoughts at the moment. Each one precisely labelled and organised in case of a necessary referral back to them later on, for use of blackmail, threats, or just flat out comfort. Unlike others, PP did not find safety in numbers, or material possessions, such as money. He found them in emotion, blackmail, threats - empty or full, regardless of verification or not. Of course PP didn't actually experience these emotions - he had not the slightest clue besides the neurological explanation and concept. But a sociopath's greatest skill is the ability to contrive false emotion based on observation of others, and this was how he fed. Charm someone vulnerable, experience their pain, love, hatred all powerful emotions, and the final step, indulged their secrets and ended the friendship, swiftly moving on. A quickie kind of guy, but 'quickie' was true to form in this case. His friendships were quickies, his relationships were quickies, and what they all honestly mimicked was his performance when arm-wrestling with the one eyed vessel, choking the chicken, or auditioning the finger puppets on a very small casting director - so to speak. His signature power is the ability to twitter-sue. On the other hand, Geather was a woman of passion and true emotion. Trusting others was an unfortunate forte for one of our leading ladies, an attribute that works to her disadvantage in this particular scenario. However, he now could not log into twitter due to server issues. This was Geather's fault. There was no particular reason, just that the new rush of a new whore had left him again. Fresh lobster gets old fast, his life's motto. He would just have to find some kind of personal evidence against her and use it to support his claim in starting another PP war, instead of directly telling her he would have liked to terminate the friendship. He just wasn't getting up anymore, and in his mind, that was on her.

Today, and as of late, she was PP's latest friendship conquest. A friendship whose end had been predicted, betted on, and a topic of much controversy. Her fierce personality came into stark contrast with her trusting nature, and in addition to this, her as-of-now-unknown-if-is-requited love made her an especially vulnerable target for a succubus-sociopath. The very nature of erotica demands we share she is Katy Perry in disguise. For analogy's sake, WWII may be the most fitting one. Both groups have their own particular introductions, beginning with The Allies. Beginning with our favourite ally, Naff - a witty, slightly inappropriate, irresistibly nerdy and fabulously funny bird, her recent signature trademark is a fitting sombrero. As a pigeon, her beady, yet understanding eyes denote everything in a flamboyant, yet simultaneously philosophically innovative manner. Her coloured skin - blue, with custom green feathering, whilst incredible, what really gets you is her body. Black, scaled, winged - she's undeniable to even the sociopathic eye, let alone the common eye. Our favourite sociopath has been known to express his outrage at his lack of sexual opportunity in the form of sardonic subtweets about this ally. For who could deny these butterflies? They're just filling his gut. Coupled with Naff is our the Gooby counterpart to the inspirational Dolan, known as Gareth. His goobyness allows his sidekick persona to manifest, but in the most avant-garde fasion. Best paired with Naff, she is his leading client in his Twitter Attorney practice. The force alone these two allies can bring is enough to make the most unemotional psychopathic sociopath sweat and think about his bed, when the lights are dim. They make up the first portion of the allies. The US portion of the allies is but one person, but hick enough to make up the entire country. VJ has the power of a brain fried like KFC, giving him innate ability to see the obvious, the idiotic, and the even stupider. However, his comments are occasionally slightly witty, giving him leeway to take his theoretical pants off and wave his achievement everywhere. This can often prove to be an irritating character attribute, but the US' help is always appreciated in the Allied Forces. After all, they did bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan. His penis fell off around 4 months ago, so he makes use with a brown coloured strap on, matching his true Mexican skin tone. Violet is the Allied Forces' favourite blonde. She may be a blonde, but she's fabulous, dignified and in the situation, has been under the most pressure. Brave, good natured, and a little bit awkward in the best kind of way, she is clever and underrates herself. Since this is an erotic novella, remember that she is a hot blonde Swedish girl. Jacob possesses the power of mousing secrets out of people, hence his nickname 'Mouse'. Often considered a chameleon, he also blames Dan. His outside layer is nice, his middle layer is douchey and cunning, and at heart, he is guilty and kind. However, nobody can be arsed to get through such a complicated mouse. Dissecting it would be a lot easier. His mouse tail will come in handy for this erotic novella. The final Allied force is Posey, whose magical power is yelling at people. The US ally will bear witness to this. No confirmed statement has been released regarding the subject of its gender, but his signature blue beret perfectly compliments his pale, round features and all knowing eyes. However, it's his beak that really gets you. Orange, seemingly 3D despite being drawn on paint, and classic, a most erotic feature for those with duck fetishes.

Moving on to those of the Tripartite pact, beginning with Fascist Italy, we consider this an ever-changing place. PP has a space reserved by his side, always a female, that the Allied forces consider 'his whore'. They are Italy because, despite siding with PP, when the tables are horrifically turned and they see the sociopath for its true instincts of jumping ship, they change sides. A few of his whores will not be named, however, all is forgiven and repented by Jeebus. Imperial Japan may well be PP - in relation to his true ethnic conception. Japan continued raging on, despite Germany's instrument of surrender, until the US Manhattan Project'd it. It finally surrendered. Nazi Germany are his cronies. They will surrender before him despite his raging on, and their ramblings are unbelievable, idiotic, and beyond ridiculous. If you like idiotic ramblings, then this is the fanfic for you! Now that the important characters have backstory, we can move on. Chapter 2 "You know, Geather, Violet is a much better shag than you." PP commented over his keyboard's cheeto stains. "She seems like a nice girl to me," Geather commented self consciously. "She said all this shit about you and that Gert wanted her," PP continued with his lying rampage, with the aim of provoking the allies into another fued in the vain hopes of being able to conquer someone else. "Really?" Geather asked. "Definitely. You should rant to me. Y'know. Magnify all your feelings by 100x." "OK, PP! I trust you." She foolishly responded, pouring her soul and magnifying it into what would soon be used as false evidence against her. Uninterested, he zoned the 'ping!' sounds out as he stared into the cam. Naff was performing a legendary hot grill liv cam show. He'd thought he'd never get the chance to see one of these again, after he'd cocked up so badly. Cocked up being the right choice of word, seeing as flashing his erect clitoris to Naff previously had ended all traces of contact between them. However, her famous hot grill cams were rare, and were worth it. To describe them, some notes from a conversation Person Person B: A: Watching one What of Naff's are legendary hot grill you liv cam doing? shows.

Person A: Oh, I think I've seen one of those before. -unsurePerson B: It wasn't her then. Person A: How do you know?

Person B: Because you would have remembered. On camera, Naff took one wing and pushed it against her green feather stripe, rubbing unevenly, her eyes rolling in circular motions towards the back of her skull with pleasure. PP was enchanted already.

Using the gymnastics of her beak, she bit onto her scales and off, leaving lovebites as she purred on. How he yearned to put those lovebites on those glamorous black scales. Using a trick she had learned in photoshop school, she took one wing and put it across her head, making a stroking motion as she sighed in pleasure. PP was on his knees at the screen, every part of him, wanting every part of her. He screamed, he cried, moaned, yelped, stripped - did anything in his will, but his body wasn't his own. It was out of control, replaced by desire eating away at him - needing her, wanting her, dreaming of her pecking his eyes so they would open more... "Ugh!" He moaned, as he pulled another quickie. But it wasn't over yet. Somehow his rampant desires finally allowed him to type into the chat: tak off sombrero pls Intimate sounds turned into shock horror screams. Naff's eyes came cascading to the front of her head like rolling barrels. Worldwide, people were tripping over backwards. And then it happened. PP was permanently banned from the cam, with only the memory of her glossed feathers being stroked to stroke his own self too. It was over. He would never see it again. In his rage, anger, hatred, manic depression and just pure numbness - he decided his revenge. Not just against Naff. Against the Allies. Chapter 3

"Wake up, u fgt." Posey DMed Jacob, in the vain hope to resurrect him from what seemed like the dead. Shit was going down. His eyes were sealed shut, but his erection stood up as a result of his very first wet dream. In his sleep, he groaned in a way that was apparent it was all over. "Violet..." Awake, he panicked, and then realised his horny dream wasn't reality. Shame. He remembered it from start to finish. It was so...forward. How could he forget?

Violet had opened a door, walked forward into his arms, the curve of her breasts visible through her tight t-shirt, shaking her platinum blonde hair out of her eyes. Sweden was neutral, but his feelings right now were not. She bit his neck slyly, his entire body shuddering with desire. When he had recovered himself, he grabbed her waist, and they tumbled over, tangled in a mess, flaming with adolescent desire. She started to bite his lower lip, and in reaction, he slid his tongue into her mouth - finding hers, connecting, like their bodies. So natural, so perfect. Like a puzzle piece. The sound of their pulses - acting like a monitor, each throb indicated the intensification of their needs, in rhythmic unison, intensifying everything. God knows the devil couldn't proceed in denying them. Her fingertips started to wander, travelling from his chest to his masculinity in what felt like a matter of hours. They brushed it gently, at first, and then two fingers turned into a whole hand grip, pumping, like a weight. Several drops of saliva befell him from her mouth. Coming in, about to take him in, when she suddenly stopped.

"What's wrong?" He exclaimed, hoarse. Her eyes were filling with lust by the second, as if a bucket, the rain pitter pattering into it, and then thundering heavy puddles at once. Her lips formed a cunning smile as they moved. He was so focused on them, the thought of them, on him, in him, the medicine he needed. Her expression was crippling him, knees weak, arms so very heavy. She started to form the sentence, mouthing, "I want y-" His eyes jolted open like an electric shock. No stretches necessary, he jumped upright. "God dammit!" He punched a semen covered mattress. A jumpstart onto twitter, he read Posey's DMs. One thing was for sure. She was right. Shit was going down. Meanwhile, in the Tripartite camp, a new Fascist Italy had been instated. Gossiping to her friends, she discusses their relationship. "Oh, he treats me with respect. He's not like all those other boys. They're all so dumb and immature. There's just one thing that's getting in the way. When we go up to skype, he's just no good, it's such a shame. He tells me to spread my legs so he can take a picture that he promises he'll delete. I look into his webcam, I want to get to know him. And then he makes this noise, and it's obvious it's all over. I'm feeling pretty damn hard done by. I spent ages giving virtual head." Her friends facepalmed themselves into tomorrow. Even Jesus could not give this girl salvation. "It's really not okay," they tried to instruct her. "Wow! You guys are just jealous because you're single." She then sacrifices all her friends in the name of Imperial Japan who just needs a rebound whore, and will have none to be her allies when WW9002 comes around, otherwise known as YY9002. They're synonyms anyway. This is the recurring cycle of Fascist Italy in this tale. Chapter 4 The theoretical 'shit' going down was on Twitter. It was subtweets galore in the Allied camp, and everyone was typing completely naked. PP had just released a massive penile collage and tweeted it, his clitoris photoshopped in the inefficacious attempt to make it look bigger. In addition to this, alongside his collage he had pasted multiple

shots of people pouring their hearts out. Seeing his photoshopped clitoris and people's pain together, in conjunction, was the ultimate turn on for him. One person's pain in particular belonged to Geather. The collage was set, released, open - for all eyes to see. Her trust had been pointless, and the natural cycle of Henry VIII's latest conquest had ended. It was time for her to be divorced or beheaded. Pick one. She felt uncomfortable in the extreme knowing that PP was fingering himself to this combination of his dreams and her pain. And her assumption was dead on - he had reclined his seat to a level that allowed him to view the content and have his hands on himself in a comfortable possession. At any rate, it was hot. Sensually, he licked his finger with his snaked out tongue, tickling himself as he went down to the motherland. Each singular dribble found its way to his clitoris - stimulating it, kissing it, massaging it in a way nobody had ever done for him. With his palm, he started to rub. The wetness of his vagina right there, had ceased any friction, and he knew that he would yet again live up to his nickname of 'Quickie'. Slightly disappointed, but not totally crestfallen, PP resolved to enjoy his moment. As the angry tweets continued on, using his left hand, he opened them.

"I'm so done with this faggot. He's ridiculous," one said. "Don't believe anything he says. He's a liar!" Another exclaimed. He moaned to each tweet precariously, a sound carefully organised. Massaging his vagina, using a technique he hadn't tried before, he slid two things into the ocean that was now his pussy. It opened as if in response, as if it was made for him to fuck. Tickling his clitoral point with his left hand and thrusting his fingers into his vagina with his right, the sensuality was almost too much for him to bear. He thrusted in, and out animalistically, every cell in his body swathing with desire. He took his left hand out, fearing he might just explode with insatiable hunger. Positioning it coldly onto the side of his neck, a perfect hickey vantage point - as if pressing a pressure point, with the moist wetness of his vagina still on it, acting like lips, like saliva. Caressing himself, digging his fingers into his skin, imagining it was the curve of Naff's beak. A fantasy, but he could pretent today. He would allow himself to pretend. "Naff!" He groaned her name as he felt his clitoris heave with his heavy breath in its pure ecstasy, an absolute of frenzy of lust. It wouldn't be long. Twitter had one more tweet to show him. Using his toes, he clicked it. "I'm going to su3 PP." His name on her fingertips. It had finally happened. His want, his need, the eros, the libidinous fluster he had desired all this time. He couldn't stop himself as he felt his own hips buckle against the holograph of Naff he had constructed, his knees climax in overwhelmedness, his urethra squirt. Saff had made him squirt. Chapter 5

VJ squealed in his high pitched 5 year old girl-esque voice, with the hint of his Mexican accent coming forth on Skype. "Did you see World War PP on Twitter?" He asked Dick casually, aiming to strike up a conversation. He was his only friend, and one would expect to be more valued if you were someone's only friend. Nope. Just more neglect and degradation. VJ felt it pound into his soul like a nine inch erection grinding into his ribcage everytime, yet had no idea how to confront the situation. He wasn't the confrontation type, or the type to initiate. Being sexually passive in the extreme, he was content with friendship. However, his lack of intimacy caused him to excessively put himself into a friendship. He was a true chump in every sense of the word, and would do anything anyone asked him to. A proper pushover. "I knew it would happen." Dick ignored him as usual, followed by another derogatory comment on his the pitch of his voice, making VJ, yet again, feel like a cheapened hooker. Usually, this conversation would end with a demand to VJ about cutting off his friendships to make his life singularly revolve around Nick as it previously had, and VJ would reply coyly. But this wasn't usually. Nope. Times were different. We were flat in the frontlines of another World War PP. People had needs. Taking advantage of VJ's pushover nature, in place of a regular demand, he sweetened his voice, intending to sound like sugar, but his face twisted as if sucking a lemon when it came around to using a polite tone with him. "Is that a pen in your pocket, VJ, or are you just happy to see me?" He queried. VJ, having a brain fried like KFC, became instantly confused. "What?" He countered, with a furrowed brow in the shape of a taco shell. "Come on VJ. I'll meet you at sun down, guns cocked." The upper corners of his mouth gnarled in what attempt to be provocative, but this just resulted in him appearing to be a more unappealing version of the Joker. Now VJ had become confused. His brain, whilst being fried like KFC, was also infinitesimal. The concept of someone 'coming onto him' was too much for his biological crown jewel to process properly, so he shrugged, as if a hardwired reaction to the unknown. "God dammit VJ. I'm asking you if you want to have sex with me." Something occurred to VJ. Changed him, in a moment that was as short as his strap on, but as long as his small intestine at the same time. His brain told him something without whirling around in ambiguity first. "ABSOLUTELY NOT!" It yelled at him. The shock and overwhelmingness of a thought process tumbled VJ out of his chair, and on to the floor with a crash like a wave. The sound, to Dick's ears, which were only trained for a positive answer from VJ, sounded like a definite yes. Unknown to VJ, he had already been prepared for this moment. He pulled off his mink black fur coat, bought for the occasion, and revealed his soul to VJ, in lacey blue

lingerie and sheer black stockings. Neither complimented his weight rolls, but he felt pretty anywho. Besides, VJ had no standards. "Ouch," VJ rubbed his head in pain after his fall. Turning around back to the Skype screen, he quickly apologised, until he noticed what lay waiting for him on the screen. An awkward overweight All American male in blue lace panties, black stockings, backed up into a corner so awkwardly it was cliche, and with a boner. Oblivious to VJ's dismayed facial expression, Dick began to slide off his stockings, slowly. "Let's do this baby." He breathed heavily. "I can't do this." VJ cried out as if being wounded. Astounded by VJ's reaction, Dick quickly composed himself. "You've never said no to me and you will not now." Employing some tactics he had learnt from The Learning Annex, the course 'How to Be a Dominatrix' in particular, he reassured himself. "I'm so fucking done." VJ ended the skype call, looking aghast, and left the room to ponder over this recent development. Something he had never done before. Chapter 6

Seeing the recent development in World War YY, Oditya sighed. He had aimed at remaining neutral, despite knowing what was right, what was wrong, and what the consequences on either side would be. Trying to keep his thought pattern rational, he recognised a tweet of Hoe's. 'Awkward moment when you're still following someone...' Oditya was particularly skilled at decoding subtweets, and he knew who this one was about. Sympathising with Hoe, "im still followin u jojo' Oditya felt over and done with - he had been in the middle of two sides for a long time. Of course he knew the Allies were right, their forces getting stronger each day. But he was a mellow person. Dealing with PP's all out Imperialist rage was not his style, and something he'd have to save for a rainy day. But his feelings on the topic had been hidden, under wraps, not even confessed to his closest friends. Everyone was afraid everyone else would turn on eachother. "I know how you feel," Hoe told Oditya vaguely. "What do you mean?" Oditya's forehead crinkled in the complexity - how could Hoe know anything about his feelings? Their friendship had been so casual and easy. In fact, if anyone had asked him to describe it, that's how he would state it. Rarely did they speak like this. But that was before the war. In hard times, everything changes. "Being in the middle of World War PP. It's got to be getting to you. Knowing what's wrong, knowing what's right, but not wanting to change a thing." he tweeted him back.

Oditya looked into Hoe's eyes. He'd always tried to decipher the meaning of the phrase 'eyes are the window to the soul', and never found one. Today, however, he did. In Hoe's eyes, he saw his soul. Open, wide and accepting. And in those same deep green eyes, he saw his own soul reflected back at him. Endless, depths unknown; an ocean in its colour and depth. Sympathy, empathy - he felt it all. Oditya found himself holding Hoe closer than most. "Why?" His eyes asked the question all by themselves, narrowing in direction, but eyes just as wide with innocence. Oditya had needed comfort, support, cherishing - for a long time. For a long time, he had done it for everyone else, disregarding his own. But Hoe was giving it to him. Tonight, someone was giving him what he needed and what he wanted. At this precise moment, they were the same thing. He ran one arm through Hoe's blonde hair like spun flax, a signal. Reacting to his soft, passionate gaze, Hoe pulled Oditya into his embrace and fingered Oditya's lips, tenderly tracing the outskirts, a shape which seemed to be made for his own. Daintily, Oditya took the next step and placed his lips on Hoe's, in one gingerly motion, almost carelessly if you hadn't read the affection in his body language. First, their lips moved in what seemed to be a cycle, overlapping eachother, gradually more and more so. Hoe tousled his hair, synchronised with the light, penetrated his partner's mouth with his tongue, Oditya's entire body stiffening with shock. Taking advantage of the moment, he pulled Oditya's hair, throwing his Finn hat off aside in one swift motion. This seemed to bring Oditya back to reality. "Hey! What was that for?" He teased. "'Cause I don't want Finn. I want you." He looked serious, devoted; Oditya was worried this affection might turn to anger, like with other people in his life. The ones who should have cherished him. But Hoe's affection didn't turn to anger, it only increased with its sentiment, growing with more ardor by each passing second. "Hoe," Oditya began, as if snapped back, feeling as though this wonderland could only have lasted so long, beginning to shift from his place in Hoe's lap. "No, Oditya." Hoe countered, with an almost hypnotic hold; sustaining Oditya for the moment, pulling his dark blue shorts off, the actions happening so fast, they could have taken seconds. Self consciously, Oditya searched Hoe's features for his reaction with concern. "Oh," Hoe said, in admiring tones, looking to Oditya's manhood. In one swift movement, he took it into his mouth. "Oh," Oditya responded, like a call and response. Dynamically, he began to thrust it in and out of his mouth, slipping his tongue slowly, like some kind of sensual torture, along Oditya's entire length. Getting to the head, he started to tickle it with his tongue. Oditya giggled like a schoolgirl. Slobbing his scrotum, he could feel Oditya start to pulsate and race. His orange candies were about to come out.

"Catch them!" Oditya wheezed as Hoe made one final lick and 40 to 600 million orange candies shot out on to his face. They continued to kiss eachother, despite the orange candy smeared over Hoe's face. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. "I want you to make a painting on me." Hoe enlightened Oditya. "With what?" He inquired curiously. "Your orange candies, of course!" Both yelped and fell into bed together again. Chapter 7