Disclaimer: Any character or places from Peter Pan belong to J.M. Barrie and his heirs. However we do own our Ocs, please do not take them.
Author's Note: Welcome to Chapter One of the first story in the Hook Enchanted series! This is a collaboration between Nightingale and myself, a single idea that has run away with our imaginations. Unlike my previous Hook stories, this one revolves around a polyamorous relationship, the love interests forming a romantic triad. There will also be descriptions of violence (pirates and all) and sex in this story, hence the high rating. That's about it for introductions, please enjoy!
Her back arched, his warm and calloused hand dragging across her breast and wrapping firmly around her waist, pressing her hips against his as he drove himself deeper and deeper into her. Their dark curls were similar enough to be familial, tangling together as his groans of lust filled the musky air of the cabin. Her pale skin gleamed with sweat, her lashes fluttering over her grey-blue eyes as her head fell to the side. The chair in the corner beside the bed was occupied, the other lady's hazel eyes gleamed with arousal at the sight before her of the two coupling on the expansive bed.
The man above her grunted a curse and her eyes returned to him, her nails raking down his back, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her, her moans mingling with his. He claimed her mouth in a fierce, heady kiss, her fingers tangling through his hair to hold him closer against her, his mustache and goatee scraping at her neck as she threw her head back to gasp in a breath of pure ecstasy. He growled, she screamed, the woman in the chair sat forward with a throaty hum of delight.
Forget-me-not blue eyes flamed red and…
...and Abigail jerked awake. Her breasts rose as fell with her rapid breathing, her heart pounding at the image seared into her head of the devilishly handsome man who has just been inside her moments ago in her dream.
It has been the most intense fantasy she could remember to date. So very real it seemed, she swore she could still feel the heat of his fingers upon her skin. Shaking her head in an attempt to free her mind from the memory of his kisses, she forced herself to crawl out of bed. Fumbling with her glasses, catching the arms in her riotous curls more than once, she was determined to get on with her Saturday morning. Going through her morning ritual, Abigail tried to push the startlingly vivid memories to the back of her mind. By the time she finally made it downstairs, still in her skull and crossbones pajamas, she wanted to throttle something. Normally she could easily dismiss dreams, this imaginary lover just would not be so easily forgotten. She needed, tea, now. Uncaring for grace, she hurried down the winding stairs to the ground floor. The townhouse was divided into three apartments, the other two were studios in the huge basement and the attic.
The kitchen, the last room at the back of the house, was a blend of rustic antiques and campy modern gadgets. Dark cherry wood cabinets, an old brick hearth with a bright red antique stove, cast iron cooking tools hung from a heavy rack next to a gleaming refrigerator studded with magnets emblazoned with pirate-isms. Sunlight streamed through ancient paneled windows framed with lacy white curtains. A small backyard with garden full of potted herbs, bright flowers and a tiny patio set could be seen through the windows and open backdoor. An old but cared for radio sat upon a high shelf, the timeless voice of Frankie Valli singing "Rag Doll" drifting through the air. And he was not alone. A woman sang along with him, flitting around the kitchen from stove to pantry, dancing around in a slinky black nightgown. Her long, auburn hair was held back in a loose braid, the sunbeams catching the red and gold highlights. She had yet to notice her audience, instead singing along to the classic song, deftly flipping pancakes.
Abigail tiptoed into the room, careful not to make the wooden floorboards give away her presence. As the last cake was removed from the skillet, she pounced.
"Good morning!" her arms shot out to wrap tightly around her waist.
"Oh gods!" The spatula flew through the air, hit a copper pot hanging on the far wall, ricocheted across the room and landed in the sink.
"Well damn," Abigail looked into the antique farmhouse sink with a smirk. "Couldn't do that again if you tried."
"You scared the life out of me!" Puffed up with indignity, the other woman pushed her glasses back into place.
"I can feel your pulse, so not, I didn't really," she grinned.
"Do you want these pancakes or not?"
Giggling, Abigail let go and placed a sloppy, wet kiss on her bare shoulder before checking the tea kettle. The water would be boiling any moment now, the shrill whistle heralding the summons to food and that much needed cup of tea. After setting their places and taking her place at the breakfast nook, Abigail watched with anticipation as bowls of fruit, a huge stack of pancakes and a delicate tea pot were placed on the table.
"After that little stunt you are lucky I'm still feeding you."
"It's because you love me, Rose."
"Indeed."
Sugar, syrup and cream were passed back and forth until their plates were made up to perfection. In the background, the CD continued to play the greatest hits of the Four Seasons.
"I love you baby, and if it's quite alright, I need you baby!" Abigail serenaded into her spoon.
"You're in a mood," Rose laughed as the whole song played through and was acted out before her. It was a cheesey, domestic scene if there ever was one. But it did the trick of making Rose forget about the dream, which was quite fine by her.
"That I am!"
They continued to laugh, eat and sing along to nearly every song until the CD finally ended. Rose stood up, leafing through a binder of albums, calling out titles for approval. Summer always made Rose nostalgic for old music, her parents had played their favorites during her childhood cookouts. After selecting a mixed CD of sixties top forty hits, she exchanged the disks.
"I had the most unusual dream last night," she said.
"Same," Abigail answered, sipping her steaming cup of English Breakfast tea.
"Feel like sharing or should I go first?"
Truthfully she did not want the mystery man stuck in her head again, but perhaps hearing the dream of another would work against him.
"Do tell me of yours first, dear."
"It was so odd," she began as she pressed the play button. "I was sitting in a...I'm not quite sure but the room was extremely opulent. There were windows, I could smell the sea just outside. It might have been a house by the ocean but I think it was a cabin, like in a ship. And a huge, four poster bed, all decked up in red curtains."
Abigail froze but Rose did not seem to notice.
"And you were there, in the bed I mean. But you weren't alone. I could see the bed, I was seated in a plush chair with a perfect view of what was going on. There was a man with you, partially hidden in shadow."
Slowly, Abigail took a sip, trying to calm her quickly fraying nerves.
"You two were…" a deep blush stained Rose's peachy cheeks, "in the throes of passion. It was...well it was hot beyond all description. But there was something strange about him. One of his hands," she stopped a moment and appeared to think hard over her next words. "No, not hands. He only had one hand, the other...there was a hook in its place."
Abigail choked. She sputtered, her cheeks flaming as she coughed the tea out of her lungs. She set her teacup down a little harder than necessary, sloshing tea out onto the table. Rose turned from the CD collection, concern on her face.
"Are you alright, darling?" she asked, hurrying to Abigail's side to try to help how she could.
"No," Abigail gasped, sucking in air, her face red. After a moment, she quieted enough to say, "Rose, that was my dream too."
"What?" Rose sank into her chair, "Are you sure?"
Abigail nodded. "Down to the red curtains on his canopy bed and the hook for his hand."
"Who is he?"
"I wish I knew."
Every other night the dreams would return for them both and each time was something new. Sometimes they were in the luxurious cabin, others in a steamy jungle glade or a bubbling hot spring. What always remained the same though, was the cast of characters. Never would one of them have the pirate just to themselves, they were always together in some scintillating scenario. When they discussed it the following mornings there was never any sense of competition or jealousy, rather they kept a journal of their differing perspectives to compare. However the underlying question of just why they kept having said dreams had yet to be answered.
"Nothing I have on dream interpretation, symbolism or dream walking describes anything like this," Rose shut yet another tome from their little library. They sat in the front parlour, not a large room but filled with their combined collections of books. One of the tall cases flanking the fireplace was devoted to their craft, each shelf dedicated to a subject of magical study. There was no division between whose book was whose, they were blended together and ordered by subject and author. At the moment, each woman sat in a plush chair surrounded by piles of discarded research.
"Instances of dream walking are easy to find, but to do so over and over like this?" Abigail was started to show signs of aggravation. "We really can't be the only ones this has ever happened to."
"If we aren't than whoever else sure didn't tell anyone."
"What about archetypes in dreams? I haven't found anything about freaking pirates yet." Rose looked around the mess and pulled a deep purple book from the coffee table. Dramatically she cleared her throat before starting to read aloud.
"To see a pirate in your dream signifies that some person or situation is adding chaos to your emotional life. You feel that someone has violated your integrity or creativity. Alternatively, the pirate may symbolize freedom, risk, and adventure. You want to explore new adventures and take riskier ventures. To see a pirate ship in your dream signifies your suppressed desires for freedom and adventure. You want to cut loose and go wild. Alternatively, the dream symbolizes hidden danger or hostility. To dream of a flying pirate ship implies that you are letting your adventurous side guide you and take control. You are living it up!"
There was silence for a moment, then both women burst out into riots of laughter.
"A flying pirate ship?" the younger of the two wiped a tear from her eye. "Who thinks of these things?"
"Someone with a vivid imagination," the elder reread the entry. "So, if we're both seeing a pirate then we have some serious trouble coming our way or we've become too sedate and need to act on our instincts more."
Abigail snickered, the last thing anyone would ever call them was cautious.
"So we can throw that theory out," she sighed and dropped the book she held onto the table. "Call me a quitter, but I cannot figure this out. At least tonight is our time off from our gentleman caller, fictitious or not, I need a break from this craziness." Rose seemed to go sober all the sudden, her smile fading from her lips, her knuckles turning white as her grip on the book tightened. "Honey, what's wrong?"
"I...I'm not sure how to bring this up.." Rose bit her lip and looked anywhere but her girlfriend.
"Sweetie, you're scaring me," slowly Abigail crossed the oriental throw rug to kneel before her. "Talk to me, there's nothing you can't tell me," removing the dream book, she took her hands and held tight.
"This morning...after I woke up the dream was still fresh in my mind," her voice sounded unsure, so unlike her. "You were still asleep so I went to take a shower before making breakfast and when I looked in the mirror…" she trailed off.
"What happened?"
"Look." Rose sat up straight and suddenly pulled her purple tank top over her head and Abigail gasped loudly. There, upon her breasts and waist, were dark bruises that stood out starkly against her creamy skin. Bruises in shape of handprints, but only the left hand, and far too large to belong to either of them.
"What on earth…" Abigail gently traced each bruise, fascinated and unnerved all at once.
"They're his, aren't they? I knew it as soon as I saw them. How is this even possible?"
"I don't know…" they looked at one another but could find no words to describe just what was going on. "When is the next full moon?"
"What?"
"For answers, we can use its energy to help us."
Rose nodded and searched for her almanac, it was partly hidden under an embroidered pillow. She flipped to the correct month and searched for the current date. "Tomorrow."
They stared at one another.
"If the pattern keeps up, that will be a dream night. It might be risky if we try then."
"Since when do we care about risks?" Abigail placed a soft kiss on the fingerprints at the swell of Rose's breast. "Tomorrow, we find our answers."
James Matthew Hook was a man to be tormented by very little. The Boy, perhaps, an overlarge reptile, even, but never a woman. And certainly not two women. When he dreamed of women, it was often of high society wenches who laughed at his hook or women of ill repute who tried to take his mind off of The Boy with their mouths. Never did a fantasy last beyond the morning sunrise.
Except for this one.
Or rather, these two sirens who for every other night had taken him into their arms, their musical cries mingling with his rasping groans of pleasure. Long auburn locks and chocolate curls, full breasts and pale skin like cream, hazel and blue eyes. They tormented him with beguiling smiles, tempting sways of wide hips, coquettish kisses, and throaty laughter. He would awake unfulfilled and burning with lust like a bloody rage in his veins, unable to be sated.
So he abstained from sleep for as long as he could. He would stay awake, ruminating over Pan, for how else was he to keep his thoughts from the beautiful women in his dreams? They were too impossibly perfect to be real.
He kept himself from sleep as much as he could, dark circles beneath his tired, red eyes, as he sat brooding on his chaise. He forced his thoughts from his nymphs, focusing instead in the Boy and his rage and hatred for the Doodle-Doo Pan. But when his eyes grew too heavy and he inevitably would fall asleep, they were waiting for him. They whispered his name and pressed kisses to his cheeks, parting their legs for him. They did not shrink at the sight of his hook, rather they loved it. More than once he had scratched at them with it and they had only moaned louder. They tangled their fingers into his dark curls, they shared him equally between one another, they took their pleasure with each other. It was a paradise.
And then he would jerk awake to a hardness between his legs, an empty bottle at hand, and a pounding pain between his temples. This torment was having an adverse effect on his appearance. His eyes were puffy, skin sallow, dark circles darkening with each passing day. He neglected to eat, drinking instead - which made him only clumsier.
His crew noticed. They approached the bo'sun to ask for a solution to the problem for fear that their captain's irritation might manifest itself into an iron claw gutting them in boredom. It was with trepidation that Mister Smee approached his captain.
"Cap'n?"
James Hook was seated at his chaise, leaning his elbows on his knees as he looked out the panes of glass at the cabin windows. The sun was in the sky, that's all that matters. Time never changed.
"What's the moon, Mister Smee?"
Caught off-guard by the question, Smee fumbled for a moment before finally stammering out, "F-full, sir."
"Three weeks," James sighed to himself, "Three weeks of beautiful agony, delicious torture."
"Are you alright, Captain?" Smee asked, fidgeting slightly, "You're getting poetical, sir. The lads are concerned."
The glare James Hook served to his bo'sun was chilling. "They do not have enough intelligence among them to equal the full range of feelings in a single adult."
"Feelings, Cap'n?" It was not often the Hook used the word and Smee noticed at once. The Hook scowled a warning, which the bo'sun politely disregarded as he continued to speak. "You've not been sleeping, Captain. Does something trouble you?"
"I dare not," James hissed, his torso deflating as the breath left him. "I dare not sleep. I dare not shut my eyes for fear that they will return."
"They, Cap'n?"
"Yes, bully, they! The women who fill my dreams and torment my every waking moment by their mere absence!" The fingers of his good hand pulled through his tangled mane, setting the curls even more awry, "They must be evil spirits which Pan has sent upon me. I can think of nothing else! They cannot exist, they are more devil seductresses than mortal, and see how they have destroyed me? This is the Boy's work, I know it."
"Dreams are supposed to be nice things, Cap'n," Smee said, adjusting his shirt over his belly, "Pleasant fantasies to look forward to every night, something to take your mind off of things, sir."
But James did not hear him. "For nigh three weeks they have plagued my every thought...I will not sleep tonight. The light of the full moon will keep me awake. I will not succumb to their pleasures again…"
Smee opened his mouth to comfort his captain when the echo of a cry reached their ears from above deck.
"Man overboard!"
Silver candles shone brightly in the night. Their little patio had a dining set, wrought metal painted black and a canopy with gauzy white curtains. The table was covered with a black velvet cloth and laden with magical tools. Between the roof tops of the neighborhood the full moon rose, its shimmering beams almost drowned out by the street lights. Summer in the city was always a warm affair, at least there was a little breeze. Night blooming jasmine and evening primrose opened their delicate petals to the moonbeams, their sweet scents mixing with the heady clouds of sandalwood incense. Rose was slipping a dagger back into its sheath, having drawn a circle of protection around them. Abigail was sprinkling water from a glass urn, blessed under another full moon, upon the altar as a blessing. And the stage was set.
"This circle is cast, none of ill intent may enter," they said together.
Between the two silver tapers was a large piece of polished onyx, balanced on a wooden platform to stand upright. It was their scrying mirror, this was how they would find their answers.
They took turns calling on the powers of the elements to guide them, then the deities of the full moon to be present at their work. Around them, the breeze slowly halted.
Both took in their hands a piece of rough hewn amethyst, to channel the energies of dreams and ground them in their intent. The candles sputtered, the reflection of the flames danced in the obsidian mirror.
"Give us sight, give us clarity, give us reason," they chanted.
"Bring to light the meaning of our dreams." Rose spoke as she lit one final candle, a white pillar inscribed with symbols.
"Lead us down the path to the answers we seek." Abigail brought the mirror closer to the edge of the table.
They looked down into the abyss, their own reflections whipped and warped with the flickering light. And then their eyes began to glaze over, their breathing slowed as they concentrated upon the gleaming surface. Around them, the world seemed to fall away, all the noise of the congested city turned into a muted hum unworthy of notice. In their hands, the crystals seemed to grow warm. They stared into the surface of the mirror with an intent that would have made any spectator shiver to behold. A sudden gust of wind blew out all but the white candle, if anything the flame burned even brighter. As dripping wax melted down the curved sides, obscuring the carven sigils, the two women began their chant in voices so low that a whisper would seem a roar.
"Lead us, show us, by the light of the moon guide us."
They were both very much in a trance by this time. Neither noticed when the light of the full moon fell upon the skyring mirror at last, how for a moment the surface flashed pure silver before returning to pitch. Nor did they see how their reflections vanished as well, leaving a glossy pane of gleaming stone. A star twinkled high above them, second from the moon off in the west. Still they looked on, leaning towards the onyx ever so slightly.
"Lead us, show us, by the light of moon guide us."
White wax ran over the altar cloth, seeping forward inch by inch, cooling into a pale river across the table. It crept closer to where a pointed edge of the mirror just barely touched the velvet covering. The women knelt as one, gazing upon the black looking glass as though something upon it had them entranced. Still the wax, from its pillar font decorated with symbols for dreams and desires, flowed ever closer.
"I...see waves…" Rose clutched her amethyst tighter, the jagged edges almost cutting her palm.
"And...an island too," Abigail leaned in until her nose might have touched the mirror.
Around them the breeze finally returned, blowing their flimsy summer dresses around them, their loose hair nearly caught the candle's flame. Rose wrapped her free arm around Abigail's shoulders as she too inched closer. They never saw the white wax finally finally reach the mirror's edge, how at the moment of contact a gleam of pure light shot over the dark crystal. All they could comprehend was a sudden, powerful gust of wind propelled them forward. Before them was not their patio table with its candles and tools, but an inky black abyss cold as ice. They fell, screaming, into the void.
"Can I not have a single moment of peace?" Hook roared. Smee scurried back as he sprung up from the chaise. Muffled but still loud enough to test him were the hurrying footsteps and shouting of his crew. "To the main deck, now!" He did not even bother to dress, too consumed with fury, charging out of the cabin in naught but his breeches and bannion. The moon shone brightly in the twilight sky, a million stars overhead gleamed like diamonds. Below them the sea was calm, easy to spot any obstruction in the water. A bevvy of sailors were clamoring over the starboard side, they seemed to be pulling at a rope which he surmised must lead to the fool who fell over.
Several of the men were fairly shoving their fellows to the floor trying to get closer. Puzzled though still furious, Hook strode quickly across the deck.
"What is going on here?" His men scattered around him like frightened animals, this only helped minimally to ease his rage.
"Saw somethin' in the water, Cap'n," one of the dogs exclaimed.
"That is generally the meaning of 'man overboard'," he snarled. "So what then could have them acting like vultures at the feast?"
An indignant shriek sounded from the center of the commotion. A few of the men actually laughed and pressed in closer. But Hook found himself in shock, that was certainly not the voice of a man.
"Aside you scugs!" They parted for him like the Red Sea, sudden fear clouding their faces rather than the excitement of moments ago. He marched forward, hook at the ready for whatever may await him.
Two figures huddled against the rail, soaked and clinging to one another. They wore scandalously short dresses that barely fell to their knees, it did not help that they now clung to their every curve thanks to their dip in a sea. Bare arms and legs, plunging necklines that revealed generous bosom, no wonder the men were salivating like rabid dogs.
"Found them in the water, sir," Cecco came forward. "Thought they were mermaids at first," the Italian chuckled, "truth is far better though." He reached out to grab one of the women at her shoulder but screeched like a child when the other caught his hand and bent his fingers painfully back.
"Don't you touch her!"
James felt his heart cease beating. He knew that voice.
"Try to touch me again and your fingers will be far from the last thing you loose!"
Slowly, he looked from one woman to the other. They had yet to see him.
One with long, pin straight auburn hair. The other with sable curls. Feisty and beautiful, though very much afraid he could tell but they hide their fright well. Even in the dim light of the moon, stars, and lanterns he could see the fire in their eyes, hazel flecked with gold and blue as pale as arctic ice.
"Troia," Cecco snarled as his hand reached for his cutlass.
"Mr. Cecco, a little restraint," Hook hissed, barely able to keep control of his wits. He would not lose his composure in front of his men, no matter the circumstances. But his eyes never left the two shivering women, his gaze following their every move as they tried to cover one another from the leering eyes of the crew.
And then they looked at him.
Shock, awe, and even a small degree of lust flashed across their fair faces. Dark curls dripped onto soaked fabric clinging to drenched skin. Auburn sheets of hair were pulled aside by slender fingers. They stared at him. They were so beautiful, even as their eyes widened and lips parted. Thier hands tightened as they gripped each other, a small detail but he noticed it nonetheless. It took some skill but he managed to hide those same reactions behind a carefully placed mask. He could scarce believe the sight before him, his own sirens standing not six feet from him. He reminded himself that he was the fearsome captain of a pirate crew, that he would not show any weakness before two women. Not even women such as these.
"You…" the dark haired temptress breathed in shock. Disbelief shone bright on the face of the hazel eyed siren as she clung to her lover.
"You're real."