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Author's Note: So this was a fairly random idea where Hurricane Katrina has a human form as well, and goes after America for some physical pleasure. This idea came from the analogy of the destruction of a hurricane to rape. Also, a reference to the hurricane personification being non-human in their urges - that of destruction, a huge component towards physical pleasure so on and so forth.

Small note as to what Katrina is. In this story, natural disasters are comparable to wild animals, and often lack a physical representative form. However, particularly bad natural disasters are more sentient than normal, and occasion to have physical form – some with human form. Katrina at the climax of the storm has a human form, but is non-human, border-line sentient and possesses feral, primal urges, but also the power of speech and reasoning.

There also seems to be some form of comparison between the "Children of Humanity" and the "Children of Nature" where the first are nations, and latter include folks like Katrina

Please read the second chapter analyzing this piece before reviewing, or sending me mail (especially hate mail).

Warning: Non-con, violence, weird ideas about how nations deal with natural disasters, sadism, death, and biting/scratching. And blood. Trigger warning for hurricane katrina victims, and so on.

Love with a sharp-toothed comb.

August 25th 2005

With a gingery step, she taps America on the shoulder, and smiles at him.


He turns round to face her, and is suddenly cornered.

He smiles back, but the force of her bright grey-blue eyes makes him swallow the smile away. "Ah." It is then that he recognizes the danger: she is no typical category one. Her ability to talk marks it out, but America is not fooled, not at all. She is alive, certainly, and strong, aware perhaps, but she is an animal. She is barely human. Then again, he is not human either. In his defense, he is formed from humans, whereas she is formed only of a guttural rage and unbridled power.

She grabs him by the waist, and his body folds into her lithe grasp, as she runs her fingers up his stomach.

She should go west now, slipping and sliding off his body. Her fingers tighten sharply across his diaphragm and suddenly he's gasping. Panting for air.

Her teeth are pointed, and feral, and she gently slides them – and her tongue, bristly like a cat-tongue – down the side of his throat. America shudders, and tries to push her away, but she can move and he is bound by geography, in all its magnetics, tectonics, and he cannot get away from her.

"You're meant to go west…" He slurs, breath choking up.

"You know me?" Her words are all clipped in funny places, and Katrina bites at the delicate skin below his ear; sharp enough to bleed.

"Katrina." America pulls against her grip, and suddenly her hands are much too low.

"I thought I'd go south." She murmurs, and his breath hitches uncomfortably in his throat. Several flares of pain bleed through his head and he counts them, six, as Katrina pulls at his trousers. His hands try to block her, but the pass through her arms like she's made of sea spray and bottled air. His attempt to fight her primal grip seems to be amusing her, and with that miserable thought, he waits for Katrina to be done with him.

August 27th 2005

She is becoming erratic, frenzied, and bites America's tongue. Hard. His mouth is filled with blood, and when he tries to spit it out, she seizes his jaw in her tight fingers. Katrina watches down her long nose at him, and her pale white hair sticks to the side of her face with her chilly sweat.

"What are you doing?" Her question is interrupted with her long-drawing gasps.

America struggles – head turning this way and that, trying to weasel out of her fingertips.

It has been two days, and they are only a short time to America, but to Katrina (her life slipping through her grasping nails) they must be mere moments. Two days is most of her life already gone.

America suspects she must be reaching her height. Her strength is impeccable, implacable, impossible.

He tries to twist round, again, fighting her: he is a super-power. "Are you fighting me?" She asks cheerfully, and holds his face still before she slips her tongue inside. Invading. She pulls back. She can't invade him. Katrina is not a nation. Yet, she cannot invade him, yet, yet instead she can rip him apart and tear him down. She presses the heel of her hand between his legs, and he jerks sharply.

"Yes." He stares up at her, eyes narrowed and flashing with righteous anger and pain.

"What business have you fighting me?" Katrina laughs like a squeal of wind. "I am a child of Mother Earth, and you are a child of Humanity. I could crush you like a bug."

America says nothing – too busy having his breath yanked up in skittering spurts – and sinks into the knowledge that Katrina will die, she will die whether or not she hurts anyone.

Katrina shakes her hair out of the way, wiping it back with a hand, and presses her mouth flush against his again, drawing out a pained moan from America. "You are feeling pleasure." Katrina growls against his lips, and rakes her too-long nails down his chest. An ungentle, drawn pattern of red criss-crosses across his front. "You moan in pleasure. I am breaking you."

Viciously, America swears. Hisses in pain. "You are."

With childish sadism, Katrina finished wrenching off America's clothes and looks down at him with a bitter smile, before wrapping her fingers about him, hand cold and cruel between his legs, and drowns him in another flurry of moans. Katrina is still wrong – there is only pain behind them.

August 31st 2005

Katrina's body is made of frail spider-webs, and silvery dew that only half-exists, and she is sweating against America, her body is freezing cold, and yet she huffs and pants. America catches her moan that she is burning up. Her eyes are now glassy and ghostly, and he knows she will not last the evening. Sighing, tired, and misused, America holds Katrina against him. Her body films out against him, her sweat pouring down her skin in slip-slides. It pools in America's navel, and as she lies across America's chest, her sweat stings the scratches and cuts that Katrina has left.

Nevertheless, he gently kisses her brow, and wipes back her matted, limp bangs – strands indelicately come away with his fingertips – and he thumbs her tears away.

"You're dying." America says hazily, his head floating on a cloud of pain.

"I always was." Katrina murmurs.

If America's people weren't sobbing, and crying and in so much trembling grief that his head was swarmed with voices and agony, then perhaps, he would be selfless enough to feel sorry for her. He is not, and there is no pity in his eyes.

August 24th 2005

She namelessly staggers from the Atlantic, and stumbles out, growing in speed and intensity, her eyes an icy colour that is both translucent and wickedly reflective. Licking her lips with an uncanny urge to exist completely, and the gathering coils of her muscles, she begins to run, delighted, dashing and darting towards the nearest target.

As her speed increases, words begin to form flashily through her skin, and she names her prey:

America, America, America.

Yes, that is him. Coyly, but fiercely, she approaches, slipping forward. He's already seen her of course, and is watchful. Tropical storm, category one hurricane, which is she, he'll never know. She dances forward, a spark faster, and the truth rocks into her with a smash.

She is Hurricane Katrina.

Katrina smiles bright, wolfish teeth at America, and studies him: blond, blue-eyed, a vast land to claim for herself. She has no interest in owning him, with her heart pounding madly and her pulse running out very quickly, no, she sees no point in owning him. She cannot own him. She is a hurricane, and she is very much mortal. She will content herself with possessing him violently for the time being.

He is so very pretty, handsome, desirable – a vast land, muscles coiled like resources, or resources coiled like muscles. He will be hers. She will have him, and break him, and he will bring her to her death. A giddy height of death.

Katrina, feet pulsing on the waves, heart pounding with desire, plunges after America, grinning from eye to eye.

August 29th 2005

America is pinned beneath Katrina, and whilst he can struggle all he likes, she has pulled away his clothes and dressed him with wound after wound. His moans of pain are wrenched out into the air, and she greedily captures them, smiling against his lips, and tasting the blood in his mouth.

She knows she is not long for this world – her strength will abate any moment now. But now? It is rich. Very rich. Katrina uses it to yank America's hands over his head; category four, she is practically sentient. She will use this country up in her death throes, and somewhere, bitterly, unhappily, she realizes he will live and she will not.

Katrina is mortal.

America all but chokes on her insistent tongue, as it probes his mouth, and she digs her nails into his wrists. His skin scorches against her – reacting to the natural disaster, as a human would react to a virus, feverishly and frantically. There is a methodical nature to the way his body rejects her. Katrina feels a tug of living lust through her, spurring down her spine.

Katrina is mortal.

Living mortal for now.

She pulls her tongue away, and laughs at him, grinding against him again, and America trembles and jerks against his will. He cannot help but react to the damage. He cannot help it. He is a nation, and his people are all but clambering through his nerves.

"Scream." She commands, heatedly turning her attention to pressing her tongue over the flickering, tremulous pulse in his neck. "Scream my name."

"You will die." He hisses it out, as if she doesn't know that, and it might make her unhappy.

It does, and she bites down on his neck, teeth tight over the tendons. He cries, cries out to various histories and deities, but refuses to speak her name. She digs her teeth down, trying to draw it out of him, refuses to let him out of her. She is going to possess this country, with all her wild, roaming winds, until she can draw a broken, completed end to the nation. She has raked her nimble claws down his chest, over the Everglades National Park, and through Miami. Then she tore open Louisiana, leaving America's side bleeding, terrorized. She watches the blood drain and pull away to odd places; New Orleans is left empty.

She will destroy him.

Katrina cannot, and with a howl, she crashes against him again, a tremor on his chest, and her breath is a gust across him, cooling the boiling, unhappy flesh. She could not make this land scream her name out.

Her face is locked in a bitter smile, and dully she hears him murmur her name into her ear; an epitaph for her spent life. A gravemarker. An honouring for human lives she has taken and a shaming of her.

August 23rd 2005

Tropical Depression 10 and 11 crash and coil against each other: mere animals compared to a nation. Their spark is bright, and the blend of their weaving, curling winds promises something worse than a mindless beast. Hungrily, the two storms consume each other, tearing one another up.

From them, they birth something that compares to a storm as a dolphin compares to a fish: hurricane. Stumbling, mute and wordless, she blinks silver eyes at the rotting sea where 10 and 11 have died in creating her. The breath of god across the Atlantic, it is pulled from their lungs.

Young, she is an animal, but she stands: coltish legs pale against the surf, and long pale blonde, silver, white hair whipping in her own existence, she begins to run. With each passing, burning second of speed, she becomes so close to human.

But her teeth are pointed, her heart pounds too quickly. Soon it will fail, with a sickly, rattling cough. She has until then to whittle bones to dust, and dig her pointed teeth into someone. Hungrily, unnamed, the child hurricane – already growing, and stretching to fill the air with her angry breath – looks about, in search of flesh. Trees, grass, sand, surf, people, nation, land, blood flesh.

She bares her teeth, and throws her head back to howl. The long gale scream is a railing noise.

Elsewhere, the tap of the radio begins to whisper, and whisper. Whimpering that she has arrived. She. This hurricane. This new-born hurricane child.

Elsewhere, a state of emergency prepares itself.

Elsewhere, America watches the running, wild shape of the growing maelstrom, and squares his feet to meet her. To wait until another granddaughter of mother nature has had her way with him.

Elsewhere, America knows she will hunt him to the ground, tear his skin to pieces, no regard for his clothes, and will have him. His fault-line ripples with apprehension.

Elsewhere, America waits for the worst.

Elsewhere, another nation knows its place.

May your quills be ever sharp.