Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/805490.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Batman_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Mr._Elliot/Thomas_Elliot
  Character:
      Jonathan_Crane, Thomas_Elliot
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-16 Words: 2181
****** Lions, Tigers and Bears. (Oh my!) ******
by ByronicHeroics
Summary
     Tommy recounts one of the many events that led up to the creation of
     Hush’s persona to Dr. Crane.
It had been a particularly murky, damp, cold December in Gotham that year and
so the Elliot estate was accordingly without joy. Though, that description
might not have been fair, Tommy noted, as it implied there were times the
Elliot estate was joyful. On that day, Tommy had early on been denied his wish
to go outside and play with the new geese in the pond. It had been due to fear
from the servants that he would fall into the cold water and catch a chill that
would be the death of him. So instead, he had been dressed primly in his warm
chocolate brown Eton suit and had found himself seated on the rich Persian rug
in the living room before the fireplace. Mother-dearest had been gone for the
week to visit her poor family, and so Tommy was left mostly to his own devices.
At the time, he had been particularly fond of his toy soldiers and so he had
lined the English soldiers up, with as proper an order as he could imagine a
formation, to fight with the set of Indians. They were whom he nearly entirely
preferred, due to their brilliantly rendered elephants. When Tommy thought back
on it – which was only when Doctor Crane’s tape-recorder was turned off – he
believed that his downfall that day had been the misconstrued belief that he
was not under a watchful eye without Mother-dearest around. He had felt like
Eve in the garden, thinking God wouldn’t know she had tasted the apple. Mother-
dearest had switched his hands before for the particular habit, but without her
there, he couldn’t help but let his thumb slid into his mouth as he
contemplated the warfare.
It had felt so comforting, though he at the time didn’t understand why, to move
his thumb slowly in and out of his mouth while he placed the figurines in
appropriate displays of demise. It was with depressing irony when he later
recalled, that he had imitated an act he didn’t remember from a figure who had
never offered any further comfort than that. Father had come to the living room
then, mixing his drink so that the twisted glass stirring stick had clicked
just so against the side of the rocks glass. Mr. Elliot had watched his son
playing warily, eyes taking in the boy’s greatly determined look, which was so
off thrown by the babyish habit he had yet to lose. His little fingers slowly
worried his palm as he sucked his thumb, every single motion an attempt to
soothe himself, as Dr. Crane would say, as only a child used to emotional
neglect knew how.
Father had sipped his drink while he watched the boy play; already half lost to
the drunken haze that cold weather further hid behind lax social excuses about
the holiday season. After a long moment he had seated himself in a leather
wing-backed chair and that distinct creak of suit pants against leather still
brought a chill to Tommy. He had put his glass on the fancy little table
–without a coaster, Mother-dearest would have been angry – and he had called
Tommy’s name in the way that he hated to hear. It was the way that meant he had
been noticed when good boys were meant to be unseen and unheard. “Tommy, come
here.” He had ordered, and the boy had trembled a bit as he put down the tiger.
His thumb had slipped from his mouth; the gesture suddenly all pretense and no
substance when he truly needed the comfort.
Tommy had stood up and walked to Mr. Elliot, big lamb like eyes showing with
fear as each cautious step echoed in the click of his heels to the hardwood.
“Haven’t we had this talk about your habit already?” The man had inquired and
only fear of repercussion had stopped Tommy from beginning to cry at that.
“Yes, Sir.” He had said instead, tone certain so he wouldn’t be accused of the
crime of muttering like a common boy. There was nothing common about an Elliot.
Then, as if the last few years of his life had been a lie, Father had smiled at
him. It was rare that he smiled at all, but to have the man smile at him had
seemed completely miraculous. It was a smile that would haunt Tommy till the
day that he died.
“Well? Don’t look so upset! Come and sit on your daddy’s lap.” Mr. Elliot had
encouraged and Tommy felt as if he were climbing a particularly tall mountain
to someplace yet unknown when he obeyed. He wasn’t used to the title Daddy
because it had been dubbed ‘low class’ while he was still unborn; Daddy, it was
decided, was what whores called their john. His father had stroked his baby
soft cheek, and looked at him so very seriously then. Tommy had fidgeted on his
father’s lap under the gaze and tugged on the hem of his short-pants while he
waited to be scolded for misbehaving. He wasn’t used to being in someone’s lap
anymore, at that age, so he had felt that there must have been an inherent
lesson. It just wasn’t something that a grown up boy of seven was supposed to
do.
Yet, instead of the box to his ear that he had expected for the thumbsucking,
Tommy was shocked when Father had lifted that amber filled glass to his lips.
He had encouraged his son to drink it with a flick of his wrist that dampened
Tommy’s lips, and let it trickle down his chin to leave no other option. It
tasted like medicine and it was hard to swallow because it burnt his throat as
he did, but obediently, he had swallowed unpleasant sip after unpleasant sip of
the drink. Mr. Elliot had seemed very pleased, so Tommy convinced himself that
maybe he really enjoyed the burn of the scotch in his mouth. He imagined that
he actually liked that tarry rough flavor, which would have been a very grown-
up thing to do. After all, maybe, if he were just more grown up, he could get a
few more of those rare smiles from Father. With enough of those, Father might
actually have started to love him.
Unfortunately, Tommy would muse to Dr. Crane, that was exactly what had begun
to happen. Father had taken away the empty cup with a chuckle as Tommy’s
fingers curiously slid through the condensation on the crystal. Then he had
kissed his son’s lips. He had enjoyed that the scotch didn’t do enough to cover
the hint of warm milk and vanilla on his breath from tea. It made the Tommy’s
stomach turn when he recalled that he had pressed back into the kiss. It was
because that’s what he had seen Mother-dearest do every time that Father kissed
her; it was what every film starlet did to the hero. His innocence and
eagerness to please had been rewarded with memories that would never vanish
from his mind. They were the memories which would slowly birth Hush.
Father had picked Tommy up and carried him to the nursery, holding him just so
sweetly that the boy was given his first chance to rest his cheek against the
man’s shoulder. It had been bliss for that brief journey, despite the odd
feeling the scotch had left in the pit of his stomach. Father had settled him
on the bed with a kiss to his curls, surrounded by well loved Stieff bears and
creamy silk trimmed blankets which spoke more of babies than boys. Then Mr.
Elliot had searched the dresser drawer feverishly till he found a long
forgotten pacifier. The man had rolled it between his fingers like a coin as he
came to sit on the edge of the bed, giving his son a brief glimpse before it
was thrust forward. Tommy had parted his lips obediently to the plastic nipple
slipping into his mouth, ignorant to the meaning of his father’s speeding
breath.
Father’s eyes had seemed to darken as he moved the base of the soother back and
forth to nestle it in Tommy’s mouth. “Good boy.” He had encouraged to his son,
voice low and full of something unfamiliar. “Doesn’t that feel so much better?”
He had demanded while he tapped the base of the pacifier hard enough to smart
as Tommy’s lips were forced against his teeth. It wasn’t a question. Tommy
would have liked to have protested, because he really was seven full years old
and these were for babies. It did feel good, though, to have the pacifier in
his mouth in lieu of his naughty habit. It had also felt so good to have all of
his Father’s attention in a way which seemed like love. So he had looped his
fingers into the ring of the soother, and nodded his head slowly.
Tommy snuggled down into the sea of cozy blankets, eyes fighting to stay open
so he could fully appreciate the rare favor that he had found with Father. He
had just begun to realize how warm and sleepy that bad tasting drink had left
him, but he wasn’t quite ready for this to end. Then Father began to pat his
bottom just hard enough for him to worry that it was a warning of a spanking to
come. Had he been wrong the whole time? Fear rushed into his mind and he whined
past the pacifier in his mouth. He had been foolish this entire time to think
that Father was going to love him; he was going to get spanked for sucking his
thumb now and for being stupid. Stupidity was a crime that couldn’t be
tolerated, and he knew that.
Father had tugged down his shorts, pulling his underpants down in the same firm
motion. The air was cool against his bare skin, yet Mr. Elliot simply rubbed a
hand against the boy’s bottom in contemplation instead of striking him. He had
picked up more than the soother from the desk, it seemed, and he had dampened
his finger with the lavender scented baby oil that Mother-dearest rubbed
against Tommy’s skin after she bathed him. Tommy’s heart had sped in confusion;
he didn’t understand why he would do that. The answer was as painful as any of
his lessons. Father had moved his fingers lower and pressed into Tommy. He
hastily shushed the whimpered ‘Oww’ that escaped past the pacifier and tears
burned Tommy’s eyes. He shook his head at his father in silent pleading, gazing
towards him with wide damp green eyes.
Father had kept his finger there and he was spoken, trying to quiet the boy and
trying to convince him that this new thing didn’t feel bad at all. Tommy
couldn’t remember the words, but they didn’t matter. The words were just a
jumble of lies that faded into the darkness of the shame surrounding the
memories. His father had unfastened his own pants with a trembling hand and
pulled out his arousal, and the boy hadn’t really understood why it was so
wrong or why he was so terrified. He had stroked himself with a vigor that had
left a painfully vivid memory. Tommy remembered being scared when Mr. Elliot
had moaned his climax, and he recalled the unique agony of the man thrusting
his fingers so hard into Tommy that he screamed.
“Hush, Tommy.” Father ordered, and it was the voice that he used when Tommy
cried after being beaten. It was the voice he was most familiar with. It was
angry and blaming. He picked up a silky black teddy bear from where it had
fallen to the floor to jam into the boy’s arms, as if to relieve his guilt in
the motion. Mr. Elliot had growled when his son let the stuffed animal lie
limply against him, gasping out sobs. He wouldn’t have that self pity in his
heir, so he forced the boy to hold it, pulling and pushing Tommy’s arms as he
wanted them. “Hush! Nothing is wrong! Don’t you dare make another noise! Just
hush and go to sleep!” He had growled, and the light was flicked off as Father
left the room.
A maid had found Tommy in bed the next morning with the pacifier firmly held in
his mouth, still dressed in his Eton suit, with a tiny palm pressed firmly
against his tear stained cheek. They had been very good dreams he noted, when
Dr. Crane pushed him to recall every detail; dreams about tigers, elephants,
and India. What did he feel, when the maid had seen the semen wiped carelessly
against the fabric of his short-pants? That was what Dr. Crane wanted to know;
was it that special agony of humiliation that his mentor savored like only a
true sadist could? That answer would have been so obvious if Tommy had been
anyone else, but it wasn’t the one which slipped past his lips. Shame was for
the weak, Tommy had informed the doctor; all he had felt was hatred.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!