Creepy!Uncle Doug and SixYearOld!Pete. No sex, just inappropriateness, and the real reason Doug was put in jail. Fraud? Yeah, right. Bad Doug, Evil Doug. Go to your basket, you naughty boy. Oh, and Peter’s parents, who are getting more and more based on Margaret and Denis Thatcher as they go along *shudder*
Please read the warnings?
“Peter, your uncle is here.”
There was a padding of feet across bare floorboards, a slam of a door and a scuffling on the stone staircase and a small blond boy of about six years old erupted joyfully into the room. He checked himself at his mother’s disapproving glance, but seeing a very tall man sprawled in one of the rather vile chintz armchairs, he leapt on the figure, squealing with happiness and excitement. Seeing his uncle made Peter’s repressed extravagant style come to the fore.
Margaret sighed, her mouth tightening in a familiar gesture of contempt. She could never understand why her child was always so pleased to see his dratted uncle, considering what a layabout the man was. In reality, Mrs Pettigrew was faintly, not that obviously, jealous of her little brother Douglas. Tall, with the strange pale eyes that had been passed on to her son, and with dark hair cut in a slightly unfashionable but ever so stylish Beatles’ cut, the man was undeniably attractive in a Heathcliff sort of way. If you probed deeper into Margaret’s psyche, into the dark depths that were as repressed as her Victorian morals, you could see that she had always placed her brother as the anti-hero of ‘Wuthering Heights.’ Her favourite book, she was fascinated and repelled by Heathcliff, attracted but utterly disapproving by the lax standards that both her brother and the fictional character adhered to.
But needs must, and as there was no one else to look after her small son, Margaret allowed her fasinating brother to undertake the task.
“Be good.” The words were both to Peter and Doug, who were grinning their dazzling smiles that were so alike at each other. It spelled some sort of trouble, but she ignored it as usual.
It was Denis Pettigrew, short, bespectacled and baldingly blond who narrowed his eyes and saw something else lurking in the faded blue eyes of Doug. Frowning slightly, he berated himself and followed his wife to the car meekly, reasoning that even though his brother-in-law was a rebellious type, he’d never do anything to harm his beloved nephew. Would he?
“Thank God your parents have gone, Petey. How’s my favourite nephew then?” Long fingered and broad hands brushed the heavy fringe of the child’s pageboy haircut from his forehead, and Doug brushed a soft kiss against the clear pale skin.
“I’m your only nephew, Uncle Doug!” remonstrated the boy, who gave his untroubled grin back at the wicked look on the man’s face.
“Even if I had millions of nieces and nephews, you’d still be my favourite my love.” His uncle’s soft Cornish accent lilted prettily in Peter’s ear, and he snuggled tighter to the broad-shouldered torso. Rather too pretty, the child was as plump and softly-rounded as a Botticelli cherub, all pale skin and golden hair and huge blue eyes that dominated his pink-cheeked face.
They watched television for a little while, Peter’s head resting against Doug’s chest and little hand flat over the muscle above the man’s heart, while his uncle stroked soothing hands over the boy’s back and thigh, raining soft kisses on the silky hair and satin skin.
“Bedtime. Come on, you. We don’t want Margaret getting all uppity and huffy…not that she isn’t like that anyway, but you know what I mean.”
Pushing himself out of the armchair, Doug seated his little nephew against his hip while Peter giggled. It always amused him to have his mother called by her first name, as it was so alien and odd. To the boy his mother was always Mummy, like Daddy wasn’t Denis but Daddy.
“Can I have a cuddle, Uncle Doug? And a story? Can you tell me about the knights in the Crusades and Richard the Lionheart and Saladin?” Precocious child as always, the accenting of the Arabic name perfect, and the man looked at him with undisguised pride. Doug had always been a history buff, much to the disgust of Margaret and his parents who would have preferred him to have become a bank manager, and much of his youthful rebellion stemmed from his refusal to even consider the trade as the one for him. Instead, the dark haired man had gone to university and had taken archaeology for his degree, the field in which he proved, much to his parents’ annoyance, to be extremely talented. In his own way, to piss off his sister who he held in as much contempt as she had him, Doug was teaching Peter to love history in the hope that the boy would do as much to annoy Margaret as he had done to upset his own parents.
The boy’s room was far too elegant and sensible for a child of six. Where as other children had toys scattered over the floor and brightly coloured posters of the Clangers and Thunderbirds on their walls, Peter had kept his room neat as a pin and had prints from Impressionist artists. Doug knew better than to sense the mother’s influence, as the rest of the house demonstrated the terrible lack of taste that the Pettigrews had.
The only true sign of this being a child’s bedroom was the moth-eaten Steiff black teddy that was propped against a pillow. It was almost eerie.
Helping Peter to change, eyes glancing a little too long over the pink and white English-rose body of the child, Doug tucked his nephew into bed.
“Cuddle and story, Uncle Doug. You promised! You said you would…” The full lower lip pouted, pale eyes brimming with mock tears, and the man gave a small sigh.
“Shall we have one about Richard the Lionheart and his French friends?”
Peter nodded enthusiastically, shifting in the rather large bed and pulling the covers back so that Doug could climb in. The dark man unbuttoned his shirt, laying the cotton garment with care over the back of a straight-backed dining chair. Without the clothing on, the massiveness of Doug’s shoulders were revealed; almost too broad when compared to his quite narrow hips. He was also rather hairy, arms and chest furred a shade or two lighter than the rich teak brown of his mop of hair.
Laying down and pulling the covers up to his waist, Doug was immediately leaped on and clung to by a sleepy but exciteable boy. Peter curled back into his usual position, fingers splayed over the slightly increased heartrate and head tucked against the heavy chest.
“One upon a time,” Doug started, hand on the curve of Peter’s waist, just above the band of his pymama bottoms and one finger sneaking between the top and the pants to slowly stroke over the soft skin, “Richard the Lionheart, King of England…when?”
“1187 to 1199,” replied the child, who was rewarded with a gentle kiss on the nose.
“Good boy. Richard the Lionheart and his friend, Phillipe Augustus, King of France, launched a Crusade against the Saracens…do you want to hear about the travels and Constantinople, or about the Siege at Acre, or Saladin?”
Peter considered for a moment, little frown creasing his forehead, then he looked up into the eyes so similar to his. “Can you tell me again about Phillipe and Richard…”
The atmosphere in the room subtly changed.
He’d told Peter about the closeness in the friendship between the two kings because Doug thought that the boy deserved to know about that sort of thing. Homosexuality among the upper classes and royalty in the medieval period was such that to ignore it was to shut off a whole area of the story.
It wasn’t his fault that the boy liked it, was it?
“They shared a bed, did Phillipe and Richard. They shared themselves with the other. They lay in a bed, much like we are doing, and touched each other…like this.” The hand at Peter’s waist slipped down, caressing the ripe curve of a buttock.
“And like this…” Heated lips met the child’s, tongue flickering across the sweet mouth until access was granted. Doug’s free hand sought the pearl buttons of the blue and white striped pyjamas, popping them one by one until his fingers could circle each nipple, teasingly, and flutter downwards to dip into the boy’s naval.
Peter gave a small cry in the back of his throat, surrendering to the touch and the heat and the love. Uncle Doug did this because he loved him, like the Lionheart and the King of France had done centuries before. The man had explained to him the first time, in between touches and kisses and giggling, that only people who loved each other very much did this, and that it must be kept quiet because some wouldn’t understand that love.
Something was poking him in the hip, so he wriggled to get more comfortable, causing Doug to give a low soft moan.
The dark man had kept their play to kissing and touching, nothing more sexual than that. However, it didn’t mean he had to stop himself from becoming horribly aroused, did it? Once Peter had tired of their games, he’d put the child to bed and finish himself off in the bathroom, or on his sister’s bed. He’d close his eyes and imagine his nephew’s hot little mouth wrapped around his cock, that saucy look in those light blue eyes, and Doug would come silently while mouthing the name ‘Peter.’
They lay, blond child laying atop a dark man, mouths tangled.
It was at that moment that Denis Pettigrew, having come home early because of a migraine, opened the door…
Time passed. Peter went away to prep school and then Hogwarts and in the process forgot all about the little games that he and his uncle had used to play.
But Doug had never forgotten.