Fic: Entracte - Seal of Roses
What you need to know: Francis is a Knight Templar. After the order's dissolution, he fled to a valley run by a family of good vampires. The goodness was guarded by a monastery with a magic cross. The monk Mikhail, driven mad by the fact the family's daughter preferred Francis, broke the seal and became an evil vampire. Through the River of Time (cue song), Francis searches for the jewel-roses that formed the seal. And in the palace of Louis XIV, he stumbles on a vampire plot.
TITLE: Entracte
RATING: R/NC-17
FANDOM: Seal of Roses (Takarazuka)
PAIRINGS: Francis/Mikhail
WORDS: circa 1500
SUMMARY: In the night of Paris, Mikhail catches Francis unawares. He is made to regret it, if only for the sake of his dress.
Entirely fyrie's fault. Hankyu owns everything, Takarazuka Revue are goddesses, and needless to say, this is not quite pure and proper. (Beauty can be argued.)
Between the acts
The palace of Saint-Germain, night
It had been a long time since Francis had tasted a human woman's blood. It tasted well, but when the queen's dancer looked up at him, he thought it turned to ash.
"It's only for a short time," he assured her, helping her stand. "You will dance beautifully."
"Yes," she said slowly. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." He kissed her forehead, then locked the door as he left. There had been enough trouble with Charlotte that night to risk Mireille wandering the corridors as well.
The palace was finally asleep, leaving Francis to walk alone down the gilded hallways. He had not expected this; his only thought had been of inspecting the king's treasury, looking for the roses. Now there was another vampire, a creature of evil. Madame Noir was one of Mikhail's blood, he was sure. If Charlotte had not been sure it was a woman, Francis would think it Mikhail himself.
He'd returned the souls of all of Charlotte's victims that he could find, but some could still be out there. Before he could rest, he had to check on his companions. The girls were wise enough not to let in strangers, but he could not rest before he checked.
He was tired of all this.
He'd seen to the girls' quarters before he left with Henri. They were no more Gypsy than Francis was, but they had been good students, eager to escape life in the Hungarian lands under Turkish rule.
He heard voices as he approached the room set aside for them. He expected they would be too excited to fall asleep, but they were talking in French, not Hungarian. He walked quicker.
The door was ajar, like he'd told the girls to do when they had visitors. Ildiko and Monika were both bent over the hand of a woman in a dark courtly dress and veil, laughing at something she said when Francis pushed the door open.
"Francis!" Ildiko called out happily. "We've got a visitor."
He nodded, taking a slow step inside. "It's late."
"It's all right," Monika said. "We've been telling Madame Noir about the gypsy ways of telling the future."
"She's an alchemist," Ildiko added. "Do you think I could be an alchemist?"
Francis touched the tip of his tongue to his teeth, willing the veiled woman to turn around. "Madame Noir."
Then she turned, and behind that veil he could see smiling dark eyes.
"It is late," Madame Noir said. "It's time for me to leave. Ladies." Her hand rose, lifting the corner of her veil. "Francis."
Francis stepped aside automatically, and when Madame Noir walked past him - quickly, quicker than a woman's strides in heavy skirts - he smelled the attar of roses.
"Francis?" Monika asked. "Why did-"
"Lock the door!" he snapped, then slammed it shut behind him.
The palace was quiet, and he heard the running footsteps. His legs were longer, not weighed down by skirts, and he caught Madame Noir down an enfilade of unused guest chambers. He grabbed her arm, and she whirled, a knife aimed at his neck. His hand caught her wrist under the lace glove, and they stumbled over a footstool. She was under him as they fell on a divan, skirts in the air, a cloud of dust rising over them. The knife fell between the pillows.
"Francis," she said.
He tore the veil from over those smiling eyes. "Mikhail."
The monk - alchemist, assassin, or whatever he was now - laughed, the sudden spasm almost throwing Francis off him. "It's been so long," Mikhail whispered. "You remembered!"
Francis looked down. There was little of the monk left in Mikhail, the cropped hair grown long and curled, the eyes ringed with black kohl. Even the face looked narrower, little but those dark eyes and the expressive mouth, now open. The fangs were visible to knowing eyes, slim and sharp. Francis had only seen his own dimly in mirrors, and never thought of looking at another's. He'd never been this close to another vampire since-
Mikhail lunged for the knife. Francis slammed him back against the divan, then cursed as Mikhail kicked at him, those legs suddenly free of the skirts and underskirts bunched around Mikhail's waist. Francis caught Mikhail's shoulders and lifted the veiled head, striking it against the side of the divan. It stunned the other vampire long enough to let Francis pin him securely, finding limbs in that tangle of dress.
"Francis," Mikhail whispered. "Madame Noir is not that kind of woman."
Francis found his lips pulling back from his fangs, as if he were a devil's creature like Mikhail.
"That's not the way to treat a lady." There was a laugh shaking Mikhail's voice. "Or maybe you haven't had one in so long that you've forgotten."
Francis wanted to get away from him, but there was the knife. The longer he held Mikhail there, the less danger of his plans being foiled by another wild plot. And Mikhail's legs were hooked against his, until he wasn't sure who was the prisoner.
"Did you forget?" Mikhail tossed his head back, the embroidery on the dress catching on Francis's shirt. "Did you even have a woman since Ly-"
The name turned into a scream as Francis bit his throat. Mikhail's blood was like poison, burning with the evil of the sealed souls. Francis spat it out, and Mikhail laughed, then slowly, deliberately, cut his own lower lip with his fangs.
"You're twisted," Francis whispered, watching those two lines of blood, next to the crimson spattered on Mikhail's cheek. "You're lost to the world."
"And you can't kill me," Mikhail said.
Francis started to say his name, but Mikhail arched up, and their lips touched. The blood tasted just as vile, just as burning. Francis let go of Mikhail's hands to tear him away, but those long arms wrapped around him, and Mikhail opened his mouth.
The tangled hair caught Francis's hands. Beyond the blood, there was Mikhail, with more heat that seemed possible. One arm held Francis in place as another drew down. Fangs touched his lips, then broke the skin.
Francis let the growl escape him, shaking them both. Mikhail tried to answer it, but Francis swallowed the sound in his mouth. He pushed the dress down, tearing the collar, trapping Mikhail's arms. It was not a human instinct, but the change in him demanded it.
The whimper Mikhail made was equally bestial. His legs were free, and they wrapped around Francis's hips, that heat burning. It was submission and demand at once, and Francis remembered Charlotte's words. He was not a king, but if it meant this-
Then Mikhail arched his neck again. The taste of his blood drove all thought out of Francis's mind. Clothing was pushed aside, and Mikhail yielded as well as a woman, suiting the dress he wore. There was blood and kohl smeared over the pale cheeks, and bruises where Francis's hands had punished him.
Mikhail cried out in short, sharp gasps, the sounds lost in the sleeping palace. His legs spasmed, and Francis's hand found a knee, pushing it back against the divan. The forced contortion made the other vampire hiss in pain or surprise, the sound broken when Francis grasped the calf, abandoning Mikhail's neck to kiss his ankle. There were veins there, just under the skin, the colour a pale blue that turned to red so well.
The bite seemed to break something in Mikhail, and the vampire stuttered through words, babblings, Francis's name mixed within them. They distracted, and Francis moved to silence them. In the shadows, in the gilt and veils and embroidery, it was just like kissing a woman, a willing, writhing courtesan opening to him and holding him so tightly. The strength of the body under his was more than a woman's, able to withstand all he wished, pressing eagerly against his hands even as they bruised the white skin.
Mikhail found the breath for a cry that would wake the dead, if Francis had not breathed it in. They fell onto the divan, only now feeling how soft it was, a faint trace of lilac clashing with Mikhail's rose perfume and the scents that now clung to them.
At his second try, Francis managed to climb to his feet. He put his clothing in order
Mikhail lay where he had fallen. The dress was pushed around his waist, revealing the mockery of his disguise. The legs were scratched, abused, one calf spattered with blood from the deep bite near the ankle. The neckline of the dress was almost proper, belied by the tangled hair and bruised lips that still smiled.
"Francis," Mikhail said.
-FIN-
TITLE: Entracte
RATING: R/NC-17
FANDOM: Seal of Roses (Takarazuka)
PAIRINGS: Francis/Mikhail
WORDS: circa 1500
SUMMARY: In the night of Paris, Mikhail catches Francis unawares. He is made to regret it, if only for the sake of his dress.
Entirely fyrie's fault. Hankyu owns everything, Takarazuka Revue are goddesses, and needless to say, this is not quite pure and proper. (Beauty can be argued.)
Between the acts
The palace of Saint-Germain, night
It had been a long time since Francis had tasted a human woman's blood. It tasted well, but when the queen's dancer looked up at him, he thought it turned to ash.
"It's only for a short time," he assured her, helping her stand. "You will dance beautifully."
"Yes," she said slowly. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." He kissed her forehead, then locked the door as he left. There had been enough trouble with Charlotte that night to risk Mireille wandering the corridors as well.
The palace was finally asleep, leaving Francis to walk alone down the gilded hallways. He had not expected this; his only thought had been of inspecting the king's treasury, looking for the roses. Now there was another vampire, a creature of evil. Madame Noir was one of Mikhail's blood, he was sure. If Charlotte had not been sure it was a woman, Francis would think it Mikhail himself.
He'd returned the souls of all of Charlotte's victims that he could find, but some could still be out there. Before he could rest, he had to check on his companions. The girls were wise enough not to let in strangers, but he could not rest before he checked.
He was tired of all this.
He'd seen to the girls' quarters before he left with Henri. They were no more Gypsy than Francis was, but they had been good students, eager to escape life in the Hungarian lands under Turkish rule.
He heard voices as he approached the room set aside for them. He expected they would be too excited to fall asleep, but they were talking in French, not Hungarian. He walked quicker.
The door was ajar, like he'd told the girls to do when they had visitors. Ildiko and Monika were both bent over the hand of a woman in a dark courtly dress and veil, laughing at something she said when Francis pushed the door open.
"Francis!" Ildiko called out happily. "We've got a visitor."
He nodded, taking a slow step inside. "It's late."
"It's all right," Monika said. "We've been telling Madame Noir about the gypsy ways of telling the future."
"She's an alchemist," Ildiko added. "Do you think I could be an alchemist?"
Francis touched the tip of his tongue to his teeth, willing the veiled woman to turn around. "Madame Noir."
Then she turned, and behind that veil he could see smiling dark eyes.
"It is late," Madame Noir said. "It's time for me to leave. Ladies." Her hand rose, lifting the corner of her veil. "Francis."
Francis stepped aside automatically, and when Madame Noir walked past him - quickly, quicker than a woman's strides in heavy skirts - he smelled the attar of roses.
"Francis?" Monika asked. "Why did-"
"Lock the door!" he snapped, then slammed it shut behind him.
The palace was quiet, and he heard the running footsteps. His legs were longer, not weighed down by skirts, and he caught Madame Noir down an enfilade of unused guest chambers. He grabbed her arm, and she whirled, a knife aimed at his neck. His hand caught her wrist under the lace glove, and they stumbled over a footstool. She was under him as they fell on a divan, skirts in the air, a cloud of dust rising over them. The knife fell between the pillows.
"Francis," she said.
He tore the veil from over those smiling eyes. "Mikhail."
The monk - alchemist, assassin, or whatever he was now - laughed, the sudden spasm almost throwing Francis off him. "It's been so long," Mikhail whispered. "You remembered!"
Francis looked down. There was little of the monk left in Mikhail, the cropped hair grown long and curled, the eyes ringed with black kohl. Even the face looked narrower, little but those dark eyes and the expressive mouth, now open. The fangs were visible to knowing eyes, slim and sharp. Francis had only seen his own dimly in mirrors, and never thought of looking at another's. He'd never been this close to another vampire since-
Mikhail lunged for the knife. Francis slammed him back against the divan, then cursed as Mikhail kicked at him, those legs suddenly free of the skirts and underskirts bunched around Mikhail's waist. Francis caught Mikhail's shoulders and lifted the veiled head, striking it against the side of the divan. It stunned the other vampire long enough to let Francis pin him securely, finding limbs in that tangle of dress.
"Francis," Mikhail whispered. "Madame Noir is not that kind of woman."
Francis found his lips pulling back from his fangs, as if he were a devil's creature like Mikhail.
"That's not the way to treat a lady." There was a laugh shaking Mikhail's voice. "Or maybe you haven't had one in so long that you've forgotten."
Francis wanted to get away from him, but there was the knife. The longer he held Mikhail there, the less danger of his plans being foiled by another wild plot. And Mikhail's legs were hooked against his, until he wasn't sure who was the prisoner.
"Did you forget?" Mikhail tossed his head back, the embroidery on the dress catching on Francis's shirt. "Did you even have a woman since Ly-"
The name turned into a scream as Francis bit his throat. Mikhail's blood was like poison, burning with the evil of the sealed souls. Francis spat it out, and Mikhail laughed, then slowly, deliberately, cut his own lower lip with his fangs.
"You're twisted," Francis whispered, watching those two lines of blood, next to the crimson spattered on Mikhail's cheek. "You're lost to the world."
"And you can't kill me," Mikhail said.
Francis started to say his name, but Mikhail arched up, and their lips touched. The blood tasted just as vile, just as burning. Francis let go of Mikhail's hands to tear him away, but those long arms wrapped around him, and Mikhail opened his mouth.
The tangled hair caught Francis's hands. Beyond the blood, there was Mikhail, with more heat that seemed possible. One arm held Francis in place as another drew down. Fangs touched his lips, then broke the skin.
Francis let the growl escape him, shaking them both. Mikhail tried to answer it, but Francis swallowed the sound in his mouth. He pushed the dress down, tearing the collar, trapping Mikhail's arms. It was not a human instinct, but the change in him demanded it.
The whimper Mikhail made was equally bestial. His legs were free, and they wrapped around Francis's hips, that heat burning. It was submission and demand at once, and Francis remembered Charlotte's words. He was not a king, but if it meant this-
Then Mikhail arched his neck again. The taste of his blood drove all thought out of Francis's mind. Clothing was pushed aside, and Mikhail yielded as well as a woman, suiting the dress he wore. There was blood and kohl smeared over the pale cheeks, and bruises where Francis's hands had punished him.
Mikhail cried out in short, sharp gasps, the sounds lost in the sleeping palace. His legs spasmed, and Francis's hand found a knee, pushing it back against the divan. The forced contortion made the other vampire hiss in pain or surprise, the sound broken when Francis grasped the calf, abandoning Mikhail's neck to kiss his ankle. There were veins there, just under the skin, the colour a pale blue that turned to red so well.
The bite seemed to break something in Mikhail, and the vampire stuttered through words, babblings, Francis's name mixed within them. They distracted, and Francis moved to silence them. In the shadows, in the gilt and veils and embroidery, it was just like kissing a woman, a willing, writhing courtesan opening to him and holding him so tightly. The strength of the body under his was more than a woman's, able to withstand all he wished, pressing eagerly against his hands even as they bruised the white skin.
Mikhail found the breath for a cry that would wake the dead, if Francis had not breathed it in. They fell onto the divan, only now feeling how soft it was, a faint trace of lilac clashing with Mikhail's rose perfume and the scents that now clung to them.
At his second try, Francis managed to climb to his feet. He put his clothing in order
Mikhail lay where he had fallen. The dress was pushed around his waist, revealing the mockery of his disguise. The legs were scratched, abused, one calf spattered with blood from the deep bite near the ankle. The neckline of the dress was almost proper, belied by the tangled hair and bruised lips that still smiled.
"Francis," Mikhail said.
-FIN-