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[HiNaBN: Hanna] That look

Weekly Writing Vomit # 3

Back with more! A few very violent blurbs for which I blame anasyrma entirely (and with love). In the order of writing.


Guns... Guns are an unnatural and cruel weapon, he thinks, calloused fingertips tracing the workings and pieces of the silver revolver on his table. His lips purse, and he thinks of the crash and din of war (conquest) as he had known it once, axe heavy on his arms and heavier as it broke through spine and skull and organs with a sound so sickeningly human- he had often wondered if he would make the same sounds.

The bullets slide in easily, and he thinks of England, a few of his letters perched beside his hand, all covered with spewed words of comfort but an almost general indifference ("Oh dreadfully sorry old chap. I do hope it all comes out alright, but I cannot really spare any more people what with the whole" et cetera et cetera). He understands. He does, as the last bullet slides in and his window shatters. Cold April wind seeps in from the streets of Madrid and he laughs-- Yes, yes, he understands as he clicks all the guns workings into place and stands from his table, the acrid smell of smoke seeping in with the wind and filling his lungs even fuller with gray. Shouting floods the streets (had it been quiet before or had that been his imagination?) and outside his window he can see a mirror image of himself, though his hair is slicked back and he wears a tightly fitted suit of light blue canvas. A smile, sharp teeth glinting, and though he hates guns, he knows the sound it makes when it splatters a man's brain against the pavement and he can't help but wonder if he will make the same sound.

The mirror image grins wider.

In which I fuck up the Spanish civil war.


Guns. Guns are fucking revolution, he thinks, sun-browned fingers light on the hair trigger. His target lopes into view, heavy lashes turned away and completely unaware of the the bayonet aimed straight between its ears.

Pow! He mimics the sound his rifle makes as it goes off (just like he had on quiet mornings long ago whilst playing with toy soldiers pow pow) and his target drops in a splatter of violent red. A twitch, then stillness, and he emerges from his hiding to observe his work- excellent, gorgeous, gruesome- the doe lays dead below his grinning boots.

He begins to skin it and he thinks of England, how proud he would have been short decades ago ("good shot my boy good shot!") as the blood soaks deep into his cotton shirt. A rustling nearby and his hunter's senses are trained on it with his rifle in an instant, but there is a laugh of relief- naught but a fawn.

Turning back, the blood on his hands is England's, and he lays before him. Flayed and dead, heavy lashes and thin lips speckled thickly crimson and coils of red insides that look so human- America laughs and falls onto his own bayonet.

I see a theme for these first few.


Romano leans back onto the concrete wall, burning cigarette held between his teeth. Ribs crack and blood spatters the pavement, nasty business really, but it's a business of family. His tight suit catches on the grain of the wall, pulling threads out of place (and god damn this suit cost five hundred dollars) and he curses in time with a burbling cough that is surely internal bleeding.

Fingers on his glock and he drops the still red cigarette into the face of the man burbling on the pavement of an empty underground parking lot and he screams with all the indignity of a person about to die in such a place. Just some poor sap who couldn't pay his debts, all wide green eyes and broken fingers and-


Romano shoots of five rounds into the fucker's head until he stops looking so much like father dearest, with those same green eyes and the same grubby fingers of someone who worked so hard in dirt and honesty and.


The gun falls against his hip and goes off, tearing through the muscle and sinew with lead and Romano almost feels it.


She is hungry.

She is so very, very hungry, dusty shirt hanging off of her frame though there are barely breasts or a stomach or a frame to hang off of and she wonders why god why is she so hungry.

She stiffens as she feels her brother standing behind her.



They meet in front of the fountain and Romano kisses him on both cheeks (custom, it's customary America reminds himself, and it doesn't look strange to any of the Italians bustling from place to place in their day). A few quiet words, and they linger at the fountain for longer than they rightfully should before heading to a small place that Romano swears by- and Romano is notoriously picky. America's oversized luggage bounces down the cobblestone street behind them the whole way and Romano in turn curses it the whole way. America finds it almost endearing (but for the fact that the luggage is Louie Vatton and this is going to ruin the wheels).


The cabin is filled with a pleasant silence as Luna chews down far too much chocolate and reads the latest Quibbler. Her radish earrings sway to and fro beneath her untamed hair, and she barely looks up as the door slides open.

Dean smiles (she's a bit weird, but he likes her well enough) and asks if there is room for him, and she smiles and nods in return.

Fail attempt at writing Harry Potter things. Will be attempting again (and I will blame it on Ari).


"It's a gift, idiota."

America turns over the box in his hands, the seat of his jeans feeling slightly damp on the fountain edge and god he hopes that's just the cold marble not water, because the last thing he needs right now is to look like an idiot with a wet ass.


Spain can see her in his face, in that thin nose and pale face and that near red in the sandiness of his hair and he wonders if he has always looked so much like her. But his eyes- his eyes are his own, glinting with all the power of precious emeralds and specks of all the world's gold- a treasure set in a ring of clear white with a dark, heavy circlet of lashes. He leans down and he can see the tip of his dark nose pressed against the near rain gray of England's- such contrasting shades. Then, they are lip to lip and Spain knows that he will never own this treasure.


His eyes glint just so in the barest shine of moonlight, black like stones where there should be green and gold and flecks of brown beneath heavy eyebrows.

He leans close and mutters in languages they barely remember how to speak, words curving around the shell of his ear and dripping down into the hollow between his collar bones. He'll stay the night, he knows, because there's no strength in him to leave that warm bed.

Those blackened eyes lean closer, flickering out as the clouds of ash and smoke cover the last of the moon, and, with deep breathes, he imagines that he can see all those colours as their lips meet and their pulses thrum faintly with one beat.


Spain grins beneath the bright flickering street lights, black wrought iron encasing the patio from the rest of the world. They are the the only ones here and he watches the people bustle by them, content and barely noting their two figures at the table of a closed restaurant. Spain sees a glint of himself in some of the faces, smiling kindly as he stirs his food with idle spoon.

America is darker than he remembers him too, blue eyes murky and hair almost brown as a few fireflies swim about their table lamp. A moan of humid wind puffs them away, and America is unusually silent, eyes turned downward into the red broth. With his expression so intent, he looks like his father, despite the dark, rough fingers that lay flat against the tablecloth and the broad, unfreckled patches of skin that peek from beneath his collar.

Spain leans across the table and kisses him on the mouth, but he does not taste like him.

New Orleans.


Japan lingers behind as the meeting ends, shuffling a stack of papers through his hands despite having read them all over, and several times at that. Attempt to look busy, attempt to look interested as the others shuffle quickly outside, only too eager to get home and continue surviving without the inconvenience of meetings that suggest how to survive.

A sigh, and he drums his nails lightly against the lacquered table top. They'd survived long before the age of stiff meetings and horrid tasting instant break coffee, and as he cracks his back (noting how it aches with something like human age), he wonders if they are really any better for it.

Finally, the last of them slouches out, and Japan recognises it as America’s broad shoulders and worn hands and slouching gait. He grimaces as his papers find the trash bin, then setting his hands tightly on his right thigh to rub and urge the muscles to cease their constant ache.

He can still feel the bullet deep beneath the skin.


He dreamt of warmth;

Of rough hands that were warmer than the sun and of hard limbs even warmer than that.

He dreamt of warmth;

Of warm green and gold, of grass beneath his feet and a full bright sky that stretched out forever.

He dreamt of warmth;

Of warm blood pooling around each toe, seeping through every layer of his clothes and in between his teeth.

He woke up cold.

Shitty poem goes here.


And I'm gonna rule the world, he said with blood between his teeth, and his brothers just laughed.


"You look... surprisingly good in skirts, Inglaterra." Spain made a small laugh akin to a giggle and played with the tassels hanging from his sporran pouch. England in turn, turned a fabulous shade of red about his ears whilst batting away Spain's hands.

"It's a sodding kilt, man." He managed to hold his voice calm, looking back into the mirror and readjusting his dress uniform hat. "I've a meeting with the Queen today."

Spain smiled behind him, weathered hands coming to rest on his hips and rubbing circles over the tartan. "Joking," he murmured quietly into the junction of England's neck and shoulders, pressing kisses over the almost human pulse, "But it does look good."

England leaned back into the warm body, watching how his knees flexed powerfully under the hem of the twill, and how his ears were still slightly red. "As I should." He readjusted his collar, Adam's apple bobbing as he felt Spain through the wool. "We're taking a photograph today. My brothers and I."

Spain laughed again, pulling slightly at the pleats on England's back side and pressing closer. "And will they be without briefs as well?"

England scoffed, red returning with full valour. "It's tradition."

Spain cupped England's chin and winked into the mirror. "It is a rather nice tradition."

Something cute to break the monotony of DEATH DEATH DEATHlmaosfdg


With a small hum, he stirs the pots contents, reveling in Hanna's background noise as he flits about a room over. A small thud and a curse, and he recognises it as the tell tale sign of Hanna's hammer being dropped upon some part of his body, so he glances at the stew and (after deciding it would be fine without his attentions for a minute) slowly walks towards the noise source.

Hanna is to be found scurrying from book to book of ancient runes, magic marker scribbling away at stacks of notes. His wild hair is almost lank around his face, blue eyes wild as he flips the pages. He's never seen him as such before.

"Ahh, Leonardo!" He glances up, wide smile red on his face. "Just in time. Can you look at this please?" In a moment, Hanna is in his face, shoving a book and a paper underneath his chin and peering just over the edge of the binding. "This symbol is wrong, but I'm not sure what's wrong." He readjusts his glasses with all the seriousness it seems he can muster and Leonardo wonders if perhaps he needs new glasses.

"The tail's curve is off. Too straight." A simple, short reply, eyebrows curving.

Hanna stares for a moment between the undead man's face and the paper and book before letting out a loud exclamation of joy, pausing for a moment to suck on his right thumb (mightily red, it must have been the one he hit). Immediately, he takes a hold of Gallahad's hand and turns it palm upward, and he swears that he can feel the warmth radiating off him- and he wonders too if he feels cold. In a few moments, the symbol is scribbled in the palm of his hand, and Hanna cups it as it glows slightly with a blue light. "There, now it won't happen again." Zombie raises an eyebrow and Hanna looks almost sheepish. "That... thing in the theatre. With Lee the ghost." He mimics a stereotypical ghost noise and wiggles the fingers of his free hand in the air and of course Ellipses remembers.

A long pause and he squeezes the living hand with his, something almost like a smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you." (His glowing eyes turn away, and he tries to remember when he last felt warmth like this.) "Are you hungry?"

Hanna shakes his head enthusiastically and that tugging cannot help but turn into a smile, nowhere near as wide as the one on the bright face of his companion, but wide enough.

MORE CUTE I was on a roll, also the first time I've ever written Hanna is Not a Boy's Name things so forgive me for fail or inconsistency or FAIL.


The double decker bus has effectively crushed in the passenger side of the car and the wall they have been pushed into effectively mirrors the effect on the driver's side. A string of curses, with a shit load of blood (and possibly teeth), spill onto the dashboard and wheel and, yeah, he's alright.

Fuck, or as alright as he can be. His calloused hands reach out for the passenger side, peering through the eye that isn't dislodged and he can see that Antonio fared worse- half his face is caved in and there's a shard of window buried in the soft bits of his neck just above his jugular. He reaches over with a trembling hand and pulls it out, the warmth spilling over his fingers and god in anything human that would be life soaking his shirtsleeve.

As the ambulance whines in the distance, he can feel his ribs snapping back into place, as painful as breaking them (he nearly bites his lip in two to top it off) and damn this one would be damn hard to explain off to the medics and the Prime Minister wouldn't be pleased.

Antonio smiles at him with a broken jaw and Arthur decides that he'll live.

And back to this whoops.


He notices that Hanna's belly button is slightly askew. Pulled aside by the zigzag of broken flesh and the staples that held him together. It almost seems as if you were to pull out that metal he'd fall all to bits, flaps of skin slipping aside to reveal glistening insides wrapped in their layers of flimsy membranes. A dark liver and writhing organs and a beating heart wrapped in fat. Bits pulsating with life.

He wonders how Hanna had come to be this way often, musing away for hours in his long nights spent not sleeping (as the dead had no need for sleep). But Hanna is wonderfully human. Every inch of him beamed with light and emotion and life.

Hanna bled too, something he no longer does. Bled in amounts copious and small, a prick of finger and slice of blade. Perhaps he did not show it well, but he never likes seeing that blood, for it reminds him of the almost open chest and how easily it seems it could all spill out and he never, ever wants to see that. He'll protect those precious insides until he dies again or until he rots away to dust and nothing.

In any case, it is not his position to ask what or how and he's not sure he really cares because-

He likes Hanna as he is, alive, beaming, with a slightly askew navel and a smile wider than the heavens.

Zombie and Hanna make my heart hurt so shut up.


England is a damned dirty liar, a sinner, and hellfire awaits him when he erases him from this earth, but by God the feeling when he pressed up against his thighs could drive him to hell himself.


His nose is broken, he's damn sure of that as he watches the dawn start to break and presses his forehead to the ground. The words that slip out are practiced, known to heart, spilling onto the rug he made with his own hands and swirling through his head 'Glory to my Lord, the Most High Most Praiseworthy' and fuck he's going to break that brat's goddamn neck.

Turkey praying salah. I really like writing about Turkey's Islamic faith but lol so scared I'll fuck it up royally.


He's the perfect likeness of humanity. From the sound his bones make crunching under heavy soles to the blood running from between his teeth and onto the yellow-green grass to the burble of organs moving through their motions when his skin and subcutaneous layers are flayed away. He loves, he hates, he fucks, he sleeps, he shits, he bleeds, he cries; a perfect sack of internal mush and liquid that all comes spilling out when you open him up.

He does open him up, in a rush of bile and sweat and plasma mixed with red blood cells, and they both laugh. This is what makes them so far from human.

'not quite what it seems'


His limbs stretch out like a tree's; bone thin and ash gray and he wonders just when he became like this. Once, he had been alive, he was sure of this, tall and thin, perhaps, but pink and breathing and alive.

But he cannot remember living. Flashes of warmth and smiles and drinks with friendly companions- and nothing like what he felt at Hanna's side, with his half moon smile, his slightly askew navel, and enough warmth to burn the world.

'not entirely life like'


That's all for now! I hope there are some decent pieces here. I'll be back with more next week.