Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2512781.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Peter_Pan_(2003)
  Relationship:
      Captain_Hook/Peter_Pan
  Character:
      Captain_Hook, Peter_Pan, Mr._Smee
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Blood_Play, Choking, Hickies, Humiliation, Straddling,
      Painplay, Canon-Typical_Violence, hate_flirting, pre-Wendy
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-26 Words: 3569
****** Bad Form ******
by RavenGrey
Summary
     “Bad form.” Hook agrees in a low rumble, voice slipping into a hungry
     purr that Peter’s never heard before. There’s that heat again, new
     and confusing, and Peter’s eyebrows crinkle as he tries to place it.
Notes
     Today's lesson folks is never ship something ironically.
 
 
            His hair had been carefully brushed by Mr. Smee, his shirt is free
of blood stains and his moustache looks absolutely fantastic. But the last,
rather crucial part of his ensemble is not on its customary stand and a tic
starts up in his eye. 
            “Mr. Smee, where is my hat?” He grunts irritably, straightening his
shirt-sleeves and smoothing down an eyebrow. Their last run-in with the Lost
Boys hadn’t really gone according to plan and he’s bound and determined to be
more than ready the next time the brat decides to stop by.
            “Your hat Cap’n? Should be right there between the fairy wings and
the cigars.” Smee offers cheerfully, bustling in with Hook’s clean coat over
his arm. He shakes it out and gives it a last once-over before helping the
Captain into it.
            “Got the bloodstains out and everythin’.” Smee says amiably while
Hook fixes the lace on his cuffs. Smee can just make out the handkerchief
wrapped around his wrist, under which is a nasty cut Pan had given him in their
last scuffle.
             The good Captain had been quite put-off by the whole encounter and
his bad temper had shown itself through the 3 dead pirates they had to dump
into the bay.
             The cut had stained the sleeve and Mr. Smee had spent the better
part of an hour scrubbing it clean, well away from Hook.
            “Yes Smee,” Hook says in an agreeable tone “but where is my hat?”
            “Well Cap’n it’s right here- Oh. Well then.” Smee furrows his brows
at the empty hat stand and checks under the table. “It was right here, don’t
know where it could have got to, just a ‘mo Cap’n, I’ll find it.” Smee keeps
his voice level and pleasant, so as not to agitate the Captain further.
            “I suggest,” Hook puts a booted foot on Mr. Smee’s plump backside
and shoves “you find it rather quickly.”
            “Of course Cap’n, right away Cap’n, gettin’ right on it.” Smee
blabbers hastily, clambering to his feet and looking around feverishly.  
            “Smee?” Hook asks, trailing a finger over the edge of his hook box
while he considers his options. He’s torn between the classic iron hook and the
one with the wickedly serrated edge.
             He drags his thumb over the sharp point thoughtfully, feels the
ever so slight bite of it, and decides on the one that causes the most carnage
when you gut someone. It glints mean and cold in the light and fits his current
mood perfectly.
            It locks into place with a quiet double ‘snick’ and he watches with
vague interest as Smee pales and redoubles his hat-hunting efforts.
            There’s a thump and a yelp and then Smee asks from under the piano
“Yes Cap’n?”
            “Shut up.”
            Smee makes an agreeable sound in the back of his throat, one that’s
only a little terrified, and thumps his head again when he scrambles out from
under the piano to continue his frantic search. 
            “Might be in the hat room, just a tic Cap’n.” Smee says in a high
voice, hustling out of the room and not once turning his back on his irritated
Captain. Hook tsks quietly and fixes his collar.
             It’s when he’s smoothing the front of his coat that he catches
sight of two brilliant, sky blue eyes in the mirror, shadowed jauntily by his
hat. It’s much too big for Pan’s head and slips down over his eyes if he isn’t
careful.
             But he wears it like it belongs there and a contemptuous sneer
tugs at the corner of Hook’s mouth.
            There’s a sure grin on Peter’s face and he floats on his back,
hands behind his head, while Hook turns casually to address him. “That’s my hat
boy and I’d very much like it back.”
             His arch-nemesis is wearing his best hat, his favorite hat and
floating in lazy circles around his head. It takes conscious effort to unclench
his hand and even more effort not to draw his blade and swing at Pan’s bratty
little head.
             It’d be a downright shame if he sliced the feathers. The bird they
came from is borderline extinct and he’d just hate to have to kill another to
replace them.
             Peter narrowly avoids the sudden swing and laughs as he darts
behind Hook’s back.
            He plants his dirty, bare foot between Hook’s shoulder-blades and
pushes off so by the time Hook takes another stab at him, he’s already zipping
away.
            “Looks better on me old man.” Peter grins, running a finger along
the brim and admiring himself in Hook’s mirror. Peter holds his chin high and
shifts so he’s floating with his hands on his hips.
             He looks absolutely dashing and resolves to sort through Hook’s
other hats the first chance he gets. He has many and Peter’s sure each of them
will look better perched on his head than they ever did on Hook’s.
            A sound of absolute hate rolls up from deep in Hook’s gut and just
slips past his clenched teeth. Peter laughs as the quiet growl cuts off and
Hook rolls back onto his feet, the small outline of an absolutely filthy foot
clear on the back of his red coat.
            “I’m going to gut you Pan,” Hook purrs, malice dripping from every
word and slipping off his tongue like honey “and then,” a hateful smile curves
his lips “I’m going to kill you.”
             He looks overly satisfied with himself and Peter fixes that by
zooming behind his back and slitting Hook’s sword belt with his knife. The
enraged snarl he gets pulls a blurble of laughter from him and he pushes off
from Hook’s lower back to avoid being gutted. 
            “Big talk for a codfish.” Peter snickers, dodging the sharp arc of
Hook’s hook as he swings for Peter’s belly. Hook’s eyes flicker red when he
only manages to ruffle a few of the leaves on Pan’s stomach and he turns on
heel to watch Pan zip around his personal chambers like a balloon with the air
let out.
            “This codfish is going to make you suffer pain you’ve yet to know
in your miserable little life.” Hook murmurs intently, piercing blue eyes
locked on Peter, who in turn is too busy admiring himself to notice much else.
            Peter yawns, over-exaggerated and rude, jaw cracking as he pats the
perfect ‘o’ of his sweet mouth.
            “My life is huge and grand and brilliant, you old codger.” Peter
crows, puffing himself up and looking decidedly pleased with himself as he
circles Hook’s head. He can almost hear Hook’s teeth gnash and, just because he
can, alights briefly on Hook’s shoulder like a particularly mocking bird.
            Hook’s swing is wild and his lips twitch down in an angry pout of a
frown as Peter’s flips off his shoulder and swoops up through the air.
             “I am notold.”  Hook breathes harshly through his nose and watches
Peter’s bright little face in the mirror with narrowed, viscous eyes.
            “No, of course not,” Peter agrees, wide eyes full of sympathetic
cunning “you’re ancient.”
            “Am not.” Hook’s teeth snap audibly and he brushes his shoulder off
with a short, pointed stroke as he considers the best way to humiliate Pan for
humiliating him.
             Again. It wouldn’t do to kill him here, where there’s no-one to
witness the great deed, so he’s going to have to settle on curbing Pan’s sense
of greatness as best one man can.
            Peter’s still grinning at him when he tugs on Hook’s great,
embroidered cuff like a boy tugging pigtails in the school yard. “Are too.”
             Which, of course, Peter would never do, as he is a gentleboy,
thank you very much.
            Hook casts his eyes skyward, jaw tight and annoyed as he jerks his
sleeve away from Peter’s grubby fingers. “Am. Not. You brat of a boy.”
             “Are too you wrinkly, old codfish.” Peter’s laugh is like a ray of
sunshine, warm and wonderful, as his hand darts forward and musses one half of
Hook’s moustache before he zags clear of the business end of Hook’s blade. The
great hat wobbles precariously on his head and Peter steadies it casually.
            Hook’s strangled sound of rage has a brilliant grin slipping over
Peter’s face and he settles on the edge of Hook’s extravagant dining table with
his filthy feet kicking.
            Hook is breathing hard, malice in his eyes as he advances on the
gleeful boy who’s too caught up in his own cleverness to notice that his game
has taken a decidedly dangerous turn.
             Peter’s teeth flash pearly white as he watches Hook stride
steadily closer and his clever eyes narrow.
            It’s less a smile and more a victorious bearing of teeth, long
lashes low to his soft cheeks, as he lets Hook creep closer and closer.   
            Grandly he reaches up to tip the extravagant hat back and grandly
does Hook swing his sword at Peter’s dirty little feet. Peter has them pulled
up to his chest before Hook’s blade can even touch him and the cutlass bites
heavily into the leg of the table as Peter tucks into a ball and rolls back. 
            The tables clear of food, luckily, and Peter rolls neatly away
while Hook wrenches his sword free with a few choice, oddly polite swears.
Peter untucks himself and rises smoothly to his feet, hands planted on his
narrow hips and hat set at a rakish angle.
             “Bad form.” Peter chastises with a sly smile, a delighted laugh
bubbling up as Hook’s eyes widen with shock and petulant rage.
            “You-brat, you dirty gutter tramp-” Hook sputters, inarticulate
with anger, fingers locked tight around the grip of his sword.
            Positively beaming at his own cleverness, Peter pushes off from the
table and settles in Hook’s chair with a satisfied grin. He throws a leg over
the elaborately carved arm and, due to the ginormous hat, doesn’t see Hook
until it’s much too late to fly clear. 
            Hook rounds the table quickly, quietly and snags Peter in midair. A
strong arm goes around Peter’s chest and holds him there, even though he tries
to bolt when he feels Hook’s heat against his bare back. It’s not an unpleasant
kind of heat and it makes Peter feel odd and uncertain.
            It’s gone quick enough, he’s Peter Pan, and uncertainty has no
place in his world.
             The look of brief surprise on Peter’s face satisfies that petty
something inside of Hook and he smirks, a dangerously pleased quirk of his
mouth that would make Peter feel edgy and uncertain if only he could see it.
            Peter’s left floating with his back to Hook’s chest, the wickedly
sharp hook barely kissing his jugular.
             “Bad form.” Peter cries happily around the pinpoint of cold on his
throat. Hook growls irritably in his ear and pushes harder, his intent to give
Pan another scar that Peter himself won’t remember a week down the line.
              Peter holds it off with one hand while the other moves to the
dagger at his belt. Quick and neat, Hook sets his blade down on the table and
closes his fingers around Peter’s thin wrist before he can unsheathe it.
            The bones feel light and insubstantial beneath his hand, hollow
like a bird’s, and Hook smirks when Peter jerks his wrist hard in Hook’s hold
in a last ditch attempt to get his dagger.
            With a slight sneer, Hook spits feathers out of his mouth and flips
his hat off of Peter’s head with his hook. It makes a satisfying thump when it
hits the floor and Hook leans down to pick it up by the brim, hook still
perilously close to Peter’s throat.
            He tosses it casually to the table and straightens like he has all
the time in the world. Peter pouts a little a little, pink lips pursed as Hook
reclaims his hat, and then he stops because he’s decided just then that pouting
is undignified and beneath him.
             “What now Peter? Can’t fly away, can’t fight,” Hook breathes
mockingly, sweetly in Peter’s ear “it looks like you’ve been beaten,” he tuts
and urges the merciless steel closer to Peter’s vulnerable throat while he rubs
slow circles over the inside of Peter’s wrist “atyour own game.” 
             “Careful old man, or I’ll have the other one.” Peter warns
pleasantly, not liking the gentle, pleasant sensation when Hook’s the one
providing it.
             “Will you now?” Hook sneers back, ghosting his thumb over the
faint network of veins on the inside of Peter’s wrist.
            “Most certainly.” Peter chirps back, the hairs rising on his arm
from the feathery touch. He doesn’t like this game at all and decides he’s had
enough of it.  
            Peter plants both his feet on the edge of the table and kicks off,
his goal to dislodge Hook, but he only succeeds in catapulting them both into
Hook’s chair. Peter gets knicked in the process, a thin, long scratch that
starts in the middle of his throat and ends just in the dip of his collar bone.
            A few perfect pearls of blood bead on his golden skin and then a
thin trickle of scarlet that runs down his throat and over the line of his
collarbone. Hook grunts, an altogether undignified sound, as he lands hard in
the chair with Peter on his lap.
            Peter squeaks in pain when Hook’s forearm crushes against his chest
and drives the air from his lungs on a painful gasp. Both will, of course,
conveniently forget the embarrassing sounds the other made in the heat of pain,
like the proper gentleman they aren’t.
              Hook’s wheezing in his ear, not murmuring nasty lies, and Peter
thinks to himself that his attempt wasn’t a complete failure. Maybe just half a
failure. He’s in Hook’s lap now and that’s really the last place Peter wants to
be.
  His throat is stinging something fierce, but the pain reminds him that while
Hook might be fun to play with, but he’s no Curly.
            Hook doesn’t so much mind the slight weight of Peter in his lap,
the sunshine warmth that Pan seems to radiate or the way he can feel the quick
rise and fall of Peter’s breathing against his chest. In fact, he quite enjoys
having Peter captive in his arms, even though he’ll be feeling those bruises
come tomorrow.
            Peter tries to make a break for it, but Hook is stronger than he is
and his arm closes around Peter like a vice, hauling his slender body back onto
his lap and holding him there despite his struggles. Peter’s still holding off
the hook, which is trying its hardest to press itself snug against Peter’s
bleeding throat.
            While Peter’s still trying to wiggle to freedom, eyes spitting blue
fire, Hook settles himself more comfortably in his chair, Peter seated in his
lap. Peter’s thighs are on either his side of his knee and just to drive the
point home, Hook bounces his knee to settle Peter more comfortably.
            Peter practically vibrates with anger and Hook laughs, soft and
mocking, so it ruffles the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck. Danger on all
sides and Peter would gladly choose the hook any day over whatever game Hook is
playing.
             There’s a strange, unfamiliar heat beneath him and he doesn’t like
the way the hilt of Hook’s sword is digging into the back of his leg.   
            “You lose.” Hook murmurs wryly, lips dangerously close to the
lightly freckled skin of Peter’s shoulder. His breath puffs hot against Peter’s
shoulder and he shivers just enough to give himself away.
            “You don’t play fair.” Peter huffs back and jerks the hook away
from his skin, unsettled by the way the cold metal seems to leech the warmth
from him. A sliver of fear slips down Peter’s spine and sits like ice in his
belly when Hook presses warm, dry lips to the curve of his shoulder and lets
them linger.
            His moustache tickles and Peter ignores how pleasant a sensation it
is in favor of remembering that Hook is cheating.
            “Bad form.” Peter hisses accusingly, trying to shy away from the
unwanted touch. A shudder of heat, so very different from basking in the sun
and not quite like the glow of winning a fight, curls low in his belly when
Hook’s laps at the trickle of blood on the side of his neck.
            “Bad form.” Hook agrees in a low rumble, voice slipping into a
hungry purr that Peter’s never heard before. There’s that heat again, new and
confusing, and Peter’s eyebrows crinkle as he tries to place it.
             He can’t place something he’s never felt though, and the
uncertainty leaves him off kilter and confused. Hook lowers his hook while
Peter’s frazzled and moves it so it’s pressed against the hollow beneath
Peter’s ribcage. He replaces the hook with his hand, Pan’s throat almost
feverish beneath his hand and wet with his blood.
             He feels the boy’s breaths falter for a split second when he
realizes his mistake, feels Pan swallow against his palm and grins maliciously.
             Hook’s fingers splay wide over Peter’s neck, squeezing tight
enough to cut off his airflow, and he turns Peter’s face away with a quiet tut.
His pointer finger fits snug in the hollow behind Peter’s ear and he moves his
fingertip over the sensitive skin in thoughtful circles.
            Peter grits his teeth and scowls at the bright plumage of Hook’s
hat, throat bobbing on a hard swallow. Hook’s hand is dry and his grip is
tight. Peter can barely breathe with Hook’s fingers pressing insistently
against his windpipe.
             He moves his lips so they’re right against the shell of Pan’s ear,
barely brushing the lovely pink curve of it, and whispers cruelly “But you
still lose.”
            He lets his words sink in, feels the rebellious clench of Peter’s
jaw against his palm and takes his time leaning in to close his mouth over the
scratch, which had for the most part stopped bleeding. He sucks hard and slides
his tongue slowly over it, licking away the blood and reopening the cut.
            Peter gasps in pain and tries to arch away from Hook’s slick
tongue, only to have Hook crush him even more tightly to his chest. He sucks
hard, urging more blood from the wound, which he licks clean.  
            Peter’s gasps take on a shocked tone when Hook scrapes his teeth
over the suck mark, a surprisingly heated gasp that sends sparks down Hook’s
spine.  
            “Youcheated.” Peter nearly shouts when he can find his voice, fists
clenched and mouth set in a petulant snarl. Hook pulls away with a flick of
tongue, thoroughly enjoying the way Peter flinches, and kisses the bruises he’d
sucked onto Peter’s skin.
            Peter makes a disgusted sound low in his throat and Hook nips the
flushed skin of Peter’s jaw just to tease more noises from him. “Just this once
darling.” Hook says, thoroughly satisfied with himself.
             Peter makes an indignant sound, like a cat with its tail stepped
on, and nearly spits “That’s once too many, you dirty old cod-fish.”
             He turns Peter to face him with a gentle hook under his chin and
admires the humiliated red that stains Peter’s baby-soft cheeks. He’s literally
glowing with it, face burning red, and Hook hasn’t been this pleased with
himself in a while.
             Peter’s eyes are still full of defiance and Hook favors him with
condescending smile. Hook can almost hear Peter’s perfect little teeth grinding
and he sits back on his chair, Peter’s hips still flush to his.
             He holds Peter to him for another minute while his saliva cools on
Peter’s skin and his hook digs a small little gouge into the soft, smooth skin
under Peter’s ribcage. A bead of blood wells and rolls slowly down Peter’s
stomach, leaving a trail of red in its wake.
            And then Hook just lets him go. Drops his arms to his sides and
watches the mix of shock and suspicion that tightens Peter’s body and gives way
to disbelief as he twists around to eye the hook warily.
             Hook props his chin against his knuckles and waves his hook in a
clearly dismissive gesture. Peter makes a break for it and Hook lets him, not
once moving from his seat as Peter stops long enough to rip the feathers of
Hook’s hat with all the petty vindictiveness of a child before zipping out the
open window.
            “Bad form.” Hook calls after him, voice heavy with something that
Peter doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to.
            Peter plummets abruptly upon hearing this and skips a few times
over the water before he can get back in the air and Hook’s viscous, satisfied
laughter brings Mr. Smee running.
             Peter’s cherry red glow disappears over the horizon and Hook
settles his de-feathered hat on his head with a wicked smirk, Peter’s dagger
dangling casually from his fingers. He stabs it into the arm of his chair and
lets his hand linger on the grip, worn down by fingers much smaller than his
own.
             He waves Mr. Smee out and slides his hand down his chest the
second the door shuts, to the lacings of his trousers. He undoes the bow with a
lazy tug and rises smoothly from his chair. He settles his ruined hat on the
bed-post and then climbs into his bed with all the grace of a jungle cat.   
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