Title: Light
Summary: Peter Pan is nothing but darkness. There's no room for light into his being, but sometimes, sometimes a little split is enough.
Timeline: AU, only meaning that Peter's not Rumple's father.
Main Characters: Peter Pan, Wendy Darling
Disclaimer: I do not own OUAT. I definitely do not.
I gotta warn you! Some M rating stuff ahead! Also a little dark because Peter Pan has tons of issues.
Wendy grew to think Peter Pan was made of nothing but darkness.
A thick drape of obscurity that hanged over him, surrounding him, merging him completely.
That's exactly what she thought, what she saw the first time he kissed her.
His eyes turned black as he'd smashed his mouth down on hers hard, cruelly.
She had grabbed his shoulders, hit his chest with her fists to push him away, but it all had been useless.
He was too strong for her.
She wanted to keep her mouth closed, she didn't want to kiss him back, but his lips were insistent, demanding and when his tongue finally slipped into her mouth, she swallowed her own moan.
A sound that was not just of protest or shock.
When Peter had finally pulled away, gasping for air, Wendy slapped him as hard as she could.
She watched as his cheek turned red in an instant, the print of her five fingers more than bright and evident on the perfect whiteness of his skin and she almost regretted it.
Pan was used to violence. She wasn't.
And when she looked up at him, something feral in his eyes told her that maybe he was gonna make her regret it.
But Peter threw back his head instead and laughed right in her face.
"You really thought I didn't know what a kiss was?" he asks, an awful smirk already on his lips."Isn't this what you wanted? To give me your kiss?" he taunts, eyebrows raised mockingly. "Or did I misinterpret your intentions?"
Wendy flinched, her eyes slightly narrowed.
He was playing another of his games with her and she didn't even realize it.
Once upon a time, she did.
Once upon a time, she wanted to fly away and have fun and never grow up.
Once upon a time, she wanted nothing else but to give Peter Pan her kiss.
But even if time didn't flow in Neverland, it had been so long ago that now Wendy barely remembered.
She didn't want to remember. She forced herself not to.
Peter took one step forward, a smug glint in his eyes matched perfectly the grin on his lips that hadn't fainted one bit.
Wendy wanted to slap him again just for the gratification of wiping that smirk out of his mouth, if only for a moment.
She watched him as his gaze slipped dangerously down to her lips, red and swollen, just like his and her eyes burned.
Her cheeks on fire, her nails digging into her clenched palms.
She felt so angry, so angry at him and he was standing right in front of her, cockier than ever, like he did nothing wrong.
Like he hadn't stolen her kiss.
A kiss that was not meant to be his anymore, a kiss she didn't want to be his anymore.
Peter stepped closer, his hands slithered quickly over the swell of her hips, caressing and possessive, and she wanted to step back, jerk away from his bloody touch.
But she couldn't. She was stuck.
She had no idea what possessed her, seconds later.
When her hands gripped the lapel of his shirt to pull him down against her mouth, she never caught the look of pure overwhelm that flickered for a second over his features because she'd already closed her eyes.
And when her mouth parted over his, much more naturally this time, Wendy tried desperately to silence that voice in her head screaming that she wanted that, has wanted that since the first time she met him.
"What's your name?" She'd asked as politely as she was taught to.
"Peter" He'd smiled, as mischievous as a demon, "Pan" he added, his green eyes more shimmering than the stars in the sky above their heads.
Somehow after that, their relationship turned into something, Wendy knew, couldn't have a place in Neverland.
Something that didn't belong there.
Something, Wendy was sure, she should, she would never have done before she got married , something she'd never have done with someone like him.
But Pan could twist anything there to make sure it met his wishes.
She'd fallen right into the abyss and his hand was only drawing her deeper and deeper.
Obviously he didn't have the slightest idea of how to be gentle, tender or something even close to it.
He took her roughly, passionately, pressed her back against the nearest tree whenever he felt like it, pushed her dress up, squeezing her thighs, her breasts, biting her shoulder, marking her neck.
She knows exactly why she let him.
She's not scared of what he might do if she rejected him. Force her, kill her, maybe.
She's way too scared to admit she doesn't want to reject him.
That's it.
She wants him too. As much as he does.
Isn't this what you wanted?
She wants him to burn her.
He takes her like he owns her. And as much as she hates to think it, he really does.
She's his.
Her heart is his, and necessarily she is too.
And she doesn't own nothing of him in return.
Because he's willing to give her nothing, nothing but his dark, twisted passion, his burning fire which consumes her completely and leaves her with just useless ashes.
So she learned to revel into watching the marks of her nails on his shoulders, along his arms, and the red signs of her fingers across the pale skin of his chest.
Because Peter may be the best at playing pretend, but she could play too.
And that way, at least she could pretend she owned him too.
Wendy doesn't know if there's a way out of that ocean of infinite shadows she dived into.
If there are some fractures into his being, where the light can get in and shine.
But sometimes, sometimes she believes.
Sometimes something shifts in him. He acts differently.
If she didn't know he was a perfect, calculating schemer, she swore he didn't know what he was doing.
It's in the way he cradles her head in his hands, his fingers pressing lightly into her hair, in the way he kisses her mouth, all languid and lazy, in the way his hips move slowly, so slowly that they take her breath away right from her lungs, in the way he murmurs her name into her skin, Wendy, in the way he moans, throaty and muffled against her lips like he's completely breathless too, and she knows he is.
Because when she tightens her thighs around his hips, he trembles and shuts his eyes close and her eyelashes are suddenly too heavy as well and all she can hear is her name on his lips.
Wendy. Wendy. Wendy.
She doesn't know what he's thinking those times.
She really has no idea. Maybe he's just blinded, overwhelmed by all his desires.
She'd like to ask him but she knows she can't. Because if she does, she will think about what she feels, what she wants, for him to be that luminous, to always shine bright like that, like the stars in the night sky, and she can't do that.
She likes to think he needs her.
She likes to fool herself into believing he might not love her, but he needs her.
She doesn't know she is right.
He desperately needs her.
Sometimes she wonders why he seeks her out in the first place.
Well, she knows why… she found out for herself that lust could be something very hard to keep under control. Especially for a teenager in a magical island with no restrains and no rules, if not the ones he made.
And Peter has always been quite the fervent type.
But if she knows very well she succumbs to the hunger because of how deeply she feels for him, she can't figure out the reason he's the first who reaches out for her, almost all the time.
And even if she kisses him back, embraces him back, wants him back, he's always the one who takes her hand, who kisses his way down her neck, who slides his arm around her waist to pull her closer.
Every time.
And a part of her hates him so much for that, because it only keep making her hope.
Wendy has knew Peter Pan for what it seemed a rather little time, especially compared to how old he was, but she's pretty sure that must be the sickest game he's ever played.
Peter's got patience, a lot of it, that's what you get for being alive for centuries and centuries, but it's not what he likes to practice best.
He wants to have everything as soon as he can.
And he's no different when he's with her.
He wants to take her and give her everything at once.
But he got to say, there're more than some pros in taking his time.
The way she bucks up her hips into his, the way she arches under him, hands scratching over his back, looking for his touch, asking for more, and when he does move how she wants, the way she comes, long and gentle, all around him, her muscles contracting rhythmically, her sobs turning into a song for him.
Sometimes he thinks that is something he could take all the time in the world for.
Just to listen to her. Chanting his name.
The grass is mossy and just slightly humid against the nakedness of his back and legs.
But that's not really what Peter cared about, earlier that morning, when he'd pushed Wendy on her back and just… took her.
Lately, he just follows her into the treehouse at night, not that he's really thoughtful or caring but, at least that made sure she had a mattress under her back. And that he had one under his too.
He grew to prefer the comfortableness of the sheets, but most of the times the all-consuming need to have her, to feel her, takes over him and he'd die before he says it out loud, but he's scared to realize he doesn't really know how to hold back.
For her. Just for her.
Because he'd noticed the way she cringed in pain when the bark of a tree sank into the tenderness of her flesh, or the way the hard ground scratched on her knees and arms, and he would never admit it, but for the first time ever, he hated the sight of her hurt.
It makes him want to pull her into his arms and stroke her hair and kiss the side of her cheek and… and he won't.
He won't do it.
He learned very well how to get rid of those weaknesses, to cut them into pieces, to crash them until they're nothing but dust.
Annoying little grains of dust.
The wind blows lightly through the branches around them as Peter breaths in and out quickly, trying to catch his breath.
Wendy, lying next to him with a hand on her chest against her hammering heart, does the same.
It's odd, really, the way she feels after.
Like being sad and happy at the same time, satisfied and yet yearning. So much yearning.
She thinks she'll never get used to it.
She sits up and stretches her hand to reach for her nightgown but he grabs her arm and stops her.
"Stay" he says and his voice sounds like an order even in that moment.
Wendy turns towards him fast. When she looks up at his face, his eyes are softer, almost warm, but she's sure it might disappear as soon as she blinks.
"Just… stay a little more" he repeats, voice lower, that kind of feeble light in his eyes doesn't fade away.
He pulls her to his chest, his arm sliding around her waist easily.
Wendy rests her head under his chin, his heartbeat still racing, right under her ear.
He does have a heart. She thinks. It's just not yours to get.
But she couldn't blame herself. Peter Pan's heart was nobody's to get.
(Or maybe, maybe the tragedy was that she, and only she, had it already, she's always had it and neither of them knew it.)
The sunlight filters and shine through the fronds of the trees above them. A ray, gentle and caressing, hits her face, and Peter's arms hold her tighter.
Wendy closes her eyes and just stays.
A huge thank you to anybody who spent their time to read this tiny, tiny thing.