azuremew: (ebr)
[personal profile] azuremew
Title: A Prisoner of History (2/2)
Word Count: 2,985 / 6,215
Pairing: Eames/Robert, Browning/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, alcohol, incest, torture porn/violence, dub-con, D/s
Summary: Peter Browning learns about Eames, the man that changed Robert Fischer.
Author's Note: Beta'd by [ profile] lycanthrophile and [ profile] croik; this was due to a discussion a while back about how I imagined the possibility of Browning/Eames/Robert being a struggle of power, a balancing act, with Robert being caught in the middle both mentally and physically. Title is from Sia's "I'm In Here"

Part 1

The silence was welcome through the journey back to Sydney. Peter read the paper and eventually slept, and Robert sat with a white ledger and black ink pen. He scrawled notes, plans, all over until his fingers were stained and his eyes ached. He rubbed them gently and got up to use the restroom. The mirror reflected smears of black along his face that looked like someone punched him. Twice. He frowned at the thought and washed his face, and while the smudges were wiped clean, the dark rings beneath his eyes stayed.

Robert sighed. He went to the bar before taking his seat, knowing things would never settle, and pulled out a bottle of scotch. It was his father's, he imagined, or Uncle Peter's, and now, as he poured a full tumbler of the amber liquid, it was his. He drank a quarter and stood there, let the burn course through him before he took another. By the last drop, Robert noted how tedious the actions were and took the bottle rather than a mere refill.

Exhausted as he was, sleep would not come. He leaned back the chair opposite to his uncle and closed his eyes, tried to think of nothing, but everything came. He counted sheep and concentrated on the hum of the plane's engines, but the moment he felt a little closer, the smell of rain filled his nostrils, and then a kiss woke him from his half-slumber. It delved deep into his mouth, past lips glossed in alcohol and teeth that parted willingly.

The warmth spread through him, and he turned away, let his hand roam over his slacks and the bulge that was starting to grow from the memory he could not simply let go. He recalled the second time, during an afternoon break upon the building's roof where smokers were designated. Robert had never traveled up there, but this man brought out the worst in him. Regular drinks and cigarettes. He plucked the cigarette out of Eames's mouth and dragged a deep breath.

Robert coughed. “Jesus Christ.” He hissed at the pain in his lungs and gave it back.

“Serves you right for stealing a man's smoke.” Eames laughed.

Robert snatched it away again, and Eames let out a smoky breath that caressed Robert's pale features. “I wanted to taste you. Always.” They knew this would not last much longer, but it did not matter.

“Careful, darling,” Eames warned. “You know how addictive these things can get.”

The nicotine and Eames had latched on, but while he could buy some Nicorette when the plane landed, he could not stop thinking of that man. His taste never changed, scotch and cigarettes, cologne too, a musk he held onto and dragged his tongue upon each time he could.

The marks he left on Eames reflected the subtle contentment on his face. Satisfied, sated, Robert Fischer was ready for what would come.

No longer, but it felt good at least to recall those moments, brief as they were, when he could call himself happy. Free. He parted his lips again and opened his slacks just enough to slip beneath his briefs and tug soft pulls along his cock.

He stopped at Peter’s hand between his legs.

“Don't,” Peter said. His voice low and husky, his hand opened Robert’s slacks and drifted further until his index finger caressed the tight ring in small circles. He did not quite pry Robert open, but it was enough to have him shaking. “I don't understand why we're fighting, Robert. I did everything for you and the company.” He reached over and beneath Robert's shirt to tease his nipple. That made him jump back, and Peter was there to catch and continue to keep hold of him. “Don't you know this, son?”

“Yes,” Robert whimpered. “I'm sorry, Uncle Peter. I should have never doubted you.”

“But you did,” Peter said and twisted until the bud was red and swollen, borderline agony. “I think you need a lesson for your defiance, don't you?”

Robert nodded, his lower lip dulling the pain as it was held between clenched teeth. His jaw ached, and he could not tell one sensation from the next; the alcohol was swimming in his empty stomach. Still, he knew that if he followed the rules, it would be over soon.

His slacks were pulled down to his ankles, and he was brought to the floor of the cabin. Leaned over the seat, all he could grip were the soft leather cushions that would not give much relief. He curled his fingers at the sound of Peter's belt and held the air in his lungs.

“Breathe,” Peter reminded him. “Count with me.”

The first crack sang from Robert's arse up his spine, and he clawed, thought that he might vomit right then and there. The second almost caused him to do so, the sour taste in his mouth that mingled with saliva and mucus. He sobbed at the third, and screamed at the forth.

By the seventh, he was no longer there. The pain did not overwhelm him; the nausea did not threaten him. He was gone.

Peter brought him back by caressing the welts that covered his nephew's arse. The red bled across, but it was each reaction, the moans from his touch that interested him “Who did this to you?” he asked, concerned at the notion someone was near his Robert.

“What?” Robert's voice was a ghost of a whisper, trapped in the haze, he had not quite come down and hoped Peter would not stop. But the name held in his mind suddenly, and he closed his eyes. “No one, Uncle Peter.”

“You don't drink,” Peter said. “Not your father's alcohol.”

“It was a mistake, now please . . . .” Robert shifted his weight back so that he felt the hand, soft, then nothing. It was foolish of him to allow that impulse, even in desire, and the connection of his uncle's palm against the swollen heat burned through him. He spoke through gritted teeth, “I swear it.”

“And I don't believe you,” Peter said. He glanced about the cabin and saw what he needed, he latched onto the bottle and pinned his knees into Robert's legs to keep him still.

It was cold at first, the amber liquid as it poured down his back, but the very moment it hit the welts, he was crying into the cushions. “Please, stop it. Christ, it hurts.”

“Silence,” Peter commanded. “Unless you would like to change your mind.”

Robert said nothing even as he felt the pain along the cleft of his arse, the fire that burned as Peter spread him wide, forced him to take two fingers without so much as a bit of preparation. He shook, his body taut in knots and painful tension until the room felt too warm and his skin was balmy with sweat.

He twisted to the side and retched onto the floor, could not breathe but felt nothing except shudders that had him folded in his own fifth.

It smelled. Through the rest of the flight, even after he was allowed to wash in the small stall, it smelled. The stench was no longer sweet when he closed his eyes, and that was what hurt the most while he sat opposite to the display of his punishment.

Peter would not let him lie down even as he fidgeted there, “Only if you tell me.”

“There is nothing,” he said every time. “Nothing, Uncle Peter.”

The lie continued after the landing and months later. Robert went about the work, but it was for his own benefit. It was a lonely process. Peter did most of the work while he sat on the side lines, gathered paperwork. Medical leave, that was what they called it. Time to grieve, but he was not grieving. They gave him pills, antidepressants and mood stabilizers, but he flushed them all and found different ways to cope.

He stood in his father's office, the original at Fischer Morrow. It was half empty from transferring documents to the home and kept as such like a shrine. Cabinets were barren, their contents in boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling. It still smelled like cigars and scotch when he breathed in deeply, but it was not as bothersome as before. Robert closed his eyes and remembered the conversations between board members, Uncle Peter and his father especially. There was a time once when they laughed, when the company stood strong, and his mother was still alive. He wanted to keep it together rather than torn apart by the years after.

“You should get some sleep,” Peter said at the entry.

Robert shook his head and ignored his approach. “Not now, Uncle Peter.” He followed the footsteps his father once took to the desk and opened the cabinet drawer behind it. “My father, he said there are documents here.” The idea took hold, and he was manic in answering to its bidding. It sang bright in the air a dark noise, barely a whisper to the cacophony inside of his head. But he heard it. It had to be true. His father loved him, gave him this chance that his uncle was hiding.

Peter’s hand slipped over Robert's and pushed the drawer shut. “Enough. You won't find this alternate will by Maurice.”

Robert lowered his head. “There has to be something.”

“I told you before,” Peter said. His thumb crossed over Robert’s knuckles to keep him still. “There is nothing. What is left is at Port and Dunn, and you and I have both seen it. There is no alternate will.”

Robert shook beneath that feather-like caress. He was anxious and angry, and he wanted solace, sanctuary in the arms of someone he could believe in He listened to Peter’s words, nodded, and eventually let go of the drawer’s handle to lie his head into Peter’s warm chest just as he did as a child.

“Good boy.” Peter leaned forward and kissed Robert’s matted hair. He stroked his back and let his sobs unfold.

He was filthy, the smell of sweat caked him, overpowering his layer of cologne. Even his aftershave faded to the shadow of bristles that scratched at Peter's chest. He was sickly. His bones were more prominent along his spine, his ribs showed, and his shoulder blades stuck out with his back arched.

Peter's fingers ran across the cuffs of Robert’s shirt, summoned shivers although he could not quite feel the marks. They knew what was hidden beneath the blazer and cotton. “You do need to stop this,” he whispered. “You're better than this, Robert.”

“I know, Uncle Peter,” Robert murmured. “I just . . . You were so distant. Everyone is so . . . distant.”

Peter stroked behind Robert's ear with his tongue and bit the lobe. It was soft but enough. Robert’s body became more malleable, willing, his. “I know. But I’m here now.”

But there was a flaw. Peter could feel it in Robert's flesh, the resistance. He was tainted. And it was his fault equally so. He slipped a hand underneath white cotton and past Robert’s slacks and band from his underwear. Healed physically of his punishment, the younger man still reacted like a scared child, but it only plowed him further into his assailant.

Scared, Peter adjusted his attempts and moved around Robert’s waist. He squeezed his flaccid cock slowly, gently, opposite to what Robert was used to. It seemed to work. Having shown that he cared, he was given more control.

Robert shuddered, writhed from the slow, even strokes so meditative that it was soothing. He moaned into the warmth and let it all fall apart. Soon both hands worked on him, and he could hardly find the ground as he squirmed and cried.

Then Peter spoke. “Tell me who. I'm not angry. Only worried.” He kissed Robert’s forehead, “I still love you.”

Tears rimmed Robert's eyes. “He's no one,” he replied. “An assistant from Port and Dunn.”

Peter's index finger, middle and thumb curled, milked beads of come from Robert's cock as he cried from the pain, forced him to rut into the hard bulge that pressed into his slender hip. “Tell me, Robert, or we'll end it here. I need to hear it.” He pushed him off and down onto the bureau. “I need to know that you trust me.”

Robert's cheek hit the bureau, and immediately, his arms extended. It gave little refuge, but his fingers held along the edges, ground into the detailed workmanship until they ached. “Forester,” he said. “Everett Forester.”

“Mmmmm . . .” Peter hummed in pride. Slick with the come, his fingers made quick work of prying open Robert’s tight hole, but he remained slow. Just the slightest twist to the first knuckle, he avoided the prostate to give minimal affection. “Good.”

It pushed Robert to the edge, enough that he bit his lower lip to keep silent until the dry, cracked skin bled iron into the mucus that still choked his breaths. His fingers coiled until his nails felt as if they might snap, but it was better than the slightest thrust of his hips to feel pleasure. Such things would come; that was a promise his uncle would keep.

Peter only gave the hint of preparation, to make sure he was healed. The initial pass was as agonizing as the last, each forcing Peter's cock deep into Robert's arse. It hit the prostate and unhinged him further, but Peter's claim seemed to want to tear him wide open.

Robert was silent even as blunt teeth suckled at the back of his neck until bruises showed, dark and purple against his pale skin. He knew he would not be able to leave the house for days without questions. Each action came with reaction, each movement a careful point of genius, and he sobbed. The cries came more ravaged than before. Tears obscured by moans, each breath was difficult until he was coughing at the end, gasping. “I'm sorry,” he begged. “Forgive me. Please, forgive my mistake. I did not mean . . .”

To stray, to falter. He could hear the voices. They clashed with others, ones telling him that what Peter did was wrong. The cacophony was too much, so much that he did not feel his body move from the desk to the ground. Their clothes a bed beneath him, it was Peter's teeth pulling his cock up to take him that brought him out of his mind. He moaned and gripped the hardwood to push up, feel more of the wet warmth that surrounded him until the tip of Peter’s nose nestled into his hairs.

His voice was wracked, drowning in his own filth, but it was met with soft hums. Peter delved into Robert’s arse and curled.

Robert sounded louder at Peter's fingers prying him open again. “More,” he moaned, hoping that his apology would show more approval. “More, I need you too--” His voice hitched at what must be the third finger.

From the slacks that lied next to Robert, Peter pulled out a bottle and sat up. He uncapped with his teeth and spread cold lubricant across his palm. “Wait for it,” he demanded, and drew his pinky over his ring finger to fit. He could feel it was tearing him, bringing him to that point. It was his original intention to have Robert all to himself, untarnished, but Robert still responded just as exquisitely. His body writhed, his hairs on end, eyes clenched as shut as the mouth to keep his arse loose.

“Almost there,” Peter told him, pulling out to the first knuckle. He positioned his thumb and marveled as Robert took it. “We could go so long,” he added and stroked in measured passes. “You can take my arm to the elbow sometimes, pet. I know you could do it now.”

“No.” Robert gritted his teeth. It was difficult to say, but he could feel it in his belly, and it was near the point where such pleasures, and even pain, became too much. But that was all it took, for he felt the tips rake against his insides and tried to not arch his back. The knuckles ground and loosened through his orgasm until he felt nothing but the sticky come along his stomach.

Peter got up and collected his clothes. “Wait here,” he commanded with one, final kiss to Robert’s knee before he stood up. The bathroom was not far, but it was the solitude it provided that he needed more than cleaning his hands.

The call took two rings before a reception answered and forwarded. “Mr. Townsend, it's Peter Browning. We met over Maurice Fischer's legal declaration?” He listened to the acknowledgment and smiled. “I wondered about a man that you sent two weeks ago, an Everett Forester? Do you think that you might be able to forward his contact information to me?”

He had the urge to fuck Robert again after he got his response, but instead sobered as he returned. He brought with him some paper towels, and though they were rough and scratched at Robert's sensitive skin, they did the trick. “You should get some rest. Take a bath first, relax, let these troubles settle.”

Wearily, Robert reached out to grab Peter's hand, “I was so certain, Uncle Peter . . .”

“I know.” Peter squeezed and helped him sit up, get everything, and return to their home. “Don't worry. I will have everything under control soon enough, just as I swore to you when your father became ill. You just need to rest, and see the doctor in the morning.”
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