Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5015053.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Crimson_Peak_(2015)
  Relationship:
      Lucille_Sharpe/Thomas_Sharpe
  Character:
      Lucille_Sharpe, Thomas_Sharpe
  Additional Tags:
      Additional_Warnings_Apply, Disturbing_Themes, Incest, Underage_Sex, Rape/
      Non-con_Elements, Necrophilia
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-17 Words: 1527
****** To Have and To Hold ******
by WaltzingOnQuicksand
Summary
     They were but children then, until she painted it all crimson.
     [Incest/very disturbing/graphic]
 
Red specks of dust pooled at my feet as I sat at the old piano. Autumn came and
went, ghosting away with it the last trace of warmth that lingered in this dark
attic.
Now only shadows haunted the creaking floor-boards.
Beneath the window where I sat, a sea of red seeped through the virgin snow
that was devouring Crimson Peak.
He came in as I was undressing, cradling a butterfly in his palms.
“Look”, my little brother whispered, eyes hungrily roaming the fragile golden
wings, “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I looked at him for a while, but Thomas did not return my gaze. He seemed so
enamoured with the petty little thing. 
“Am I beautiful, Thomas?”, I asked.
With some reluctance, he lifted his eyes off the insect and took one glance at
my corset, before slowly nodding. His little finger stroked the creature’s
wings gently.
“More so than mother?”
“Mother is horrid and foul.”
I laughed, knowing our mother was as good to us as she was dead, as I strode
towards my brother.
The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet, and the wind from the chimney blew
out the candles in the room, leaving but one in my hand still burning hotly.
I took his hand, and put it on my bosom.
“Touch me, Thomas.”
He nodded, letting his little fingers glide along the confines of my chest.
“Tell me, Thomas, am I beautiful?”
“Yes, Lucy.”
I hummed.
“More so than that horrid creature in your palm?”
He looked up at me quizzically. Shadows darted across his youthful face lit by
a single flame.
“I...--”
I felt a sweet smile curving on my lips at his hesitation, and brought my palm
down to clasp his hand still holding the golden butterfly.
I crushed it.
My brother let out a whimper, as he watched the beautiful creature lay broken
and dead in the paleness of his palm.
But there was no crimson.
I gently grabbed his chin and made him look up at me, as I spoke softly.
“Beauty is a fleeting thing, my dear brother... But now she will be yours to
have and to hold...” 
I closed his palm around the dead creature.
“Forever.”
 
I gazed into the looking glass.
We were but children, then.
Black was my hair, The colour of the coal they fed to the metal beasts down
below. Pale was my skin, the sodden white trampled by the rough workers down in
the snow. My lips...
I turned to the sound of the door creaking open
“Lucy...”
“What is it, Thomas?” My voice was cold, as I kept seeing into the looking
glass; he should not have left me alone.
“I-It...”, my poor brother sobbed, “It hurts.”
I did turn, then. Thomas was stood in the doorway, he had his hand clutched
tight at the front of his trousers. The gentle candle-light kissed his tear-
stained face. I relented.
“Was it father?”
He bit down on his lips and nodded, trying to choke in a sob, but it broke out.
I let the ice melt away from my eyes and held out my arms. My brother bursted
into tears as he came bolting towards me, I cradled his face against my
breasts.
“Tell me where it hurts...”
“Here...” his voice came out as a whisper, a shameful whisper, as he guided my
hand to his crotch. I pushed him out at arm’s length and studied his features.
Thomas was beautiful. His hair was ebony, his skin was marble white, his lips
were crimson. He was so beautiful. He was my brother, my treasure, mine to have
and to hold.
Father was a fucking swine who beat his own wife and son.
And I, Lucille, was a wench to father’s workers.
It started over a year ago when I was twelve, as young as Thomas was now. I had
gone down to the fields at night. I remembered the sounds of drunk men, the
clammy hands grabbing at my limbs as they pushed me down, the stench of mead in
their breaths. I remembered them tearing my legs spread and shoving their cocks
into my cunt. ‘Easy, now, little wench’, their breaths were warm against my
ear, ‘Now spread out a little more, I want my turn in your pretty cunt too.’
I lay there in silence, knowing not a soul would come even if I screamed,
bleeding crimson into the snow.
“Did he hit you there?” I asked.
Thomas nodded and whispered.
“Father’s cane...”
I kissed his forehead and smoothed my hand down his crotch.
“Come now. Take these off, I’ll make it better.”
He only sobbed louder as I pried my hands into his trousers.
“Thomas”, I said, “Look at me. Look at me in the eye and tell me; would I ever
hurt you?”
My brother still had tears in his eyes, but he was not crying anymore. Thomas
put his hands on my breasts and shook his head.
“That’s right”, I whispered into his ear as I guided his breeches down, “I’m
here for you, Thomas. Lucille is here. I am yours, and you are mine. I would
never hurt you.”
That night, I touched him there. I played my fingers up and down his shaft,
feather light, as I would the piano. I stroked it so it was standing high in
all its glory.
Thomas, my brother, was beautiful. 
My little brother sucked on the peaks of my breasts until they were red and
raw, as a babe would its mother’s teats. I was all he had in this world that
was the attic. I was his sister, his mother, his wench. 
I leant down to kiss the head of his cock, and he whimpered.
“Does it feel good, Thomas?”
“Lucy...”
I kissed him there, over and over again. I took it into my mouth and sucked
like I would our mother’s breasts, until finally my brother went limp in my
arms, and painted my face with his love.
White, just like the falling snow.
“Thomas”, I whispered, my voice hoarse like a dying candle. “When you are hurt,
come to me. I’ll kiss it. I’ll kiss the pain away.”
 
“Do you love me, Thomas?” 
“Yes, Lucy.”
“Will you promise to love me and only me forever?”
“Yes, Lucy.”
“Good”, I said, and spread my legs wider, “Then kiss me, Thomas.”
He crawled onto the bed, inexperienced hands fumbled at my thighs. I laughed,
and guided his face towards my cunt. Kiss me, I said. Kiss my butterfly.
My brother fucked me that night. He fucked me hard into the bed we shared since
I could remember. I begged him to go harder, harder until crimson glistened on
the pure, snow-white sheets beneath us. Thomas looked down at the devastation
that lay between my thighs, but something hardened in his eyes. Something that
burnt hot like a coal on fire.
“Hit me, then”, I whispered, “Hit me like he hit you.”
I cried, as pain unlike any I had known before, came crashing onto me with a
whip of his belt. It was dark, and my vision swam with tears, but one thing I
saw clear was the madness in his eyes that were too much like mine.
We were the mad children in the attic, this much I knew, and that my brother
loved me too. He cleaned me up, and kissed me there. I’ll kiss it better, he
said, I’ll kiss you fair.
Then came that fateful night. Thomas had his cock in my cunt again, he was
thrusting into me like a stallion in heat, and it hurt. It hurt like fire, but
I only cried for him to fuck me harder. The pain was so blissful I screamed for
release, and it was too late when I opened my eyes again to see the ghastly
white face of our mother watching from the door.
Lightning struck outside, lighting up her skeleton-white, horrible face. Her
sunken eyes were blown wide, her lips curved down in a sneer. Mother’s face was
truly a twisted and ugly thing. She howled and launched herself at us like a
mad bitch. I tore myself away from Thomas and dove at her with a feral roar.
She did not deserve this, too, this was Thomas’s and mine, she did not deserve
to pry away the one last thing that was mine!
I hacked her head with a cleaver knife over the bath-tub, just like I had
crushed that golden butterfly. Blood oozed from her face, dying her white hair
red. Thomas stood behind me, his eyes gazing down in wonder at the sight of the
beautiful blotches of crimson butterfly beginning to bloom on her snow-white
night gown. He leant down and sucked on her teat, the way he never could. I
picked up a strand of her hair, bathed in sinful red, and plucked it.
I stowed it away in my trunk, only picking it up every once in a while to
marvel at the lovely shade of red.
After all, beauty was a fleeting thing, and our mother was beautiful, at long
last.
Here, at Crimson Peak.
 
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