100 Themes Challenge: 32 and 17
Characters/Pairings: 32: France, no pairings (unless you count France/random prostitute as a pairing). 17: Prussia, no pairings.
Genre: 32: General. 17: Horror (?)
Rating: 32: T; 17: M
Warnings: 32: Possibly messed-up French, mentions of drug/alcohol abuse, The Moulin Rouge, France.
17: Mistreatment of humans, Prussia being a huge jackass, blood, war, downright fucking creepyness, generally twisted stuff.
If any of this offends you, please skip it. This one is very nearly equal to number 47, people. (In case you can't remember, that's This One Right Here)
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XXXII: Night
Night time, mothers claim, is when all the nasty things come out to do their business - witches, warlocks, thieves and the like have no use for daylight, after all.
Francis, however, knows better - the night is for the revolution, for l’amour. It is filled with magic of a different sort - a little green fairy, Poppies, beautiful women, and a little red windmill.
Viva la Revolution! His people cry. Viva la France! Liberté, verité, beauté, et l’amour!
Francis grins at one of the girls on the street, beckoning her towards him with a single gloved finger.
Viva la France, indeed.
Translations:
Viva la Revolution - Long live the revolution
Viva la France - Long live France. Probably incorrect.
Liberté, verité, beauté, et l’amour - Freedom, truth, beauty, and love
I totally need to stop rewatching Moulin Rouge. It's seriously bad for me.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
XVII: Blood
His sword slashed across the human’s chest, cutting through its uniform and into its stomach. It gave out a scream, dropping its weapon, clutching its wound as it fell to the ground with an agonised cry. He stepped over the pathetic thing, looking over the enemy casually as a wide, cocky smirk spread over his face.
Fools, all of them. Incapable of keeping themselves alive while fighting other humans. It was all pathetic - their weak struggles, their attempts at war… everything about them, really. Only Nations knew how to fight properly, how to really start wars - and he was the best at it. He turned war into an art form; the gunshots and anguished screams of the dying were his symphonies, the battlefields his canvases. His sword was his paintbrush; the blood of the humans and animals mixed together for his paint.
A group of the enemy’s soldiers stormed towards him, weapons glinting in the sunlight. He roared a battle-cry and charged towards them, his boots pounding into the ground and his sword flashing in a silver blur as he gained ground and got closer to them.
He needed more paint.
Genre: 32: General. 17: Horror (?)
Rating: 32: T; 17: M
Warnings: 32: Possibly messed-up French, mentions of drug/alcohol abuse, The Moulin Rouge, France.
17: Mistreatment of humans, Prussia being a huge jackass, blood, war, downright fucking creepyness, generally twisted stuff.
If any of this offends you, please skip it. This one is very nearly equal to number 47, people. (In case you can't remember, that's This One Right Here)
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
XXXII: Night
Night time, mothers claim, is when all the nasty things come out to do their business - witches, warlocks, thieves and the like have no use for daylight, after all.
Francis, however, knows better - the night is for the revolution, for l’amour. It is filled with magic of a different sort - a little green fairy, Poppies, beautiful women, and a little red windmill.
Viva la Revolution! His people cry. Viva la France! Liberté, verité, beauté, et l’amour!
Francis grins at one of the girls on the street, beckoning her towards him with a single gloved finger.
Viva la France, indeed.
Translations:
Viva la Revolution - Long live the revolution
Viva la France - Long live France. Probably incorrect.
Liberté, verité, beauté, et l’amour - Freedom, truth, beauty, and love
I totally need to stop rewatching Moulin Rouge. It's seriously bad for me.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
XVII: Blood
His sword slashed across the human’s chest, cutting through its uniform and into its stomach. It gave out a scream, dropping its weapon, clutching its wound as it fell to the ground with an agonised cry. He stepped over the pathetic thing, looking over the enemy casually as a wide, cocky smirk spread over his face.
Fools, all of them. Incapable of keeping themselves alive while fighting other humans. It was all pathetic - their weak struggles, their attempts at war… everything about them, really. Only Nations knew how to fight properly, how to really start wars - and he was the best at it. He turned war into an art form; the gunshots and anguished screams of the dying were his symphonies, the battlefields his canvases. His sword was his paintbrush; the blood of the humans and animals mixed together for his paint.
A group of the enemy’s soldiers stormed towards him, weapons glinting in the sunlight. He roared a battle-cry and charged towards them, his boots pounding into the ground and his sword flashing in a silver blur as he gained ground and got closer to them.
He needed more paint.