Title: One day
Summary: One of these days, Peter knows it, he's gonna give himself away.
Timeline: AU, Peter's not Rumple's father, same old, same old.
Main Characters: Peter Pan, Wendy Darling
Disclaimer: I really do not own OUAT
This is some M rated, dark, messy thing. The very much darling pan usual.
So, enjoy the reading?
And kids please, look away.
Peter Pan is nothing of what the stories about him tell.
He's not a gay, cheerful, careless boy.
He's not sweet nor soft nor tender by any means.
There's nothing about him that could lead her or anybody to think so.
He knows it.
He is sure of it.
But Peter can't be sure of many things lately.
When he's with her, he feels like he can't be sure of anything.
When he's with her, he feels like walking on some edge, while the earth trembles underneath, like he's about to tumble down any moment and the ground is gonna swallow him into the unknown.
He doesn't like that.
It makes him wants to crush something.
It makes him want to crush her.
He doesn't like how he touches her.
He doesn't like how he kisses her.
He doesn't like how he fucks her.
There's something that's gonna give him away even when he's harsher, rougher, when he makes it dirtier than usual. As dirtier as he can. That's how grownups do it, isn't it? (Then why on earth is he doing it? What the hell possessed him to do something like that?)
She poisoned him with her stories and her eyes and her smile and her lips...
There's something that's gonna give him away sooner or later.
When his fingertips dig harsh into her hips as he slam his hips into hers. His mind, lusting and incoherent, turned into a fuzzy cloud of nothing.
Something is gonna give him away.
When he turns her around, pushes her against the nearest tree and bends her over.
Orders her to spread her legs.
Just so he can tease her.
When his knuckle brushes the hot flesh between her legs, in a way that makes her bite her lips until they're white.
He wonders if she can see he's the one shaking with the need to make her come.
(Oh, but he doesn't. He doesn't.)
When he pushes one finger inside her just to placate his own need to hear her whimper for him.
When he gives her one, two thrust of his fingers just to feel her convulse and moan and then pulls away.
When he pushes her down at her shoulders, makes her kneel between the spread of his legs.
He wonders if she can see it all.
That he's giving himself away right then.
He wonders if she can read it on his face, in his eyes, like a line in one of her books.
Because he wouldn't need a mirror to see it.
And as much naive as she still is she's the clever one, isn't she? She's always been quite the clever one.
One of the days, his demon mask is gonna melt. It's gonna fall on the ground and he'll be naked for real. And she will see.
That the puppeteer is nothing but a puppet in her hands. And she can tear the strings. Because she was the one who has been holding them all along.
One of these days, the master of pretenders is gonna fall down. She will take him down. And she'll be the ruler. The mistress. Of Neverland, of him, of everything he knows. His ruler.
(Peter can't shut up and choke that voice that tells him isn't she already? Isn't she the ruler of that black, rotter heart you still have in your chest, Pan? Doesn't the very heart of Neverland beat for no one but her already? Doesn't the Pan lov- )
Peter shuts his eyes tight.
He lets out a sharp, rasping breath.
And Wendy lips close around him.
One day she will notice all that.
That when his hands undid his belt and pulled down his trousers, his fingers were trembling.
And never stopped.
Never stopped.
He clenches his fingers in her hair, hard, and gasps.
And that day he will be the one on his knees.
Peter drops his head against the tree trunk and slowly opens his eyes.
The clouds are blinding white, the sunlight shines between his eyelashes, almost like stardust.
The sky seems different.
She releases him just for a second.
He cannot breath.
When her lips, her bloody lips, falls again down on him, deep and warm, Peter Pan wonders what of Neverland really existed before her.
Wendy.
He pants.
Wendy.
His voice is so loud.
Wendy.
What of himself existed before her?
One of these days, something, something is gonna give himself away.
'Cause it's there, it's always there, he can feel it.
Even when he curls his fingers on the back of her head, around the mass of her hair, and push her against his cock, to make her move as he wants.
(Beg for it.
And she does. She does.)
One of these days he'll be the one begging her.
He wonders what his voice might sound like when he begs.
Please.
Wendy's tongue is wonderfully wet as it moves around him.
Please.
Maybe he's already discovering.
Please.
Maybe she already knows it.
He sees flickers benath his shut eyes.
And he's gone.
He's completely gone.
One of these days, he's gonna give himself away.
He already is.
When he tries to keep his voice commanding and hard but still quivers with something other than desire.
Something that burns so differently. Something that warms him up entirely from the inside and twist his stomach and make it flutter. And makes his mind fly away like it had wings.
Even when he never, ever needed wings to fly.
When his palms slide over her knee, parting her legs, desperate to make her feel like she's nothing special, a toy to use and throw her away, when he's tired of her. (But when is that? When is that gonna happen? When? When? When?)
He can uses her body as he pleases him to placate his needs, his urges and that's it.
That's it.
When he pins her wrists down at the sides of her head and thrust himself deep inside her.
Peter opens his mouth against her shoulder, bites down into the flesh, 'cause one of these days he's gonna give himself away but he's gonna make sure today is not the day.
He shudders above her and gives one hard, graceless thrust, up the hilt, as he comes.
His heartbeat incessant against his rib cage, Peter falls back into the mattress and she knows he's completely spent.
One of these days…
One of these days, she will see it all notice it all.
The lingering, longing looks of his bright green eyes from across the camp, in the middle of one of the party of the Lost Boys, when the fire crackles and the night is ending.
The craving sigh upon his lips, in that fraction of a moment, when she meets his eyes. With her back upright, her slim arms suddenly rigid, her entire figure stiffened and that flush on her cheeks. Because she knows exactly what he had in mind for the rest of their night.
The way he wants, needs to hold her afterwards, the way he wants to fall asleep with her in his arms because he found out it's the only way he can fall asleep at all.
The way he can't help but brush his lips against her naked shoulders, as he arms lock around her waist and pull her against his chest.
The way he craves the times he's still on top of her and she intertwines her fingers between the locks of his hair, caresses his cheekbone, then traces down the line of his jaw.
The way he wishes her hand would stop at his mouth because he wants to kiss her fingers. He wants to kiss all of her.
The way he's drunk on the way she's willing to submit to him in the bedroom.
The way she let him mould her and under his hands and the rare times he lets her do the same to him.
Sometimes he's afraid it just came out of fear (He doesn't really care. That's what he wants. A king's first need is to be fear. Let them fear you, let them tremble at the mere mention of the Pan's name) that she might fear him to the point of blind obedience, but he hopes, he hopes there's something else, that she feels…
(The same? Fool, fool, fool, you pathetic fool.)
Because...
One of these days, he will spill the words out of his mouth, on his own and with her doing nothing. With her doing absolutely nothing.
Nothing but kissing him back and smile that warm, melting smile of hers if he's lucky.
(But why would she? How could she? He was her captor after all. Wasn't he?) That's all what he was to her. That's how he decide to play that from the start.
One of these days, he's gonna give himself away and she'll realize how much all that game actually means to him.
One of these day he's gonna confess the words that has been rumbling in his head for centuries.
The words he buried in his heart, fought to death with darkness and blood but that that not even all the magic of Neverland, of all the kingdoms, could scratch.
( I love you, I love you, I love you. )
And Wendy Darling is gonna stand there, in front of him, watching exactly how a king falls.
Thanks to anyone who read this and still stick around to read my other ongoing stories.
Don't have enough words to say how much I appreciate it.
See you soon.