[FIC] Half-remembered Dreams (Robert/Browning)
Title: Half-remembered Dreams
Word Count: 1,929
Pairing: Robert Fischer/Peter Browning
Rating: R, maybe hard-R just to be safe
Warnings: Incest, dubious consent, sexual situations involving a very young minor, generally dark themes
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine and I in no way condone child abuse. I know I'm probably going to hell for writing this, but I just got the idea and it wouldn't go away. If you feel you may be triggered, please proceed with caution.
I
The first time, Robert is eleven and his face is still wet with the mixture of rain and tears he wore to his mother’s funeral. His father has dashed off, maybe to a meeting, and it is Uncle Peter who leads him away with a soft word and an arm curled around his heaving shoulders. In the backseat of the taxi, Uncle Peter holds him and rubs little circles on his back with his big, warm hands. He doesn’t even seem to mind that Robert is sobbing into the breast of his suit jacket.
It’s behavior his father would never tolerate, but Uncle Peter doesn’t tell him to stop crying, doesn’t even comment on how young it all makes him seem that Robert is too tired and upset to walk up to his apartment and he has to carry him into the elevator. Uncle Peter’s voice is familiar and comforting and Robert is already close to falling asleep with his head on his godfather’s shoulder.
He remembers everything up to Uncle Peter laying him back on a bed that looks freshly made and gently tipping his chin to help him drink from a glass filled with a dark liquid that burns from the moment it touches his lips, all the way down his throat and through his chest and belly. He has a vague recollection of sensation, of someone undoing the buttons of his stiff, Oxford shirt and then everything seems to go dark as he sinks into the bed, swallowed up by the soft mattress and the heat.
In his grief, he forgets it all until a few days later when, fresh from the bath, he finds a two small, red marks blooming on his collarbone like roses against a backdrop of winter. He can’t remember how they got there, but it feels like he should.
II
A month has passed and the red has faded from his skin and from his memory, a detail easily discarded by the mind of a child. He feels a little lost, a little sad, trying to forge a bond with his one remaining parent when Maurice is always too busy, always pushing him away as if his presence alone is an irritation. He tries to prepare himself for life without the love and affection his mother showed him, because affection has never been his father’s strong suit. As a language, he speaks it only fumblingly and in broken phrases. But Uncle Peter is always there to give him what his father can’t and more, what he won’t.
Touch is a simple answer to the rejection and misery that plague Robert, and he welcomes it even when Uncle Peter’s caresses stop resembling anything he knows and can predict. Acclimation sets in quickly, however, and he stops being uncertain when Uncle Peter pulls him into his lap and he can feel the heat of the man’s hands through the fabric of his crisp, pressed khakis, smoothing over his hips and the tops of his thighs with strong fingers. Uncle Peter’s thumb draws lazy spirals along the inside of his thigh and the only thing he can think to do is close his eyes against the vertigo.
Uncle Peter’s breath is hot and loud in his ear, his lips brushing over the delicate skin there as he promises that everything will be okay. Uncle Peter promises to take good care of him and Robert believes it because it’s easier that way.
Then Uncle Peter’s mouth is on his and the kiss is soft and warm and like nothing he has ever felt before. When his godfather’s hand unzips him and creeps under the waistband of his pants, he just sighs and presses forward to be rewarded with Uncle Peter’s voice in his ear, telling him what a good boy he is.
III
It isn’t that Robert doesn’t know it isn’t right to let his godfather press nakedly against him or to delve into his body with his tongue and his fingers, made slick with saliva and something he squeezes out of a little plastic bottle. He knows it’s wrong, but Uncle Peter gives him things he hadn’t even known he could want, much less need. No one has ever praised him like Uncle Peter does, and for things he barely knows how to control.
Uncle Peter can’t stop saying how proud he is when Robert parts his lips to let him rub his penis over the wet insides of his cheeks and the rough surface of his tongue. His hands are silently encouraging, the pad of his thumb stroking over Robert’s cheeks, hollowed as he sucks and sucks, and the plush outline of his lips where they’re wrapped around Uncle Peter’s cock, never pushing just keeping contact and Uncle Peter murmuring to him all the while.
The first time Robert makes him come like that, Uncle Peter has to explain the bitter taste on his tongue that makes him gag and sputter and swallow reflexively, even though it’s the last thing he wants to do. He says he doesn’t like it, but then Uncle Peter is dragging up from where he’s been kneeling on the floor and gathering the evidence of his release from Robert’s mouth and chin with little flicks of his tongue in a sloppy, wet kiss.
It gives him an odd feeling of power to see Uncle Peter undone, breathing heavily and trembling, his pants open and his softening erection leaving a damp spot on Robert’s brand new sweater where it’s wedged between them. He feels weak all over again when Uncle Peter pulls out the bottle to slick his fingers and pushes two inside, but it’s a good kind of weak and he doesn’t mind. He rocks back until he shudders and goes soft, and Uncle Peter kisses him and cleans them both with a warm washcloth.
He falls asleep on top of the duvet and when he wakes up he’s back in his father’s apartment and his clothes are clean and folded at the foot of his bed.
IV
A year goes by, everything more or less the same, and when Uncle Peter pushes up inside him for the first time, Robert is twelve and mostly asleep, barely stirring as Uncle Peter, who has been talking with his father late into the night, enters his room and locks the door behind him.
His eyes don’t flutter open until sometime in the middle of being stretched and he startles a little, but then Uncle Peter’s voice is soothing him, telling him to relax, and he does. It’s hot in his room and it feels good to be naked under the thin sheets with Uncle Peter’s tongue stroking his mouth and his fingers massaging that spot inside him that makes his thighs fall apart of their own accord. Uncle Peter’s clothes are on the way they always are and the expensive wool of his slacks sparks over the backs of his thighs, making him shiver as Uncle Peter guides himself in.
There is some resistance, but not much with how often he’s had Uncle Peter’s fingers probing there inside him. Still, it hurts at first, burning and stretching, and he tries automatically to recoil from the source of pain. Uncle Peter’s hand presses down on his abdomen to hold him there as he stills, and he leans down to brush the hair from Robert’s brow, matted with sweat, and kiss the tears from his cheeks. Uncle Peter’s hands coax the tension out of him, his cries swallowed up by the man’s mouth. The pain doesn’t go away, but Uncle Peter turns it down and it gets lost in the cacophony.
Uncle Peter is making sounds Robert has never heard before. Strange, animal grunts and choked-back moans that rumble in his ears. He hears his own sounds, a mix of panting and whining as he rockets back and forth between extremes, and the squelching sound that his body makes as Uncle Peter’s hips toward and away from him, the flesh hot and pulsing inside him. It’s slow and quick all at once and before he knows it, it’s over and Uncle Peter is doing up his fly.
His body contracts and aches, clenching for something that’s no longer there and Uncle Peter kisses him once more before closing the door gently behind him. There’s a feeling in the air like something has changed, and it’s a long while before his body relaxes and he can find sleep again.
V
The plot of their intimacy is like a perfect bell curve, beginning low and slow and rising rapidly to a brief peak before dropping off sharply again because he’s getting older, his voice deepening, once smooth skin growing downy with fine, dark hair beneath his arms and on the mild rise of his pubis. He’s not a man, still hardly more than a boy, but the warmth between them, both sexual and familial, has begun to cool by degrees and by the time he’s fourteen Uncle Peter is nearly as cool to him as his father.
But he’s learned a lot from Uncle Peter, and there are other men in his life. Andrew Stephens is one of his father’s many attorneys, one of the better ones in fact, fresh out of law school and perfectly suited to his purposes. The man has perfected the art of staring at him while seeming to meet his father’s eyes often enough to be polite, his gaze so intense as to make even the briefest pass seem obscenely penetrating. His smiles are softer than his eyes, dark and liquid, almost black, but not by much.
It only takes a few days of trading glances before Robert is crowded under Andrew’s desk with the man’s cock in his mouth and a hand between his own legs to relieve the pressure. Andrew is the type to grip the back of his neck and shove him down until he can feel the back of Robert’s throat, seemingly more interested in the involuntary contraction of his muscles as he pants through his nostrils and tries not to choke than anything to do with his lips or tongue.
They do this once when Maurice is in the room, sitting just on the other side of the desk. Andrew’s voice betrays nothing, calm and detached even as he’s flooding Robert’s throat with his climax. It’s oddly exciting, almost vindictive, and his father never finds out. It’s his first experience handling that strange mixture of admiration and hatred and, like all new sensations, Robert follows it to see where it will lead. Andrew isn’t a gentle man-he isn’t even a particularly nice man, but he’s efficient, and even on the nights where he leaves Robert bleeding he leaves him satisfied.
Andrew makes him forget to miss Uncle Peter, for the most part, but on nights when he manages to slip out and spend the night with Andrew, the man’s arm draped over him uncharacteristically, he finds himself missing the easy affection and the softness. It’s wrong that it happened at all, but it’s even worse that he misses it, he thinks, and the war he wages inside himself makes him feel broken and worthless.
But time wears on and though he wonders if it ever will, eventually the longing fades and then dissipates altogether, even as he moves onto men far worse than Andrew Stephens. By the time Robert is in his thirties and his father is as dead as his mother, there is nothing left to wish for-only half-remembered dreams.
Word Count: 1,929
Pairing: Robert Fischer/Peter Browning
Rating: R, maybe hard-R just to be safe
Warnings: Incest, dubious consent, sexual situations involving a very young minor, generally dark themes
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine and I in no way condone child abuse. I know I'm probably going to hell for writing this, but I just got the idea and it wouldn't go away. If you feel you may be triggered, please proceed with caution.
I
The first time, Robert is eleven and his face is still wet with the mixture of rain and tears he wore to his mother’s funeral. His father has dashed off, maybe to a meeting, and it is Uncle Peter who leads him away with a soft word and an arm curled around his heaving shoulders. In the backseat of the taxi, Uncle Peter holds him and rubs little circles on his back with his big, warm hands. He doesn’t even seem to mind that Robert is sobbing into the breast of his suit jacket.
It’s behavior his father would never tolerate, but Uncle Peter doesn’t tell him to stop crying, doesn’t even comment on how young it all makes him seem that Robert is too tired and upset to walk up to his apartment and he has to carry him into the elevator. Uncle Peter’s voice is familiar and comforting and Robert is already close to falling asleep with his head on his godfather’s shoulder.
He remembers everything up to Uncle Peter laying him back on a bed that looks freshly made and gently tipping his chin to help him drink from a glass filled with a dark liquid that burns from the moment it touches his lips, all the way down his throat and through his chest and belly. He has a vague recollection of sensation, of someone undoing the buttons of his stiff, Oxford shirt and then everything seems to go dark as he sinks into the bed, swallowed up by the soft mattress and the heat.
In his grief, he forgets it all until a few days later when, fresh from the bath, he finds a two small, red marks blooming on his collarbone like roses against a backdrop of winter. He can’t remember how they got there, but it feels like he should.
II
A month has passed and the red has faded from his skin and from his memory, a detail easily discarded by the mind of a child. He feels a little lost, a little sad, trying to forge a bond with his one remaining parent when Maurice is always too busy, always pushing him away as if his presence alone is an irritation. He tries to prepare himself for life without the love and affection his mother showed him, because affection has never been his father’s strong suit. As a language, he speaks it only fumblingly and in broken phrases. But Uncle Peter is always there to give him what his father can’t and more, what he won’t.
Touch is a simple answer to the rejection and misery that plague Robert, and he welcomes it even when Uncle Peter’s caresses stop resembling anything he knows and can predict. Acclimation sets in quickly, however, and he stops being uncertain when Uncle Peter pulls him into his lap and he can feel the heat of the man’s hands through the fabric of his crisp, pressed khakis, smoothing over his hips and the tops of his thighs with strong fingers. Uncle Peter’s thumb draws lazy spirals along the inside of his thigh and the only thing he can think to do is close his eyes against the vertigo.
Uncle Peter’s breath is hot and loud in his ear, his lips brushing over the delicate skin there as he promises that everything will be okay. Uncle Peter promises to take good care of him and Robert believes it because it’s easier that way.
Then Uncle Peter’s mouth is on his and the kiss is soft and warm and like nothing he has ever felt before. When his godfather’s hand unzips him and creeps under the waistband of his pants, he just sighs and presses forward to be rewarded with Uncle Peter’s voice in his ear, telling him what a good boy he is.
III
It isn’t that Robert doesn’t know it isn’t right to let his godfather press nakedly against him or to delve into his body with his tongue and his fingers, made slick with saliva and something he squeezes out of a little plastic bottle. He knows it’s wrong, but Uncle Peter gives him things he hadn’t even known he could want, much less need. No one has ever praised him like Uncle Peter does, and for things he barely knows how to control.
Uncle Peter can’t stop saying how proud he is when Robert parts his lips to let him rub his penis over the wet insides of his cheeks and the rough surface of his tongue. His hands are silently encouraging, the pad of his thumb stroking over Robert’s cheeks, hollowed as he sucks and sucks, and the plush outline of his lips where they’re wrapped around Uncle Peter’s cock, never pushing just keeping contact and Uncle Peter murmuring to him all the while.
The first time Robert makes him come like that, Uncle Peter has to explain the bitter taste on his tongue that makes him gag and sputter and swallow reflexively, even though it’s the last thing he wants to do. He says he doesn’t like it, but then Uncle Peter is dragging up from where he’s been kneeling on the floor and gathering the evidence of his release from Robert’s mouth and chin with little flicks of his tongue in a sloppy, wet kiss.
It gives him an odd feeling of power to see Uncle Peter undone, breathing heavily and trembling, his pants open and his softening erection leaving a damp spot on Robert’s brand new sweater where it’s wedged between them. He feels weak all over again when Uncle Peter pulls out the bottle to slick his fingers and pushes two inside, but it’s a good kind of weak and he doesn’t mind. He rocks back until he shudders and goes soft, and Uncle Peter kisses him and cleans them both with a warm washcloth.
He falls asleep on top of the duvet and when he wakes up he’s back in his father’s apartment and his clothes are clean and folded at the foot of his bed.
IV
A year goes by, everything more or less the same, and when Uncle Peter pushes up inside him for the first time, Robert is twelve and mostly asleep, barely stirring as Uncle Peter, who has been talking with his father late into the night, enters his room and locks the door behind him.
His eyes don’t flutter open until sometime in the middle of being stretched and he startles a little, but then Uncle Peter’s voice is soothing him, telling him to relax, and he does. It’s hot in his room and it feels good to be naked under the thin sheets with Uncle Peter’s tongue stroking his mouth and his fingers massaging that spot inside him that makes his thighs fall apart of their own accord. Uncle Peter’s clothes are on the way they always are and the expensive wool of his slacks sparks over the backs of his thighs, making him shiver as Uncle Peter guides himself in.
There is some resistance, but not much with how often he’s had Uncle Peter’s fingers probing there inside him. Still, it hurts at first, burning and stretching, and he tries automatically to recoil from the source of pain. Uncle Peter’s hand presses down on his abdomen to hold him there as he stills, and he leans down to brush the hair from Robert’s brow, matted with sweat, and kiss the tears from his cheeks. Uncle Peter’s hands coax the tension out of him, his cries swallowed up by the man’s mouth. The pain doesn’t go away, but Uncle Peter turns it down and it gets lost in the cacophony.
Uncle Peter is making sounds Robert has never heard before. Strange, animal grunts and choked-back moans that rumble in his ears. He hears his own sounds, a mix of panting and whining as he rockets back and forth between extremes, and the squelching sound that his body makes as Uncle Peter’s hips toward and away from him, the flesh hot and pulsing inside him. It’s slow and quick all at once and before he knows it, it’s over and Uncle Peter is doing up his fly.
His body contracts and aches, clenching for something that’s no longer there and Uncle Peter kisses him once more before closing the door gently behind him. There’s a feeling in the air like something has changed, and it’s a long while before his body relaxes and he can find sleep again.
V
The plot of their intimacy is like a perfect bell curve, beginning low and slow and rising rapidly to a brief peak before dropping off sharply again because he’s getting older, his voice deepening, once smooth skin growing downy with fine, dark hair beneath his arms and on the mild rise of his pubis. He’s not a man, still hardly more than a boy, but the warmth between them, both sexual and familial, has begun to cool by degrees and by the time he’s fourteen Uncle Peter is nearly as cool to him as his father.
But he’s learned a lot from Uncle Peter, and there are other men in his life. Andrew Stephens is one of his father’s many attorneys, one of the better ones in fact, fresh out of law school and perfectly suited to his purposes. The man has perfected the art of staring at him while seeming to meet his father’s eyes often enough to be polite, his gaze so intense as to make even the briefest pass seem obscenely penetrating. His smiles are softer than his eyes, dark and liquid, almost black, but not by much.
It only takes a few days of trading glances before Robert is crowded under Andrew’s desk with the man’s cock in his mouth and a hand between his own legs to relieve the pressure. Andrew is the type to grip the back of his neck and shove him down until he can feel the back of Robert’s throat, seemingly more interested in the involuntary contraction of his muscles as he pants through his nostrils and tries not to choke than anything to do with his lips or tongue.
They do this once when Maurice is in the room, sitting just on the other side of the desk. Andrew’s voice betrays nothing, calm and detached even as he’s flooding Robert’s throat with his climax. It’s oddly exciting, almost vindictive, and his father never finds out. It’s his first experience handling that strange mixture of admiration and hatred and, like all new sensations, Robert follows it to see where it will lead. Andrew isn’t a gentle man-he isn’t even a particularly nice man, but he’s efficient, and even on the nights where he leaves Robert bleeding he leaves him satisfied.
Andrew makes him forget to miss Uncle Peter, for the most part, but on nights when he manages to slip out and spend the night with Andrew, the man’s arm draped over him uncharacteristically, he finds himself missing the easy affection and the softness. It’s wrong that it happened at all, but it’s even worse that he misses it, he thinks, and the war he wages inside himself makes him feel broken and worthless.
But time wears on and though he wonders if it ever will, eventually the longing fades and then dissipates altogether, even as he moves onto men far worse than Andrew Stephens. By the time Robert is in his thirties and his father is as dead as his mother, there is nothing left to wish for-only half-remembered dreams.