False Love
Alfred Jones loves his brother very much. So, so much that he will do anything not to let this man taint him. Historical AU (Industrial Era), one-sided, dub-con UsUk, sibling incest, fully consensual FrUk. This isn't a nice story, leave if you cannot stomach its contents.
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« You had a temper like my jealousy:
Too hot, too greedy.
How could you leave me,
When I needed to possess you?
I hated you. I loved you, too. »
— Wuthering Heights, Kate Bush
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Alfred just doesn't remember when he's first started thinking of his brother this way. He can't recall the last time he's touched himself to the thought of someone's else's laugh, can't recall having looked at pretty girls like he's done with Arthur. He remembers every little details about him, the way his lips are delicately plump, the lovely cheekbones, slender body, shaped like a cat and wonderfully fragile under all that determination.
There's just no one else but Arthur. Their parents died long ago, leaving a rather gaping hole in their house, filled with servants to raise them and see to their every whims. He's only ever had Arthur; he barely remembers even their mother's face, the gentle way she spoke… Alfred only remembers this part because Arthur speaks to him this way, only taking their father's harsh, driven tone when he is working, making sure their company brings them wealth.
No one else is like Arthur. No one else is worth a genuine attention. Alfred fakes being a lovely, outgoing young man. He attends every parties, humors the ladies and wenches he sees. Once, he's found one willing enough, dragged her with suffocating kisses to the gardens. They'd found a comfortable, toppled barrow behind a shed. He'd bunched her skirts against her corset, tugged her panties down to spear inside.
All the while he thought of Arthur. Fisted his hand into the neatly arranged hair to devour her neck. He drunk her moans, thinking of the sounds Arthur could have made if he had been plowing inside him. He grunted something unintelligible as he came, eyes closing, thinking of only him as he spilled. The lass had seemed enamored enough not to mind, hair mused and lips red. Alfred had smiled, gentlemanly helping her wash. If only she had been someone else.
When he had been young, Alfred had thought himself disgusting. The crushing weight of religion had him fully repentant, praying nights on end for the feelings to stop, to just… end. When they never did and Arthur had noticed just how ill he had become, he had asked, timid and hesitant, if love was a sin. Arthur had frowned, apparently shaken to the core by the question and shook his head.
"No, dear. Love's never a sin. How could it be? He loves us. He makes our love happens. It cannot be."
If Arthur said it, he had naively thought, it had to be true.
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The first time he met Francis Alfred wasn't sure what to feel or think. Arthur had been holding a sumptuous reception, crystal chandeliers shining with the gentle light of a thousand candles. The house was able to welcome around a hundred and fifty guests in the great ballroom and amongst the hundreds of other wealthy industrials and people of vaguely noble origins, were a few peasants.
One of them was a French immigrant whose bourgeois parents had fled the Revolution, taking a liking to London, somehow, and stayed there. François—or Francis, as he insisted to be called as he understood his name might have been harder to pronounce—was a young doctor, just out of his studies and was the most sunning person he had ever met.
Presenting himself as Arthur's friend and extending one hand to be shook, Alfred watched him, surprised into an open-mouthed silence as he watched him. Skin pale and as smooth as porcelain, there was not a dent on it, not a single pore out of place or too large. Francis' hair was a perfect, golden blonde, his eyebrows just furnished enough, the same shiny blonde. His eyelashes were long enough to belong to a doll, fanning over deep indigo eyes. Francis was almost too perfect to be real.
Turning to Arthur to see if he was dreaming of an angel, had noticed his brother was watching the man with about the same surprise and incredulity, yet, mixed with something he couldn't quite get his fingers on. Arthur had moved his arm for him, Francis laughing with a wonderfultenor. The man was too perfect to be human. Alfred had felt rather scared.
Arthur had stood next to Francis, their shoulders brushing and the man sending his brother all too tender stares. It seemed normal to him then that his sickly brother was such good friend with his personal doctor, even if he had changed him so recently. Alfred had thought it was nothing out of the ordinary; Francis had been thirty for barely twenty-four hours then, Arthur was going to be thirty-four in a few months… Their ages were close enough to form a better friendship than between a seventy years-old man and one barely out of his teenage years.
Oh, how naïve he had been.
Alfred could only scoff at how stupid he could be. The stares told everything, even then. How could anyone not see? Arthur returned the Frenchman's tender gazes with timid, enamored, virginally bridal flutters of his eyelashes. His red cheeks had been excused with a fever. He had pulled himself from the feast, leaving him in charge as Francis obediently followed suit.
Francis' terrible beauty could only have been a sign of how evil he was, Alfred knows now.
Perhaps he is even the Antichrist; or Satan himself. After all, it has been said, once the Devil will come back to walk the Earth, he will be someone beautiful, to better charm… it has to be so. Francis is simply too perfect to be anything but a devil. One that has lured his brother into its evil clutches.
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He spies on them anytime he can. Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, Francis turns Arthur's face to his, pressing their lips together, as light as a feather. Arthur blushes and hits him lightly on the shoulder, flustered like a pure maiden. Francis smirks, perfect white teeth showing beneath his lips. They are no sharp, contrary to what one could have thought.
A clever devil hides himself well, after all. So well that he passes for a devout Christian, even though he spend his nights more than guarding his brother's fragile health at night. A clever devil must, after all, look anything but an abomination. Alfred can see through it all. If Francis thinks he is smart, he is gravely mistaken. He's seen through his game almost immediately.
Through a hole he's drilled behind a portrait in his room, Alfred can watch them to leisure. The hole gives right in front of Arthur's bed. If he forces his eye a little, he can see the door. Right in front of him, unseen, is Arthur's writing desk. In the morning he watches after he could hear them make love—or fornicate, as he growl through his teeth, seething—, Francis will sit there to write a note saying he will be in his own room as Arthur keeps him around for his "fragile health". The man mutters his note in a singing tone as he writes it down, each time apparently leaving something else, silently smiling at it.
Francis is infuriatingly good-natured. Alfred treats him like the lowest peasant, yet, the man only smile, understanding like only a predator trying to coax a bunny into its maws could do. Arthur has told him one night to "leave the lad some time" since, after all, there has only ever been the two of them and the servants and the old doctor Fletcher who cared little about getting to know them.
Most nights, Francis sneaks into Arthur's room, avoiding patrolling servants and guards with a precise knowledge of their rounds—perhaps even an ability to turn invisible. Arthur is usually awake and welcomes him with open arms and mouth, pulling Francis close, hands fisted into his coat as the Frenchman brings their forehead together, a satisfied smile stretching his lips. If Arthur is asleep, then, he simply undresses summarily, slipping inside the blankets to sleep with Arthur wrapped in his arms.
If at first, he had been sure Francis was so handsome only because he was an incubus, it seemed sex wasn't something they had too often. Actually, Francis barely did more than hug Arthur, pulling him close, sweetly burying his face into his neck, looking as if the whole world could have been at peace in that moment.
When something sexual happens for the first time when he's been watching, Arthur initiates it all. After enough poems and passionate kisses and pecks on his neck, his brother turns to Francis, pulls him down on the bed by his suspenders. Alfred gags, almost vomiting on the carpet as he hears him say to take him.
Tainted. This awful man has tainted his brother, making him ask for such vile things…
Alfred seethes, watching as Francis uses an unguent inside Arthur's drawers, something for dry skin he says is greasy enough for love-making. Arthur writes on the bed as the devil touches him all over, dragging his almost talons-like hands all over him, delicate artist hands rubbing, gripping, scratching all over him.
His head finds its way between Arthur's thighs, skilled jaws opening to allow his brother's length inside his throat. Arthur bites the back of his hand until blood drips over his cheek, hips rising against the Frenchman's face burrowed between his trembling thighs.
Alfred only has to imagine his brother trembling like this under him, because of him to need to palm his own, painfully tight trousers. He rubs his half-erect cock, watching the scene behind the wall with hushed breaths, scared he will be caught as much as they both seem to be. Francis pulls away with a small chocking noise, some cum dribbling down his lips. Arthur looks up to him, cheeks redder, ears a deep pink.
Francis only smile more, nuzzling his cheek to kiss him again. They undress with trembling, eager hands. Arthur has a miserably hard time with his lover's shirt, pulling each buttons off their hooks with febrile breaths and trembling, nimble fingers. Francis only chuckles, doing it for him, leaving the Brit the honour to actually pull the garment off of him.
Alfred glares at the strong back, hiding him the view of his brother's perfectly pale skin turning to wonderful gold and sepia tones in the dim glow of the oil lamps. Francis is lightly tanned with the time he spends outside searching for flowers—he generally enjoys the garden very much, Alfred noticed while following him. He can only scoff at this. Really? The devil found no ways to manifest itself but a poor peasant?
When Francis rolls on top of them to enter him, there is a moment of silence. They look at each other, Arthur's nervousness being painfully palpable.
Alfred feels painfully hard, squeezing himself to the point of hurting as Francis whispers something against Arthur's ear. He groans.
Arthur giggles, slapping Francis' shoulder again as the man leans away, grinning from ear to ear.
"You're an idiot," he says, adoration making the words barely more than a whisper.
"And you love me," Francis replies, leaning down for a kiss, settling between Arthur's thighs again.
Alfred can barely see what is happening for the next minutes. He pulls away from the hole, seeing only the end of the bed, Arthur's feet trashing under the blankets, pulling it away to revel his wriggling toes. He pulls his pants down to stroke his cock, clinging to the wall, grunts and sighs reaching his ear, helping him reach him peak into his palm as he imagines kissing Arthur's ankles, trust inside him like this…
When he looks into the hole again, Francis has rolled away. Arthur is clinging to him, head against his shoulder, looking wonderfully spent. They speak in whispers, Francis laughing happily as Arthur glares at him, only managing to look like an angry kitten. Soon, he falls asleep, leaving Francis to watch him for minutes on end, humming a song to himself.
Anger and jealousy keep Alfred awake for most of the night, trashing between the sheets, the image of Arthur's pleasure burned behind his retina.
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Francis has to leave.
Alfred doesn't know how, but he knows the man needs to leave their life. Without him, he is convinced he'd have chances with Arthur if the devil would just be gone.
He thinks of starting a rumour about Francis, to have him be incarcerated for sodomy. He knows, however, that doing so would probably bring unforeseen consequences for Arthur. Since Francis and his brother are practically joined at the hips recently, people would guess the two are lover. After all, doctors are allowed in rooms at any time, without questions…
Now, telling about them would bring only pain to his brother. He has to find another way. Scare the man into going away… exorcise the devil inside him. Whatever can work.
Alfred brews his plan for weeks. He thinks about every details, spying on the two of them every nights he can. The two have an enviable sexual appetite, Arthur often crawling on top of Francis to devour his lips for himself, settling his face between his hairy thighs… Alfred could vomit at the mere memory.
Francis is allowed at every reception held without a question, accompanying Arthur through conversation, charming everyone with his quick wits and gentle smiles, his knowledge of how the Kirkland Company's industries worked and a general impeccable behaviour. Alfred can only grip his glass in anger as he watches him putting everyone breathing in his pocket.
Alfred, however, is not as naïve as everyone else. He sees right through Francis' game, knows exactly what kind of horrible things hide behind the man's gentle smiles. Maybe the man just wants to feed of Arthur's sexual pleasure. Arthur has been more tired than usual lately… he fears this damn incubus' practically daily feedings have left his brother sick.
Arthur has always been of fragile health, sick more often than not, nailed to bed with a cold or some kind of rare bronchitis. Alfred remembers governesses he's named for him through his childhood years sometimes even trying to prepare him to the eventuality of death. His brother's frailty has lead them to always have a doctor at home—their estate is too far from London for a doctor to come in a respectable amount of time—and yet, it seems ever since Francis has arrived, his health has been plummeting.
It's been subtle at first, but now, he seems to be cumulating colds. Alfred openly shows his worry, asking his beloved brother if there is something he can do for him, only to have Arthur push him away, waving off his fears assuredly.
Again a reception; Francis flees it hurriedly, a maid was giving birth to her child, the delivery lasting for too long and being too difficult after almost a day's worth of contraction. Arthur had been pouting all night, tumbling around the room as if drunk.
"I'm not sick," he says, his forehead still pearling with tiny drops of sweat. Alfred wants to shake him like a tree, hesitating due to his brother's frail body.
"Right. Come up. You need to rest." Alfred pulls him close, breath hitching as Arthur's body crashes into his. He shivers, unsure of how he keeps control of himself, how he can stop himself from just leaning in, taking his lips into a kiss… There's nothing he wants more than that.
Arthur coughs, clinging to him, his eyes almost rolling into the back of his skull. People start to stare. Alfred hurries to reassure them, leading Arthur's hesitant steps back to his bedroom. The bed hasn't been made yet and he thinks, with sullenness, that they had sex just before leaving for the reception. Arthur whimpers, mechanically pulling himself to the sweat-stained sheets, burying his face into the pillow.
"Ca- call Fran… Francis… he's… he knows what to do," Arthur mutters, pulling a drawer open half-way through. Alfred looks in, finding flacons and needles inside it. He rummages through it, finding little but cotton balls and rubber bands.
Oh, as if. Alfred knows Francis is the one who's made his brother this way, feverish and defenceless… there's no ways he's going to call for this devil now.
Alfred looks at him, having the leisure now his dear brother his fast asleep, so peaceful if for a few raspy breaths. He brushes his lips, wipes the sweat from his forehead. Arthur mutters, calls for Francis softly, pairing the name with a honey-dripping pet name. Alfred scoffs.
His shirt is sticking to him. Trembling, Alfred unbuttons it, nimble fingers taking minutes for each of them. Arthur's body is littered with soft red marks from which, he imagines, Francis feeds off his brother's energy during intercourse. Fever almost drips out of every pores he touches, fingers ghosting on the Briton's soft, perfectly pink nipple.
Arthur twitches, calling out for Francis again in his delirium. He is so hot… heat is practically radiating from him. For a moment, Alfred considers calling Francis, worried with the Briton's fever. But the devil's made him this way… and Arthur looks so exquisite like this, lips red, brows furrowed and cheeks pinks.
He should be his, he thinks, unable to stop himself. He leans down just as he's wished he could earlier, joining their lips together, eyes closing then opening to make sure his brother is still out of it. Arthur barely twitches, grumbling something under his breath. Alfred fears he's about to wake up, pulls away hurriedly to watch him for what feels like an eternity. His brother still breathes with difficulty, unresponsive.
He moves his hands to his chest, touching as if he had been missing it for years. And he has been. He's been watching, staring at Arthur since he was barely more than ten. He's noticed changes in his feelings for him when puberty came, when he started touching himself, with only his brother's soft lips in mind, imagining them around his cock.
The thought of having Arthur's mouth around his member is just enough to make him hard. He groans, one hand brushing over his stomach, dipping into Arthur's pants. The skin of his prick his soft, Arthur is juvenile even there—hair is almost lacking, he can barely push his fingers inside it. He grips his shaft, staring at his beloved, pants around his knees, shirt open, looking just so ravishing…
He lets go of Arthur deceivingly, stubbornly limp cock. He takes his own in one hand, stroking it hard and fast. Alfred shivers, looking at Arthur's defenceless form on the bed, looms over him to trust his tongue inside his mouth. Arthur tastes of tea, milk and cough syrup, with the faint, bitter prickle of wine. Arthur answers with a soft moan, croaky breaths coming out of him as Alfred pulls away. His lips are red and bruised, even more kissable.
Thinking of the breaths as moans, Alfred closes his eyes, wrapping his own lips around Arthur's delightful nipples. He nips, sucks and suckles with eagerness, the apprehension of being caught only making him more aroused, using his other hand to pinch the other. Arthur's skin tastes of rose-scented soap, his cologne gives a soft, minty aroma…
Arthur remembers the girl he's slept with a few months ago, remembers he cute little keens and moans, how he's wished to hear Arthur like this… his brother doesn't quite make a sound now. He groans, hands rustling through the sheets, squirming, calling for another man. Alfred gets up, vexed, ready to leave when Arthur coughs again. He comes back, just to make sure he is alright, knowing he must call Francis to tell him his brother his bed-ridden again.
Arthur's lips are kiss-bruised still, his cheeks shows how bad the fever is.
Unable to resist, Alfred brings the head of his cock against Arthur's lips, pre-cum smearing on them. He's so aroused he fears coming right on his face, heart hammering in his chest. Panicked, he pulls away, just as Arthur instinctively licks off the white liquid off his lips.
He imagines Arthur's lips on his cock again, cheeks puffed and eyes closed, so close to coming it's almost all he needs. He touches himself in long, hard grips, one hand turning Arthur's face to look at him as he brings himself to completion, peaking as Arthur looks to him through half-lidded eyes, falling back asleep as soon as he comes in long, white ribbons. Alfred hurriedly covers his cock, some white drops landing on Arthur's chest and stomach.
Alfred wipes him clean, watching his sleeping brother with tender eyes. There's a noticeable tent in Arthur's pants, but with the way he starts coughing again, Alfred decides it's better to call Francis to have him care for Arthur's state.
He feels Arthur is a little more his now.
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Feel free to comment: it is the writer's pay. This story has been cross-posted on AO3.