Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1079333.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV), Peter_Pan_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Wendy_Darling/Peter_Pan_(Once_Upon_A_Time), Felix/Peter_Pan_(Once_Upon_a
      Time), Wendy_Darling/Felix, Peter_Pan/Wendy_Darling/Felix_(Once_Upon_A
      Time)
  Character:
      Wendy_Darling_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Peter_Pan_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Felix_
      (Once_Upon_a_Time)
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-11 Updated: 2014-01-05 Chapters: 3/? Words: 6885
****** 69 Shades of Green ******
by gigi_originally
Summary
     A collection of Darling Panlix smut, loosely plotted together because
     the writers of OUAT shouldn’t be the only ones who get to fuck people
     | No association with 50 Shades of Grey
     I’ll take you down that road / That leads to destruction - Vampyre
     Erotica, Inkubus Sukkubus
***** Chapter 1 *****
The first time Wendy sees them, it is barely a few years into her second stint
on the island. It is only a flash of skin that catches her eye but it rouses
her curiosity. She stops her walk away from camp and hides among thick hanging
vines and the huge leaves of a banana tree.
The idea of two boys kissing has never really crossed her mind before. She had
heard once, when her father had had an old school friend over, a discussion of
one late Mr. Wilde who had been arrested and tried for “gross indecency” in
their youth. The men had been lounging after dinner though and Wendy had heard
only a snippet of the conversation in passing by her father’s den.
But now, seeing Felix and the Pan pressed against a tree, mouths open to each
other and shining with spit in the dim light of Neverland’s twilight, was quite
the shock. Wendy had begun to think that there was little left on Neverland to
surprise her. She was wrong.
She watched, enraptured by the sloppy slide of their tongues and the desperate
rocking of their hips. Felix was taller but Peter, of course, was in control.
He had one hand fisted in the blond boy’s hair and the other pressed between
their bodies. A more careful look showed that his hand was in fact inside
Felix’s trousers.
Peter’s arm began moving slowly, up and down, and Felix’s face contorted in
sort of ecstatic pain. Normally Wendy would look away, move before she was
caught — the last thing she needs is to be caught by Peter in this situation —
but there is something fascinating in the way the boys move together; the way
Peter is so utterly and completely dominant; the way staunch Felix comes undone
with a shudder and groan.
Pan lets Felix’s head drop against his shoulder and Wendy would think it tender
if she didn’t know any better. Then the fist in Felix’s hair tightens again.
Wendy’s last vestiges of Edwardian morality tell her this is wrong and
unnatural, sinful. The dryness of her mouth, the throbbing of her heart and the
wetness between her legs tell her that she is as bad as they are.
She watches the smooth line of Felix’s throat as his head tilts back in Pan’s
grip. Watches the wicked slide of Peter’s tongue from Felix’s clavicle to chin.
Hears their loud, jagged breathing. Wants to feel the slippery wetness of their
kiss for herself. She sees Pan whisper something in Felix’s ear that looks
nothing like the sweet endearments her father used to whisper to her mother.
Felix falls to his knees.
Wendy cannot look away though she knows she risks all her safety. Her voyeurism
will not likely be welcomed and who knows the extent of the Pan’s wrath for a
transgression such as this? But she is simply entranced. There is a magical
sort of grace in the rush of Felix’s fingers, some spell in the tightly corded
muscles of his forearms as he works Peter’s trousers down. Wendy cannot look
away.
She is only half-startled at the appearance of Peter’s …cock (is that what the
boys at school had called it?). She gets no time to catalogue her impressions
though because it disappears quite suddenly in the grasp of Felix’s large hand.
Felix strokes slowly but roughly, up and down the length of shaft once, then
again, then leans forward and fits his mouth over tip of it. Wendy gasps but it
is subsumed beneath the intense groan that emits from Peter; Felix does not
break rhythm.
He bobs his head up and down, synced with the steady motion of his hand and
Peter’s jerking hips. His tongue, slick and pink, darts out to flick at the tip
just once. It earns him a particularly vicious thrust of Peter’s hips and the
whitening of Peter’s knuckles in his hair. Wendy thinks she sees him smirk. But
then he opens his lips wide and sinks the whole length of the Pan inside him
and sucks. Peter almost buckles. Instead, he folds in half over Felix, the hand
not buried in blond hair clutching desperately at the back of Felix’s shirt.
Felix eventually pushes back with a gasp, his lips are swollen and his cheeks
are flushed in a way Wendy has never seen before. He pumps quickly at Peter’s
cock, determination and knowing written in all the lines of his thin face.
Peter’s mouth hangs open as he pants with an abject desperation. Then his whole
body goes stiff and he spends in thick white spurts across Felix’s face.
Wendy squeaks at the sight, torn between throbbing desire and utter horror.
Peter hears her that time. His head jerks up and their eyes meet. She freezes
as he studies her, takes in the flush of her cheeks, the tightness of her
stance and the heaving of her chest. He smirks suddenly, his expression
viciously satisfied. Peter glances down at Felix on his knees before him,
grasps his own cock, meets Wendy’s eyes again, and traces the line of Felix’s
scar with his head. He draws something abstract into the come on Felix’s face
then presents it to the other boy again. Felix devours it hungrily.
It is dirty. Filthy and terrible and absolutely everything Wendy knows
is wrong. So why does she want so badly to join Felix? The thought strikes her
hard and her eyes widen. Peter’s grin does nothing to help. She turns on her
heel and runs.
That time, there is no punishment from Pan (except, Wendy thinks, the
unsatisfied ache between her legs).
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The first time Peter fucks Wendy -- really fucks her, not just fucks with her -
- is, predictably, at the end of one of his games. He had stopped chasing her
around the island after [what Wendy assumed was] a few years. Now,
after roughly three decades of cohabitation on the island, they have long
outgrown their chase.  
This time, he has taken her with him to the base of his Thinking tree where
they play a silly, lazy game of Choose. Of
course, in Neverland, any choice made could well become your reality the moment
you choose it. Wendy plays carefully; picking her options thoughtfully apart
before settling on the lesser evil presented to her. Peter, of course, rarely
lets her give him ultimatums.  
Somehow (the details escape her) they wind up arguing. It escalates quickly in
the uncommonly potent heat of the day. One moment she is decrying one of his
lavishly detailed descriptions of having all her bones removed from her still
living flesh, the next they are hurling insults at each other across the
clearing. Then she calls him a boy, "An ungallant, deficient boy." 
He stops at that, smirking that smirk Wendy first saw in that clearing years
before, and she knows she is in trouble. Peter has been quietly needling her,
teasing her with snippets of obscene knowledge, for years. He gives her books
sometimes, but every one is stolen from a pirate, all pornographic pictures and
filthy stories. He kisses her sometimes, seals his mouth over hers and
presses his legs right up against her cunt. (He taught her that one to
match 'cock', to help her beg him better when he tormented her with gentle
thrusts and wandering hands that only stoked her fires but never quenched her
thirst.) But now he is angry and calculating, not teasing at all, and there is
no one else around to bear the brunt of it. 
"Deficient?" he sneers, "I'll show you deficient." 
All it takes is a few long strides then he is kissing her. It is not, by any
stretch of the imagination, the first time they have kissed -- that had been
long, long ago, longer than Wendy cares to remember, as they waltzed across the
stars and Peter's mouth had been as unsure as hers. This kiss -- this kiss is
everything they have been building towards in the new dynamic of their
years. It is ferocious and hungry, all brutality and teeth and the sharp bite
of desire in their every move. 
Wendy opens her mouth to him wanting, quite suddenly, every dark promise he
has made to her in the hollows of trees, under the spray of waterfalls, in all
her wildest dreams. She mewls for him the way she knows he likes her to and is
rewarded with his tongue sliding along hers. His lips are soft and wet
and she kisses back up against him, desperate for more, for all of him, for
anything he can give her. She wants his heart and she will have it through his
teeth if need be. 
Peter is the one to slow them down, gentle them from inferno to flame. He has
played this trick on her before. Getting her all worked up and leaving her
unfulfilled. Wendy recognizes the game, the wicked leisure of his movements.
She will not have it, not anymore. She wants Peter, she wants his lips and
tongue and teeth on her skin. Wants his bared chest and the corded muscles of
his arms. Wants, so very badly, the hot length of his cock inside her, filling
the ache between her thighs, filling her until she can finally breathe again.
And she will beg for it, if she has to.  
Her eyes flutter open to meet his. Peter is watching her closely, sipping at
her lips like wine, and she knows what he will have of her. She has bent her
pride and succumbed to his wishes once before. She has begged him --
 just once -- for that ultimate, elusive release. That time, her legs slick and
sticky with the proof of her desire, he had pressed his leg hard up against her
and told her to take what she wanted. Shamelessly wanton in her need, she had
rocked her hips against his knee until something inside her shattered and
she flew over some invisible cliff higher, farther and faster than any magic
could ever have achieved. She has lived with that memory for far too long. 
"Peter," she gasps between his butterfly-poison kisses, "Peter, please." 
He leans back as far as her arms will let him, eyes half-lidded and ravenous,
and asks, "Please what?" 
She almost cries. It isn't fair, she thinks, that he should do this to her.
That he should be able to play her body like he plays those damned pipes. He
wants her too. She can tell. Those books he has been tossing at her have given
her a fair idea of male libido and she sees it in Peter. In moments like this
and in those times he thinks she isn't looking, she has seen him want her. But
he will not give in until she does. It is a game to him and she cannot -- oh. 
She knows how to win. 
"I can't play anymore," she whispers.  
His body stills, the barely doused spark of anger flickering back to life. She
knows he hates to be denied any game.   
"What do y--?" 
Wendy surges forward and crashes her lips onto his. His shoulders stay
tense, his posture rigid. Wendy kisses his mouth like worship, tastes all the
different parts of him, and knows she must play this last card exactly
right. Peter Pan will not be refused. 
"You win," she breathes against his open mouth. 
But he will take victory. 
"You win," she repeats as her arms claw their way back around his broad, broad
shoulders. "I want you, Peter."  
She trails a line of kisses along his throat, stops to lave her tongue across
the distinct jut of his Adam's apple. "Please take me."  
She can feel him trembling just slightly in the cage of her limbs. She delights
in it for only a moment, letting the knowledge feed her own raging lust, then
raises her lips to his ear, takes the earlobe between her teeth the way she
knows makes him moan for her, then tells him, "Fuck me." 
He moves faster than she has ever experienced before. She is lurched away from
the tree and lain sprawled beneath him in a dizzying whirlwind of green. He
braces himself on his hands, hovering high above her, leaving no parts of their
bodies touching. His eyes are black.  
"Say it again," he demands, voice a low, dark rasp. It sets all her nerves
alight, every one straining for touch.  
Wendy licks her lips slowly, catalogues the way his eyes follow the movement
while his tongue mirrors it, and meets his eyes. She can see herself in his
eyes, hair a mess and absolutely debauched. This is what he has brought her to,
she thinks, he can very well see it through. She will play his game. 
"Fuck me, Peter. I want you," she enunciates. She moves no muscles but her jaws
and watches it drive him crazy. "I want your cock." 
He wills their clothes away. He wills their clothes away. It is not something
she has ever seen him do before but one moment her nipples tingle against the
soft fabric of her night gown, the next she is bare to the world and Peter's
greedy gaze. The shock of it makes her twitch, arms half-rising to cover
herself. 
"Don't move," he commands. He meets her eyes and there again are all the
promises accumulated over years. She wouldn't move if a predator pounced on
her. 
Then, a predator does. 
Peter lowers his mouth to her skin and drags his teeth across her collar bone.
Wendy clenches her fists but stays still. Allows him to trail down the line of
her breast bone to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss (a territorial marking,
really) right above her heart.  
"You're mine, Wendy Darling," he tells her and it sounds like a wedding vow. 
Then he ducks down and kisses her cunt. She arches like a pulled bow, some
strangled noise ripping from her throat as he tongues her open. He braces one
hand on her leg and reaches up to stroke her the soft triangle of her curls
with the other. Then, both his hands move down and his long fingers spread her
wide. He exhales slowly and the hot air of his breath is cool against the
searing heat of her. He blows like she is his pipes and she whimpers, toes and
fingers curling and uncurling with unbridled, unfamiliar passion.  
When he chuckles, she raises her head and opens her eyes. Peter waits until
their eyes meet before flattening his tongue and licking along the length of
her folds. He watches her pretty eyes roll back then lowers his head again and
takes to his task in earnest.  
He kisses her cunt the way he kisses her mouth, all domination and the barest
hint of teeth. Wendy can barely think for pleasure, is writhing on his tongue
when he pulls away. Her protest is a keening whine that blends seamlessly into
a long, half-startled moan as he replaces it with his fingers. He fixes his
mouth on her clit and curls his fingers upwards and she squeals. He alternates
between sucking and licking at her, never quite letting her reach
fulfillment, until she thinks she will die of frustration. 
She is practically sobbing when he stops, her legs shaking and something deep
inside her wound so tight she feels like a bomb ready to explode. Peter
slithers up her body, succulent mouth shining, and kisses her hard. She trails
after his retreating lips, wanting more, wanting him. Peter smiles down at her
half-open eyes, his expression, for once, mostly tender. He reaches out and
brushes a hand across her cheek. It is then that she feels the tears. 
"Don't cry, bird. Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you." 
"You. Please, Peter, please." 
He smiles, victorious, and settles himself over her. She can feel the hot tip
of his cock pressed ever so lightly against her throbbing cunt. She grabs at
his shoulders, wraps her legs around hips, opens herself to him completely. 
"Please, please," she begs and there is nothing calculated or cunning in this,
"I'm yours, Peter. Please." 
It doesn't hurt when he enters her. She's too wet, too ready for that. The
sudden tightness would be uncomfortable if it was not utterly surpassed by the
all-consuming, overwhelming heat of him filling her. She shudders from tip to
toe and Peter, with his forehead pressed to her shoulder, stays still inside
her.  
When she shifts her hips just a little bit, hunting for that delicious
friction, he raises his head and smirks down at her. One of his hands tangles
in her hair, the other tight on her hipbone, and he whispers with a wicked,
wicked grin, "Let me." 
As with everything, Peter's thrusts are fast and rough but they hit something
inside Wendy that makes her arch and claw at his back, makes her dig her heels
into his backside and rise to meet him for more. She closes her eyes, loses
herself to the rhythm, and sees colour wash behind her eyelids.  
It happens suddenly, the steady build intensifying without warning. Wendy is
almost there, almost flying again but not quite, then Peter kisses her. He
kisses her like she is water and air and life and all she can do is gasp
because she is so, so close.  
"Look at me," he growls and she does. She meets his eyes and he watches her
like something hungry. He tells her, "Don't close your eyes." 
Then he reaches between them and rubs hard little circles around her clit.
Wendy comes apart with her eyes wide open and Peter's name a prayer on her
lips. He comes inside her, fills her with heat and warmth and the sound
of Mine. 
Later, panting and satiated, he turns to her and asks, "Was that deficient,
Wendy-bird?" 
When she doesn't answer, his eyes narrow with rage. He props himself up on one
elbow and glares down at her. 
"How?" he demands. 
She stares up at him, at this beautiful boy who has taken all of her for his
own, and knows what he will not give her in return.  
"Love," she says. "It lacked love."
Chapter End Notes
     Alas, no Felix. But he will be here again soon. I just need to add
     more chapters.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
In the years Wendy spends on the island, she comes to view to Lost Boys as
companions. Not as her children, as the stories often say, but as comrades in
adventures against nature and pirates. Of the lot, Felix
becomes her favourite early on. He is quiet and calm and loyal. Coolheaded and
rational where Peter is rash and theatrical. Wendy appreciates Peter's power
and determination. Understands, often, the sources of his anger and fierce
protectiveness. But sometimes, she needs to escape it. 
Often, she will wander on her own, trekking through familiar jungle as though
she too was born of Neverland's blood and bone. Other times, when Peter wants
her in sight, she will retreat to a corner as he plays those pipes she never
hears. It is in those moments, in the earliest years of her stay, that she
begins to know Felix. 
He is kinder than the other boys, not openly so vicious or bloodthirsty. From
afar, he is almost gentle. Wendy likes him because he is older, taller, more
cautious. Where Peter will act first, Felix will observe. Because of this, his
brutality when it comes is a fierce and frightening spectacle of strength,
skill and savagery. Not quite as stunning or theatrical as Peter's but
efficient and most often deadly.  
In the beginning, Wendy thinks of Felix as the original Lost Boy. She knows he
was one of the first ones to come to the island -- he is one of the oldest
ones, by any standards, not just the youthful looks of Neverlanders. She
takes his soft, nearly childish voice and snide comments  as a package deal. He
reminds her of no one she has ever known and she finds, surprisingly, that
she likes him. Felix is non-threatening, she supposes, and that helps a great
deal. He knows her greatest tribulation and does not add to her torment. 
Then, one day in a clearing, she realizes why. 
From the time she sees Felix on his knees before Pan, something shifts. She
becomes aware of him in a way she never had been previously. It sets her on
edge, not in quite the same way Peter does, but she still feels that unwelcome
tingle of desire around his long, lean frame. It never enters her head to
explore it though. Peter consumes her, completely, with tongue and teeth and
wandering hands that drive her near insanity. 
Then, Peter claims her truly, fully. 
When Peter takes her, Wendy surrenders her whole self to him. She knows, even
as their coupling ends, that he has not done the same for her. He never
will but she hopes; she dreams of a time when he will be hers. It is a
fleeting fantasy but one that she holds to in the dark of the night, in the
privacy of her tree house. That is, until Peter invades it. 
He comes to her with a wildness in his eyes. His hair has been victim to the
roaring winds that Wendy can hear outside and his lips are red, bruised, bitten
and hungry both. She knows almost immediately that he has been with Felix. For
a brief moment, just a single flash of time, she feels something akin to
jealousy. She, like Peter, does not like to share. 
But then Peter's mouth is on hers, his tongue forcing past her parted lips, and
there is a taste to him that she is unaccustomed to. That is not to say that it
is a taste she does not know. She recognizes the flavor of the mint twigs Felix
favors. He shares the leaves with her sometimes when she wants to freshen her
breath. The realization is enough to make her falter, make her stop responding
to the press of Peter's body.  
He pulls away, ever so slightly, giving her just enough space to speak between
them. "What is it?" 
She licks her lips, feels the rasp of Peter's lip against the tip of her tongue
with the motion because he is that close, feels the shiver that runs down his
spine when she does it, then looks him in the eye. She says, "You taste like
Felix." 
Peter's eyes flare. He throws her away from him so hard she falls back on the
bed and bounces with the force of her landing. His expression is dark and
furious, one Wendy knows well from other situations. She scrambles back to her
feet because she cannot let this manifestation of Peter have any ground over
her. She will never get back up if he does. 
"How," he growls, voice a dark rumble in the depths of his throat, "do you know
what Felix tastes like?" 
It is not the question she expects him to ask, not the reaction she expected
him to have in the first place. In quick retrospect, it was not the smartest
thing to say but the damage is done. She can only move forward now, with her
ire building to match his because how dare he be jealous? How dare he, the boy
with the other lover, be possessive of her affections? He blatantly enjoys the
embrace of another and yet denies her? It is a double standard that an inherent
part of her, the girl who was raised by a suffragette, rebels and rages
against.  
"Why does it matter?" she spits back at him. "You taste like him, like mint." 
Peter's anger is almost palpable, the air in her little space electric with
the crackling energy of his effort to not lash out. His voice, when it comes,
is more strained than Wendy has ever heard it before, "Have you kissed him? Has
he touched you, Wendy?" 
Wendy blinks at the second question. It is a small thing, the way Peter asks
it, but it tells. She will not suffer Peter's wrath if the answer is yes. Peter
repeats it to her, slowly, deliberately, word by word. "Has he touched you,
Wendy?" 
"Never," she says and there is truth in every syllable.  
Peter unwinds immediately, anger vanished as quickly as it came. But his
passion, the rush of adrenaline, still drives him to her. He steps toward
her, walks her back until she can feel the side of the bed against the backs of
her knees, then raises his hands to cup her face. He holds her steady, deep
green eyes focused entirely on hers, arms pressed so close she can
feel the leather of his cuffs against her cheeks. The look in his eyes is not
new, the fierce possessiveness clear as always, but there is relief and
tenderness poorly masked behind it that makes Wendy's breath catch in her
throat. 
Damn this horrid boy and his vulnerability, she thinks. Damn his hard head and
soft heart. Wendy does not want reasons to love him. 
"I will kill anyone who dares," he tells her, "even Felix." 
He kisses her again languidly, licking his way into her mouth with a gentle
tongue and breathing the air right out of her lungs. He is softer than she has
ever had him before, his touch never light but for once leaving no bruises on
her skin. It is no less possessive though and Wendy thinks his tenderness a
more dangerous beast than his brutality.  
Peter is uncharacteristically gentle with her that night. He lowers her to the
bed in fractions, lets her sit without breaking their kiss before crawling his
way on top of her. Wendy settles back against her pillows with half-melted
bones. Peter's kisses are slick, slow, intoxicating things that leave her
panting even as he makes her moan.  
She feels him guide her hands above her head to a position she knows he likes
her in, one that he knows makes her wetter for him than anything else. The hand
he uses to pin hers in place is firm but still she does not bruise. It is such
a change that she keeps her eyes open. She watches the strange intensity of his
possessiveness as he kisses every inch of her face from her brow to chin. She
arches up for him to kiss her mouth again when the time comes, welcomes his
tongue with her own. Their lips shine when they break apart and Peter grins at
her, eyebrows arched ever so slightly at her sudden eagerness. 
Reactively, she sticks her tongue out at him and he bites at it playfully. It
turns into another kiss then another until Peter finally pulls away. Fingers
tightening ever so slightly around her wrists, he grinds out a half-
irritated admonition: "You're distracting me, Wendy-bird." 
Daringly, she rolls her hips against him and turns her mouth to his earlobe.
"Does that mean I'll have to be punished, Peter?" 
Wendy feels him shudder and a thrill of victory rushes through her. She rarely
gets the opportunity to make him shiver and shake for her. He raises his head
and his eyes are alight with challenge. He smirks and she feels her legs
quiver. "It does." 
He tortures her. There is no other word for it, she thinks. The deliberate pace
at which he makes his way down her body leaves her aflame and begging for him,
for his cock, for anything so long as he gives her release. She whines out her
pleas, voice high and cracking for him, half because of what he does to her,
half because she knows it will get her what she wants. 
Peter is not the only one to have learnt his lover's preferences. 
He has peeled her bare, left her with her fists clenched in the sheets, even as
he stands again, fully dressed. If he imagines he is going to leave her like
this, she refuses. She sits up quickly and grabs his hips. He looks down on
her, one eyebrow arched, but lets her continue.  
She dances her fingers along his belt, appreciates the significant tenting
below it, then swiftly undoes it. She lets it and his knife fall loudly to the
floor. Peter watches it fall with an indulgent, almost amused expression -
- Wendy knows how little he likes to be without his weapon. She has been
punished for distracting him, though, so she will make sure she has committed
the crime.  
Wendy stands and pushes her hands under the outer layers of his clothes, runs
her flattened palms up the length of his torso to his broad, broad shoulders.
It is quite a reach for Peter is actually significantly taller than her.
Regardless, she pushes at the fabric until it comes down his arms. He lets that
fall too. Then she pulls the softer undershirt upward, scraping her nails along
his skin, until the fabric catches on his wrists. 
He moves to take off the leather cuffs on his wrist but Wendy catches his
hands. She pries the shirt over them while saying, "Leave those on." 
Peter gives a sharp bark of laughter at this pronouncement. "You like them?" 
Wendy blushes because she does like them. She spends ages staring at him some
days, when he's playing with the boys and she's expected to watch. The cuffs
are one of the things about Peter that has fascinated her always, since her
very first time on the island. She remembers clearly the feeling of the leather
digging into her skin through the thin material of her nightdress when he had
caught her mid-fall. That first, sudden awareness of Peter will probably stay
with her until she dies. 
"Keep them on," is all she actually replies. 
When she has shucked his pants down and he is as bare as she is, she trails her
fingers up the sharp outlines of his muscles under soft, smooth skin. Peter
does not get injured and he is beautiful like one of those marble statues in
the museum her mother had taken her to once. But he is beautiful also because
he not like them, not made of cold marble but warm flesh and hot blood and a
storm of desire. 
"Wendy-bird," he says quietly, "look at me." 
She does not raise her head. Still she answers, "I am looking at you, Peter." 
He lifts her off her feet and lands over her on the bed in one fluid motion.
One of his hands goes to her face, tilts it upward so that she is looking him
in the eye. There is no more playfulness in it, only hunger and something else
she cannot name. He tells her, "Grab the bars." 
Wendy makes a stuttering little sound at the command but manages to obey. Peter
glances up to see her fingers curl tight around the metal bars of her
headboard, knuckles already almost white. With a smirk, he 
With a smirk, he murmurs, "Good girl." 
His free hand reaches down to drag down the length of her leg. He slips his
warm fingertips under her knee and pulls upward. He hitches that leg high on
waist then thrusts slowly, dragging the length of cock along her wetness. Wendy
keens at the friction, body bowing subtly upward to better the angle. Peter
does not relent. He keeps moving, shallowly rocking his hips and brushing her
clit over and over. He keeps his eyes on hers. 
"Tell me what you want," he says, "Beg me." 
"More," she gasps as he grinds down once. "More, Peter. I need you inside me.
Please." 
"Keep going." 
"Peter, please!" she pleads, fingers ashen around the bedframe bars. "Please,
please, please fuck me!" 
He shifts slightly and suddenly he is inside her, buried to the hilt and
unmoving. Wendy tries to rock her hips, tries to make her own pleasure but he
hold her in place with both hands on her hipbones. He sets slow, steady pace
instead of the frantic pounding Wendy expected. Each thrust is an experience.
Wendy feels the full length of him as he moves inside her, feels all the
deepest parts of her he reaches. 
He runs the thumb of the hand on her cheek across her lips then leans down and
kisses her deeply. When he pulls away, he removes the hand and leans back. He
reaches back and pulls at the leg not on his hip. He pulls it upward so that he
can drop a feather-light kiss on the sensitive skin of her ankle. Then he hooks
that ankle on his shoulder and leans over her again. Wendy moans at the new
angle, the feeling of being even fuller than before. Peter stays still
and savours it. 
"Peter," she breathes soon enough, "Peter, please." 
"Who do you belong to?" he asks. 
Her eyes shoot open, fingers slackening on the headboard for moment. Why would
he ask this now? She almost protests until she notices the shuttered look in
his eyes, the nearly invisible hint of vulnerability reappeared.  
"Tell me," he demands with a swift jerk of his hips. 
"You!" she shouts. Then, more quietly, "I belong to you, Peter Pan." 
Peter says nothing else but he rocks them to a slow, steady resolution. Wendy
think she might explode from the building pleasure seemingly without release
until her orgasm hits her out of nowhere. 
Afterward, Peter lingers in her bed. He gathers her into his arms and hold her
there. The last thing she hears him say is, "You're all mine, Wendy Darling." 
It still sounds like a wedding vow. 
 
                                      # 
In the time that spans after, Wendy notices a new glint in Peter's eyes; a new
consideration as he looks between her and his other lover. She cannot know what
he thinks but she is wary of it. She knows instinctively that is something
forbidden, something so very taboo, else Peter's interest would have wavered
long before. She waits for him to crack, anticipation settling on her bones
like bees.  
Then, one day, she sees him kissing Felix again. He makes them both watch.  
The other boys have been sent hunting, Wendy is left to herself in the
encampment and Peter has kept Felix back with nary a look. Now that is just the
three of them around the fire, Peter talks in hushed tones with
his favourite Lost Boy but his eyes trail after his bird with calculating
relish. Wendy, staunchly ignoring them but terribly aware of their presence and
proximity to each other, wanders the perimeter of the circle, looking for
something of interest to do. 
Suddenly, Peter's chuckle, a rich hearty sound that Wendy rarely hears, cuts
through the ambient sounds of the forest. There appears, for a brief moment, a
bright ray of sunlight. It shines straight into their clearing and wrenches at
Wendy's heart because, when she looks at them, Felix is smiling, uncovered head
bowed and cheeks almost red. Felix has wrested such joy out of Peter where
Wendy cannot. He has touched the heart that holds them both. 
She shakes her head, about to turn away, about to retreat to the sanctuary of
her treehouse to remind herself of why Peter is so bad. Why he is such a
completely terrible idea, why loving him is the worst sort of mistake. Instead,
she halts mid-step because right there, in the open light of day, Peter raises
a hand to Felix's neck.  
There is a bright, wicked grin on Peter's face as he pulls Felix's head down to
his. Felix, of course, meets him without protest, with enthusiasm even. The two
kiss differently, Wendy thinks. Their mouths open and meld, slick and shiny in
the sudden light, and there is something almost loving in the tilt of their
heads and the slow closing of their arms around each other. Peter's
relationship with Felix is something completely separate and different from
what he shares with her and she is half jealous, half fascinated. 
Felix abruptly wraps his arms tight around Peter's smaller frame and pulls the
boy completely into him. Peter throw his head back and his startled,
delighted laugh --a giggle, really-- rings clear in the morning air. He gasps
in a breath as Felix's mouth ducks down toward his neck, the taller boy's large
hands clutching tightly at Peter's hair and shoulder. Then Peter meets Wendy's
eyes and she is transported back by years to that damned clearing.  
He quirks an eyebrow at her, a silent communication she cannot decipher, before
he turns his head and reclaims control of Felix. Wendy hears the
helpless little moan that Felix emits as Peter pulls away, almost feels sorry
for the boy because she can see in the way his body curls toward Peter, the way
his eyes follow the Pan's lithe frame as it stalks toward her, that there
is love there. Felix feels a real, true, deep love that Wendy knows can only
end in tears. She knows because, for all her denial, she has cried those tears
already. 
Peter stops directly in front of her with an exhilarated expression painted
across his elfin feature. He is rapturous between them. Felix
watches knowingly, a smirk creeping up one side of his mouth, as Peter pulls
Wendy into a kiss that tastes of mint and that drugging, otherworldly flavor
that is all Peter's.  
It is the start of something Wendy is nowhere near prepared to handle. Yet, as
she watches the long lines of Felix's silhouette in the light of Peter's fire,
that anticipation on her bones starts to wriggle and buzz. She finds herself
wanting both boys. She wants to Peter between her legs and Felix directly on
her tongue. The idea makes the muscles in her legs clench, makes the wetness
rush between her legs. She knows arousal now, knows the pull of desire as well.
She had relished satisfaction in Peter's arms. But now he taunts her with more.
And she, foolish girl she knows herself to be, wants it. 
She lets Peter see, sometimes, just how much she wants it. One night, she lets
him wring the confession out of her. 
He has knelt for her, this island king. Fallen to his knees and put his
succulent mouth on her cunt and made her sob. He works her in all the ways he
has learnt drive her mad but still he will not give her release. He pulls away
when she begs. 
Pressing a kiss just left of center, at the junction of her leg, he asks
conversationally, "Have you ever thought of someone else like this?" 
"No," she gasps. "Never, Peter, please." 
He chuckles and his breath is a torturous tickle on her heated flesh. Because
he cannot deny the fierce pride he feels in being her only one, he indulges
her. He licks a hard stripe across her clit then twists his tongue inside her
to make her squeal. Then he pulls back again and she sobs. 
"Have you ever thought about Felix?" he asks.  
He punctuates with a flicker of his tongue over her clit and she arches
clean off the dresser he has hoisted her onto. 
"No," she pants but Peter bites down on the soft flesh inside her leg. 
"Tell me the truth, Wendy-bird."  
She shudders in pleasure even from the hard edge of his teeth on her. She wants
him to touch her, all of her, however he wants. The line between pain and
pleasure blurs, sometimes, with Peter's touch. And he knows it. He claws his
way toward her heart, inch by inch, by turning her own body against her. He
makes her writhe and scream, beg and cling at him, makes himself the center of
her universe and all the stars in it too. 
"I won't be angry," he promises with heated, excited eyes raised to focus on
her flushed face. "Have you thought about Felix?" 
She takes a deep breath that ends on a whimper as Peter idly trails the backs
of his knuckles ever so close to where she burns. She breathes out, "Yes." 
Peter goes still, all the small motions he has been using to drive her wild
halted all at once. Wendy would almost think he had left her unfulfilled and
alone were it not for the solidity of his shoulders beneath her thighs and the
steady fan of his breath on her cunt. She opens her eyes finally and glances
down at him. He is pensive, a thoughtful little frown creasing his brow and, in
a moment of irrationality, Wendy reaches out and swipes her thumb across it
like an eraser. It is a gesture for those between whom affection is shared, not
just lust, and Wendy freezes awkwardly halfway through the motion. She has
shown her hand. 
Peter's expression morphs from startled to triumphant. He looks up at her, his
grin all sharp knives she has learned bring gratification as much as pain, and
says, "Good." 
He makes her come undone on his tongue in a pleasure that seems almost rolling,
one release into the next. She forgets how it ends exactly, only knows that
Peter had still been buried between her thighs when consciousness had left her.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Ok, so a little more Felix this time. But what can I say? Peter likes
     to play with his toys first, before he shares. Felix will get some
     again soon!
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