
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2371190.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Other, Gen
  Fandom:
      Peter_Pan_-_J._M._Barrie, Peter_Pan_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Captain_Hook/Peter_Pan, Wendy_Darling/Captain_Hook, Wendy_Darling/Peter
      Pan, James_Hook/Peter_Pan
  Character:
      Captain_Hook, Peter_Pan, Wendy_Darling, Mary_Darling, Tinker_Bell, J._M.
      Barrie
  Additional Tags:
      Dark, Dark_Crack, Forced_Crossdressing, Object_Penetration, Serious
      Injuries, Mindfuck, Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Fairies, Sadism,
      Mental_Instability, Drugs, Mpreg, Parasites
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-28 Chapters: 19/19 Words: 27994
****** Collection of Peter Pan Darkfics ******
by lexyhamilton_(ohheichoumyheichou)
Summary
     Collection of fics mostly written in 2003-5. Mostly dark. Some very
     dark. All pretty weird.
     In no particular order, warnings are blanket warnings. Short
     summaries and individual pairings/warnings are provided inside each
     "chapter".
***** Joyboy *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Wendy, Hook/Pan overtones. Rated E.
     Peter and Wendy are both kept prisoner on Hook's ship, and both end
     up serving sexually. One of them fares much better than the other.
He moves about quickly, setting the table with obviously practiced skill. His
eyes are darting about, but he never dares raise them at either me or Hook.
Hook’s leaning back in his chair, twirling his twin cigar holder, the hat taken
off already. His coiffure is perfect, all dark auburn locks, but only because
I’ve been plucking out the few stray gray ones lately in idle play on the bed.
He only has to clear his throat and our server is sent into trembles, dropping
utensils all over the table. I wince at the discordant clash of silver against
the dishes.
Peter looks over, already cowering, but Hook only motions him to continue in
his task. So much relief he exhibits, and who could blame him? Hook’s strap is
only a little less familiar to him than the crew’s hands. I stare at him,
trying to exhume the boy who brought me to Neverland from this anxious wreck of
a human being. He’s grown so lanky—exceedingly tall but obviously
undernourished, spine in a perpetual submissive slouch. His face has changed,
grown longer and gaunter, but he would still be lovely to look on if he’d stop
wearing that frightened, obsequious smile.
He steps back to the wall, trying to disappear into the shadows. He usually
waits on us throughout the whole meal, and Hook is never discomfited in the
slightest by his presence, carrying on easy, intimate conversation with me. Yet
Hook’s exceptionally bored tonight. I can discern these things nowadays before
he begins acting on his whims, and I’d tell Peter to find a way to excuse
himself immediately—if only there were any way to communicate that to him
without Hook hearing. As it is, I can only sit and watch it unfold.
“No, no, lad, don’t make yourself scarce,” he beckons with his metal. “Sit down
and enjoy the meal with us.”
Peter walks over slowly, trying to smile amiably though I can see the cords of
his neck tightening and betraying his anxiety. I’m sure Hook can too, and it
probably only makes him more hell-bent on pursuing whatever it is that he’s got
planned for tonight.
Peter takes a chair between us—probably afraid to sit too close to his captain
and not wishing to be presumptuous with the lady. He hasn’t even brought
another set of silverware, so I pray internally that he won’t do something
gauche using his hands. No, he’s too timid for that. He only reaches into the
breadbasket, afraid to do anything more than nibble even though I’m sure he’s
burning with hunger.
I wish Hook wouldn’t do this—play these games, keep me on guard. I haven’t
talked to Peter directly in ages, but I still care for him in some notional
sense. Though he evidently doesn’t remember much of our past, I still feel
visceral pity even when I simply lay eyes on him.
There was a time, only shortly after we’d been captured, when I pleaded with
Hook, clutching his clothing, disregarding what harm might come to me, begging
him to call off the terrible occupation he had designed for Peter aboard the
ship. Little Peter—he seemed even younger than me back then. While I’ve gone
untouched by the crew even to this day, he was committed to a most degrading
and unhealthy life from the start, far less ready it seemed than I was, who
even back then was already at an age where I could not pretend to be wholly
unresponsive to the Captain and his body.
Though Peter was so intractable the first few days that not all the crewmembers
were willing to try their luck with him, he soon became docile and even
pleasant. He quickly became popular with the crew, and forgetting his former
glory allowed him to accept his place as if it had been law passed from the
heavens themselves. Slowly, we both grew up—our childhoods no longer tethered
in place by that magical land, and yet in what different circumstance upon the
same vessel!
The biggest discomfort I suffer lately is tiredness from the lady’s boots I
wear, and feeling a bit indisposed every month, and even that Hook will not let
me dwell on. On the whole, I’ve been rather fortunate—Hook is easily pleased,
and I’ve grown to enjoy him in bed, if not always elsewhere.
Peter, on the other hand, works hard all day having taken over for Smee who
retired from life and sea, and services the entire crew between ports, from
what I understand. Back in the day, I felt sorry for him, and cried on his
behalf, and even sneaked out sometimes to see him and comfort him. Now… now we
haven’t spoken in months if not years, though Hook could care less where I go
nowadays. So I stare at him now, sitting there chewing on the bread, forlorn
and uneasy-- and only now realize just how long it’s been, and how blithe and
careless I’ve been living in my own cozy little world.
“Master Pan,” Hook’s voice suddenly invades my thoughts. I’ve noticed that
‘Master Pan’ usually precedes a beating only shortly, and I grow determined to
save Peter, if only just this once. Peter’s neck cranes down further than
usual, but he cautiously looks over anyway.
“Either grow your beard out and have it nice and trimmed, or go without. I
despise when a man walks around looking as though he was alarmed in the middle
of the night.”
Peter smiles and quickly nods his head. Just when I believe I’m mistaken and no
beating is coming after all, Hook starts again.
“You have hardly looked at the lady seated to your right. Do you find her not
as pleasing to the eye as I do?”
Peter looks over, that stupid smile still plastered on his face.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I-I-I think sh-she’s very pretty.” I realize I haven’t heard him speak in
quite a while, since he only does so when prompted. His stammering has only
gotten worse since he had last opened his mouth in my presence.
“Pretty?” Hook raises his eyebrows, his eyes cold and predatory, belying his
amused tone.
“Th-th-that is, I wouldn’t know. I-I-I wouldn’t d-dare j-j-judge…” Peter’s
swallowing hard between almost each word.
What the devil is that smug bastard up to?
“A harlot on the street can be pretty. I’ll wager Wendy is above that level,
but I know that’s the best compliment your mind can conjure up, and since she’s
so to your liking, perhaps you’d like to try her out yourself.”
The idea petrifies me. I distinctly remember wanting to be more intimate with
Peter when I was young, but the thought seems ludicrous and almost disgusting
now. I must own up to the fact that I like Hook’s touch and Hook’s touch only.
What is most distasteful about this suggestion is Hook orchestrating and
watching us—and no doubt punishing Peter doubly afterwards.
Peter only broadens his smile, failing to voice either protest or acquiescence.
“Well? I’m not going to wait all night for you to find yourself in the mood.”
Peter nods quickly, and stands up, pulling his threadbare trousers down and
stepping out of them with a quick, easy motion marred only the tremble of his
hands. I am beginning to feel sick, but then he places his hands on the table
in front of him, jutting his behind out. For me?
Hook bursts out laughing, and Peter joins him shortly—a quiet, nervous laugh.
“Shut up, you idiotic twit. Don’t laugh when you don’t understand what’s
funny.”
“Yes s-sir.” Peter stops on cue and turns back to me.
“Imbecile!” Hook is tearing up from laughing. “Very well, you’d better give my
girl the time of her life if you don’t want to be whipped for your stupidity.”
“Oh, please Wendy L-l-lady, please d-do me…”
“I shan’t be able to ‘do’ you,” I whisper, drawing back in my chair without
realizing it. How is it possible that he doesn’t know such simple things? I
hate to see him like this, trapped into an impasse from which he can only come
out with a thorough beating, but I can’t think of anything I can do. There’s
something very pathetic about all of this, and I really wish Hook would stop
milking the situation, and just tell Peter to put his trousers back on.
But he’s grinning, the bastard. “I take it you’re not amused, Wendy-Lady?” How
loathsome the phrase sounds coming from Hook’s mouth. He thinks he’s being
sardonic and clever, but it’s only because he can’t fathom the sincerity and
the awe of this pitiful youth. Every emotion, he has effectively wrung out of
him, replacing it with this ludicrous desire to please. If Peter’s an idiot,
it’s only Hook’s fault.
“How do you still live on this ship with that empty head of yours?” Hook’s
already out of his chair, removing his belt as he approaches the body still
standing exposed, cowering but not daring to try and flee.
“Stop it!” I shout suddenly. I haven’t protested like this in a long time, but
somehow seeing just how violated Peter’s spirits and body are, I can’t stand to
see any more punishment. “Let him be! He’s done nothing to upset you today!” I
suddenly wish I could do more than run between them and flail my arms in
protest. Hook shoves me away easily enough.
“You’ve no reason to hurt him!” I continue from the floor where I’ve been
thrown. This injustice suddenly angers me, and I’m happy. Happy that my anger
can still be aroused like this—that I still care. “Or are you simply too lazy
to think up an occasion this time?”
What has come over me? I squeeze my eyes shut when I see Hook’s heavy hand
poised to deal me a blow across the face but I don’t move back. I almost want
him to hit me. Peter won’t understand, but at least I’ll redeem myself in my
own eyes. No slap ever comes, however, and I hear the belt snap against skin,
and Peter’s low quiet moan following on its heels.
“It still gnaws at you, does it? The guilt that you have come to terms with his
fate just because he has? He’s an idiot alright, but he doesn’t need your help.
He makes do with what he’s got, just as you have with your lot.”
“Why do you beat him then?” I ask, only realizing that I’m crying when I hear
my voice shake. Hook ignores me and delivers the second blow, calmly directing
Peter to stop flinching away to make the strokes fall harder and more
precisely.
“Why do I beat you, Peter, she asks.”
“It’s… your… pl-pleasure to?” Peter offers feebly, spastic sobs making him
hiccup out the words.
“It could have been. But you have given me very good reason tonight, Peter
dear.”
At this Hook leans down to retrieve the trousers, suddenly rending them in two
with a quick motion. Several golden coins fly up in all directions and clatter
to the floor.
“Whore! On our own ship! Asking to be paid separately for one’s job! That’s the
lowest kind of degradation. You thought I wouldn’t hear them jangle as you
walked around this table?”
Peter falls to Hook’s feet, trying to explain something, rushing, stumbling, by
now utterly unable to carry himself through a single word. Hook launches a boot
forward catching the boy in the mouth. I wince, and see blood on the boot as it
moves away.
“Go and clean the dishes, trollop. And if I ever catch you with money again,
you’ll come out with something permanent to remember the punishment by.”
Peter stands up, blood coursing down his chin from a split lip, but he smiles
again in that doltish cowardly way and makes to start cleaning the table, still
half-naked.
Hook extends his hand to me and picks me off the floor. I can already see he
isn’t about to wait for Peter to leave the room before we set to our nightly
escapades. Let him. I’m not about to be embarrassed in front of that tragic
figure. Yet instead of loosening the laces of my corset, Hook calls Peter over
to tighten them.
“Cherish your two hands, boy. Don’t take them for granted, especially if you
have a mind to disobey me again.”
I can’t see Peter’s response, but I feel the tightening becoming painful. It’s
not the best time of the month for such confinement, and my insides gurgle in
protest. Sometimes I wonder if mother ever did it while it was her time on the
rag. I’m sure father would have been too tidy for that. Probably didn’t even
refer to it as ‘on the rag.’ Hook, of course, doesn’t mind. He wouldn’t dream
of missing days because of it, and I’m not appalled by it either, even if I
should be.
“Tighter, stupid boy.”
I gasp as the air is squeezed from my lungs. The strings in the back are giving
out crackling sounds that are beginning to resemble that of the wood in the
fireplace. I’m beginning to feel my pulse in places where I shouldn’t.
Hook takes me on the bed, in my dress, evidently unwilling to disclose all my
secrets to the poor soul still clearing off the table. Hook is bent on having
him see, though, and keeps looking over. I do too, but Peter studiously avoids
picking up his gaze at us. It’s ludicrous really, making love for an unwilling
spectator, watching the audience to see if he dares watch in return.
Not for long—soon I am lost to sensation and am no longer sure what sounds I’m
emitting as I’m impaled over and over in that sweet way. The dull ache is
completely gone as my insides shudder with pleasure. Hook ruts more and comes
with a gasp through clenched teeth. Ever afraid to voice any more enjoyment
than that. I smile up at him, knowing I look the vixen at the moment, and feel
very happy and sultry. He slumps forward onto the bed, and I get up to clean us
both. Peter’s already gone.
                                      ***
I walk out of the cabin lazily, tiredly. Hook doesn’t care what I do after I
finish my duty. Such tiredness, but at least that dull ache is gone. I must not
have eaten enough at dinner because I’m hungry now, and it gives me the perfect
excuse to go visit the kitchen. I don’t rightly know why I want to see Peter
again, but I do.
I make my way across the dark corridors blindly, stopping when I finally reach
the door of the kitchen. It’s closed and I hear voices inside, so I wait.
Peter’s evidently entertaining someone within and I listen closely in spite of
myself, remembering all too well how he looked standing half-naked at the
table. Does he smile so vacantly at the crew too? He must.
“If ya ever need me to keep your money for ya, lad, just ask.”
“No need. Th-thanks.”
Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Peter’s voice has changed, though it
happened some years ago. The door opens and Mason comes out, eyes widening in
surprise for a moment to see me standing to the side, studying my nails as a
diversion.
“You tell the Cap’n not to lay it on so hard on our boy, Ms. Darling.”
Such deference. My supposed influence on Hook is little more than a myth, but
the crew likes their beliefs. The poor ship never had a figurehead, and I seem
to have filled in that niche nicely with my legendary reputation. It wouldn’t
do to deign to answer vocally, and I just give a small nod before going in.
Peter’s body tenses, neck immediately falls forward in an attempt to be shorter
in stature than his captain’s mistress.
“I d-d-didn’t ask for m-money-- he just… just gave it to me.” He takes the coin
out of his pocket and flings it on the table as if touching it taints him. I am
his enemy, it seems.
“You really don’t need to fear me,” I say. “You must not remember it very well,
but we were friends long ago.” I take out the rest of the coins that Hook had
scattered on the floor and I had gathered on the sly just now, but Peter
refuses to take them, refuses to do anything but stare at me in disbelief.
“I… I don’t ask for money. They pay me… just p-pay me for s-s-special…
special…” He can’t find the words, or perhaps just can’t pronounce them in his
agitation, and closes his mouth in surrender. He’s moved to the farthest corner
of the room from me, as ill at ease as I’ve ever seen him.
“Fine, don’t take the money for nothing. I’ll pay you for a second dinner. I
didn’t eat enough before, so if you could make me something, that would be
lovely.”
He looks relieved to be ordered to task, and quickly begins scrambling eggs
after he gets my approval. He’s gotten better at cooking since he began, by now
probably better than I could manage.
I get closer and wrap my arms around his waist, slipping the coins into some
pocket of his. His body stiffens and he begins to tremble. It feels good
suddenly. He’s petrified with fear, ready to do anything I would command him. I
turn him towards me—his long lean body moving as if lacking a will of its
own—and press my lips to his. He’s tall and even my high heels don’t suffice.
I’m hanging on his neck, pulling his face into mine, feet hardly touching the
floor. He’s about as passionate as a ragdoll, eyes glued to the door expecting
intrusion at any moment. He’s afraid he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, and
at the same time dares not refuse me. I let go. The exhilaration is gone. I
don’t know what the crew sees in him. He stares down at me, no desire in his
eyes. His thoughts are all far away, worrying whether he’s violating rules. And
then that sheepish smile starts to spread, the kind that appears when he’s
afraid and doesn’t know what he should be doing. I feel slightly nauseous.
The eggs have started to burn while I was distracting him, and he quickly
ushers them off the pan with a greasy old wooden utensil. Apology and fear
color his words as he gives it to me on a plate: “I can… I can make another, if
you l-like…”
I don’t answer and eat the burned food quickly, washing it down with a glass of
rum that he offers me so helpfully. Yes, Hook has produced a wonderful little
jack of all trades. Keeps the crew very happy.
“What are you saving for, Peter?”
He looks cornered and hopeful that he won’t have to answer, but I don’t let my
gaze wander off of him as he begins to move about the kitchen, pretending to be
very busy cleaning up. He should know better than not to answer. Who knows, but
I might go and complain to Hook, in his confused little mind.
“N-n-not for anything in particular. I don’t ever get per-permission to go on
shore, so…”
He trails off without a mind to continue. Lovely answer. About as clear as his
thinking, apparently.
“You’re popular with the crew, aren’t you… That’s good.”
He turns back to look at me, trying to see if this is some sort of trap, but
finally nods in his cautious way, shrugging and smiling again. I realize what
bothers me about the smile now. His eyes never smile with his mouth.
The pain in my stomach is returning slowly, and I tell him that it’s probably
time for me to go back to the cabin and join Hook in bed, but suddenly he
springs a question on me. I’ve somehow managed to make him feel a bit bolder
after all.
“You… you know, you should tell him… tell the Captain that he sh-should be
gentler. With you, I mean.”
“Oh?” I feel too tired to be too surprised at his sudden meddling. “Did it look
rough?”
“I… I just find… b-blood on the sheets… wh-when I do the laundry, that is…”
I smile and tell him not to worry about it, and he nods dumbly, staring at me
as at some sorceress—afraid again, sure he has said the wrong thing. I make my
way back using my hands on the walls as guides and change my undergarments as
quietly as I can, because Hook is already asleep, judging by his soft
breathing. I climb in by his side, guilt over Peter receding as I nestle myself
against the man’s body. As long as the youth’s happy with his lot in life, I’ll
be happy with mine.
“Been down to the kitchen, have you?”
My heart jumps to my throat, and I wait for my voice to be stable before
answering truthfully. He can play jealous all he wants, but I know he isn’t.
“You find him pleasing, do you?”
Does he think he can trap me? “You’re the one who keeps him around, so don’t
lay the blame on me.” I run my hands over his body, and know he’s smiling, even
if I can’t exactly see him in the dim light.
“This crew of mine would mutiny, I fear, if I ever got rid of him.” He reaches
down and pulls down the thick undergarments I use during this week before I
straddle him. There’ll be more blood for Peter to worry about soon, I suppose.
I resolve to start stealing money from that desk and bringing it down to the
kitchen. Whatever his plans are, he deserves some happiness like I'm receiving.
***** In Vino Veritas *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan, rated M.
     Peter tries to negotiate his way out of imprisonment on Hook's ship.
It's become a ritual, this little daily visit I pay my prisoner. He's had the
gratingly cheerful recalcitrance seep out of him days ago and by now he just
glares at me, preciously forlorn. The chain that binds him to the wall is of a
generous length and allows him to lie down comfortably, but I suppose he's
spoiled on absolute freedom for so many years that it's torturous. I come in,
as per my daily ritual, and see his face only after my eyes adjust to the
shocking darkness of the hold. He's not even angry anymore, just ever so sad.
"Will today be the day?" I ask.
He looks at his wrist. There is a thick angry scar there by now, evidence of my
generosity and his cowardice.
"I'll lop it off nice and quick this time if you don't cry out like a sissy
girl as soon as I break skin."
"And then I'm free to go?" he verifies. He's asked every time, and I have
assured him without fail. I nod and smile when I see the tension inside
slightly distort his features. I'm a man of my word. I would let him go, much
as it would pain me, if he truly agreed to part with his right hand. A suitable
revenge, I felt at the time of his capture, and much more tasteful than killing
a boy who had after all thought of our battles as nothing more than games.
"It just hurts so much..." he whispers. It's the first admission of fear I've
had from him in these several days. "Will it hurt afterwards too?"
"Oh very much. The sharp pain will give place to a dull ache, and finally just
occasional disturbances having to do with the weather or your mood. The
progression may take a few years, but what's that to an eternal boy like you?"
He bites his lower lip but doesn't cry. It annoyed me at first, his stoicism,
and I was tempted to break him down without provocation. Now I see that it's
valuable-- the very definition of his being, the identity of my enemy. I'm not
sure if I want to see him break down, and the decision remains his own.
"Smee told me..." he trails off, picking up his gaze towards me. "He told me
that drinking rum would make it hurt less..."
"Are you asking for an easier way out than I've already provided?"
He doesn't reply, knowing whatever answer he gives will be mocked.
"That's just fine. I'll bring you down some rum tonight and afterwards we can
sever this little tie that's grown between us."
                                      ***
He drinks the rum like a child, lifting the bottle to his lips with both hands,
grimacing after each swig. A flush rises to his cheeks, but his mood hardly
improves. In fact, he seems closer to crying than at any other time.
I take it from him and help myself to the rest. He watches me somberly, though
I see him having trouble keeping balance, even just sitting on the floor. His
body inadvertently shrinks away when I unsheathe my sword. I wish I had the
second hand to hold his matchstick of an arm before bringing the sword down,
but one must make do. I am unsure with my blade again, however, as if
hesitating to really grant the freedom I promise, and he cries out. Blood is
dripping thick to the floor, but I did not slice through the bone.
He cries unabashedly this time, tears given free reign by tipsiness, and I
realize I feel disappointment. Disappointment that I've broken him even before
I could break the appendage. The rum is doing strange things in my head, and I
kneel beside him almost without willing it or knowing why, my body moving on
instinct. I lick up the blood dripping and running down the smooth skin of his
arm, then proceed to do something I had hitherto done only with women, eons ago
it seems. He doesn't resist, and keeps crying even as I kiss him, hiccuping
sobs into my own mouth.
I press myself against him every which way I can, finally fucking him between
the thighs, even as he continues to weep, though obeying my command to squeeze
admirably.
Bliss-- downright heavenly bliss if it weren't for the heavy feeling of guilt
and disgust that I feel as I walk up the steps, not daring to look back at him
to see if he is trying to wipe away the seed I dirtied him with.
                                      ***
"Good morning," I say with my usual mock-sweetness, trying to appear nonchalant
even as images from the previous night's doings flood my mind on seeing him
again. I should have drunk more to knock out disturbing memories, or perhaps
less-- to have prevented that obscene act in the first place. In any case, I
refuse to feel discomfited, and hope he feels guilty enough for the both of us.
Indeed, he doesn't meet my gaze, and his posture this morning tells me he
remembers what happened perhaps even in more detail than I do.
"It's no use," he suddenly proclaims, quietly but with an air of conviction.
"You don't have to come down here every day. I'm never going to be able to go
through with it."
Sarcasm suddenly deserts me, and I am rendered dumb. Broken, so soon,
practically in half. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, and now I
regret having been dramatic enough to really throw the manacle key out to sea
after telling him I would. Now the wall would have to be ruined.
I approach and hack off the wood to which he is attached fairly easily. He
stares and doesn't budge, as if expecting me to do something else. Slowly he
rises to his feet, and walks towards the door, awkwardly, still facing me,
hesitating to the last before finally taking to the air and speeding away from
the ship.
The crew is murmuring around me as I watch him distance himself, the cumbersome
remnant of his captivity still around his wrist, swinging to and fro in the
wind. He'll probably cast it off sooner or later, somehow, just as he does
everything else. It is my lot in this world to remain permanently scarred, and
permanently obsessed, one way or another.
***** Names for Feelings *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan, rated M.
     Peter is underage and under-vocabularized. Mostly just a sad!fic.
Peter had never been aware of the beating sound before his capture. It must
have beat before as well, he rationalized, but he had been so caught up in the
moment that he could easily overlook it.
Now the thumping in his chest is a constant companion. Though constant is
perhaps the wrong word. When Hook enters the room, it will skip a beat, then
return louder, faster-- so loud that he’s sure the Captain must hear it too
(how could he not?) and it doesn’t still even after he’s left alone, but
continues for a long time, almost painfully frantic, not letting him fall
asleep though it’s dark in the hold and he knows he will not be visited again
until morning.
Though it dwells in his chest, it visits other parts of his body as well. When
Hook has Smee tighten the ropes around his wrists, Peter begins feeling it in
his hands, and it’s uncomfortable and makes him feel downright ill when he
senses that rhythm in his hands all night.
He feels it deep down in his body when Hook has Tormented him particularly
roughly and made him abandon all dignity and sob in time with the man’s gasps
of pleasure. Hook won’t tell him what it’s called, what they do, but every such
visit he asks, almost politely, whether Peter is ready for some Torment.
‘Torment’ it is then. Peter feels it throbbing even in the morning when he
wakes, sometimes.
One day Peter finally asks Hook what ‘it’ is, because though the man despises
him and enjoys Torment, Peter has already noticed he enjoys explaining almost
as much. Hook laughs, but Peter guessed that he would and it doesn’t faze him.
He just wants to know. The Captain calls it Fear. Peter’s heard the name before
and now he finally knows what it is. The knowledge is helpful, somehow, and
even the Torment that follows doesn’t seem so terrible. Not when he can put a
name to the feeling Torment produces in him.
Days pass. Peter’s Fear beats steady and slow, mostly, and he’s beginning to
notice another peculiar feeling arising. It’s painful, like all feelings seem
to be, one way or another, and it’s a tension, slow but building. It swells
when he thinks of returning home and then recalls that he cannot. It mixes with
the pulse of Fear into a cacophony of monotone and sharp, crisp thumps.
The Captain changes. He lingers and watches Peter more often after Torment, so
long that Fear sometimes dies down even before he leaves the hold. One day he
calls Smee in, and Smee… with his mouth… just wraps it around…
Fear returns, pumping hard-he can feel it in the part that Smee is sucking-Smee
must feel it too, it’s so loud. It’s not unpleasant, however. He wants to feel
more and more Fear, and he does, until suddenly Fear stops down there and he
feels incredibly satisfied.
It’s my favorite kind of Fear, Peter’s cloudy mind decides, but he is all too
aware that it will be time for another kind of Fear soon, when he sees Hook
sending Smee out and readies himself for Torment. Peter lies passive, resigned
to letting whatever feelings may come just sweep over him. Perhaps he’ll ask
Hook what that new tension is called after they finish today.
***** A Boy of Parts *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan overtones, but mostly just Gen violence. Rated E for
     violence and sexual content.
     Hook killed Peter, and he somewhat regrets it.
Neverland had been very still since it happened—blessedly peaceful at first,
monotonous by now. He was glad that he had left himself keepsakes by which he
might remember. It was with a naturalist’s loving eye that he ran over his
treasures. They served as a rosary of sorts, and Hook had taken to recounting
Peter’s last moments to himself almost every day. For even Hook’s memory
sometimes betrayed him as time raced on without bound. And, unlike the boy,
Hook could only find real pleasure in his memories.
He reached into the box, pulling out longish, straight hair. It was lightening
with age, and growing less silky, but Hook rubbed it between his fingers before
letting it drop down again. Funny, how the smell of blood and sweat had
dissipated over time. It smelt as much of the forest as the moment Pan had been
caught.
Hook had meant to dispatch the boy himself in an appropriately gruesome and
dramatic manner, but when the tiny frame was finally bound, he found he could
not touch him. His men obliged. They had centuries of spite built up, and Peter
would suffer for it all—the fatigue from searching aimlessly in the sweltering
jungles, the tedium of living on a ship always at harbor, and the constant fear
of Hook’s distemper.
Funny, how serene he had grown after being deprived of his nemesis. Sedated,
almost.
It began with very light physical violence, and just this, coupled with some
cruel words, took away the boy's power of flight. How incredibly easy it had
been to infuse fear into him, now that he was secured to their earthbound level
and justice! One of them had the idea to use Peter ignominiously before he was
too mangled. They all took turns, slamming the boy against seemingly every bit
of wall, mast, and railing available to them. Peter’s stoic silence broke down,
and the shrieking only took pause when a particularly abrupt launch against the
railing sent vomit shooting out. Hook watched all this from a distance, the
benefit of the upper deck affording him a good view of the proceedings. The boy
bled small droplets all over the deck as he was pushed to and fro, and they did
so much damage that he finally soiled himself. Prematurely, Hook remembered
with distaste. It was like dirty water spilling out.
Hook ran his hand over the twenty baby teeth-- all lacquered, all lined in a
row attached to a board. How incongruous it seemed that these were the same
that had gleamed at him from within Peter’s impish grin once. They were nothing
more than a crocodilian jaw now, arranged in size from incisor to molar.
When the men grew tired of their fun, they grew violent. The first was a strong
punch against the face. The cheekbone collapsed, Peter fell to hands and knees,
drooling blood and teeth. Even from the upper deck, Hook could see tiny whites
falling into the crimson puddle. They kicked him furiously, and he bawled, his
entire body shaking with the pain. They had gathered in such a close group
around him that Hook could hardly hope to distinguish anything. The crying
stopped, the men parted. Someone must have broken the thin spine down near the
waist. The boy began to slowly crawl away as soon as the blows ended, his lower
half an inert encumbrance now, trailing behind him. It was amazing—the
optimistic hope for survival at that hour, Hook mused. He sensed the end coming
and descended down the stairs.
Hook took the small jar of alcohol and shook it up until the two preserved
eyeballs inside more or less faced him. They had been much prettier, framed by
the almond cut of Pan’s eyelids and the long lashes, but those could not be
rescued intact. The alcohol had been distilled expressly for the purpose, in a
long and painful process. But Hook had been hellbent in his task.
Those eyes had not left the level of the floor since the beating, but did stare
at the newly arrived boots. The boy slightly changed direction to head towards
them. Hook remained impassive, standing in the same place. A pirate with a
sense of humor took his cutlass and severed off Peter’s lower half in the blink
of an eye. Blood spilled onto the deck, but the boy hardly flinched, feeling
nothing down there apparently, and still intent on reaching his destination.
Hook watched in concealed amazement, hoping the boy would make it, but
unwilling to come even a step closer. The men were quiet for only a moment,
taking up the boy’s lower half and jeering about their plans for it.
Hook came to his favorite item, the pair of stuffed hands. He had been
disappointed that the men had stepped on and crushed many of the thin bones in
both of them, but the remedy turned out to be simple. There they lay, small and
perfect, even the nails intact. It was hard to believe most of the bones had
been replaced and that the flesh was nothing but sawdust. Smee had done good
work.
The hands finally reached the boots, but the boy could not use them, injured as
they were, to pull himself up. He had been crawling forward using his elbows.
He was at last close enough to clasp his arms around the leg, rising up like a
pillar before him. Hook looked down in disbelief at the trail of blood and
innards that lay in the wake of the stump of his body. The head slumped
forward, but Hook quickly turned him to face the sky. Still conscious eyes
stared into Hook’s, finally despaired in the realization that these were indeed
the final moments. Only blood colored the now-pale lips which moved,
pronouncing nothing more coherent than a string of ‘mama,’ but when Hook leaned
down, the hands flew up in a desperate last effort, touching the man’s rough
cheeks before falling back, lifeless, to the deck.
The crew had already begun to rape the lower half—highly amused at seeing some
of the more endowed of them come clean through. It was around dusk that Hook
decided he had to preserve as much as possible of his fallen archenemy. He
approached the task with a methodical air, stripping down the boy’s upper half
to its most precious components. He had no interest in internal organs—only
what had been visible and beautiful. There was hardly anything left of the
lower half when Hook finally found it later in the evening-- rent into two and
mangled beyond easy recognition by the boorish oafs. Smee helped tremendously
in that search, miraculously recovering all the teeth that had been knocked out
and scattered by the commotion.
Hook could not resist, and unscrewed the metal appendage. The small right hand
had a metal fastening just below the wrist, and the man screwed it in. It was
ridiculous, how unmatched it was compared to the other. It was useless in its
immobility. But utility was hardly the objective. Hook took it up, gently
caressing his own face with the smooth skin, running the slender fingers
through his hair, over his lips, across the bit of chest exposed by his loose
shirt, and shuddering in pleasure unknown to him while the boy had lived. The
green irises were still fixed on him, as the globes slowly drifted past each
other in the luminescent fluid.
***** Breach of Trust *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan overtones, rated E for weird, explicit content.
     Hook happens upon Peter Pan being very ill in the woods. He never
     would have guessed the cause of the illness.
"Please just let me go,” Peter moaned, sweat pouring down his face.
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere,” Hook said, laying his heavy hand on the
boy’s stomach. Peter curled up, trying to escape the man’s touch.
“I’m going to make a mess,” he whispered brokenly, seized with violent shaking.
“For the last time-- what in the bloody hell is happening to you?”
Peter did not answer, only whimpering and pressing himself further into the
corner. Hook spat, and left the cabin cursing. He did not take care to even
restrain Peter, as the boy only seemed to get weaker and less mobile as time
went on. He had found him quite by accident, noticing footprints on the wet
forest soil as he traversed Neverland with his men, grown bored as he always
did during Pan's occasionally prolonged absences. He was in search of Indians
or Lost Boys. Indeed, when he first discerned the trembling form deep inside
the narrow burrow the tracks had led to, he mistook the eternal boy for a lowly
member of his ragtag band.
They extracted him kicking, protesting, and crying to be left where he was. His
breathing came in pained gasps. They'd stripped him in the forest, searching
for wounds, for surely Peter Pan would crawl into such a hole to shake and cry
only if he were healing or dying. No signs were visible however, though any
touch to his stomach prompted anguished wailing. Hook conveyed this unexpected
prisoner of war back to the ship-- determined to counteract what appeared to be
internal injuries or at least be witness to his enemy's demise. It was by his
hand that Pan was destined to die, Hook had told himself many times, grinding
his teeth, while Smee applied hot compresses to the boy's stomach and forehead.
Hook stopped in his tracks as he heard a loud sob from his cabin. He could not
miss these moments if they were to be Pan's last. He opened the door to a
strange sight indeed. Peter was propping his back against the walls of the
corner, half sitting up, knees bent and thighs spread. A small, wet creature
had appeared… it could not be. Hook watched with disbelief the emergence of a
second such creature from Peter's body.
"They're fairies," Hook murmured finally.
Peter avoided looking Hook in the eyes, cheeks flushing with exertion and
humiliation. Hook used a handkerchief to clear the newborn fairies from his
bedspread. They were still a tad crumpled and covered with mucus. Hook looked
frantically about the room before spotting the small wash basin. He threw the
contents out of the open window, and placed the fairies into it.
The remainder of the evening was spent in a peculiar fashion. The boy’s
agonized groans were muffled into Hook’s coat, as the man held him close to his
body. Peter was on his lap, perched over the basin, now held between Hook’s
thighs-- expelling newborn fairies into it one by one. As soon as the last one
made its exit and a whole mass of clear slop dribbled out of him, Peter sighed
relief, eyelids falling of themselves after all the pain and sleepless nights.
The boy dozed off in the arms of his former enemy before he could be cleaned or
laid into bed.
Peter awoke in a silken nightdress, lying between a wall and the captain. The
man promptly awoke when the boy began to clamber over him to get out of bed.
“Up and about this morning, I see.” Hook smiled as Peter stood, surveying the
cabin in search of his clothes.
“Smee has them in the wash. They had soil and sweat on them. I thought you
might care to spend some more time here recuperating anyway.”
Peter looked back at the man and finally smiled.
“All right, I’ll stay. I’m still too weak to fly now anyway.” The boy walked
over and sat down at the table. “Do you have anything to eat on this ship?”
"I'm sure we can arrange something or other." The man smirked, getting out of
bed and immediately reaching to assemble his hook apparatus. Peter watched him
with a fascination strangely uncolored by fear.
                                      ***
It was only after a filling breakfast that Peter finally related the details
and causes of his ordeal as a desultory tale that Hook had some difficulty in
piecing together into order. The fairies of Neverland apparently reproduced
only parasitically, developing while slowly travelling through the human gut
for three days. Peter Pan had been surrogate parent of choice ever since his
arrival, and though his memory of those early days was patchy, he remembered
bartering the occasional discomfort of these services for eternal youth. It was
also this activity which sustained his fairy dust-independent flight, being the
only inhabitant of Neverland suffused with the substance from the inside. These
effects would slowly fade if he did not continue in this fashion, as far as
Peter could remember.
“So how often is it that you do this?” Hook asked, pleased with how open the
child was being with him.
“It used to be many days in between. I never bothered to count how many. Tinker
Bell would just ask me to come to one of their nightly orgies, and they’d mate
right in my mouth, but...” Peter looked down at his hands nervously.
“But...?” Hook turned his head as if to hear more easily, eyebrows upraised
expectantly. He could discern the boy’s face coloring slightly out of the
corner of his eye.
“But an awful lot of fairies die now, because hardly anyone believes in them
anymore. And I’m supposed to compensate. They began asking me more and more
often and sometimes I’d say no. Because it hurts-- it hurts so much! And I’m
always so miserable and cold and lonely for those three days. Lonely, because
I’ve never told anyone else before...” Huge tears began rolling down his
cheeks, and he suddenly sought solace in Hook’s arms. The man grinned, gently
lifting the lanky frame onto his knees, and stroking the hair of the tragic
boy.
“They sneak up on me if I dare fall asleep on the ground, and I think even
Tink’s been helping them trick me into eating that mating dust...” Peter’s
speech was broken up with sobs now, while Hook lavished kisses on his forehead.
A close friend Hook had suddenly become, Peter mused, attempting to rub away
his tears with the back of his hand. Closer than the Indians he dared not stay
with during the ordeal that shamed him without knowing exactly why. Closer than
his faithful band of Lost Boys who would not have judged him, but would have
stared wide-eyed and terrified if they ever saw what he went through. Closer
even than Wendy, whom he had tried to think about at every ordeal since first
seeing her at the nursery window. She was his unwitting muse as he lay in that
secret burrow in tears-- hoping that the forest sounds would drown out the
occasional anguished howls he’d let forth when a fairy refused to come out the
easy way. Even beautiful Wendy would chastise and question him about his
absences. But here, in the most unlikely of all places, he’d found someone who
not only commiserated, but saw him through his time of torment.
“I’ll come here every time,” Peter whispered, the tears having gone now, though
hiccuped sobs still occasionally launched his torso forwards into Hook’s warm,
tobacco-reeking body. No answer came.
“Have you released the fairies yet?” Peter suddenly remembered. “Their wings
dry up after a few hours and they’re ready to fly away after that.”
“I have not,” Hook said, pulling the boy’s anxious head back to his chest.
“Please do.” Peter attempted to pull away, but Hook’s arms kept him close. “Or
they’ll make me do it again very soon.”
“My little Peter Pan... raped by fairies.” Hook laughed.
The boy squirmed, growing a bit uneasy at Hook’s tone. “Really-- where are
they?”
Hook called to Smee to bring in the jar of fairies.
"You shouldn't keep them in a jar. They might all start dying."
"Don't worry yourself, Pan," Hook murmured, nipping at his ear, causing the boy
only further discomfort. He would leave as soon as they released the fairies,
he decided.
Smee brought in a small jar of a nondescript, dull-colored powder. Hook was
prepared for, and suppressed the sudden jerk out of his arms.
"My pretty, long-suffering boy… the discovery that you can produce dozens of
fairies a night-- easily gatherable fairies, I should say-- has made me happy
beyond your imagination. For, you see, while it's quite true that children can
use fairies and happy thoughts to fly, we adults must make do with happy
thoughts induced by smoking the little buggers."
Hook's arms held Peter put, despite the boy's rather violent attempts to free
himself.
"Tonight I'll let you smell burnt fairy. It makes such pretty pictures in your
head. You grind them up after they dry, and stuff them in a pipe... then smoke
away. It was the highest of delicacies, because we could never catch more than
one or two in weeks. But thanks to you…" Hook finished his sentence with a
hickey on the boy's neck, where he felt the pulse run frantic with distress.
Peter could barely make out Hook's face through his tears. "You killed all of
them?" He was not particularly fond of the creatures himself, besides Tinker
Bell. But to have the fruits of his labor and agony so callously destroyed was
painful-- especially when he considered having to repeat the ordeal so soon. He
would have to find a different place to stay this time, too, because Hook
seemed likely take it into this head to revisit him.
"Not all, my dear boy. I am a gentleman, but I'm not ashamed of enterprise. I
have kept a few pairs." Peter's questioning expression was too delicious to
bear. "To provide for future generations, of course."
                                      ***
Peter felt sleep creeping on him as the contractions temporarily let up, but he
already knew this was only the quiet before the storm. He had it perfectly
rehearsed and memorized by now… now after Hell knew how many infestations Hook
had induced in him. Peter, for one, had lost all count. Hook abused his body
almost as much as the fairy essence that he smoked every evening. He had taken
to forcing dozens of matings at a time, so that each batch of fairies came to
nearly thousands. The ordeal was now more painful, and much longer.
The blinding pain came again, and he bent his knees until his fettered ankles
could go no further. Hook chained him by three limbs, though there was not a
smidgen of hope at this moment that Peter could stand up, let alone fly away.
It was about to begin, he knew. His free hand stuffed a well-worn rag into his
mouth and lightly caressed his stomach-- stretched to frightening proportions,
teeming with fairies to be born, only to be ground up by his captors for mind-
bending pleasures.
Peter shuddered as half a dozen fairies spilled out of him at once, onto the
towel laid out to buffer him from the cold wood of the kitchen floor. Or, most
likely, to keep the floor clean from all the mucus, Peter thought dejectedly,
opening his eyes as the contraction ceased. He watched these first arrivals
already begin to crawl about, wings still completely folded and glistening wet
in the dim light of the lone candle on the high surface of the table. He cursed
them, cursed the entire species that had chosen him to be a conditional prince
of this island, only to end like this-- an animal to be milked for its
products.
Hook walked into the ship's kitchen just as a new wave of pain began. He very
rarely visited Peter, especially when the latter was in condition. The boy
recognized the sickly sweet smoke lacing the usual tobacco, and the resultant
idiotic grin plastered on the captain's otherwise sedate expression. Hook
crouched down, his long hair swaying, a few ringlets brushing past Peter's
face. His hand came down painfully heavy against Peter's bloated stomach.
"Only a little more, Pan. And then I'll let you rest for a couple of days."
Peter did nothing but groan in reply, several more fairies leaving his body,
and salty sweat stinging his eyes as he panted against the rag. A few whacks
across the towel, and all who had been born lay crushed by the swatter Hook had
taken up from the floor. Peter felt the heated sting of it across his cheek
next.
"You're supposed to dispatch them yourself if Smee's not around," Hook
bellowed, suddenly angry as part of his usual mood swings-- his words slightly
slurred and the forget-me-not blues clouded over. They were red, but only with
the aftereffects of the drugs. Peter often wished it were a sign that he was
about to be clawed to death. "The more escape, the sooner we'll have to knock
you up again."
The man sauntered out, Peter clenching the swatter in his unfettered hand as
yet another contraction threatened to engulf him. Hot tears scalded the cheeks
already burning with shame, and he struck at the frail, newly emerged creatures
between his thighs with unparalleled fury.
***** Never Eat a Neverbird *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan overtones, rated M for weird themes.
     Peter is treated very hospitably for a prisoner on Hook's ship...
"Use the napkin, for heaven's sake." Hook was irritated with Peter again, and
the boy knew it was best not to irritate the pirate. The latter was rather fond
of spanking Peter, sometimes without reason, but especially when he did
something stupidly childish like wipe his mouth on the back of his hand. The
boy hurried to bury his pudgy lips into the silk fabric.
His captivity on Hook's ship had been remarkably pleasant. The captain kept him
in his own quarters, which were far superior to the bed of leaves he slept on
inside the tree, and left him to his own devices between the four daily meals
in his waking hours. The meals were sumptuous-- nothing like the sparse fare
that Wendy ineptly prepared. Peter learned the taste of bread, of meat, and of
honey-- the pirates being far more ambitious in their habits of procuring food.
Despite his previous claims to the contrary [ch 7, hehe], Peter Pan found that
he was quite fond of stodging just to feel stodgy when the food was as good as
that served on the captain's table.
Peter stretched, the chains attaching his manacles to the chair's handles
jangling stridently. The boy eyed the remaining bits of breaded Neverbird meat
on his plate before throwing a glance at Hook. The man rarely ate along with
Peter, usually content to watch him the entire time. The harmless pervert,
Peter had to smile to himself. Captivity was so pleasant that its two weeks'
duration flew by almost imperceptibly. Peter had no real intentions of leaving
in the near future.
Smee entered the cabin as Peter was finishing up everything on his plate,
indecorously picking up crumbs with his dampened fingertips and licking them
clean.
"Send the men on another hunt, Smee," Hook said, sipping his wine, his eyes
still fixed on Peter's content face. The boy pretended not to notice the gaze
and patted his stomach, not only distended by its contents but by now also
covered with a thin layer of flab. This was a complete novelty for Peter, and
it amused him greatly when his flesh jiggled if he poked himself just right. He
knew Hook appreciated the show.
"But, Cap'n, there aren't any more of 'em left..."
"There are plenty of Neverbirds," Peter scoffed knowingly. "You people just
don't know where to look." Hook completely ignored Peter and told Smee to get
out of the cabin. Peter pouted. He had grown quite fond of Neverbird meat,
which was served at every meal as the main course, and it was a shame that he
would have to do without for a few days.
Hook suddenly walked over to Peter's seat and crouched down to his eye level.
"My, my, my, how plump we're getting. We've been making a little pig of
ourselves, haven't we?"
Peter shrugged. "I take what's given to me."
"Indeed." Hook smiled. "Pray tell, Peter, hypothetically speaking, what would
you think of a man who eats his fellow man?"
The boy grimaced. "I'd think he was a nasty, murdering rogue who deserves a
swift death," he said, realizing with a measure of horror the obvious drift of
Hook's thoughts only after finishing his sentence.
"You shouldn't condemn people so hastily," Hook said, pinching one of the tiny
precursors of love handles that had appeared recently above Peter's hips. The
boy began to regret his slight pudginess when he saw the hungry look in Hook's
eye. His heart was racing. Hook was a fiend after all, and a terrifying one at
that. The overly nice treatment was only a ploy to have juicy meat later...
"Stop! Stop it! Don't touch me!" Peter hastily cried out when he felt the cold
of the hook caress his full belly. "If you want to kill me, just do it now, and
throw me overboard. Don't bloody eat me!"
Hook was taken aback.
"No one is planning to kill you, lad, let alone eat you, so settle down." Then
a sick smile crept onto Hook's lips. "In fact, it is I who should be slightly
worried about your apparent lack of inhibitions."
"...What?" was all Peter could utter in response, dumbfounded and frightened as
he still was.
"To think that you've grown so rosy-cheeked and cherubic on a diet of your own
comrades!" Hook's expression was full of theatrical melancholy, while Peter's
proceeded to contort into something quite grotesque as the idea registered
itself in his mind. The hunts had not been for Neverbirds but his Lost Boys,
now left vulnerable and easy to catch without his supervision. The tender, pink
meat he had just devoured-- and had been devouring-- with such relish was
human. And his pleasure at mindlessly stuffing himself was of the most horrible
variety.
"This latest dish was Wendy, if I recall correctly," Hook reckoned with mock
concentration. "She was a sweet little miss in life, and I can only hope she
did not disappoint in this respect as she slid down your greedy gullet."
Peter was beyond tears. He threw himself to the edge of his seat, and keeled
over-- trembling, vomiting up the heinous contents of his stomach onto the
lacquered wooden floor.
"I suppose we'll have to get you used to something else, if we're going to
maintain such a nice, ample little bottom," Hook said, standing over the boy
disinterestedly, his hands itching at the thought of the wonderful spanking
ahead of them that evening. "Unless you'd prefer moving on to the Indians?"
***** Doppelganger *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan overtones, rated PG.
     Peter's shadow is his Id.
Battling with Pan was beginning to be not only utterly humiliating, but also
very predicable. Hook swung his sword, half-heartedly, and missed for the
umpteenth time. He knew he would miss, coming to expect it after eons of
playing the cat and mouse game where the conclusion seemed forgone. He
suspected that Peter set the rules of their game, though he would never admit
so to himself aloud. His life, in short, was a doomed enterprise by definition.
Yet this particular miss was different. Though Pan's small, pert body was in
the air and out of reach before anyone could blink, there had been a ripping
sound. Not a scratch on the lad, of course, but something strange lay crumpled
on the deck below him-- something dark and impossibly flimsy, and Hook could
only guess it had been something important by the expression on the boy's face.
The strange form sat up on the floor-- disoriented, but only for a moment. It
sprang up with a lightness Pan himself could envy, and flew several rounds
across the ship. It was reveling in its freedom, Hook gathered, once he
overcame his bewilderment at what had happened.
"Look at what you've done!" Peter groaned. "You never fight fairly. Who strips
shadows off of their opponent?"
Hook said nothing, and merely followed the shadow with his eyes. It didn't so
much fly as slide against surfaces, and it dared not escape the boundaries of
the ship. If only Pan himself were as tractable, Hook thought wistfully.
The dark, translucent silhouette suddenly stopped and began drawing closer to
Hook, drifting eerily along the deck of the ship. Hook drew his sword, unsure
whether it could do any real damage to him, or he to it.
"Don't rip my shadow!" yelled Pan, deliciously nervous. This bolstered Hook's
confidence only a little, because the shape seemed to grow more sinister as it
approached. Its fingers seemed to stretch out longer as they reached for Hook's
boots. Quickly the shadow leapt up against the man's body, but did nothing more
harmful than make strange motions.
The entire crew stood aghast, slowly realizing that Peter Pan's shadow was
lavishing kisses and putting itself into lascivious positions around Hook's
torso-- to the extent that a flat, ethereal body could do so. Hook chuckled as
he felt the strange sensation against him. He could make out legs circling
around his waist and mouth eagerly pressing itself against his lips. He finally
gazed up at Pan, who was hovering uncertainly above them, growing paler with
each new ministration made by his doppelganger.
"Stop it!" the boy finally stuttered out, trying to decide whom he was
addressing. "Don't let it do that!"
Hook grinned. "I can hardly pry this thing off of myself. Come and claim it, if
you like." In truth, he enjoyed this rare contact immensely. Almost as much as
seeing Peter so agitated and embarrassed.
The boy floated down to the deck, forgetting all sense of danger. Indeed the
crew dared not approach him as he came to disengage his most intrinsic
possession from his enemy. The shadow protested as much as it could, wrapping
every limb around the captain, except when it would take the opportunity to
give Peter a blithe smack on the head.
The boy finally gave up his efforts and stamped his foot before sitting down in
protest.
"I'm not leaving without my shadow!" He pouted, showing off moist lips under
even moister eyes.
"Glad to offer you my hospitality, then, lad," Hook said, walking over to the
boy and picking him back up to his feet easily enough with a grip on the hair.
Peter realized all too late that he had played the game wrong, and stared at
the shadow in Hook's arms with hate as the man transported them both down the
stairs to his cabin.
The shadow jumped off Hook and bounded about the cabin briefly, eager to
explore it, before returning as of old, jumping into Hook's arms. Hook shut the
door, and let Peter's head go.
"Well, are you planning to finally let yourself cry in here or not?" he asked,
eager to see the sight.
"I never cry," Peter wiped at his nose furiously, as it began to drip quite
obviously with unshed tears. He found it hard not to tremble, standing in the
middle of Hook's cabin, under the burning scrutiny of the forget-me-nots. He
was almost positive his captor knew the rules-- that Peter Pan could not lose
any game-- but something made him uneasy.
Hook sat in his chair and contemplated the boy in silence, distracted all too
often by the shadow's meddlesome caresses.
"Why does your shadow seem to favor me so, Pan?" Hook said, rather amiably for
one who knew he should at least keelhaul the one he was addressing to be
considered a proper pirate.
"I don't know," Pan said. The captain's questions were most irritating, and he
sincerely hoped he would be allowed to leave soon.
"I suspect you do, dear Peter." Hook said, motioning him to sit down on the
knee unoccupied by the shadow, but the boy shook his head vigorously. The
shadow cupped Hook's face in its hands and attempted to turn it away from his
rival.
"A boy like you, frolicking about the woods without parents or responsibilities
to speak of… It's a pastoral dream, I must admit. But now that your shadow has
been detached, tell me: who will care for poor little Peter Pan?"
The shadow's mouth attacked Hook's, making frantic attempts to do something
useful there. A rogue tear finally escaped out of Peter's eyes, rolling down
his cheek.
"Your shadow knows your friends better than you do, I'm afraid," Hook said.
Peter bowed his head and approached Hook cautiously.
"Fine. Sew it on, then." Unapologetic, point blank. Sometimes Hook wished he
could be a child again.
He took out the set of curved surgeon's needles he had in his desk, and set to
obeying the brat's command. There was much protest from the shadow, of course,
but Peter gallantly kept his face almost completely rigid as the needle slid in
and out of the soles of his feet.
Hook stood up and allowed Peter to admire his handiwork. The boy almost forgot
himself, prancing about gleefully for a bit to make sure his shadow was on good
behavior again. His smile faded when Hook took him up into his lap.
"Where be that shadow now?" Hook asked, stroking the boy's hair so gently that
it belied the danger of the metal appendage with which he did this.
"It's punished. It won't be stupid and silly again."
Hook lit two cigars for his holder, his eyes positively cat-like as he inhaled.
"And cutting off my hand? Wasn't that a stupid and silly thing to do?"
"No," Peter said bluntly, studying the result of his handiwork. It was
difficult to argue with one so confident, Hook noted in amusement.
"You know…" he said, stroking the boy's back. "Now that you've torn it off
once, it might start detaching itself all the time. Then who would you come
to?"
"You, I guess," Peter mumbled and finally wrapped his arms around Hook's neck,
though with none of the shadow's enthusiasm.
Hook's palm left Peter's bony back, slowly sliding down and around to his
thigh. Peter floated off his lap immediately, his expression so grave that Hook
found it hard not to laugh.
"Stop acting like my shadow!" he scolded the pirate. How annoyed he was. It was
absolutely precious. "I want to go home."
Hook unlocked the window and let Peter go without ceremony. He was not willing
to have the other pirates see the circumstances of their enemy's escape. They
would hardly understand that a shadow cannot go on living if it destroys its
counterpart.
***** Eternal Whore *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan, rated M.
     Just a melancholy fic about Peter being Hook's prisoner.
Peter awoke earlier than Hook, feeling stifled between the man and the wall.
One of his wrists was still chained to the bedpost, wrenching his arm into an
uncomfortably twisted position. A forced cough or two roused Hook from his
delicious dreams.
As soon as the man focused his foggy eyes on the body he was crushing he moved
toward the edge, and stroked the smooth skin of the boy's cheek with his
frightening stump. He stared into the indignant, childishly large eyes that
would never forgive him all his past transgressions, and retained a residual
redness from the tears that had glistened so beautifully in the moonlight as
Hook thrust into the boy in the unholy darkness of the cabin.
The ache in Peter's backside resulting from last night's activities was very
dull compared to that which had followed the few initial sessions after his
capture. Peter's body was showing progressive signs of wear and tear, and Hook
was trying to be more considerate—taking care to use plenty of oil and
proceeding slowly and gently. He had to be careful not to damage his eternal
whore in the fits of passion the boy aroused in him.
It was a shame, really. The youngster was not—would not ever be—developed
enough to enjoy what Hook had to offer. In the early days of the capture, Hook
relished Pan's pain and humiliation, and the utter one-sidedness of the
pleasure. It was fitting revenge for the child's countless offenses against
him, not the least of which was the gruesome dismemberment that happened long
ago but remained vivid enough in the captain's memory. Hook shuddered as he
recalled the fateful duel, assembling the elaborate hook apparatus with a
tortured deliberacy. The hook glistened menacingly in front of Peter's face
before pulling aside a few strands of hair from the eyes.
Unfortunately, the boy had been reduced to a whimpering, pathetic shadow of
himself all too soon, and the captain barely had time to enjoy his triumph over
the brash arrogance of the brat. The raping was still satisfying these days but
perfunctory, as Peter would cease to struggle almost immediately and simply
stare into Hook’s eyes with a dejected hatred. A smile had not played upon
those moist lips since the day of his capture.
Hook grinned. "Would you care for a foray off into the sky, lad?" Peter's eyes
grew large and betrayed some excitement. "Restrained, of course. Wouldn't want
my sparrow to flutter out of my clutches, now would I?"
"On a long chain?" Peter asked hopefully.
"We shall see…" Hook murmured, his mouth coming to rest on that tantalizing
neck, and suctioning a monstrous hickey on it. Peter suppressed visible
cringing, not wishing to jeopardize Hook's promised gift.
***
The boy stood, feet still planted firmly on the deck, enjoying a brief
stretching of what must have been every tendon and ligament, all with one
tremulous arch of the spine and stiffening of the limbs. The pleasure derived
from this most simple of actions was so plainly manifested on his face that
Hook felt slight jealousy about how hard he had tried to make it good for Pan
last night, ultimately failing—- always failing. Peter's body was so delicate,
and so gracefully poised at this preparation for his first flight in weeks…
Desires were immediately rekindled in the captain to take the boy-- take him up
against every barrel and crate on this deck in all imaginable positions. Yet he
knew these sentiments had to be restrained for the time. Suddenly he needed to
see Pan happy, with a perverse passion.
Hook bound one end of the chain to the mast, the other end being a complicated
series of knots looped around Peter’s body elaborately enough to banish any
hope of escape. The jangle of the chain was disheartening to the boy's ears,
but he blocked the sound out, along with the heavy metal tightness around him,
and focused his eyes on the open sky above—- a sky that taunted him with
freedom he had once so callously taken for granted.
Hook looked on in half-disbelief as the boy's feet parted with the deck,
silently, effortlessly, as if there were nothing extraordinary in this
contradiction of every physical law. While Hook gaped enviously, Peter felt
apprehensive. Flying felt awkward after such a long hiatus, but he soon
regained his intuitive feel and shot up into the sky almost reflexively. The
chains cruelly bit into his shoulders when he reached the end of the tether.
"Don’t try anything funny, Pan." Peter heard Hook's voice booming from below.
There was Neverland, there was the shore-— so close! The boy felt tears welling
up as he deplored the merciless tug of the chain on his body. Yet there was no
use in suffering pain, so Peter flew back enough to have the chain on his
shoulders relax, and began to practice the mid-air acrobatics that seemed far
less natural to him after all this time. Hook had fleeting moments of sudden
dread, as the form of the boy in the air instinctively prompted him to grab at
the hilt of his sword before he could remind himself that Pan was still captive
and at his mercy.
Having regained some composure, Peter began enjoying the exercise immensely.
Finally out of the stuffy cabin, out in the air, his body felt small and
inconsequential compared to his vast surroundings. He loved the feeling of
insignificance now. In Hook's cabin everything would come to center on his
internal feelings, on the pain emanating from the muscles straining against
Hook's intrusion... the entire world seemed to shrink into a bleak bubble
enclosing their two bodies, locked in excruciating union. It was extremely
disappointing but not surprising to feel the tug of the chain as Hook reeled
the boy back to the deck after a period of time far too short for Peter’s
liking.
***
Hook took off Peter's shirt to examine the large bruises on the shoulder.
"You really shouldn't strain it like this, my little pixie. I like your
shoulders white better than blue." Peter did not utter a reply, and felt a
slight nausea sweeping over him as Hook continued to remove the rest of the
makeshift outfit Smee had sewn together for him.
"Will you let me out on a longer chain tomorrow?" Peter’s voice interrupted
Hook's efforts to chain his wrists to the bed.
"We shall see… It really all depends on you, boy." Peter thought he understood
the captain's meaning. Hook leaned in to kiss Peter deeply. The boy felt
unsure, but pushed his tongue into the kiss, and even put his yet unfettered
arm around Hook's neck.
"My, but you are good when you're whoring yourself for favors," Hook smirked
after finally pulling away. Peter was well beyond concerns about humility and
honor, however. The familiar scent of the oil filled the room, and Peter shut
his eyes, cursing the day he was born as he felt a long probing finger begin to
prepare him for the impending session of pleasure.
***** Panectomy *****
Chapter Summary
     Gen...? Hook/Pan overtones. M for disturbing themes.
     Wendy rescues Peter from captivity on Hook's ship. Or at least so she
     plans.
Wendy rowed the canoe onwards, intent on reaching the ship. Not so many days
ago, the pirates had captured her in the forest, held a knife to her throat as
Peter hovered uncertainly, dagger shaking in his hand, eyes blazing with
indignation because Hook wasn’t playing by the rules. The captain had donned
off his hat, greeted the boy graciously, and told him in a saccharin voice that
there was a way out of the impasse.
Peter submitted himself to take Wendy’s place, and Hook surprised everyone but
Peter when he held to his word and released Wendy. The girl, in all her selfish
fear, ran away immediately, but her conscience began to gnaw at her when her
beau did not return. She feared the worst, and slowly got up the courage to
approach the Indians and ask for their help. The Indians harbored no friendship
for Pan, but did give her a rather leaky canoe to travel in. Her plan was not
thought out in the least-- in her childish naivety, she hoped to use her charms
in convincing Hook to let his nemesis go. Being a romantic, she even imagined
martyring herself, trading places with Peter. Perhaps she would even be killed,
she pondered, but this thought did not frighten her when it was abstract and
not accompanied by a cold blade against her skin and a hairy arm gripping her
roughly around the chest.
She reached the Jolly Roger later than she anticipated, her thin arms aching
from the effort of paddling. The pirates had seen her from afar and let down a
rope ladder, which she climbed, her heart beating less from fear than
excitement at imagining herself a true pirate. She jumped onto the deck and
self-importantly declared that she would speak with the Captain. Hook came out
dressed in his full glory, and Wendy made sure not to show her awe.
“You must be looking for your little playmate? How nice of you to honor him
with your visit. He’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure.” Wendy beamed,
interpreting Hook’s benevolent airs as evidence of her irresistible powers of
attraction. This was confirmed when Hook bellowed for Smee to set the table in
quite a different tone.
Wendy sat down in the chair, daintily arranging her hands on her lap, and then
wiping her nose on the back of her hand with equal grace. Hook grimaced, and
was once again reminded of why he could not stand eating in the company of
children.
“I’m glad to see you’ve kept Peter alive. I couldn’t call you a true gentleman
if you killed your captives.”
“I assure you nothing is more important to me than your high estimation of my
person,” Hook sat down across from her, pouring amber liquid into his goblet.
Wendy simpered, and threw back a strand of hair over her shoulder. Sensual as a
muskrat, Hook sneered.
“So where is Peter?” Wendy started on an apple, sometimes remembering to close
her mouth while chewing.
“He’ll be along shortly. Smee has to prepare his toilette for him. You can’t
imagine how much upkeep that boy requires,” Hook said, sipping at his cup with
reserve.
Peter finally walked in, escorted by Smee. Wendy gasped. The face was hardly
recognizable, obscured by a layer of powder and makeup so thick it seemed to
hold his face rigid. He was clothed in a strumpet’s dress along with uneven,
obvious padding stuffed into areas where his gaunt body was lacking. He walked
awkwardly, limping, as Smee led him across the cabin to the table. Peter sat
down by Hook without a word, his eyes fixed on the empty plate before him. Hook
looked at him approvingly, running his metal appendage through Peter’s hair,
now garishly decorated with silk ribbons.
“What did you do to him?!” Wendy finally managed to stutter out.
“I said he would take your place. Although he’s prettier than you, he wasn’t
quite the wench I had been seeking when I caught you.”
Wendy jumped out of her seat, and ran around the table, and took Peter’s hand,
but he flinched away.
“Don’t disturb the lad. He's so distraught at times. You know how women’s
passions vacillate…”
“You’re an awful, dishonorable man. And we’re leaving,” Wendy announced with
confidence. Hook smiled.
“I have grown quite tired of the brat lately. He’s not worth his keep. So I’ll
have a last go with him, and then you two can be off on your merry little way.”
Peter shuddered, his mouth twitching, and something redder than the lipstick
appearing on it. Wendy screamed.
“What’s wrong with him? Why doesn’t he speak?” she asked.
“He’s been quite intractable most of the time, and I gave him fair warnings
about my expectations. Children should be seen not heard. Yesterday was the
last straw. Though, I assure you, it pained me deeply to do it, as it quite
reduced the repertoire of how I could force him to please me.” Hook grabbed
Peter’s chin, manually opening his jaws to reveal a preternaturally hollow and
bloody interior. Wendy’s face lost color.
“He’s far more agreeable company when he’s not spouting imbecilic insults in
that grating voice of his.” Hook took the opportunity to kiss Peter, who made
no protest. The man spat out congealed blood he had inadvertently sucked in
directly onto Peter’s cheek, and wiped the fingers whitened by the face powder
on the boy’s dress.
“Please be patient, my lady, this will be brief,” Hook said, unbuttoning his
trousers. “And you, bend over the table!” Wendy watched in reluctant
fascination as Peter moved the plate out of the way and obeyed, Hook throwing
the hem of the skirt up and entering him from behind. The boy finally cried
out, which earned him a hard slap on the buttocks and even rougher penetration.
***
 
Wendy toiled to distance the canoe from the ship, trying to ignore the jeering
and insults hurled at her and her companion from above. Peter sat in the scummy
pool of water at the bottom of the boat, his posture grotesque and pained, but
the eyes behind the heavy mascara completely listless. As soon as they had
gotten out of hearing range, Peter violently tore the ribbons from his hair,
and tossed the padding from his chest and hips into the water. Wendy wept, as
silent as her companion.
The canoe finally hit the sand, and Wendy climbed out, trying to pull it out
completely to no avail. Peter grimaced as he stood up and clambered out into
the water, the dress on him filthy and wet, clinging to his thighs in places.
Wendy walked slowly across the beach, Peter leaning on her heavily, his feet
far apart, all his movements labored. It was no longer fun to play mother.
“It’ll be alright,” Wendy lied to herself, stroking his face. Pained tears
streaked down from his eyes, washing runs in the caked white paint.
When they reached the edge of the forest, he pulled away from her, trying to
make his way into a thick part of the vegetation.
“Stop! Peter, come back here!” Wendy ran after him, eager to exert her
authority over him as his rescuer. Peter turned and pushed her away lightly,
shaking his head. Finally, with an enormous effort, he opened his mouth,
pronouncing something hideously-- his lips working overtime, but still only
just barely intelligible words coming out. He was in tears at the pain of the
stump in his mouth trying to push up into his palate as of old. ‘Go away,’
Wendy thought she discerned, but before she could try to persuade him to change
his mind, he turned away, and lifted the bent hoop of the dress’s bottom. Urine
trickled down his thighs. Wendy only noticed this peculiarity after seeing his
frame wracked with sobs at terrible pain.
“Peter! What are you doing?” she asked rather petulantly, dragging him back to
the water’s edge. “Wash up! You can’t go around dirty like that.”
She opened the dress’s back and helped him slip out of it. For the first time
she saw the frightening cauterized wound on his body and screamed. Peter walked
in nude, the salt water burning his groin. He was in the water waist-deep
before he saw the face of the mermaid not far from him. He turned to Wendy,
giving her one last wistful smile before submerging himself into the depths.
Wendy paced the rocky shore, waiting for Peter’s head to bob back out. She felt
a twinge of annoyance that all evidence of her recent noble exertions had gone
and drowned.
***** Dentata *****
Chapter Summary
     Gen, M for violence.
     Peter learns a hard lesson about mermaids and repeating things after
     adults
I stand surveying the lagoon for them. They come up from the depths when they
sense someone is about, so I dip my hand and perturb the surface. Sure enough
one slithers up to the surface silently, emerging not far from the stones my
feet are planted on. I step closer, obscuring the metal of the arm. No need for
premature alarm. She approaches, her webbed hand brushing over the tip of my
boot. She thinks herself clever and insinuates her arm around one ankle, hoping
to deprive me of my balance before dragging me under into her lair-- a bloated,
glassy-eyed prize to exhibit to her sisters, no doubt. I’ve seen it before, and
quickly wrench her out of the water by her slender arm. I drag her out across
the beach, her body thrashing, as gravel tears into the delicate scales of her
tail. She claws at the assaulting arm madly until I bring the cold point of my
hook to press into her neck, her clammy skin yielding.
I bring her down, the metal almost embedded in her. I had seen to everything,
and have no need to unbutton my breeches. I stuff myself into her mouth, and
she hisses in resentment but begins to suck. These fused girls always know what
to do, and despite all their protests, I suspect they enjoy it, having no
recourse to true pleasure. Waves of that same pleasure threaten to overtake me,
but I must keep my wits about me, and the point in her neck. Those teeth can
crack mussel shells open, and I have no desire to experiment in consensual sex
with these creatures who don’t even speak like human beings. I come into her
mouth, thrusting deep into her throat inconsiderately before pulling out. I
nick her skin lightly, and let the hook come away, watching her hiss and groan
out of the corner of my eye as I button my breeches. She begins dragging her
body back slowly toward the water’s edge, sleek in the lagoon, but unwieldy on
dry land. I head towards the boat, having been most deliciously satisfied on
this excursion.
I am within sight of my crewmembers when I hear a wretched scream wrack the
jungle. I rush back, almost sure of the voice’s identity. The boy is standing
at the water’s edge, eyes bugging out almost as wide as his open mouth, blood
spurting in bursts from his crotch. The tail of the mermaid disappears under
the surface with unintentional flourish, and the boy falls to his knees
clutching frantically for his missing parts. Approach makes the man, I snort to
myself, and turn on my heels to leave.
***** Switch-a-roo *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan, M for sexual content.
     Hook's ship is wrecked in a storm and he suffers from amnesia. Peter
     begins a game with him that gets out of hand.
Peter sat pouting, watching the bay. Oh, how mad they had all made him last
night. Wendy and the boys, and even Tink. They had all been unusually annoying
and he must have gotten very angry, though he couldn’t really recall what it
had all been about. The storm had shaken the island, and now morning light
revealed that Hook’s ship was gone. There was wooden debris all over the beach,
and he’d seen bloated drowned bodies washing up on shore. Dead bodies…
something about that made him shiver, though he was sure he couldn’t care less
about the pirates. His only regret was that he hadn’t killed them in battle. He
pushed the vague discomfort out of his mind.
Suddenly he espied someone walking up the beach, and when he flew closer he
immediately recognized the captain, though he was wet and bedraggled almost
beyond recognition.
“Well, hello! Glad to see you made it out alive!” The boy cried out, though he
didn’t descend to the ground. Hook looked up, shielding his eyes from the
rising sun. Peter could see that there was a large gash on his forehead.
“I’m sorry—I… don’t seem to remember…” Hook mumbled.
“What?”
“I don’t remember… anything. Did I know you before?” The captain’s voice was
uncharacteristically shaky.
“You really don’t remember who you are?” The boy looked positively delighted.
“I have to admit it’s a rare thing for me to remind someone else of something.
But it’ll be my pleasure! I… am Captain Hook, and you’re Peter Pan.” The boy
could barely suppress his laughter. He was certainly quick-witted, to think of
such a funny deception.
“How can you be a captain? You’re a mere boy!” Something was very exasperating
about that lopsided grin, the man thought. Something exasperating in a very
familiar way, but it kept eluding his mind like a seed-wisp on the wind.
“Oh, I’m much older than you think.”
“Fine, suit yourself. So you know me?”
“Oh, we knew each other very well. We were the closest of friends. Don’t tell
me you don’t remember?”
“I told you, I don’t remember anything before getting washed up on this shore…”
'Peter Pan' sat down, making his hands into a vise on his temples in hopes of
alleviating his headache. This boy-captain was doing nothing to alleviate it,
certainly.
'Hook' floated down and crouched beside the man. Finally there was someone who
would pretend along with him just as earnestly, though the poor victim of the
game had no choice in the matter. 'Hook' smiled.
“Can you help me take this whole… apparatus off? The salt on it chafes.”
'Hook' took off 'Peter'’s clothing layer by layer, starting with the greatcoat,
until he reached bare skin and began working the leather harness off.
“How did you swim in all these rags anyway? I’d have drowned. And only one hand
to paddle with. I’m impressed… Peter Pan.” The way the boy relished saying his
name made 'Peter' sure it was just some invented mumbo-jumbo that the lad found
amusing. It irritated him to no end that he couldn’t do a single thing about
it.
“And please remind me-- what exactly happened to my hand?”
'Hook'’s eyes sparkled and you could tell he was very pleased with his own
cleverness. “I ate it.”
“What?”
“I ate it. It tasted really good.”
“What in damnation are you talking about?”
“I like the taste of human flesh. Your flesh. So I decided to eat it.”
'Peter' trembled. He was sure these were outlandish lies, but the strange grin
on 'Hook'’s face, and the utter confidence of the words disarmed him. He had no
reason to believe this eccentric boy, but he had no other alternatives to
complete ignorance. 'Peter' looked around, desperate to see someone else who
might bring a dose of sanity to this situation.
'Hook' stared at 'Peter', seeing the fear in his eyes, and the hopelessness. He
suddenly began to feel very peculiar. Something from the past… the far, far
past. Peter Pan was crying and scared and Captain James Hook did something very
strange in that cabin… He tried to concentrate his mind but couldn’t for the
life of him remember the details. Yet he instinctively felt an urge to do
something rather strange now, based on that vague memory.
“I liked your flesh so much that I’ve followed you ever since. Wanting the rest
of you…”
'Peter' sat flabbergasted when 'Hook' rose and pecked him on the cheek,
giggling.
“Don’t kiss me. Don’t touch me!” 'Peter' cried, eyes darting about frantically.
“That’s not a kiss, that’s a thimble,” 'Hook' said, rather peeved. “And,
anyway, I’m going to thimble you again, whether you like it or not.”
'Peter' dealt 'Hook' such a blow that the latter was thrown out of the man’s
reach.
“What the hell was that for?” 'Hook' whined, hovering in the air and rubbing
his chest where the wind had been knocked out of him by that huge fist.
“Just don’t touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me until I remember who the
hell I am and what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Well that’s no fun. Why do you worry so much all the time? You were like that
before you forgot everything too—”
Suddenly they both heard a ticking. 'Peter' sat quietly, listening to it rather
calmly and making no move to escape. “What is that clock sound?”
'Hook' smiled. “You really are hopeless if you can’t remember that. We better
go before it gets here.”
“Why?” 'Peter' asked, walking through the brambles of the overgrown forest path
slower than 'Hook' would have liked, prompting the boy to finally tug on the
man’s wrist to move him along and stop him from turning around so often. “What
is it? What does the clock mean?”
“It means we shouldn’t be hearing it. We don’t have to listen to clocks on this
island.”
They reached a small cave and went in. 'Peter' sat down on a rock, though it
was very cold and almost moist.
“You must be hungry,” 'Hook' suggested, obviously enjoying the part of
protector.
'Peter' shivered. “Thirsty, mostly.” They had left all the clothing from his
upper half on the ground with the harness. He really wanted to go back and get
them now that they were in this dampness, but 'Hook' smiled and flew out very
quickly when he heard the request. Left alone, Peter found he was reluctant to
venture out of sight of the cave for fear of losing it. It was impossible to
tell for certain, but there didn’t seem to be others on this island, and he
decided he had better stay and wait for his only companion to return.
Hook did not return for a very long time, and Peter finally ventured far out,
marking his path with scratches on the treetrunks. He searched for his
clothing, but had apparently gone in the wrong direction. Suddenly he came upon
bodies in the woods. He thought they were sleeping when he saw them from afar
but he soon saw that they were sprawled haphazardly-- covered in blood and
reeking in the heat. Many boys and one girl, all run through the chest, the
flies circling about them and crawling on their faces— expressions ghastly and
eyes still open.
Peter trembled, wondering who could have done something so gruesome,
remembering how rushed Hook had been in getting him to come away from the
ticking sounds. He fled back so quickly he often nearly lost his own trail. He
huddled inside the cave, praying Hook would return and trying to chase away
thoughts that perhaps he would not. That perhaps he would also find his only
companion lying in the woods with his mouth open and his blood dry and brown on
his clothing.
Hook did return, but only when it had already grown very dark. “Wow, I almost
clean forgot about you! You’d have been left here all night if I hadn’t
suddenly remembered what we were doing. Speaking of which, what was it I was
supposed to fetch for you?”
Peter sat shivering in the dark recess of the cave, seeing Hook clearly against
the moonlight behind him. “It’s alright. I found water here in the cave. Just
don’t leave again.”
“But you must be hungry by now! I already ate. Let me bring you something…”
“No!” Hook felt Peter’s iron grip on his wrist. “Don’t go out again. When
you’re not here with me I feel as if I’m losing my mind, because I don’t
understand anything that’s happening.”
“Oh. Alright.” Hook felt uneasy at how hard Peter was gripping him to his
chest. “Let’s stay together then.”
“Yes,” Peter mumbled and sat back down, placing Hook on his lap. “Let’s stay
together.”
They sat in silence, Peter still haunted by the faces of those children. Hook
parted Peter’s long dark curls, and licked at the congealed wound on his
forehead.
“So tell me, where are the rest of the people on this island?” Peter finally
ventured.
“The rest?” Hook thought for a moment, smiling at this new opportunity for more
invention. “There is no one else. Just you and I.”
“I see. And what do we do?”
“Do?”
“What do we do all day? Surely we don’t sit in caves and hold each other.”
“We do whatever we wish.” Hook grinned, and Peter was positive he remembered
that grin, but really nothing else from his companion. “And what I wish is to
give you a thimble.”
Hook pecked him on the cheek again, and then stared intently at the face in
front of him. He let a small gasp escape his lips when he could suddenly
discern teardrops running down those chiseled cheeks.
“What’s the matter,” Peter said, his voice shaking. “Never seen me cry before?”
“No,” Hook answered truthfully, still fascinated. “I didn’t know grown men
could cry too. What’s wrong, anyway?”
“I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m afraid to be left alone, I still don’t understand
what I’m supposed to be doing, there are dead children in the woods, you’re
lying to me left and right--”
“What dead children?” Hook stiffened. Why dead bodies all the time. Who cared
about dead bodies. “No, no, there are no other children in these woods, I told
you. Just you and I.”
“I just don’t feel like I want to live anymore.”
“Why not?” Hook’s voice betrayed great agitation. There it was again—some
distant memory of something pleasant. Or was it unpleasant? Something like
coming together so closely it was frightening. As if they’d lose their separate
identities. Hook suddenly felt some panic too, because he had by now forgotten
what the great joke had been. He remembered there had been a joke. What was
happening to Peter was very funny, for one reason or another, but he couldn’t
recall just now what the reasons were. He thimbled Peter again, for lack of
anything better to do. This action didn’t seem funny anymore either, though he
was sure it had been earlier that morning…
Peter’s lips suddenly pressed themselves rather harshly into Hook’s. Hook could
not struggle much, confined in the man’s arms as he was.
“Please don’t leave me,” Peter whispered and began stripping Hook’s meager
outfit off of him.
“What…?” Hook whispered, his voice catching in his throat. He felt Peter’s
elbow catch his knee and raise it, opening him up down there, pressing his own
crotch into Hook’s…
Panic. He remembered it now. It had been unpleasant. Hook had laughed, Peter
had cried. Or was it the other way around? Hook trembled in fright at both what
he could and could not remember.
“Don’t…” Hook was too frightened to say anything else, growing hoarse. Peter’s
arms were still clutching him and sprawling his legs out uncomfortably, anger,
confusion, and sadness driving him onwards until—
“Belay that!” Hook cried out in desperation.
It was a deep, sonorous voice that cried out, echoing off the cave walls. Peter
thrust the boy away, nauseated by the confusion. “What… what are you? Why are
you speaking with my voice?”
Hook couldn’t rightly answer the question. He remained on the ground where he’d
been thrown, sobbing, naked. It had started out as a fun game, he could have
sworn, but it was only frightening and gloomy now, and he could hardly remember
why it was a game at all.
Peter was no less terrified. “Where are we? What are we?”
“If… if I can just go and ask—I… there may be someone who will remind me…”
“Who?”
“A… a girl. I remember there is a girl. She can tell us.”
“I saw a girl lying dead in the woods.”
Hook’s lips trembled and he burst into tears. What girl and why was she dead.
Why couldn’t he remember anything anymore?
“You’re not going anywhere.” Peter grabbed Hook back, and the large hand
alighted on the boy’s neck, throttling him. “And you’re not supposed to have my
voice! Don’t do that! Don’t do it ever again-- it’s frightening!”
Hook made a weak noise when his neck was released and slid down to the stone
floor again. His neck throbbed, and it felt hard to breathe, as if there was
something catching in the passageway. Peter stared at the dark marks he’d left
on the unblemished skin—so stark that they were visible in the dim light of the
cave. He finally picked Hook up again to see him coughing blood. Tears of
sadness and fright were streaming down both of their cheeks as they sat, stuck
torso-to-torso, arms wrapped around each other, neither remembering where they
came from or where they were headed.
***** Nettles *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan, rated M.
     Peter is made to wear nettles in place of his usual ivy. Lighthearted
     sadism.
“Green suits you, Pan. Did you know that?”
He had been rather happy at first to see what he thought were his clothes
returned to him after several excruciatingly cold days spent naked and chained
in the hold. At least he thought it had been several. He couldn’t rightly tell
in the dank darkness. Neither could he immediately see that the leaves were
quite strangely shaped.
Peter had struggled madly, so that four of the crewmen, all in gloves, hardly
managed to slip Peter into his newly commissioned outfit. They exited, leaving
the captain and his prize alone. Hook stood impassively, watching Peter go from
writhing in pain, to finally deciding better and lying still to minimize the
stinging on the rest of his body.
Peter finally braved sacrificing his palms and began ripping the evil foliage
from his body.
"No, no, that won’t do at all.” Hook moved in, crushing Peter into the floor
with his own person, causing excruciating agony when he began to rut against
his body. Hook had thick, elaborate clothes to protect himself. Peter had the
nettles. Still he refused to cry out from old pride-- a vestige of his former
existence of only a few days ago, already grown quite useless.
“This is the form I fell into obsession with, not some sorry prisoner. I’m
afraid you'll simply have to keep wearing this suit."
Hook wasn’t afraid. He hadn’t been afraid since he’d captured the boy. Even if
the crocodile were to suddenly happen upon him and swallow him whole right at
this moment, it could never swallow his victory over Peter. Even if the boy got
away afterwards.
Unless he’d forget eventually…
Hook made sure Peter wouldn’t forget. He raised Peter and began rubbing into
his groin. Peter gave out a whimper then finally started crying for mercy when
he felt his most sensitive part subjected to such cruelly acute pain,
redoubling his attempt to tear the outfit clean off.
"And when this one wilts we'll fashion you a new one, I imagine." Hook's gloved
hand descended to the boy's groin, rubbing before suddenly snatching out a
whole clump of nettles, leaving Peter quite naked in that particular spot. And
quite hurt. The whole ship must have heard.
“Your screeches are not as melodious as you might think, my little sprite.” He
suddenly stuffed the nettles into that small, delicate mouth. Before Peter
could react in any way. Before he realized the potential pain. And then two
large fingers thrust up his nostril, stuffing the remainder up the last
remaining passage of air.
Peter’s eyes watered over before he could do anything else. He felt Hook’s hand
against his mouth and nose. Panic rose as the urgency to take a breath mounted.
“Will you remember this, Pan?”
Peter nodded desperately, seeing Hook only as a washed out mirage disappearing
behind yet another wall of tears.
“Always?”
Peter nodded, again against Hook’s crushing hand, afraid he was losing
consciousness. All pain in his body ceded center-stage as he felt his throat
and nasal cavity swelling with inflammation.
Hook’s hand finally left and clumps of nettles were immediately snorted and
coughed out. Hook released him, and Peter fell to his knees, drool, snot and
tears still pouring out as he struggled to breathe again through his
constricted passages. He hardly took notice of Hook massaging the nettles into
his backside by this point.
“Get up, brat.” Hook kicked Peter’s backside, and the latter scrambled to his
feet. Hook was pleased to see that the inflammation had aroused Peter like no
gentle stimulation had done.
“Take off that outfit.” The boy gladly obliged, revealing frightful blisters
all over his previously unblemished skin-- pulsating, burning. The boy stood
gulping belaboredly, still looking quite the feverish mess. Hook couldn’t
resist and ran the roughened leather of his gloves across Peter’s stomach, red
spots like a map of where he had so eagerly thrust into the boy’s body moments
before.
He might remember this, Hook thought, though with little conviction, when he
heard Peter practically howl in pain at the touch. Perhaps he’d start taking
more drastic measures to permanently mark the boy up, but not today. Those
affairs had to be conducted carefully and with planning, after all.
As long as Pan lived, he could never be guaranteed that his victory would be
remembered. With Pan dead however, he could be sure it wouldn’t be-- which made
these things irritatingly difficult.
***** Peace Pipe *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter/Wendy, rated E for... something bad happening.
     This fic made some P/W shippers mad, so I am warning you that this is
     darkfic...
     I am also aware that coca leaves were not part of the standard recipe
     for peace pipe mixes.
The Indian celebration of Tiger Lily’s return was wilder than anything Wendy
had experienced. The primitive instruments made simple but surprisingly
affecting music. They had all danced madly that evening, Peter flying up in
crazy spirals not unlike the amber sparks that shot out of the bonfire when
some of the wood inside it collapsed. Wendy was quite upset at seeing Peter
bestow so much attention on Tiger Lily. He inhaled from the long peace pipe
many times, with such fervor as if he was drinking it in, heaving out his chest
comically, laughing hysterically when the Indian girl bestowed kisses on his
body, acrid smoke rolling out of his mouth in short bursts with each frenzied
‘Ha’.
Wendy had been sitting, witnessing all this without a word, hoping Peter would
turn to her so she could give him a ponderous sort of glare, but the boy had no
mind to. She finally sprang to her feet, surprised at her own indignation, and
grabbed Peter by the wrist, hauling him up to his feet and dragging him into
the woods under the pretense of going home, though she was not even sure which
direction the treehouse was in from that small clearing.
Peter was laughing, stumbling once in a while over roots and stones as they
traveled deeper and deeper into the woods. Finally Wendy stopped, reluctantly
asking him if he knew the way home. He grinned and shrugged. There was a
strange look in his eye and his cheeks were noticeably flushed even under the
red stripes he had taken the liberty to draw on his face.
“I don’t know. But I feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest!” he
cried, hugging his own ribcage, laughing. “And it starts going even faster when
I look at you. And I keep wanting more—to get even closer to you. As if I want
my chest to burst!”
Wendy instinctively felt there was something inappropriate to this and shrank
back. But then Peter smiled, and her resolve melted away. What harm could it
do? Better with than with the Indian girl. They rolled on the grass together,
Wendy sensing they were on the verge of something great but not quite knowing
how to get there. She had heard something from the girls in her class, but the
thought both frightened and confused her. And yet the very wilderness of
Neverland made it seem alright. Nothing that transpired here made much sense,
so fear seemed little reason not to tell Peter that it would feel better to do
it naked.
Naked they became—two smooth bodies on the mottled forest floor. Wendy looked
for stars twinkling between branches and then saw the same untamed light in
Peter’s eyes above hers. No, something was amiss with him tonight and it made
her uneasy. Perhaps he was growing up at last. But then the blind, furious
passion with which he rubbed himself to and fro against her lower body did not
remind her in the least of her father or any other adult she knew. They were
discovering something new, it seemed.
“Oh!” Peter gasped out and collapsed on Wendy, breathing erratically.
“Something in my chest is really going to explode.” He was fever hot and she
could feel his heart race as he lay on top of her.
“Peter get off, you’re too heavy.”
He lifted without really moving a muscle, the beginning of levitation, though
still in contact with her body. Something hard was nudging itself between her
legs and though Wendy knew well enough what it was, she could not bear to look.
Peter seemed wholly unembarrassed by the funny things happening with his body
and was only bent on insinuating himself between Wendy’s legs. He succeeded
with a sudden push and Wendy clapped her legs together, all too late.
Peter moaned. The smell of the smoke was still on his breath as his head fell
forward to meet with Wendy’s forehead. She hated the feeling of being pinned,
but the frenzied rubbing that resumed courtesy of a light movement of Peter’s
hips brought very new, surprisingly pleasant sensations. She grasped at his
back, fingers digging in so much that the boy had a brief look of pain on his
face.
Whereas they started dry, almost chafing, the area was now slick with something
even stickier than sweat. Their movement even produced funny sounds, but Peter
hardly seemed aware of anything by now, biting into his own lip, eyes half-
closed, sweat droplets occasionally falling on her. He was moving irregularly,
faltering, clumsy in his own frenzy and sometimes slipping out from between her
legs entirely. Wendy clenched her thighs not only because it felt better but
because of how his eyelashes would flutter down and a moan that seemed to be
born deep in his gut would escape his lips. Finally his whole body shuddered,
spine arching, crotches digging into each other so closely that Wendy felt it,
wet and hot, against her very buttocks.
The boy rolled off and lay grinning and panting. Wendy was still feeling
strange deep inside. At once she remembered herself.
“Dear Peter, I think we shall have to be married since we did that.”
“What’s that?” Peter mumbled, still stupid with bliss.
“It means we will forever be bound to each other and love one anoth—”
“Tiger Lily never said that. And she’s the one who taught it to me.”
Wendy felt the feeling suddenly wither, as if his words had somehow affected
her body directly. “You did this with Tiger Lily?”
“Mmhm. She also puts her mouth on it. That’s really good. But you’re not bad
either. She has these things…” Peter gestured on his own body, rather
unmistakably forming breasts with cupped hands. “I like to put my mouth between
them.”
Wendy's nose was tingling with tears and she became acutely aware that there
was still nasty clamminess between her thighs when she sat up. “Putting her
mouth there? That’s appalling, Peter. No girl should ever do that.”
“But I do it to her too. It feels so good for the person.”
“Well you’re a nasty boy then, Peter. That’s wrong.”
“Who says.”
“…I… do…” Wendy’s hesitation increased as Peter turned to her, smiling lopsided
like something wicked from the woods. She gave out a little scream when he
lunged for her, hooking his arms around her legs and throwing his face into the
fray. She protested the first several licks, but was soon lost to a sensation
many times more powerful than that which she felt before. It felt marvelous,
Peter even licking up the residue left on her thighs, and his tongue did such
wonders elsewhere that she soon grabbed his hair as if to make sure his head
would not leave. He was on his knees, his head low at the ground, sending his
ass up into the air. Wendy came to release his hair and ran her hands up his
back until she reached his buttocks, her hand pulling them in, launching his
whole torso forward into her. Peter moaned luxurious air currents before
delving in deeper.
Pleasure crescendoed several times, each a series of upsurges that had her
pulsating inside and without. Having pleased her to his satisfaction, Peter
rose up grinning, licking his lips obscenely, but Wendy could hardly criticize
him when her limbs were still trembling from that onslaught.
“I like you better, you know,” he said, as he huddled next to her, suddenly
cold and goosebumped. Wendy had already forgotten about his callous words from
before, and felt only gratification at this admission.
“I like your looks more,” Peter murmured as he lay back on the grass, saying it
with an air of grave consideration. “More like me.”
Wendy did not have the urge to dissect his words and be angry so she lay down
next to him, in such long silence that she witnessed the dew begin condensing
on the eyelashes of his closed eyes. She startled when they suddenly flew open
and she immediately noticed something had changed in them.
“I’m so hungry. Let’s go find something to eat.” He got up, hardly waiting for
her.
She stood at the base of the tree, looking up at him sitting on the branch,
thin legs coming down almost low enough for her to reach. He was gorging on
fruit like she’d never seen him do before.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” she finally ventured to ask.
“What, you mean the coca?” He said it with such a mouthful still in his mouth
Wendy wasn’t sure if she’d heard it right.
“Coca?”
“The stuff in the peacepipe. The first round was a calming one, makes you
sleepy, and I don’t much go for that, but the second round is the victory mix.
That’s where the coca is. I love the feeling of coca. Makes you feel alive.”
“Do you have to smoke that to feel alive?” she asked incredulously, though she
had to admit the previous hour or so had been exciting for her too.
“Fighting pirates can do it too, but you can’t do that all the time. Coca is
almost better. Makes me feel real funny all over. Makes me like touching.” He
jumped down, face frightfully dirty and sticky from the fruit. “Come on, I want
something else than fruit. It always feels like I haven’t eaten for days after
coca…”
They returned to the site of the celebration, hand in hand, though Wendy tried
to wipe off the sticky juice that got transferred to her palm as soon as
Peter’s grip opened. The Lost Boys had all left, and the Indians had already
retired to their teepees, within a stone’s throw of the site. No food besides
small scraps on the ground had been left, but both Peter and Wendy espied
something on the ground. Peter approached it, sniffing at the pipe.
“There’s still stuff in here. You want to try it now?”
Wendy shook her head timidly. She rather liked the effect it produced in Peter,
but it also frightened her. In any case, it seemed wholly inappropriate for a
lady to behave in that wild fashion.
Peter lit a stick in the dying embers of the bonfire and lit it up. He inhaled,
his eyes rolling up in pleasure. Wendy laughed. It was funny to watch to him.
He took several long drags before putting it on the ground, wisps of smoke
traveling up from it.
“Do you want to play a game Tiger Lily taught me?”
Mention of the other girl no longer bothered Wendy now that she had been
proclaimed the more desirable, so she gladly agreed and followed Peter’s
instructions to tie his wrists and ankles back around one of the totem poles.
He was now kneeling, his back pressed against the carved wood, obscenely
exposed. Wendy felt a thrill when she thought that someone might come out and
see them.
“Now if you put your mouth on it and suck… but only once…”
Wendy hesitated but obeyed. Her inhibitions were slowly fading away and taking
it into her mouth didn’t seem quite as dirty as it did before. Peter’s body
responded quickly and unmistakably, and what had made her uncomfortable before
now seemed to delight.
“Now—do it every once in a while, but never twice in a row. Even if I beg.
It’ll be so much better at the end…”
Wendy followed his instructions, leaning back each time. Peter was soon
straining against the leather bonds binding him, attempting to thrust, moaning,
pleading, begging, soon crying for her to lavish more attention on it, and
groaning very loudly when she finally would descend for a quick lick. She
watched him—sagging against his bonds, flushed, face suffused with tears,
looking like a lunatic because he was giggling between sobs.
“Oh!” he cried. “It hurts already, it hurts!”
Wendy knelt behind him to untie but he turned, surprisingly very stern and
annoyed, to tell her that it was not the time for it yet.
She felt awesome power and fright at the responsibility she carried. She could
hear the excited thump of her heart in her very ears, as if the drums, lying
abandoned, had revived. How wonderful coca was, to reduce someone cold and
aloof like Peter Pan to a mewling, carnal mess—ready to give and take pleasure
in a way she never thought imaginable!
This was why she did not hesitate to bring the pipe to his lips when he asked
for a boost. It was why she laughed right along with him when he shouted and
chortled at how his chest felt like it would burst with happiness, and only
shushed him in fear that they would be discovered at their game. It was why she
didn’t know what to do when his head slumped forward and he was suddenly seized
with a few shakes before falling very silent and still.
She untied him with some difficulty and his body fell forward onto the forest
floor, lifeless where there had just now been the very fountain of youth and
vivacity, not just bubbling but veritably on the boil.
Wendy turned him over, but didn’t like the look of the sand that had gotten
into his open eyes. His mouth had still been sticky and dirt now clung to his
face. Death was very dirty, she noted, growing progressively more afraid. She
had heard that people pissed themselves, that their bodies grew stiff and gave
off a smell, but why did that pretty face have to grow so blank and… dirty? She
was crying rather hard by now, and flung the long wooden pipe deep into the
woods, refusing to really think about what had just transpired.
***** Hibernation *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Wendy, rated M.
     Peter leaves the island and it freezes over. The pirates, Wendy, and
     her brothers must weather the cold somehow.
The Lost Boys made do with their warm furs thrown over them—practically in
hibernation, waiting for the island to throb awake when the boy would return.
Wendy couldn’t, and was the first to suggest seeking out adults. The Indians
were nowhere to be found—perhaps underground or in a far hideaway just for
these occasions. She had finally resolved to walk across the ice to the only
other grown men on the island, and only her brothers dared follow. The Lost
Boys wouldn’t ever have it—switching allegiances for personal comfort was so
pragmatic and anathema that they yelled ‘Old Woman!’ after her in the nastiest
tones they could muster.
The crossing had been difficult in itself, as the cold wind whipped against
their bodies with far greater fury now that they were unprotected by the
forest. Sometimes the ice was thinner in places and they could see the
soulless, pale eyes of a mermaid staring up at them. Wendy took care to steer
clear of those more transparent areas. The entire way she prayed, in her
childish way—without structure or any memorized words—that the captain would
take them in. When they climbed up the rope ladder to get aboard, Hook was
extremely gracious. So much so, that what he did to her later surprised her
more than it should have.
Hook was a grownup, and with grownups everything had a price. The first time he
did it she left in tears, lip bleeding from her own strain. She had wanted to
take her brothers and leave the ship before Hook changed his mind and kept them
against their will. But John and Michael had been treated kindly by Smee and
refused to walk back to the island across the ice—back into the unending cold.
And then Hook arranged to have her bathe. Glorious, glorious heat! The steam
vapors rose thick from the water into the cool air. Wendy sank in as much as
the size of the tub would allow, trying to scald every inch of her skin. Her
teeth chattered violently when she was out in the cold air of the cabin again,
but the captain took her and dried her off, even though she could well have
managed herself. She sat by the coal stove in the cabin, wringing her hair to
dry it.
Hook had watched her with strange, brooding eyes, and when the coal stove’s
heat began waning, Wendy had to look to him for comfort again. They did it on
the bed, under the heavy coverlet, and Wendy found that it was not as
unpleasant as she remembered. She felt funny after they were done, and much
warmer as well, though the air around them still turned the vapor in their
breaths visible. It was when Hook’s hand delved between her legs that she felt
ecstasy creeping up on her—until it all exploded in one burst, her body sinking
into fatigue and growing colder again, making her seek out Hook’s warm torso
next to her as they fell into uneasy sleep with the coverlet up to their noses.
“But why is he gone for so long?” Wendy whispered one day when they were in bed
together. The lament in her voice did not irritate the captain.
“Time trickles down to a halt wherever he is. So what seems to be one night of
fun in London becomes months here.”
“Months!”
“It hardly matters when you don’t age, Ms. Darling. But to us, we are changing
as we speak. It’s not uncommon that he’ll cast out one of his boys upon his
return, finding him too much like a pirate. I’m decaying, you’re only growing
more lovely by the day.”
“I just wish it weren’t so cold when he leaves…”
It happened in the morning, when the Captain was at his most charming, kissing
her chest already promising to burgeon out, bringing her ever closer to
release. Wendy’s eyes flew open when she heard a great groan as the ice began
melting around the ship with terrifying speed, as if the sea had been set on
boil.
“Your little prince has returned, it seems. And you have no more need of my
coal stove.” Hook rose out of bed, naked, now eager to savor the cold that
would soon be only a distant memory. It was the first time she really saw his
entire body without any covering. “The weather will be sweltering, the
vegetation will sprout like mad, its sap stinking, and you, my wonderful
creature, will frolic around with your little child-hero in pathetic mockery of
what you would do were you a bit older and wiser. Go on then. My crew will take
you back in a boat.”
Wendy stayed put.
“I think… I should rather stay here.”
Hook returned to the bed, and her thighs confirmed her words. She clasped her
hands behind his head, and he kissed her. He always took the time to kiss her
even when he was inside. He was a gentleman like that.
John and Michael protested and cried about leaving their sister as they were
sent back to the island.
Wendy stood grim, the iron hook refreshingly cool against the skin of her arm
in the clammy air that had by now taken hold over the entire area.
“Clean out the cannons, bullies. The cursed brat is sure to stop by today.”
Wendy watched the men working, not responding to their wary sideward glances
toward her. She loved the man now holding her waist, but, by God, she had a
grudge against the boy who had carelessly driven her to such despair and loss
of innocence. Yes, she and the Captain would get along marvelously, she
realized.
***** Pacifier *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter/Tink, rated PG-13 for suggestive material?
     I wrote the first draft of this in 1998, so... yeah. I have nothing
     more to say, really. I was a strange child.
He lay on his bed of leaves, staring up at the gnarled tree branches, probably
regretting how wasteful he had been with his most entertaining enemy, and how
easily he had let the girl take all his boys away. Tink stared at him from her
small boudoir, only her own light illuminating the room and making Peter’s thin
limbs cast horrifically distorted shadows across the walls. If only he would
regret his true mistake—bringing the wretched Wendy to the island. The Wendy
had not known how to deal with him and had only served to confuse him, and now
he lay there miserable and alone. Tink herself was not one to comfort him. His
tears may have brought her back from the dead, but jealousy overwhelmed
gratitude in her tiny body. So she continued to lounge, staring down at him,
seeing the reflection of her light start to dance in his open eyes as he was
beginning to cry.
“Aren’t you going to make me feel better?” Peter finally said, pouting.
He looked younger suddenly—seeking solace from a creature the size of one of
his fingers. She fluttered down and landed on his chin. He lay for a while
avoiding meeting her gaze, but finally took her up gently and slid her body
feet first into the cavernous heat of his mouth. His obscenely large lips
locked closed around her waist, and she shivered in pleasure from the hot
moisture to which her legs were now subjected. And then came utter bliss. The
mouth started working, wonderful suction pulling her even further in before the
tongue launched her out again. Back and forth she went as he sucked rapidly,
almost frantically. She was soon lost to sensation, her wings trembling as the
massive tongue slid across her legs and bottom. Its surface was rough but not
to the point of being unpleasant. The teeth dug in a bit but only served to
heighten her excitement because it felt just that much more dangerous to be
inside him in this fashion. She turned to look at his face-- nose still
sniffling, blowing her hair back and forth chaotically, tears falling now, but
all diverted to one side because he was no longer on his back. Such a pretty
boy he usually was, but not from this strange angle. It all seemed rather
grotesque up close. She parted her legs and shuddered as the tongue
inadvertently swept across her inner thighs. Peter was rather oblivious to the
change, or its implications, lost in his feelings of loneliness and need.
Sucking. Sucking was something pleasant and comforting out of a past he could
not truly recall. In any case, sucking was safe. He felt some of his worries
washing away.
He had left his mother quite early, Tink recalled. Though the fairies fed the
baby ambrosia there was at least one thing he missed, and his thumb constantly
gravitated toward his mouth in feeble attempts to reproduce what had been lost.
Tinker Bell remembered the first time she had ventured to replace that thumb.
That a mouth so small and soft could produce such powerful suction amazed her,
and she spent more and more time with him until the two had grown inseparable.
Slowly, Peter had aged, the fairies intent on letting him retain childhood but
still be capable of fending for himself in the sometimes perilous environment
of Neverland. He grew, and so did his need for companionship. He sought out
beings like himself— crass and loud boys—though he was always careful to remain
leader supreme. Gone were the infantile days, though Tinker Bell knew Peter
still harbored longings that confused him. He had merely diverted them to what
he thought was the answer. Wendy. Wendy, who did not want to become what he had
sought in her, and yet asked him to give in and change. And Tink had been
convinced that he had-- forever ruined and intoxicated with large and vulgar
girls.
A vocal sob suddenly wracked his entire mouth. Tinker Bell pressed her open
legs up to the tongue one last time, and flew out.
“Oh Tink,” Peter mumbled, clumsily rubbing in his renewed tears with a fist.
“It’s the second time a mother didn’t want me.”
Mother... She looked at the rest of his body. While she was intensely aroused,
his own body showed no signs of excitement. Still chaste as a baby. Her baby,
and no one else’s. Perhaps Wendy had a smaller impact than Tink had surmised.
She flew into Peter’s reach again, signaling with little subtlety that he could
comfort himself all he wanted. Wet sucking sounds continued well into the night
until the boy succumbed to sleep, only superficially mollified, while Tinker
Bell was too lazy to fly up to her boudoir and lay intoxicated near the boy’s
face, feeling his breaths sweep past her and half-heartedly reprimanding
herself for being lazy enough to risk getting smothered during the night.
***** A Lesson of Three *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan, rated M for sexual content
     Hook teaches Peter a lesson. Lighthearted sadism.
His body is already shaking. Is it from fear? I come around to get a view of
his face, and to my delight, it’s wild rage that’s making him convulse. His
body is vulnerable and naked, bent over my desk, chained down. His proud head
is brought low to the desk’s surface, while his feet are planted on the ground,
apart, each ankle chained to a leg of the table. And despite the hopelessness
of this state of affairs from his point of view, he doesn’t beg for his life,
but only plans his revenge against me once he regains his freedom. I can see it
in his eyes. If I were a cold, calculating man, I would probably sunder his
body apart with my sword. Right here, between two arbitrarily chosen protruding
vertebrae. My hook lands in one such furrow and his entire frame shudders.
“Let me go,” he suddenly says through clenched teeth.
“That’s a generous offer, Pan. I think I’ll refuse for now.”
“I thought we had an understanding.” He is almost whining. Utterly disgusting.
“Understanding?” I cannot help but scoff. “The understanding being that you do
as you please, and I let you torment me as entertainment? Is this our
understanding?” I bring the hook to his face, and nick the side of his cheek.
He shudders again, evidently unused to receive hurt without immediate
retribution.
“This is my understanding now. My understanding is that I do whatever I want
with anything, and that includes your sorry little body.” The chains prevent
his ribcage from expanding as much his haughty indignation would call for.
“But I won’t be overly cruel,” I purr, passing back around for a view of his
ass. I languidly reach into the pocket of my great coat. “I’m only going to
teach you a few lessons.”
Years of having only one hand have made it dexterous, and I push apart his
buttocks and simultaneously begin inserting what I have just retrieved up his
chute. A neverbird egg-- slightly larger than the chicken eggs from what I can
recall with difficulty from the real world. Good omelettes can be made from
these eggs, but this particular one has a more sinister fate. The boy gasps,
and I can feel his ring clench impossibly tightly. I have not yet inserted it a
quarter of an inch. I push on relentlessly, and his prideful silence abruptly
degenerates into pained squeals, his bony body writhing within the confines of
the chains. He is unbelievably tight, and I am for a moment discouraged in my
own abilities to shove the entire egg up. A sudden push, however, and the globe
is in, blood beginning to slowly drip out from the opening and unto the
impeccably clean floor of my cabin. The boy is screaming his lungs out,
attempting to say something, but utterly unintelligible.
“That was for my hand,” I say calmly, searching the room for a cloth of some
sort. This assault on my ears can at least be muffled up a bit. After stuffing
Pan’s mouth completely full with a bunched up rag Smee uses to wash the floor,
his tormented screams are pleasantly softened into stifled moans. His body is
already trying to expel the foreign object, the egg sometimes flashing its
beige shell from within his body through the hole that he is incapable of
completely closing at the moment.
The second egg goes in with somewhat less difficulty, but his muted shrieks are
unabated.
“That’s for presuming that a child can ever be better than a man.” It surprises
me, given the nature of my occasional dreams, that I am not aroused by the
sight of his naked body, ready for the taking, against his impudent, arrogant
will. I feel inspired, in fact, to flog him to death, perhaps, or keelhaul him
around until he loses his wits underwater. This can only come later, however.
The insertion of the final egg is rendered more difficult by the two already
inside, but I manage.
“And that’s for your godless hatred of mothers, you bastard sprite.” I recall
my mother from the vague reaches of my memory. How she tried to stay my
father’s hand as he pelted me with his belt for… what it was for, on any of the
occasions, I cannot, for the life of me, remember. Ever.
The boy’s body is stiff and slightly trembling. His screaming has ceased, so I
graciously take the gag out of his mouth.
“Let me go,” he pants out, his horror-stricken face livid, and barely
recognizable. I smile pleasantly, and he thinks he has found a way out.
“You won. I lost. You’re better than me. Now let me go...” And he breaks into
tears as a spasm wracks his entire frame.
I shake my head. “Oh, but my dear, sweet lad-- I’m not nearly as shallow as you
take me to be, or as you yourself evidently are. My sole purpose in this is,
shall we say… improvement of your revolting character. Nothing is beyond
correction, I like to believe.”
Pan is straining, and previously unseen veins on his forehead suddenly reveal
themselves. At his other end, a most grotesque bowel movement is taking place.
I have inserted the trio little end in, rendering it doubly difficult to expel
them.
“I imagine this approximates how your mother felt when she was pushing your
ungrateful head out of herself,” I whisper in his ear, stroking the trembling
muscles of his buttocks with my cold metal.
Finally, one of them escapes his body, and falls to the floor, splattering its
slimy contents across the wood. The bloody doomed embryo bursts open-- stark
red against the sunny yolk in the puddle between his two feet. The next egg
soon makes its appearance, but stops neither here nor there.
“Please… help me,” Pan gasps between sobs. There is so much sweat that it is
dripping off his face onto the polished wood of the desk. At least he is
graciously sucking back the filthy blood from a gash he has bitten through on
his lip. His needy cry for help finally arouses me. I twist the protruding
beige out ever so slightly, and leave the rest of the efforts to him. He pushes
it out in a few moments, and I step back to prevent drops of yolk from landing
on my clothes.
I am ready.
He is beginning to push out the last one when I position myself against his
thrust out ass.
“I’ve been quite forgetful today, Peter, so you will have to learn things
backwards. While I’m sure your birth was quite fascinating, you should also
learn about the original cause of your mother’s agony.” I thrust into him
without ceremony, guessing that the previous activity has stretched him more
than any of my finger foreplay ever could. I feel the egg inside him, and push
it up deeper. He squirms under me, letting out a pained little gasp, but really
nothing extraordinary. I am desperate to continue my speech, and have to keep
myself still for this.
“Since she was, in all probability, a dirty, loose whore, I expect that she
didn't much enjoy the gentleman who bestowed you on her. So don't be alarmed at
how coarse this is.” The last words escape as a grunt. I finally pump my hips
into his vigorously, and am satisfied much too quickly for my liking. He has
been stretched so lax, my come is quicker than I am to leave his limp, fatigued
body.
I fight lethargy and take out a belt from my closet-- a monstrous leather item,
with too many metal clasps for real usefulness-- and pelt him several times
across his ravaged bottom.
“Little boys without mothers are lost,” I say soothingly, just loud enough to
be heard above the din of his anguished howling, and watch the blood gather and
begin to streak down his thighs, glistening lovely red, from the newly formed
welts on his skin.
I will let him go-- he can suffer out the last egg onto the forest floor
somewhere. I will let him go, he will heal, and-- most puzzling of all-- he
will eventually forget. In years perhaps, but years are at times
indistinguishable from days in the nebulous sea of time on this island. He will
return to laughing and thinking himself the crowning achievement of the
universe. And then I can teach him all over again.
***** Sweetie *****
Chapter Summary
     Hook/Pan, rated E for sexual content.
     Not darkfic, just smut with inventive sexual positions.
“I wish you’d picked a better place,” he says, as I lock the manacles. “The
Lost Boys come through here often.”
“You should hope they’ll rescue you then. Because this spot is precisely the
one I intended for you.” I look up and gaze at the top of the tree, where bees
fly in and out of a hole a few yards up above our heads. Peter stands in a
surprisingly submissive stance. I’ve pulled his wrists back and chained them to
the tree behind him, but he has plenty of motions left to fight back. He
doesn’t, and seems to be waiting for me to do something.
“You want to feel pain, lad?” I take out a jar of honey I’ve brought with me
and dab some on his shoulder with my thumb-- smearing it out before licking the
remaining residue. “You want to feel fear?”
His eyes travel to the bees in the tree overhead. They are viciously good at
detecting sweetness and, sure enough, one is soon on his shoulder. His knees
begin to knock into each other. Excellent. I was afraid he might not know or
remember what a sting feels like. It crawls back and forth, twitching its
antennas and wings. I smack it and he cries out, the dead shell still stuck in
the goo and a barely visible stinger protruding from his shoulder.
“Suck out the venom, boy,” I purr, reveling in my own wickedness, wiping the
honey from my palm onto his other shoulder. “And I’d clean up the sweet mess if
I were you.” He extends his pink tongue hesitantly, sucking out the stinger,
and grimaces as he removes the insect’s body with his lips. He licks himself
clean on both shoulders, soothing his red swelling with extra attention. He has
never tasted honey before, I wager. Neverland’s bees have a cruel sting, and my
men suffer greatly sometimes to retrieve enough for little jars. Funny that I
should waste so precious a commodity on these idle games, but I am eager to see
Pan suffer at any price.
I smear more honey on the tip of his nose, and he looks at me for only a moment
before proving that he has caught on to the rules of the game. I smear it on
his shin, and he tries several approaches before reaching it, taking advantage
of his independence of gravity. I cannot look away from the meeting place of
his thighs, sliding past each other with an almost seductive langour. I finally
take out my hook and disrobe him, slashing his scanty outfit back to its
separate vines before applying the honey to his navel, trailing my finger down,
and dabbing more honey on his somewhat aroused member. He looks at me
worriedly.
“Go on then-- let’s see how limber you are.” I had imagined that I would need
to force him, to bend him to my will, but his feet leave the ground with no
further ado. He turns and twists in the air, until he anchors himself against
the tree he is bound to, taking advantage of the head-over-heels position to
finally reach himself with his tongue. I am shaking with desire at this
licentious display, and approach, pulling his bottom down, so that his lips
engulf his own head.
“Suck!” I gasp more than command, and he obeys, eyes staring into mine with
surprisingly little malice-- as innocent as though he were sucking a teat. He
returns to his upright position, and I can wait no longer. Abandoning my
previous plans to gag him, smear him, and leave him to the bees, I rub honey
into his crevice, and finally reach inside. His breath hitches, and he moves to
take more of my finger in.
“I can’t reach there, though,” he says. Can it be mischief in his eyes?
“You don't have to.” I only just have time to undo a few buttons of my breeches
before he floats up, wrapping his legs around my hips.
“How… how do you know?” I have no time to worry about how uncertain I sound.
The boy’s eyes sparkle—the only parts of him that slightly betray his true age.
“I want it,” he whispers. My hand alights on his hip to anchor and position
myself, but we both turn sharply towards a sound from the forest before I can
proceed any further. Children laughing. Peter rolls his eyes. Though recently I
would have greatly enjoyed tormenting him in front of an audience, I now share
his longing for privacy. I unlock the chain from the tree, and carry him, still
wrapped around me, away from the cleared forest path. The proximity of his
naked body to my member arouses me further, and I can barely concentrate enough
to find a sufficiently dense thicket for sound not to carry. For we will make
sounds before this is through. I nudge myself into his sticky bottom, still
dripping with what I have smeared into it. He shivers and writhes against me,
almost animal in his muteness and lust. I begin inching my way in, watching his
breathing go ragged, and his eyes shut tight.
“Unchain my hands please,” he suddenly says. “I want to hold on.” His thighs
clench around me firmly enough to remove any doubt from my mind, and I fumble
for the keys in my pocket. His arms circle my neck as soon as they are free to
do so, and I am almost at a loss, stepping back from the moment in my mind
enough to revel in the fact that it is my enemy who is willingly impaling
himself on me thus. I want to resume our game and begin thrusting, but suddenly
feel his legs loosen around me. I grab his waist, ready to claw at his guts if
he attempts escape, but he smiles, pulling up and away only inches before
plunging back against my cock, taking it to the hilt. I gasp and feel his
fingers twining themselves in my hair before he kisses me deeply. Our lips part
only moments later, and he repeats the motion—the entire length of my member
treated to the luxuriant tightness of his opening passing over it, as he slips
up and down, defying both gravity and any of my preconceptions about him. He
emphasizes each return with a marriage of tongues, growing briefer and briefer
as his pace quickens. Too brief for my liking, in fact, but soon I’m too
consumed with sensations below the waist to care. He is vile-- he is dirty, and
sticky, and wanton-- and now, so am I. It’s a match made in hell, consummated
by my sudden explosion into him, as he rams his ass into me once more. This
time I grab him to me and suction his mouth, still pumping my essence into his
body—his opening still contracting around me almost painfully. He shifts his
bottom up and down, milking me for all I’m worth, and I’m afraid I’ll fall over
in blissful weakness. I have to push his hips away myself in order to leave the
scorching heat of his body. His hands remain in my hair, and he insists on
continuing to kiss me hungrily, but with my passion now cooling, I have to ask
him what in world is going on inside his head.
“You’re a powerful, strong man, and sometimes I’m just tired of always being
the leader. With you, I’m never the leader.” I could dispute that claim easily.
His erection presses into my stomach, as his legs wrap around me once more.
“And I like to feel full—full with you. My life is very empty sometimes, you
know. I forget people, and people forget me. You were the first to take away
that empty feeling.”
“Don’t pretend you were a virgin,” I say hoarsely, leaning in to suck on his
neck.
“I was, to you,” he says, his voice jumping delightfully when I nip him before
breaking contact. “I only practiced for you, you know.”
“With whom?” I ask, feeling slightly possessive.
He laughs, his body shaking against mine almost enough to arouse me again, even
at my age. “Only with hands and fruits and other things. I wasn’t sure if I was
ready, but you caught me, so I had to hope I was prepared.” His eyes travel
down to where his crotch meets my body. “… But I’m still very, very dirty.”
My cock is rising again, from all his playful wriggling, and he lowers himself
just enough to come in contact with it. “As am I, thanks to you,” I say
wickedly.
He pouts his lips and flutters his eyelids in mock innocence. “We can’t stay
like this, not with the bees about.”
“No, we can’t,” I say, my voice turning husky.
“I can’t clean myself there,” he says coyly, pecking my cheek. A shudder runs
through me when I finally realize what he’s asking.
“I won’t-- not before you clean me,” I retort, feeling his thumbs graze my
moustache on either side. I use both arms to caress his bottom, glad to see
just a hint of fear in his eyes when the cold metal glides along his skin.
“Why waste time when we can do it together?” He grins, rapidly turning
completely upside down. His mouth engulfs me, and his tongue sends me into
ecstasy. This was my original plan—to force him to take me in his mouth, but
this acrobatic submission of his is ever so much more delicious. It is a few
moments before I remember what he expects me to do in return. I stare
hesitantly at the bottom just below my face, untanned and porcelain-smooth, and
use my hand to separate his ass-cheeks. There is blood, and cum, and of course
that sticky honey. His thighs anchor on my shoulders and touch my neck just as
I take a deep breath and stick my tongue out. There is nothing pleasant about
the taste of the mixture, but he moans and shudders delectably around my cock
when I lavish attentions on his tight ring. He is bringing me to new heights of
pleasure with agonizing slowness, numbing me to the filthiness of what I’m
doing.
We are soon both as clean as we will ever be, but continue to nurture each
other. I finally invade his body, and his thighs clench tightly enough to choke
me for a moment, ankles locking behind my head, encouraging my neck to remain
bent down. His ministrations to my cock grow even more frantic as I proceed to
explore his insides, finding his sweet spot by the moaning sounds he breathes
in sensuous currents around my member. I take my unoccupied arm, and slowly
caress his erection with the metal. It is only a matter of time before he comes
in hot spurts across my chest. The intensity of his sucking soon returns and I
am again pumping hot seed into him, while he continues to suck and pleasure me,
swallowing everything. My mind is in a blur, and I cannot decide whether it is
his mouth or ass that is my obsession now. We collapse unto the forest floor,
breathing heavily. He turns back around, his face still red with blood that
pooled down in his awkward position. He hovers over me, and even in my stupor,
the electricity from our non-contact makes me shiver. I drag him down, pressing
him harshly into my body.
“Quit your floating,” I growl good-naturedly, hugging his lanky frame. “Don’t
you ever get tired?”
He smiles, rubbing his still-hot face into mine. “I can’t help it, when I have
so many happy thoughts.”
“You’re as red as a beet,” I taunt him, preferring to pretend that his flush is
an afterglow.
“I think I just need to practice more often,” he says, rolling off my body into
the bed of leaves, his sinewy muscles trembling lightly. We suddenly hear young
voices approach. They puzzle at the jar of honey I accidentally left behind. We
lie in silence, Peter nuzzling into me again, unbuttoning my shirt, and making
love to my torso with his hands and tongue. Soon we hear screaming, but the boy
does not stop.
“It sounds like your brats have made acquaintance with the bees,” I say, trying
to keep my voice steady as he suckles my nipple.
“Probably,” he says, moving up to my face, and nipping my ear. “But I’m not
going back, I’ve decided. I like honey too much.” He winks at me shamelessly.
My hand squeezes his bottom, and I begin to mull over what I will tell my men
when I return with him in tow.
***** Abortive *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter Pan / Mrs. Darling, rated T.
     Rarepair, tried to adhere to the bookverse a bit more than usual.
"We can’t both have her, Lady," he said through clenched teeth, perhaps a mite
too loud. The woman's eyes fluttered open and fixed themselves on the
apparition at the window. She did not gasp, for she had ceased being frightened
for herself long ago. A paragon of motherhood, her only cares were for her
tender brood. She had merely vague concerns were that this creature had a
rather precociously intent look about him.
"Come in, precious, before you catch cold!"
The boy flew back from the sill, but settled only a few feet away on the tree,
looking far more at home among its bare branches than on the impeccable white
plaster of the window. Mrs. Darling was convinced she was dreaming, and
therefore showed no surprise at the boy's uncanny ability to levitate. Peter,
for his part, could rarely anticipate reactions from others and had given up on
the pastime long ago. Hence, neither one of them was the least bit perturbed.
"You should close the window, if it's so cold, Lady."
Mrs. Darling couldn't help but smile a little sadly. "I must keep it open for
my children-- they might return at any moment. How horrible it would be if they
found the window locked!"
The strange boy pouted in the darkness. Snow managed to gather thick on his
long eyelashes between each blink, mesmerizing Mrs. Darling.
"Mothers stop waiting for their children sooner or later, Lady."
"Not I," she sighed. "As long as there exists a single hope, I will keep the
window open. It's become a habit of sorts... Are you crying, boy?"
"No, it's only snow." Peter rubbed at his eyes furiously with one hand. "And
there isn't any hope. I escort children after they die-- to make the passage
more pleasant, you know. I've flown with yours, and I can tell you that they'll
never return."
"It can’t be," Mrs. Darling cried, and Peter was heartened to see her eyes
glisten damp. Mothers like her deserved to be in anguish. His own mother had
been far too overjoyed with her new baby when he looked in at her through the
frosted window. He could not recall her features with any certainty, but his
very innards sank when he thought about her overjoyed expression.
"It’s not true. They're alive, as far as I'm concerned, and I'll never, ever
shut this window."
Peter groaned in exasperation at her unwavering devotion to her ungrateful
children.
"Why do you love them so?"
"Because... because they're mine, I suppose." Mrs. Darling answered with a bit
of hesitation.
"And I'm not, am I, Lady?" Peter furrowed his brows and made to leave, resigned
to the singularity of his mother's cruelty.
"You needn't call me 'Lady,' my darling. I'll be your mother, if you'll only
stop wandering and settle on the sill."
Peter looked back, trembling lightly with apprehension and excitement. "I don't
need a mother, and never have," he announced gravely, even as he alighted
noiselessly onto the floor of the nursery. She took him up in her arms and
enveloped him in the luxurious warmth of her body-- something Peter hadn't even
known he'd craved until now. His spindly, chill limbs clung back with
appreciative possessiveness.
"My, but you're an untidy rascal!" Mrs. Darling said with only half-serious
disapproval as she picked bits of desiccated leaves out of his tumultuous mass
of hair.
She moved across the room with celestial grace, despite the light burden in her
knowing arms, and locked the door against any possible intruders on this
unhallowed tryst. She hesitated only briefly before moving back to the window.
Peter's heart leapt up in fear when he heard the shutting and click of the
lock. "But… but you said you'd wait for them!"
Mrs. Darling smiled, her melancholy evident in her eyes. "They never will
return, you said yourself," she murmured wistfully. "This thought grieves me
terribly, but I cannot mourn when I look upon your features."
"Yes, forget them. They don't deserve you," Peter whispered excitedly, feeling
very intimate and selfish. "I am like all your children put together, am I
not?"
Mrs. Darling had to smile at the hope in his voice. "You are like all the
children in the world, put together," she whispered in his ear and felt his
head lay itself down onto her shoulder, resigned to relaxation despite the
somewhat worrying confinement in her arms. Mrs. Darling's smile had the
slightest hint of mischief about it as she carried the boy into the adjoining
little room with the children's bath. Peter startled when the faucet she turned
on spurted hot water with a terrible gushing sound, but immediately pretended
it had not fazed him when he heard a light, gentle laugh escape her mouth at
his reaction. This was the first time he truly studied her mouth, and he
noticed something mysterious and ethereal in the corner of it. He had no name
for it, but this in no way deterred him from immediately deciding that it must
be his. He rubbed his grubby finger across that corner, but it would not wipe
off, only leaving a smudge that obscured what had been so conspicuous before.
The corner curled up in a smile, and Mrs. Darling gently wiped the grime away
with water from the nearly full tub.
"You like it?" Her calm voice was hardly audible over the din of the water.
Peter nodded unabashedly.
"Then you shall have it-- but not until a little later. You must wash up
first."
Peter stared into the water with distrust, but did not actively protest when
Mrs. Darling's clever fingers found a way to extract him out of his verdant
clothing. She gasped lightly when she saw how unnaturally meager his figure
appeared without the covering. Yet, like a good mother, she assuaged the
questioning look in his eyes by ignoring how frighteningly his ribs and hips
protruded from his skin, and immersing him in the water, lavishing tender
kisses on his head.
Peter was a perceptive boy, however. "Why were you frightened?" His young voice
asked rather pointedly.
"It's nothing, darling." She lathered up the sponge. "I'll just have to give
you something or other to eat later."
Peter sat in the bathtub, his body tensing up, oblivious to the attentions she
was giving the surface of each body part. "I'm not dead, am I?" the boy
suddenly asked with urgency.
"No, precious," Mrs. Darling said and turned away, not wishing to have him
witness the tear rolling out of her eye. She, of course, knew this was all a
dream. But that the dream should so doubt and care about its own reality was
rather tragic. The skeleton leaves on the floor rustled a sigh from a light
draft. They were dry and dead, but still green, oozing sickly green sap from
their stems even now, as if their wounds were eternally raw.
"Children who fall out of their prams don't die, you know," Peter stood up out
of the bath to try and face her. "They come to the Neverland with me. And I was
only joking about your children being dead. They live with me there too."
Mrs. Darling nodded and vainly attempted to smile, tears inadvertently rolling
down her cheeks. Peter did not take joy in these tears, however.
"They’re not dead, Lady! Stop your stupid crying! Didn't you hear me?"
"I heard you just fine, love. Sit back into the water," Mrs. Darling murmured,
suddenly sure that her children would never return now that this apparition
came to her in the dream. The silence between them was rather tense, but Mr.
Darling just happened to knock a petulant little series of raps on the door,
forestalling Peter's looming departure.
"Dearest-- are you alright? It's so very late…"
"George, I shan't come out tonight. I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit indisposed."
"Ah…" The tension in the man's voice was too evident for his liking. "I've told
you more than on one occasion that the open window will be the death of you."
Peter was feeling mounting irritation at the man he had never laid eyes on.
Mrs. Darling felt pity for her husband just then, stuck outside, still mourning
his children stoically, internally-- while she had this wonderful creature to
come console her and to let her vent her motherly feelings on him.
"I'm sorry, dear, but I don't want to have you sick. I'll take my rest in the
nursery. It wouldn't do if you were to miss your office work because of me,
would it?"
"No, no it wouldn't." A short silence ensued broken only by Mrs. Darling
restarting her washing efforts. "Are you in the bath, dear?"
"Yes," she said, unhesitant. Peter giggled, having always found overt and,
moreover, successful lies very comical. He clapped his hand to his mouth almost
immediately, but the escaped sound was enough to torment Mr. Darling for many a
night afterwards with unanswerable questions.
"You don't mind, dear, I hope?" Mrs. Darling's voice did not waver in its sweet
innocence. Of course, he didn't mind. Mr. Darling knew not how to manage
others' affairs and rarely attempted to meddle in his wife's. He went off to
bed feeling confused and lonesome.
Mrs. Darling had picked out most of the twigs and leaves from Peter's hair one
by one, casting them away until she had produced what looked like a tiny nest
on the floor. She dried every nook and cranny of his body, the towel tickling
him as he thought only Tinker Bell could. She swaddled him in the towel, only
his face visible, and rocked him up and down, marveling at his exquisite
features, revealed from under a layer of grime.
"You can take my kiss now," Mrs. Darling commanded more than offered, and
leaned in slowly. Her lips met Peter's, gently at first, and his eyes grew
large with wonder at the taste of lipstick and the feeling something so moist
and mobile moving further and further into mouth. She exited him, raising her
head up, leaving his mouth and eyes still gaping open in surprise.
"I'm sorry… I shouldn't have done it so deeply. Forget about this-- it was
improper of me."
Peter's mouth finally closed, and he shook his head. "But I don't want to
forget… ever. You kiss is better than Wendy's."
"Wendy's?" Mrs. Darling was surprised. She had begun to forget her children
completely in the boy's presence.
"I wanted Wendy to be my mother, but she always wanted something else. And
you're better than her," he said, his voice tired, and his eyes lingering on
the blinks lazily. She lay down with him on Wendy's bed, while his hands
stroked her face and collarbones rather impertinently.
"We won't invite Father to stay here, will we?" The hope in his voice was more
obnoxious than endearing, but Mrs. Darling was a very patient woman.
"No, darling, you are safe from him."
"Just you and I," Peter whispered contentedly, twisting himself out of the
towel and snuggling his brittle, lanky body into the ample softness of hers
with no more buffer between them than her silk nightgown. Before long, the
boy's warm breaths on her bosom became soft and regular. Mrs. Darling succumbed
to her own fatigue, hardly acknowledging how ridiculous it was to fall sleep
within a dream.
In the morning, she found no signs of the household intruder, except for a
towel next to her in Wendy's bed, and a small pile of exotic forest dirt in the
bathroom. She went out early enough to see her husband off to work, dutifully
informing him that she was feeling better this morning. Her mind locked the
incident away into her memory without trying to classify it into reality or
fantasy-- something Mr. Darling would never have allowed himself. She was hard
pressed to remember whether the sprite had even revealed its name.
***** A Fleeting Moment (JM Barrie RPS) *****
Chapter Summary
     JM Barrie / Michael Llewellyn-Davies, rated T.
     Location: 100 Bayswater Road. Time: Christmas vacation, 1914
Michael fell onto his bed, still fuming. The old man had always meddled in his
affairs, so he was hard put to know why he cared now. Perhaps because there was
now no question that they had grown further apart, and it was becoming very
obvious that old J.M.B. was resenting it.
He’d done more than anyone could imagine for their family. Hell, he’d been the
prism through which Michael watched the world go by—making rainy days into
first-class indoor expeditions into such remote locales as the attic, making
Kensington Gardens into the playground of fairies and pirates instead of boring
nannies and their wards.
Yet it was all stale now, Michael admitted to himself. He remembered how
distressed he had been at the prospect of growing older into a man like his
father, who found it more interesting to drink coffee and read the newspaper
than crawl under the table and hide from sinister siblings. Michael couldn’t
help but realize that he was slowly but ever so surely transforming into a man
with whom J.M.B. would probably not associate. And now he had found out about
his admirer. It’s not that Michael had wanted an admirer, and at first the very
idea disgusted him, but then… then things changed so much. J.M.B. would never
understand, and Michael didn’t particularly want him to understand.
He decided to take a bath and relax away the travel fatigue, looking in vain
for a towel. Everything had been rearranged since he had last been in the
house. As he continued rummaging through the closet, his eyes suddenly caught a
box on the floor. He dragged it out, opening it to reveal boys’ outfits. His
own outfits, he recognized, which had come from Peter and had been passed on to
Nico… and then… Michael’s heart began to race as he remembered his mother,
still alive, tell J.M.B. to please donate the clothes Nico had outgrown to
orphanages, as she was sure that she wouldn’t venture to have any more fiendish
little children. She had laughed, and even a mean joke like that sounded
sentimental and inoffensive from her mouth.
He pulled out a mock sailor outfit. J.M.B. had always adored him in it, he
remembered, measuring up the tiny clothes to himself. He must have been seven
at most when he wore them. Michael looked across at the mirror and began to
strip. It was agonizingly hard to pull the ridiculously small clothes on—they
did fit, as he had actually grown a bit thinner after his growth spurt which
rendered him already an entire head taller than his guardian. The shirt
stretched tight across his chest, not even covering his ribs. There was no hope
of buttoning the shorts. The threads were straining as it was around his round
bottom. When he looked in the mirror again, he couldn’t refrain from laughing.
His body seemed incongruously long and lanky, his outfit leaving him obscenely
bare in all but the most indecent places. He could hardly walk downstairs,
feeling the parts of his body that were constricted by the fabric beginning to
throb.
Barrie was in the kitchen, preparing something on the stove, no doubt remember
the bewildering appetite in boys of Michael’s age that heralded that
irreversible transition from child to man. Michael remained at the door of the
kitchen, leaning on the door frame, hand on hip, acting as coy as possible.
“You old queer!” he finally said, delighting in Barrie’s expression as he
turned to face the provocatively clad boy. “Donated these to the orphanage, had
you?”
Barrie’s expression was so strange the Michael began to regret how suddenly he
had sprung up on the old man. “I’m only joking, of course, J.M.B.,” he added
hastily when he noticed tears begin to coalesce in Barrie’s eyes.
“No, no, you’re just so… beautiful there, like that. A vision to rival any
painting those Romanticists churn out as mythological ideals…”
Michael smiled and was about to dispel the illusion by sitting down at the
small table, but Barrie immediately instructed him to remain there, rushing off
to bring his photography paraphernalia. Michael stood still as Barrie rushed
about him, setting up the lighting to properly capture this supposedly fleeting
moment.
Michael posed as he was instructed, worried that the white shorts might rip
clear through on the back. As it was, they rode up so that they were exposing
his legs entirely. Barrie took him in different poses, allowing himself the
pleasure of unashamedly studying the youth’s body when it was done through a
camera lens in the name of art. Every bone, every tightening ligament, every
flexing muscle, the exposed navel (the divine navel!), all begging to be
caressed by the camera’s eye.
“Are you going to caption these?” Michael asked, as he turned his head to look
back at the man under the hood of the camera.
“But of course. I always caption.”
“What will you call these?”
Standing in profile, facing and pressing his torso into the door frame, pulling
his knee up and making as if to kiss it. Very nice black background for
contrast with porcelain skin and starched white outfit. NARCISSUS DISCOVERS HIS
REFLECTION.
Pressing his crotch into the floor, legs spread slightly and to the back, body
leaning forward, using arms for support, mouth and eyes half open. Looking like
a girl with none of the vulgar pulchritude. MERMAID BEACHED ON THE ROCKS.
They took as many pictures as was possible, and Barrie immediately rushed off
to his water closet to develop them. In a couple of hours Michael was flipping
through the sepia prints, ignoring admonitions from Barrie to avoid spilling
coffee on the priceless pictures.
“I look like a three-pence whore,” Michael laughed.
Barrie looked perturbed. “Whatever makes you see that?”
“Well, I’m practically posing for a manual on obscenities. All I need is some
stage paint and these could be from the crassest vaudeville committed in front
of an audience.”
“I just think you look lovely,” Barrie replied, stroking the boy’s shoulder.
“It’s only that… I’m doing this silliness, while George is away, in the
trenches, saving our lives.”
“I know,” Barrie said quietly. “And my heart aches for him every day, but it’s
too much to dwell on. For you or me.”
Michael swallowed hard. “Well, to die is an awfully big adventure, as you
said.”
“Only to those who are still living,” Barrie replied tersely. “But, in any
case, nothing should happen to our George. He’s a fine young man, and England
doesn’t waste her own.”
Michael nodded silently, feeling a familiar lump in his throat. He stood up to
go upstairs and change out of his clothes, but Barrie gripped him by the arm,
and suddenly, rather impudently, planted his lips on Michael’s. It was a very
awkward kiss—the aggressor having to stand up on tiptoe to reach the bewildered
boy’s mouth.
“Don’t ever leave me to go off somewhere,” Barrie said with uncharacteristic
earnestness when they came apart.
Michael said nothing but leaned down to kiss again, and more properly this
time, though each remained too shy to invade the other’s mouth, though somewhat
expecting it from the other. They suddenly heard the door creak open.
“Nico’s back from his friend’s,” Barrie whispered, caressing Michael’s cheek.
“You better run upstairs and change.”
Michael nodded, smiling and blushing, and sprinted up to the bathroom, fully
confident that J.M.B. would put the strange photographs out of Nico’s view. How
quickly Eton and all its social entanglements grew irrelevant when he returned
home!
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