The Ropes Have Been Unbound
Wendy has often wondered what it would be like to be a pirate. To sail the seven seas, riding upon the crest of a wave with the wind in her hair and a blade in her hand, answering to none but the ocean and the call for treasure. As a child, she had felt the tug of gold herself, the one depicted in story books as only residing in the hearts of men. It was a greedy, all-encompassing desire; something that made her fingers itch at the sight of expensive jewellery sitting on old women’s fat necks, or golden rings encrusted with emeralds on their fingers.
It was a lust she was sure to be inherent in all human hearts, not simply those of the male gender. A thirst for pretty things, things that leant power and beauty and prestige- she thinks of how it would feel to let pirate doubloons slip through her fingers and into a chest dripping in gold, to be adorned with exotic pearls and rubies… It is a thought that makes her throat dry and her heart quicken in longing.
Sometimes, she allows herself to daydream about defeating Captain Hook and taking his crew, leading under the name of Red-Handed Jill, a name that doesn’t need to be threatening because the girl who uses it can instil fear into the hearts of others with nothing but the echo of her boot heels and the scrape of metal against scabbard.
It would be lovely, she thinks, to make others tremble to the quick upon hearing her name. She would loot entire continents, kill thousands, and leave survivors only so they could spread the terror.
A girl, some would whisper, a girl who commands a ship that sails through words, a ghost on water.
She imagines how seasoned sea-dogs would scoff. A girl? They would snort. You’re barking.
They would laugh, of course, until they heard of how she fights like a wolf sent from the underworld, your blood in her eyes and gold on her mind – she has the devil at her back, that one – Red-Handed Jill has a beast in her ribs and demon’s claws forged to her sword –
But, it is only a dream. A fantasy. What she needs now is Hook’s assistance, not his defeat, and her one advantage is that he knows not what she is capable of. The handsome pirate is the only person she can think of to help her in this quest; the Lost Boys are too loyal to Peter, Tinkerbelle too logical, and the mermaids are not brave enough to face the consequences, even if betrayal does mean their freedom.
So, she needs Hook. He’s mad, fantastically so, and ruthless, and hates the king of Neverland with all the force of a tidal wave- he would destroy everything just to get at Peter. All she needs to do is slip off the island and on to the pirate ship without him noticing, and make a proposition.
It’s going to be difficult, however, when the boy can barely keep his hands off her for more than a few seconds, let alone allow her to run away from him. He’s curled around her now, a hand possessively cupping her breast and breath ruffling her hair, sleeping for the fourth consecutive night in her bed. It’s not a comfortable fit: his legs are too long, her bed too narrow, her limbs cramping as she struggles not to fall off the edge, but she knows that if she so much as shifts, he’ll wake up and pull her even closer.
It’s suffocating, here in his arms, with the tantalising whisper of freedom being now, suddenly within reach. Perhaps it’s not completely inevitable, but it is there, a tangible mass that had not been there before. She stares, wide-eyed in the darkness, and entertains the thought that she can feel her liberation somewhere beyond her nose, as if it’s twisting in the shadows. She feels as if her entire being, save her skin (held by Peter’s claws), is shunting forward in pursuit. As if her eyes, her organs, her soul is trying to burst free from the cage of her hair and teeth.
Wendy shivers as the sweat on her legs and back cools in the frigid night air, the warmth leeched from Peter’s hands and chest only a small reprieve. Her blanket, along with their clothes, was cast upon the floor in his hurry to push her back on to the bed. She is loath to admit this, but muffling her moans in his skin with the knowledge that the other Lost Boys are mere minutes away, sleeping, is the most fun she’s had in years. She’d barely been able to keep quiet this time, with Peter pinning her to the bed and kissing every inch of her body, from her toes to the backs of her knees to the tips of her ears, waiting until she was almost sobbing with need to finally (finally) slide himself inside her with a shaky grunt.
He’d pressed his face into her neck, her ankles locked at the base of his spine, and fucked her with long, deep, slow thrusts. Wendy-bird, he’d moaned against her skin, Darling, little mouse.
She’d gouged her nails down the lines of his back in retaliation, meeting him move for move.
Cornering her after supper, pushing her up against the wall and reaching under her dress, is no new occurrence, but staying after he’s been sated is something she’s having trouble wrapping her head around; a new step in the game.
Her days are dedicated to running with the Lost Boys, to scaling Neverland’s highest rocks and tallest trees, but her nights are hers, and hers alone. The only moments she can allow memories of Bae, of her brothers, her parents to resurface. The only moments Wendy can be sure she is alone, the only moments she knows nobody can hear her weep.
(she tries, oh she tries, but not a tear for weeks)
Or, they were. Until this new dance began, and Peter decided to try and drain every last drop of her, sap the freedom from her bones and take everything for himself. He has taken her days, her nights, and everything in between.
He wants Wendy in his arms the way a snake wants a mouse in its jaws, spine crushed and crimson blood defiling the pure white fur. He wants to own her, the very marrow of her thoughts, every beat of her heart, every sweet memory. He will try to take it all, to cut her open and take out her innards, map them out on the dirt floor until the soil swallows them and spits them out- they will be different, they will be his, born not from sunrise but from the filthy core of the island, of Peter Pan- and then.
She will not be Wendy Darling, the Lost Girl of Neverland. She will be Wendy-bird, little mouse, Peter’s Darling Dearest. A puppet to be toyed with, his own personal doll. The very thought of it makes her throat seize in terror, her skin prickle and sweat.
It is already beginning.
But. Wendy is not a mouse, and if the foul boy king of Neverland ever tries to sink his razor-teeth into her flesh, he will find not sweet blood of an innocent, but the bitter death that lurks beneath the skin of wolves. He will come to know what happens to boys who try to rip independence from the belly of the beast. He will die screaming.
He will die, and hers will be the hand that slays him. It’s the only way she will ever go free.
(she wonders why she tastes such horror on her tongue)
“You’re going to try to kill him?” Tink asks.
They’re sitting in her little house, on the green sofa, while Wendy outlines the details of her plan. The blonde woman shifts uncomfortably in her seat, fingers reaching to scratch at the ghost of where her wings once sat, before faltering. Her breath hitches, and her hands flutter back down past her shoulder. They wrap around her mug, likely seeking the good warmth of hot tea that bakes through to her skin. She curls her toes, crosses her tanned legs.
“Yes.” Wendy says, resolute. She doesn’t miss the way Tinkerbelle flinches – before she was banished, the fairy and the boy king of Neverland were friends, of sorts. Not long enough for him to reveal his true colours at anything other than her betrayal, but Wendy knows the other woman must feel conflicted at the prospect of his death. She tucks her curls primly behind her ears, the anchor of lady-like behaviour something of a comfort, nowadays.
(Queens are regal creatures, no matter the wilderness they control)
She has no qualms discussing Peter’s downfall in the safety of Tink’s home. She’s known for a while now that he can’t hear or sense anything that occurs within these four walls, much to his frustration. He can feel every footfall in Neverland, every breath one of his subjects takes, but this house is not of Neverland. Its wood was taken from another realm, its cupboards filled with exotic teas and cakes from Hook’s travels, thus is closed off to Peter Pan.
Wendy feels a dizzying sort of glee when she thinks of this, when she remembers that his power does not extend to every corner. It is the same glee that fills her when she takes comfort in the private thoughts in her own head, when she listens to the wolf howling in her breast and knows he won’t see it coming.
“You can’t,” Tinkerbelle whispers, her voice fragile as gossamer.
“I can.” Wendy insists, crossing her ankles. “And I will.”
“You don’t understand – you’ll be killed –”
“Tink, I –”
“Wendy.” Her friend interrupts. “Wendy, pet, you can’t do it.”
She grits her teeth, muscles coiling and tensing. Her hackles raise. “Don’t think I’m getting weak,” she spits, “I can put a knife in his back, easy as breathing.” This is both a truth and a lie. The two opposing forces twist round each other, sliding between her teeth, black and white mixing to become grey.
Tink watches her, apprehensively.
Wendy takes a measured sip of her tea. The sharp taste of it helps her steady herself, the warmth humming through her pleasantly. As she does so, her reflection in the liquid becomes warped; she can see the dark of her eyes, but everything else is distorted by ripples. The fairy is suspicious, and rightly so. Collaborating in a mutinous plot against Peter will be no easy feat, but neither of them has anything to lose. Nor does Hook, for that matter. She hasn’t tasted freedom this potent in just under a century, and she’s not about to give it up for the sake of caution.
“If he finds out, you’re dead. You know that, pet, don’t you?” Tinkerbelle tells her carefully.
“I’d rather die than be trapped here for eternity.” As she says this, Wendy feels the weight of all her years, all the non-existent creaks and wrinkles, and locks her spine straight anyway. It wouldn’t do to crack under the pressure, not now.
“And what about me, then? I’m rather keen on living.” The blonde woman retorts testily, setting her mug of tea firmly down on the wooden table next to them.
“You’ve only a small part to play,” she coaxes, “just get me on the ship. That’s all.”
“And then what? How are you going to get Hook to play along, pet?” Tink eyes her sceptically, crossing her legs. She folds her hands in her lap, looks down past the smooth expanse of thigh and calf at her feet, encased in soft green shoes.
“I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“And what’s that?”
“Pan’s head on a spike, and all the magic beans he could ever want.” Wendy’s voice is cold, nonchalant as she speaks of murder, and the emotion she sees glimmering in Tinkerbelle’s eyes is nothing short of fear.
Fear at her heartlessness, fear at the wild thing she has become.
“Alright.” She whispers, gazing at her hands.
Instead of feeling guilty at the realisation she has sparked something akin to terror in her one true friend’s soul, Wendy senses only satisfaction at her own authority. She does not wonder when she became so cold; she already knows – the moment she decided to exchange tears for strength she traded in her own compassion, and this sacrifice only spurs her on her quest for freedom.
(perhaps it’s revenge)
Wendy is alone in the forest. She’s sure of that, of course. Not only because the ferns around her are still, but because Peter has led the Lost Boys off on a treasure hunt, and will most likely be gone the whole day.
He wanted her to come, of course, but she shook her head no and said, I’m seeing Tink, today.
You saw her only a day ago, he replied petulantly, reaching up to toy with one of the buttons on her dress.
She’d sighed, pushed his hand away. I’ll go treasure-hunting another day.
This is a lie. With any luck, she’ll be on the Jolly Roger in less than an hour, discussing her plans with the infamous pirate captain himself.
The map, supposedly stolen by the boy king from Hook, is one of Tinkerbelle’s creations. A genius plan, Wendy must admit. All the pirates had to do was speak loudly and carelessly of the sacred treasure that resided in one of the small coves just off Neverland, waving the yellowed map around like a flag. Sooner or later, Peter was bound to hear word of it, either from the lips of a mermaid or one of the Lost Boys who liked to clamber the rocks near where the pirates dropped anchor. Naturally, as soon as he did receive word, he wanted to take the treasure from Hook more than anything in the world.
More than her, even.
She pushes the thought away. It’s good he wants the treasure; it’s the key to her escape.
She is facing a thicket of thorns, blocking her path to where the pirates often reside. Upon first stumbling across it, panic had frozen in her veins. She’d thought that Peter had somehow anticipated this, before realising that this was simply another display of ownership, another bar in her cage.
The sight makes her stomach clench with fury, the wolf skulking in her spine bare its teeth. If she had doubts before about betraying Neverland’s ruler, they have been eradicated – burned in the wake of her fire.
She almost laughs. Does he think that this can contain her? Does he presume that this is not an obstacle she can overcome? How dare he even entertain the thought that he could ever keep her from what she wants – a thornbush? It is insulting.
I am a Lost Girl, she thinks, her chin held high. It takes more than a few plants to cage me.
(wolves cannot be contained and queens are not born to be broken)
She slides her tongue out across her bottom lip, taking a step forward. She draws a dagger – pressed into her hands decades ago by Peter, and it is satisfying to know it is a tool of her defiance – and presses it to her palm. One quick swipe, and crimson blood beads across the creases of her hand. She closes it, lets the red liquid drip down the cream of her wrist, then relaxes her fingers and watches as it falls to the soil at her feet.
Seven perfect, glistening droplets splatter to the dirt. She thinks of the tale of Snow White, blood on snow, and decides that red mixed with grubby brown is much more fitting for her; Wendy is no longer purity wearing a white dress – no, she is the wolf in disguise, the poison behind cherry lips, the knives in sweet words. The snarling, spitting girl with charred steel for a heart.
She watches, her left hand poised in the air and blood running down her arm, as the sacrifice slowly seeps into Neverland’s dirt. The soil shifts, and the wind starts to pick up, whipping through the trees and enough to make her eyes sting, but Wendy wills it to stop and it does.
The forest is still. She looks to the budding flowers on her left. A mere wave of her hand ripens them to full bloom, peeling open in fast motion.
She doesn’t dare move for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest not from fear (never, never)but from exhilaration. Liquid fire zips through her, and she sheaths her knife. Raises her arms to face the thorns, palms-up. Flexes her fingers.
“Move.” She tells them, cloaking her voice in that of a Queen’s.
(this is not the time for Lost Girls)
Her tone is enough to pierce the thorns itself, regal authority sharpening every syllable, every consonant, until her spine straightens of its own accord and her chin held high.
There is a pause.
Then, the thorns seem to shrink in on themselves, their roots pulling them back to the ground with a grotesque noise that sounds remarkably like fabric ripping, like meat from the bone, and they shriek in protest – their spindly fingers reach out to her, clawing at the air – Wendy swipes back, her blood spatters – the thorny mass hisses, warps to look like a terrible, gaping mouth with blackened teeth – but then the blood makes contact, steams where it touches, and the thing falls silent.
Slowly, ever so, it retreats back into the ground.
Wendy is panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but the power that she can see in the flowers and hear in the wind is so intoxicating that she does not notice the fatigue that follows. Adrenaline, pure and heady, flows molten through her veins.
Wendy looks up, watching for the tell-tale swell of the branches that signify Peter’s return to the island. It does not come. She grins. She had worried that the receipt of blood would alert the boy king, but it appears that the island obeys her more than she had previously thought.
It is with the blood of wolves under her skin that she begins to run, the strength of a Queen in her heart, and the wilderness of a Lost Girl with every footfall. She sprints, tearing across Neverland’s soil, her muddied dress billowing out behind her. She dodges trees and plants, twisting round their roots that reach towards her, a ragged laugh tearing from her lips.
She reaches Pirate’s Cove within minutes, and Hook is waiting.
The handsome Captain stands on the bow of the Jolly Roger, his impressive black coat swishing round his ankles. Stubble covers his cheeks, and a cocky smile quirks at his lips once he sees her racing towards him.
“Ahoy, girlie!” he calls, waving his good hand. His tone is ironic, customary when it comes to Wendy Darling, Peter’s play thing.
She reaches the sand, but only slows to a halt when the grime of her boots meets the cold water of the cove. “Captain,” she says as way of greeting, “how am I to board your good ship?”
Wendy schools her features into something sweet, masking the snarl that threatens to curve at her upper lip. She hides her bloodied hand behind her back, moving the belt that clings to her waist so the dagger it holds is somewhat hidden in the folds of her dress.
Hook shoots her a charming grin. “There’s a ladder at the side, girlie.” He points to the belly of the ship, where a younger pirate tosses a rope ladder over the side, promptly.
Who are you to call me ‘girlie’? Wendy fumes silently, but begins to wade into the ocean in place of shouting abuse. “Thank you.” She tells him kindly, through her teeth, highly conscious of the fact that her dress is white.
Any filth is soon washed away by the chilly water, and the fabric becomes more translucent with each step. She mutters curses to herself as she is submerged up to her hips, taking pains to avoid the crushing weight of the ship that shifts forward with each wave.
“Alright there, girlie?” comes Hook’s smug voice as she grasps the first rung of the ladder.
She looks up, seeing him and every other member of his crew leering over the side. “Just fine, sir. Although, my arms are terribly weak, and my legs not much better. Climbing is more suited to the strength and wisdom of men, I think.” She simpers, but he doesn’t seem to get the hint.
Normally, Wendy would scramble up the ladder faster than any boy who dared challenge her, but appearing weak to Hook is in her best interests. So, she takes her time, glancing at the water below every so often, and taking regular pauses to whimper pointedly.
Eventually, she clambers onto the deck, mustering up every ounce of prim London cordiality she has left in her. Which, admittedly, isn’t much. Her fingers itch to the dagger on her hip, seeking its reassurance, but she keeps them folded behind her back. Her chin is dipped demurely when it should be raised, her lips curled not in a derisive snarl but a prudish half-smile.
The pirates stand in a semi-circle around her, Hook at the centre. They gawp openly at her sodden gown, and it is then that Wendy realises that the last time they saw her, she had been but a girl. Three years, she thinks, and it is only in the last few that she has grown. She is, presumably, about sixteen, and her hips and chest and face are clear indicators of this.
There is alarm in their gazes, hunger edging in around their eyes. Wendy does her best to appear frightened.
“Hello, girlie.” Hook murmurs, tilting his head to look at her.
He lets his gaze rake over her form, obviously trying to make her squirm. She appeases him, fidgeting uncomfortably. She forces a stutter. “G-good morning, sir.”
She might have tried a curtsy, had every cell in her body not cried out against it.
He beckons lazily with two ring-encrusted fingers. She fights the rage that swells in her breast at the gesture, biting her tongue.
“Come, then, girlie. Tink tells me we have much to discuss.” Hook strides to his Captain’s quarters, heavy boots thudding against the worn wood of the deck, and she follows.
The cabin is illustrious as Hook himself, decked out with gleaming wood along the walls and floors, expensive (and likely stolen) paintings of worlds she doesn’t recognise, and various golden ornaments. Glass cases filled with all kinds of bottled potions stand, polished to perfection.
A glistening table, large enough to seat ten people, stands at the centre. A plush, wine-red chair sits at its head, and only two other chairs are positioned at either side. Silver plates, complete with greasy meat and plump fruits are placed on its surface.
Candles illuminate the room, dripping wax onto their holders. The light casts distorted shadows across his handsome features, but she can still see the appraising glance he gives at the way her dress clings to her form.
“You can stop the weak little lass act, girlie,” he tells her as soon as the heavy door to his chambers is closed, “I know what you are.”
Wendy doesn’t bother feigning indignation. “Then you know why I’m here.” She states, pursing her lips. She stands facing him, head-on, her back to the door. He has made his way over to the head of his table, one hand on his luxuriant chair.
What do you think I am? She wonders, knowing he can’t possibly comprehend the complexity that stretches under her skin. How can he know of the steel that sits on her back? How can he begin to imagine the wolf that prowls down her spine? How can he look at her and see the crown, the ferocity, the blood?
If one thing is certain, it is that Hook knows nothing of what she is.
She drops her arms from where they crossed over her breasts, and watches his eyes dart to where her nipples are visible through the soaked fabric of her gown, then back up to her face. As easy as breathing, Wendy has found her leverage.
“Yes. You want to kill Pan.”
“And you need my help?”
“Mm-hmm.” She hums, reaching up to comb her hair back from her shoulders. The motion makes her breasts move under her dress and she watches, satisfied, as he sits heavily in the plush chair at the head of his table. His hook glistens in the candlelight as he reaches for a solid-looking goblet, no doubt brimming with wine. He takes a long draught, watching her over the rim.
Hook leans back, passing a hand over his mouth. It makes no difference; his lips are still cherry red when he drops it, with a thud, back to the table. He wets his lips. “Take a seat,” he tells her, waving at the chair next to him.
Wendy moves towards him, and when his gaze flicks away she slyly undoes the top button of her dress. She sits, propping her elbows on the table, and leans forward to meet his eyes.
“I can get you what you want.” She says, quietly, and his expression darkens at the way she drips honey over her words.
“And what’s that, girlie?” He takes another sip of wine, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed to her face.
“Don’t call me that.” She snaps, but, like Peter, he only raises an eyebrow.
“Alright.” He murmurs, shrugging. He doesn’t seem perturbed by her abrupt change in temper.
She wonders if Tink warned him. “You want magic beans,” she says slowly, watching for his reaction, “and I can get you them.”
Hook lowers the cup. “How?”
Wendy lifts her chin. “Soon, Peter will realise I’m not on Neverland. He’ll come after me, of course.”
The pirate’s expression becomes stormy, anger cloaking his mouth. “You were supposed to leave –”
“After only an hour, yes,” she waves an impatient hand, “but I’m not going to.”
He laughs, cruelly, rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip. “I’ll toss you overboard meself, lass, if it comes to that. What will you do then?”
Wendy gives him a cold, forbidding smile. She pours every ounce of hatred she holds for Peter Pan into it, every flame licking at her feet, every howl of the wolf. She curves her lips with sharp teeth peeking through them, letting her fury show behind her eyes. Heat blisters from the narrow slash of her smirk, rage evident in the set of her jaw. She leans forward, and hisses, “I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
Hook recoils, jerking back in his chair. She doesn’t let him speak.
“You’ll set sail, now. Keep me in your cabins. Only let me out when Peter arrives, of course, and trade me for one magic bean.”
“Is that it?” he’s still shocked at the anger within her, but he is still Captain Hook and refuses to let it quiver in his voice. “That’s the grand scheme?”
“No.” Wendy snaps. “Stop interrupting. You’ll take the magic bean. But it’s not the one I’ve promised you, not yet. You go to Baelfire’s world –” he visibly flinches at the word, just as she knows he would, “ – and you’ll bring me a dagger.”
“I take it,” Hook murmurs, “that this dagger is a magical item?”
“Yes. Dark and light combined, enough to kill a boy whose heart is made of the same stuff.”
“And once he’s dead, I get my beans?”
He fixes her with a calculating look, chewing on his lip. “And why are you only doin’ this now, lass?”
She crosses her arms. “I’ve nothing to lose.” She answers, simply.
Hook’s eyes drop to her breasts, the tops of which are peeking through the open neck of her gown. There is another part to her plan, of course, but the pirate doesn’t need to know this.
If Peter killed Felix for putting a knife to her throat, his loyal follower and most trusted Lost Boy, then there is no limit to the rage that will fill him when he finds out that Wendy let the Captain fuck her. He’ll want to torture him, to paint Neverland red with blood.
The boy king thinks he owns her, and the boy king never shares his toys.
The only thing that could possibly save Hook will be whatever kills Peter. She wants to make sure he feels he needs it, and perhaps the fury eating up the both of them will allow her to simply sit back and watch the whole thing play out. No need to get her hands dirty.
(no need to see his eyes when he knows you’ve killed him)
When Hook returns to his cabin, the gentle swaying of the ship signalling that they have set sail, Wendy has cast her dress and shoes aside.
She stands, naked, next to her chair, her fingers idly tracing the swell of her breasts.
“Lass –” Hook starts, but shudders to a halt. He stares, open-mouthed, as she gestures to where her nightgown hangs over the table, still dripping sea water onto the polished wooden floors. His eyes drops to her hips, her legs, tracing Peter’s bite marks with a gaze as heavy as his fingers.
“My clothes were too wet.” She tells him, as way of explanation, flicking her thumbs over her nipples. He inhales, shakily. “I had nothing to change into.”
Without taking his eyes off her, the pirate shrugs off his own coat and tosses it in her direction. Of course, it lands somewhere off to one side, not at all close to the mark. “Wear that.” He commands, gruffly.
“I’m not cold.” She replies, taking a few steps forward. He visibly tenses, and she stops, biting her lip.
Hook closes his eyes briefly, reaching behind him. Wendy hears the click of a lock being fastened, and smiles.
(there are more ways than one to lock things up)
He sighs, but when he opens his eyes he doesn’t look away from her. He points at her seat. “Don’t think I’ll play your silly game, lass. Sit down. Eat.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, her grin widening. He’s playing right into her hands, poor thing, and has not an inkling. He thinks her game is simple, one-sided manipulation. He thinks she means to own him, and he’ll part her legs willingly, thinking that he cannot be tamed. Thinking that he can own her.
(no man alive can cage a wolf)
Hook does as requested, keeping one wary eye trained on her as he returns to his own plush chair. She watches, amused, as he takes pains not to allow the tented part of his trousers to show.
It’s not as if Wendy goes unaffected, though. The Captain is handsome, with a chiselled jaw and charming grin. The hunger in his eyes sparks a simmering heat in her belly, the kind that makes her heart beat faster and her mouth go dry with desire, but of course she doesn’t show this.
She walks towards him slowly, with a kind of predatory grace she has never coaxed into her muscles before. She’s used to the wilderness of Neverland, being slammed up against trees and fucked on the forest floor. She’s used to bite marks, scratches left by blunt fingernails. It occurs to her that Hook is harder to seduce than Peter ever was. Then again, the Captain is not a boy whose self-restraint is as non-existent as his heart.
Wendy seats herself directly in front of the pirate, pushing his dinner out of the way, leaning back on her hands.
His nostrils flare, and he takes a moment to drag his eyes from her chest to her face. “What are you doing, lass?” he asks, quiet.
“Sitting,” she replies nonchalantly, extending her leg to skim a toe up his thigh. She’s close enough to rest it right next to his cock. She applies a light pressure, wetting her lips as he lets a rumbling hum escape his lips. “Eating.”
Hook rears up out of his chair before she can blink, and pulls her to him by her calves. Her hips slam against his, her nipples dragging over the fabric of his shirt. He looks down at her, hungrily, sliding his good hand up to cup her breast. She winds her arms round his neck, reaching up to slant her mouth over his.
The Captain doesn’t kiss like Peter. It’s slow, steady, passionate. He kisses gently at first, prising open her lips, and then it’s as if he’s trying to burn her alive – his stubble scratches against her chin as he moans into her mouth. Wendy grinds her core on his cock, biting at his lips. He hisses and pulls away, reaching down to rub her clit. She cries out, her fingernails scrabbling at his neck. He seems to be searching for something in her expression. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. His eyes drop to her mouth, her heaving chest, and whatever thought he’d had before is replaced only by lust.
Hook presses his lips to her neck, moving his hand from her core, rocking his hips against hers so she can feel his arousal against her thigh. She gives a muffled groan as heat spirals through her, and he puts his mouth to her ear to whisper, “I’ll do the eatin’, lass,”.
Wendy gives a strangled laugh, clawing at his shirt. He reaches back to help, casting off his clothes and leather strap that keeps his hook in place. She draws him back to her with the legs circled around his waist, scratching her nails down his bare chest.
He leans forward to suckle at her breast, lapping over one nipple with tongue and teeth. She keens, arching her back, and reaches down to wrap her fingers around his cock. He’s bigger than him, hard and hot and heavy in her palm, but the reaction when she traces the head against her wet core is the same.
Hook grunts, taking his mouth from her breast. He kisses her again, desperately, with none of the anger that Peter pours into every caress. He cradles her face with his good hand, but Wendy doesn’t want him to be gentle. She wants him to leave a mark, to put his scent all over her and make sure that Peter sees it.
She leans her forehead against the pirate’s, swivels her hips in a way that makes him groan, and tells him, “fuck me. Please,”
The Captain of the Jolly Roger is nothing if not hospitable.
He slams her down onto the table, hard enough to make the cutlery rattle. He thrusts into her, using one hand to pin her wrists above her head, leaning over her and swallowing her cries with his kisses.
She digs her heels into the base of his back, rolling her hips to meet his, kissing him back with everything she has.
Wendy tries to ignore the fact that his muscle is too hard under her fingers, his touch too gentle even with his bruising grip, his kisses lacking in bite. She attempts, in vain, to be content without her game. Without competition.
(without her king)
It is only when they are both sated, when Hook leaves her to dress herself, that she allows her eyes to slip closed and imagine that a cruel boy with knife-smiles is there to hold her while she sleeps.