Characters: France, England, Alfred, Matthew, and Seychelles - human names used.

Rating: Mature

Summary: The Bonnefoy Mansion is known to be a very alluringly beautiful yet mysterious place. A setting of scenes and introduction to the many queries surrounding it's master, his sons, and even the irritable English it all just beauty, or is there something beastly hidden behind all those red roses?

Authors Notes: Oh! Hi, hello. This is me having my own shot at creating/sharing an alternate universe I've had in my head for a long while (What this verse is called, I really don't know). It's more or less creepy and dark (or at least that is what I am going for!). I plan to make this have many parts to it in the future - and have the next installment already in the works!

I don't often share/post up what I write because I'm actually very shy about it akjsdgkjas lol.

Other: Angelique is a name I adopted to refer to Seychelles with.

So, um, I hope you all enjoy!

He much liked the color red.

It was a lovely color really; a vibrant and bold hue, which never ceased to make a statement. Red went well with everything, he thoroughly believed. It made men look dashing and women ravishing.

Even those who dared call themselves human yet acted deplorable and most inhuman. They were evil and wicked, vile creatures hidden beneath the skin of people; those who gorge themselves in self importance and pride at the expense of others. They were truly disgusting, slanderous beings that deserved to be sent to slaughter with the swine.

Even they were lovely in red.

iii

She wore a bright red cape with a bright red hood.

The Bonnefoy House stood atop a hill. Its grounds were vast, yet so also were many of the homes within the city. The mansion resided amongst the rest of the rich and those who spoiled themselves with the finer things in life.

Though this particular residence stood out when compared to the rest. It was not because it was placed upon a hill, nor its long, white, iron gate that encircled it. It was the mansion itself that caused even the long time residence to still look upon it and wonder, ponder, gaze and stare.

The mansion was of pure white. From the cobble stone that traveled up at its entry way, to the very top of it; all of it covered in white. Although many would tell of its interior being that of a gala of rich colors and murals that decorated its walls, as the House of Bonnefoy was well known for opening its doors for parties, a dance, or picnic events for those who wished to lay along its hillside. It was common place for the nobility and wealthy to take opportunities to flaunt how well off they truly were.

Manor Bonnefoy held a much different air than all the rest, that none could ever place. Perhaps it was the vibrant blue curtains hung over the tall glass windows. Or many concluded, it was the ripe, red roses that lined the inside of the white iron gate; vines and thorns conjoined along the safeguard of iron with a beautiful foreboding.

Such an odd contrast, this Bonnefoy House.

iii

Unfortunately, she had strayed from her path and caught the attention of the Big Bad Wolf.

As the sun set its rustic hue across the sky, the mansion was buzzing with life. In the middle of this grand summer, the Bonnefoy home called for a celebration.

The Master of the Bonnefoy estate was well known for his eccentricities and a hard to please persona. Where he was a perfectionist in many ways, he was also known for being a pleasant person who loved to mingle with the people. Though, despite his social gatherings, much about his daily life went unknown.

Francis Bonnefoy was only known as the man with the pure white house and blood red roses. The mystery about such a man hardly roused suspicion when he showed just as much pride in his wealth as the rest of them.

Though if there is one thing Master Bonnefoy showed the upmost pride in, it in was his sons.

It was for this reason the Bonnefoy House opened its doors for the public, as this day was to celebrate the day of his children's birth.

With candles and lanterns well lit to leave the spacious house to bask in a hazy glow, the party goers laughed and merrily greeted the young Bonnefoy Masters with birthday blessings.

"Ah, as always you outdo yourself for this type of event amigo." Antonio Carriedo jovially clapped his friend on the shoulder. Francis smiled at the praise and sipped at his red wine.

"One can never outdo when it comes to their children, cher."

There was a roguish snort at that when Francis had his wine stolen from him and drained by Gilbert Beilschmidt. Antonio and Gilbert where the closest companions of the Frenchman,

"You spoil the brats rotten." Gilbert stated once the wine was emptied from the glass. "I'm surprised it hasn't all gone to their head like the rest of these rich bastards."

Francis only gave a hum and scanned his ball room for his boys. They were simple to spot, even with such a crowd. At having just reached their sixteenth year, both boys had reached their full height. Coupled with their beautifully handsome looks - which Francis will never cease to boast, his boys were easily and always managed to be the center of attention.

Though what he saw made him frown.

iii

The Wolf tried to tempt her, but she refused him and left.

The sons of Bonnefoy were more than looks alone, indeed, though the public will always notice the former before much else. One glace at them and it was plain as day they were twins.

As children they were identical, and often confused for the other (one confused most for the other out of the two of them). Though even at a young age, it was very apparent they were quite opposite in personality.

Matthew was quiet where Alfred always made a peep. Alfred wiggled and squirmed when it came to bed time, Matthew was out the moment his face hit the pillow. Where Matthew wished to let the day pass with his nose in a book, Alfred would insist on running outside to play.

Where Matthew was a picky eater, Alfred would eat anything in sight if he hadn't been taught any wiser.

The two of them were also attached to the hip. Even as they grew older and often their differences clashed and they became annoyed at one another, they were inseparable. In growing older, they gained physical traits that differed from each other.

Matthew became the tallest by an inch with wavy flaxen hair like their Father's. Alfred was slightly more robust around his shoulders and had shorter, golden hair. Alfred's eyes become coneflower blue whereas Matthew's a deep indigo.

Out of the two of them, Alfred had become the social butterfly. Where Matthew had one or two close friends that were his constant companions, Alfred had nurtured a habit of believing anyone he spoke with was a friend.

Their father very much enjoyed Alfred's naiveté, but it also made him weary.

Not everyone cared for his son. Francis could see through what his boy could not, beneath the good greetings towards their birthday. He knew his Matthew saw it as well, which was why he preferred to not be in the lime light.

But Alfred, his darling, happy, naive Alfred was vulnerable. No one would hesitate to take his smile, his confidence, his status for granted.

And that gave way for Francis' reason to frown. Is it not in every loving father's nature to want to protect their children from the evils of this world?

Yes, yes this is exactly what he does.

iii

So the greedy Wolf plotted to make her his, no matter the cost.

She went by the name of Angelique, as much as Francis cared to know. Her family hardly interested him as much as her actions did.

She was a pretty young thing, which he would admit, with almond eyes and a complexion shades darker than most in the city. Francis would call her alluring for just that - a unique jewel amongst the rest of them. She certainly did stick out, which was probably why Alfred had started to fancy her.

What interested Francis were her actions towards his son's affections.

Where she would be on his arm, her eyes would stray to another. Even now, in the midst of his son's celebration, she flirted, giggled, and soaked up all she could. Angelique was not there to celebrate the life of his son, but rather for her own personal gain.

This made her easy to coerce away to his empty hallway where the candle light did not touch. Away from the party goers unnoticed and keening in his hands, pressed against the wall. So easy it was, for him to run his hands down her willing legs under her dress.

Her breathing hitched into his ears when he grazed her neck with his tongue, tasting the pulse there, and carded his fingers through her dark hair. He brushed against the red ribbons adorning her there.

Francis let his hands twirl and flirt with the ribbons between his fingers as he ghosted his lips against hers. "Do you like red cherie?" He asked with a husk in his voice.

The Frenchman delighted in the shiver he caused the girl. "I would love nothing more than to cover you in red. How does that sound to you?" He leaned, pressing himself closer. Francis could feel her heartbeat shudder against her body, as if it's one crimson desire was to get to him closer still.

Yes, he decided, she would look lovely in red.

Angelique felt her breath hitch when he untangled his hands from her hair and travel down her front. Between the ridge of her breasts and lower still, until she felt nimble fingers under her dress and travel up, up, up her legs.

He was almost there, the Frenchman could feel it. His senses needed, demanded more. The more he had desired the moment Alfred brought her home one evening to introduce to him. Francis wanted her dripping, flowing; to feel her seeping between his fingers and running down his knuckles.

"What the bleeding hell are you doing?" The exclamation was harsh, louder than a whisper but still managed keep from alerting anyone else outside the hall. A seething Englishman stood at its entrance, with hands clenched into fists.

His green eyes reflected shades of anxiousness hidden only to those who hardly knew him under thick, creased eyebrows.

Francis answered with an airy laugh. "I am doing what I like sourcils; what else?" He took Angelique by the crook of her arm and led her away down the opposite hall.

"Don't you dare Francis-!" the threat in the Brit's voice was empty. "Not on the night your sons' birthday, for Christ's sake! Francis!"

iii

Oh, how easily she fell for his disguise.

Whispering words and weaving fantasies low in her ear, Francis lead her deeper into his home. "Do not mind the butler ma cherie."

It wasn't until they were submerged into complete darkness and the heavy closing of a door brought Angelique out of her daze. "Where are we going?" She asked apprehensively.

"Hush," gifted hands and knowing fingers pressed into her shoulders, kneading and squeezing. "I am taking you to someplace special of mine." His words laced with the sweetness of wine, and Angelique found herself drunk once again. She let those hands lead her further into the darkened room.

"Someplace special?" She repeated with her mind in a fog.

"Oui. You should feel privileged; I am very particular about who I show this room too."

They neared the end; she surmised when he guided her to a stop and lit a torch. When he had gotten it she didn't know; her fog slowly lifted as the Frenchman went about lighting the room. The clearer her vision became, the more she realized she had no idea or recollection of how she had gotten there.

Beginning to feel her nerves catch hold, Angelique rung her hands together. Her leg brushed against something soft, catching her mind elsewhere. Turning to investigate, her eyes traveled up, following rows of delicate red roses that surrounded-

Her scream was forced to stay lodged in her throat by Francis' hand. It clamped steadfast and hard like cold iron while his arm wrapped around her waist, chaining her down from running away. "Quiet now ma cherie, or you will wake her up."

Centered amongst the bed of roses was a bed that canopied overhead. Beneath the downy, plush quilt and linens was a skeletal corpse. White, graying bones for arms lay with hands fashioned to claps together and set stop the sheets, decorated in lacey white. The remnants of hair fanned out upon the pillow with a feminine night cap top the skull.

The skeleton was laid as though it was a person in a deep slumber; but it was not. It was dead; it's very presence within the bed a mocking statement to the living.

Angelique felt her insides quiver and her eyes shuttered with hot tears when the cold breath of the man holding her whispered in her ear. "Cherie, you are honored to meet my wife. She is most lovely, non?"

There was a silent pause before Francis shifted and moved them closer. Angelique willed her body to flee, but she remained stock still.

"I'm sorry my love, did we wake you?"

There was no sound or inkling of a reply from the room besides their own breathing. Yet the Frenchman turned his ear towards the remains of his wife, as though there something to hear. "Yes mon amour, this is the one I told you about."

Fright finally shocked her body into listening to her mind and Angelique found herself struggling to move. Francis held tighter still, his grip bruising her flesh. He chuckled merrily.

"Indeed! She is very pretty!"

At this the girl lurched forwards, unbalancing them both and broke herself away. Letting out a cry, Angelique made a mad dash away from the insanity she just witnessed. It was once she reached the next room over that she found herself one again frozen.

Candelabras lit the room a flame and their light danced off metal contraptions she had only heard of but never knew.

A metal casket lain against the wall, open, with spikes protruding from its interior. A guillotine on one end of the room, and other objects of woods and points, and finely sharpened metals hung from the walls.

"That was very rude of you, ma cherie." The echo of the Frenchman's eerily calm voice caused her to jump. He went to a wall lined with weaponry and lifted an axe from its mantle.

Angelique wanted to run, to get away, but standing in the middle of this unknown room- a room that only nightmares could conjure up, made her realize she could not. She had no idea where to go or even where she was. Blindly she had let the Frenchman guide her without acknowledging her surroundings.

He made his way to her.

"N-no."

iii

And then the Big Bad Wolf ate her right up.

Blood seeped between his fingers and down his knuckles. It stained his skin and cuffs of his clean, white shirt. The crimson pooled around his feet as Francis stared down emotionless at the dead body broken before him.

He was right. She looked ravishing in red.

One hand rubbed its digits together for him to test the blood's thickness before pressing them to his lips to taste.

His English butler, Arthur, cursed from behind him, stepping over the bloodied axe. "I can't believe you."

Turning and practically skipped over to the Brit, leaving a trail of blood following his steps, Francis flashed the other man a gin. "Oh, if it was not me it would have been you to do it."

"Bloody frog!" The Englishman spat, only for the sake of something to insult with, but not to defend against the accusation. Acid green eyes glared from the body to its killer with distaste. "What of Alfred? Did you ever think of that you impulsive-"

Interrupting the other, Francis pressed a bloodied thumb to Arthur's lips, "Of course I have. I always think things through Arthur." He smeared the substance there. "Have a taste?" He was answered with a glare and pursed lips.

Francis only grinned wider as he leaned in to steal a kiss.

iii

In the hall, Alfred saw his father and Arthur round the corner together, and the teen made a face.

"Alfred mon fils, why are you here and not at your party? Isn't it almost time to be opening your gifts?" Francis pressed a hand at his son's back and gently guided him back to the party.

"I was looking for you and Angelique…have you seen her?" Alfred didn't even bother to ask where his father had been with their butler.

"Ah, non, I am sorry Alfred. Perhaps she left with a friend?" They grew closer to the light of the celebration and Alfred slumped his shoulders in disappointment. "Yeah, maybe-Hey, you changed your shirt."

As Alfred observed, his father indeed was not dressed in the same garment as before. In place of the white one from earlier, he donned a richly colored red dress shirt.

"Oui; the other had gotten some rather messy stains on it." Francis grinned and glanced towards their butler. Arthur's eye ticked in annoyance and deepened his already present scowl.

Alfred grimaced and made gagging sounds from the back of his throat. "Ew! Gross! I did not need to know that Dad!"

And the night continued on.

À suivre.

"À suivre" – More or less means "to be continued" in French.

"mon fils" - "my son"

"ma cherie" - "my dear" - feminine

"mon cher"/"cher" - "my dear"/"dear" - masculine.

Constructive criticism is welcome! And if there are any mistakes found, please tell me!

Questions are also welcome, I love questions!