Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13002249.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M
  Fandom:
      Peter_Pan_-_J._M._Barrie, Peter_Pan_&_Related_Fandoms, Peter_Pan_(2003),
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Wendy_Darling/James_Hook, George_Darling_&_Wendy_Darling, Captain_Hook_|
      Killian_Jones_&_Wendy_Darling, Red_Handed_Jill/Killian_Jones, Wendy
      Darling/Tiger_Lily
  Character:
      Wendy_Darling, Peter_Pan, Captain_Hook_|_Killian_Jones, Captain_Hook,
      George_Darling, Red-Handed_Jill, Peter_Pan_|_Malcolm, Tiger_Lily_(Peter
      Pan), Felix_(Once_Upon_a_Time)
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Child_Abuse, Implied/
      Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Sexual_Abuse, Rape_Recovery, Mental_Instability, Captain_Hook_is
      a_manifestation_of_George_Darling, George_Darling!Alcoholic, Emotional
      Hurt/Comfort, Alternate_Universe_-_Fusion, Dark_Wendy_Darling/Peter_Pan,
      Eventual_Happy_Ending, Emotional_Detachment_Disorder
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-13 Updated: 2018-01-28 Chapters: 5/? Words: 8776
****** "I'm Not A Child Anymore" ******
by JinxxTheInsomniac
Summary
     A feminine face still plump with adolescence shone by the light of a
     bulbous candle, her cheeks glimmering with the cascade of tears which
     she struggled to ignore.
     'Dear, Diary,' she began, her penmanship distressed and scratchy as
     she worked to maintain a steady grip on her hand. 'Mother is dead,
     and father's gotten to drinking nightly. When he finally comes home
     he's almost always--'
     The candle is extinguished at the roar of approaching footfalls
     echoing up the stairs, and the fearful girl permits a neutral haze
     over her features to disguise her alertness.
     Hours rolled by like years before the candlestick was relit, only now
     the innocent complexion she conveyed was marred with the swell of new
     bruises and cuts.
     ... 'Dear, Diary,... he did it again.'
Notes
     I don't know why I'm compelled to do this, it was just a succession
     of controversial ideas all merged together into an orgy of
     controversy. So, that being said, please forgive me for the trauma
     you are about to read.
     Also, it wasn't until I read the various other tags within the Peter
     Pan Fandom that I decided that Tiger Lily will play a part in this
     horrific tale of woe.
     Please, try to enjoy it as best you can, and feel free to leave a
     comment telling me how disgusting of a person I am.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** The Child Is Gone *****
                Wendy Darling was not a child anymore; That much had been made
clear on the night her lavishly adorned parents decided to go out for the
evening and boast to their fellow rich folk about their many achievements. 
                Their condemning statement might’ve meant little to someone
having never set foot in the Darling residence, but the same was not so for the
eldest child, who had grown up in the same room as her brothers since they were
born.  That room was the very stage where Peter Pan had sailed in from a land
known by only those who held no ties to the world of logic in which they
lived.  It very easily could’ve been a dream, and if that had been the case,
none of the three Darling children would ever have wanted to wake up. 
However, it was by their own guilt and remorse of having abandoned their former
life so shamelessly which had instigated their return back to their own world,
and away from Neverland's magnificent charms. 
Wendy had been heartbroken upon realizing that she had grown up and would have
no way of returning to the enchanting land she’d so hoped to dwell in forever. 
As she dutifully folded away her clothes and set them into the baskets being
transferred into the guest bedroom adjacent to her parents’, she could make no
eye-contact with her brothers as they pleaded and begged for their parents to
allow their sister ‘just one more night’ in the nursery with them.   There was
a time when their efforts had been fruitful, and with each night approaching,
the demands of their parents were all but brushed off as Wendy dutifully set
about telling a new tale of the magical adventures of Peter Pan, and his Lost
Boys.
Now, their luck had run dry, the Pixie Dust was no more, and the magic had
dissolved from the once merry atmosphere.
It was as though Wendy had been condemned to a prison-cell forever, as now, she
was denied any possibility of allowing her brothers' entry into her new
bedchamber to recite their favored tales, as was the same for Wendy from
entering her siblings’ room.
“It’s not proper for a young woman to allow boys into her room.” George Darling
had stated after broadcasting the new rules of the house which would be put
into effect immediately.
“Not even if they’re my brothers?” Wendy inquired hopelessly, which her father
reiterated in a stubborn tone. 
“Boys and girls are not to be together behind closed doors, as it is immoral
and wicked of them.”
“But why?” Wendy’s timid voice interrupted gently as she dabbed at the edge of
her eyelid with the tip of her finger.
George Darling sputtered, his eyes widening at the abrupt inquiry.  Wendy was
old enough to need to be separated from her brothers, but not old enough to
hear about marital intimacy.  His face turned beet-red before Mary, his beloved
bride, carefully brushed him aside to sit beside her woeful daughter.
“Is it really so bad?” She asked as she wrapped a comforting arm around her
child, rocking them both in a slow, easy cadence.  Wendy could sense the
anxiety in her mother’s voice, and quickly understood the amount of effort
which must’ve been put towards furnishing the practical room.  With the
calculated foresight of a major actress, Wendy forced a smile to stretch across
her lips.
“It’s beautiful, mother.  I love it.”
Unfortunately, the ruse wasn’t enough to conceal away the tears still pooling
in the young girl’s deep blue eyes, and Mary quickly noticed them and gave her
daughter a look of remorse.
“It’s a lot to get used to, dearest; I understand that.  But give it a week and
I’m certain it’ll grow on you.”
The promise of her mother’s loving tone caused a real smile to emerge from the
fragments of the fabricated one.  Truly, Mary and her husband were complete
opposites, and Wendy was only too glad of that. Her mother was able to
extinguish the fire of rage which simmered into almost anyone she came into
contact with.  Wendy couldn’t ever stay depressed around her mother for long.
“I will get used to it,” Wendy replied with a long sigh, her sorrow now
evaporating while in her mother’s presence.  It was almost painful to know that
soon she’d be alone to ponder her thoughts, and her mother wouldn’t be there to
dry her cheeks when they were painted anew.  Yet while her mother held her to
her breast, there was nothing that Wendy feared, nothing in the world.
“I love you, mum.” Wendy murmured as she burrowed closer to her mother. Mary
held her daughter tighter, a genuine smile creasing her lightly aged features.
“And I love you too, my dearest Wendy.” She replied softly.
With almost no reluctance on Wendy’s part, slumber quickly overtook her,
allowing a nap to interrupt the already dismal afternoon. It was a good thing
that all of Wendy’s furniture, which earlier had decorated the nursery, now was
scattered about this smaller area, her feather-stuffed bedding suddenly
becoming all too welcoming to resist for any longer. 
With a tiny peck of her rosebud lips, the young mother tucked her daughter in
for the afternoon nap, her fingers running through the tousled ringlets of her
daughter’s hair before she quietly extinguished the oil lamp set at the side-
table.
As soon as the door had closed to her new bedroom, Wendy bolted up, racing to
the nearby window which overlooked the disheveled collection of dirt-clad
buildings and establishments which grew up from the ground like weeds.  Black
smoke billowed from the massive smokestacks on the horizon, and Wendy quickly
recalled a similar smoke having resonated from the cannons of the wretched
Captain Hook’s pirate ship. 
The window had been locked so tightly that it took a great deal of effort for
Wendy to pry it open with her tiny fingers.  The window threw itself open in a
great current of foul-smelling wind, tossing Wendy back a few steps to avoid
colliding with the glass panes.  Regardless of the fact that the outside
smelled sour and toxic, and quite unlike that of the stale, yet fragrant, air
having fled from within her room, Wendy allowed the window to remain open with
the hopes that the famed boy clad in forestry might pay a visit despite her new
residency.
A small smile creased her lips as she breathed in the tiny pinpricks of natural
air from amidst the stinky plumes, and was instantly transported back to when
she’d awoken in Neverland with a house built around her out of logs and
sticks.  The smell had been rustic, and so unlike anything Wendy had ever
experienced before in her life.  Despite having lived a life of reservation and
patience thanks to her doting mother, the foreign desire to explore and
adventure was what had awoken the carnal intrigue Wendy had unknowingly
harbored deep within, which then inspired the small girl to chase after her
brothers in an attempt to ensure their safety.
It was exhilarating, as it was terrifying, but awoke a level of understanding
about the world that the young woman had never known existed.
That night was the first night Wendy spent in her new bedroom, and already she
felt the undeniable clutch of fear wrapped around her heart. The open window
caused the translucent curtains to billow like specters out of the corner of
her eye, which then would cause her mind to swim with the limitless
possibilities of otherworldly creatures existing just beyond her capacity to
understand. 
That was when her door opened, a low groan resonating with the aged hinges
being put into motion.  In stepped Wendy’s mother, her hair brushed out and
loose around her shoulders as she stepped towards her eldest daughter, a candle
in her dainty hand.
“How are you faring, dear?” She inquired thoughtfully, finding a place to sit
at the foot of Wendy’s bed. The girl sat up slowly, ignoring the warmth now
abandoning her scrawny figure.
“It’s alright… I just miss John and Michael…” Wendy replied pathetically, which
bade her mother to brush a sympathetic hand over her daughter’s arm.
“It is a substantial change from what you’re used to… I know it doesn’t seem
fair right now, but soon you’ll come to understand why the way things are the
way they are.”
                Wendy fidgeted with the ringlets in her long hair before her
mother slowly lifted the young girls chin to stare back at the older woman.
                “You do like it, don’t you?” She whispered softly while
studying her daughter’s eyes.
                Wendy’s lips felt as though they were forcibly being made to
smile, which was what she did in hopes of appeasing her mother. “It’s
wonderful.  It’s everything I could’ve asked for in a bedroom.”
                Mary Darling seemed contented with her daughter’s proclamation,
and once more sat up from the bed, looking like a ghost as she held the candle
out before her like a beacon.
                “I came only to wish you goodnight, and to tell you that
tomorrow, you and I can travel to the bookstore and see if there’s anything
that might intrigue you.  How does that sound?”
                Wendy instantly abandoned the fabricated joy in lieu of this
news, her heart instantly leaping for joy at her mother’s aspirations for the
coming day.
                “I would love to, mother! Thank you--!”
                Mary Darling’s finger came up to her lips, hushing the overly
boisterous girl before anyone could be alerted to the pair’s conversation.
                “If you join me, we can have a lovely day out like we used to.”
                Wendy agreed gratefully, returning to the former laying
position on her bed and shrouding herself with the blanket all the way up to
her chin.
                “Goodnight, my dearest Wendy.” She cooed before slowly
departing back into the hallway, the candle’s yellow light slowly fading from
Wendy’s view as the door sluggishly fell closed.
                 “Goodnight, mother!” Wendy answered merrily, her thoughts
swimming about the next day’s events. It was always a treat whenever Wendy and
her mother ran errands together, as it prompted almost a secretive bond between
the pair which the boys of the house couldn't understand.
                It wasn’t long afterwards, while she stared out into the
starlit sky from her bed, that the young woman dozed idly away, her visions
transporting her to a new Neverland; one where Peter Pan and her would remain
forever, never having to worry about the anxieties of mortal men.
***** Waking Nightmare *****
Chapter Summary
     THIS IS WHERE THINGS DETERIORATE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I'M SO SORRY
     (not really)
                A distant roar roused Wendy from the tranquility of slumber as
she opened her eyes and sat up.  The sun had just begun to bathe the sky in a
light wash of gray, which puzzled Wendy completely.  Why had she awoken so
early? What had been the noise?
                Laying down once more against the overstuffed pillows at her
back, she listened intently for the noise to make itself known again, her
imagination elaborating on a dozen possible reasons behind it.
                That’s when it happened again, this time followed by a
cacophony of swearing.  This hadn’t been the first time that she’d heard the
dissonance of noise, as it had become an unfortunate addition to the daily
toils of the household.  Ever since her father, George Darling, had lost his
job at the banking company he’d dedicated so many years too, he’d taken to
drinking away the stress-induced grief he’d fallen into. With that being said,
there were times where he’d get angry for very trivial things, causing Wendy to
fear for the day that the drunken parent might dispose of her onto the streets
without anything but the clothes on her back.   But worst of all, she feared
for her beloved brothers, and what might become of them if they were to
intervene. 
                Her mother had promised her that such a punishment would never
be put into effect and that they both loved her very much, but that was before
her father had taken to drinking his burdens away more regularly.  Nowadays, it
was difficult to tell what would set him off upon his return home from
wandering the streets.  His breath would always be rancid with alcohol and
vomit, and his footing would frequently leave him and cause him to tumble
over.  The seemingly relaxed George Darling would be almost identical to his
former demeanor, save for the occasional slur of his speech or blubbering.  It
was when so much as one minuscule thing was seen as ‘Out of order’, or,
‘Abnormal’, that the tables would turn dramatically.  Mary would attempt to
rush her children out of the way of her husband's unpredictable rage while
enduring a majority of his anger, herself.  Despite the air still being warm,
Mary Darling had taken to wearing long shawls over her arms and neck to conceal
the evidence of her husband’s fierce sufferings against her.  
                Unfortunately, as each night would bring about more shouting
and cursing, the eventual conclusion would offer no comfort to the young
children as they all understood it to be an intermission and that it would
resume again the next night. 
Guilt plagued Wendy as she felt like she was approving the frequent punishments
her mother suffered by not making an effort to stand between them.  With timid,
slipper-clad feet, she slipped quietly out of bed and towards the door where a
tiny sliver of yellow light streamed through the keyhole.  Biting her lips,
Wendy knelt down to peer through and survey what was happening.  
                Across the second-story hallway, a collection of shadows danced
and convulsed across the wall; one cowering in absolute fear and despair, her
arms up in defense as her assailant—A bearlike horror—stormed towards her. 
Tears flowed freely down Wendy’s face as she finally bore witness to the
grievous violence her father was so unabashedly inflicting.  Standing up, Wendy
threw open the door, basking in the dim gaslight of the candelabras overhead. 
George’s expression turned carnal at the sight of his daughter while Mary’s
face became wracked with terror.
                “Wendy—Go back into your room! Everything is alright--.”
                But it was too late; the predator had found a new target in his
own daughter.  Taking the leather belt he’d been using against his wife, he
stormed towards the scrawny girl, ignoring the pleas resounding from Mary as
she crawled desperately behind him and gripped his pant leg in hopes of
distracting him away.  Wendy let out a pitched wail and flew back into her
room, her fingers trembling as she slammed the door and went about trying to
lock it with the brass key resting against the nearby bureau.  The hardwood
door vibrated with the amount of strength put into her father’s attempts at
forcefully entering, but all Wendy could do was push a chair against the door
and hope that it would be enough to escape the sadistic abuse having been
witnessed.
                “YOU STUPID BITCH!  YOU GET BACK OUT HERE, OR YOU’LL NOT BE
ABLE TO SIT PROPERLY FOR A WEEK! COME. HERE. RIGHT. NOW! I SWEAR BY THE POWER
VESTED IN ME THAT YOU WILL LEARN NOT TO INTERRUPT A HUSBAND AS HE’S CORRECTING
HIS WIFE!” The slurred speech resounding behind the wooden door was loud, but
not enough so that Mary’s prayers for mercy went ignored.  Despite anything
Wendy could still hear her mother standing just behind her husband in a
desperate attempt to pull him away from the bedroom door of his daughter.
                That was not the end of that unholy torment, as George
continued to beat his wife in their own bedroom, her sobbing as clear as if she
were in the same room as all who heard her.  It would be hours before George
Darling would finally fall unconscious from the wasted energy, and Mary would
quietly pick up the shattered remains of anything he’d spilled to the floor in
his blind fury. Despite everything that had gotten her up to this point, the
young mother still looked as beautiful as an angel, and had the compassion of
one, as well.  With an embarrassed reluctance, she felt ashamed to see her
children while in such a lowly state to assure them of her wellbeing and to
apologize for keeping them up so late. She didn’t want them to see the new
bruises now painting her alabaster flesh, but with the strength of a thousand
women before her, she carefully approached each bedside, offering up a tiny
peck of her lips against their full, round, cheeks, before telling each of them
how much she treasured and adored them.
                Wendy’s room was still locked, so when her mother had gone
about trying to open the battered door, a whisper-soft sniveling escaped her
thin lips when she realized there was no chance of redeeming the trust of her
eldest daughter as she waited fearfully for her father to burst through and
beat her bloody, as he’d done with his own wife.  Through the keyhole, the
young mother peered in, at once recognizing her daughter asleep in the
voluptuous bedding she’d been given.  A teary smile split her bruised lips as
she chanted the same declaration of her love to Wendy as she’d done with John
and Michael. 
                “Sleep well, my dearest.” Mary cooed, before rising up from
having knelt at the keyhole, a pained groan accenting her voice while she
stretched and moved.
                Unfortunately, as with most nights, Wendy’s heart was broken,
and the attempts her mother had just instigated in trying to aid them both in
finding solace had been what had sent Wendy into a fit of sobs.  It would be
hours before she would finally pass out with exhaustion, just as the sun had
begun tinting the gray sky with a wash of tropical colors. 
 
***** One of Their Own *****
Chapter Summary
     HERE HAVE FEELS HAHAHAHAH H
The next few days, thankfully, were simple, and uneventful.  It was exactly
what the Darling children needed at the dismal time of their life.  Luckily,
their mother’s sister, Aunt Imogene, had graciously donated a sum of money to
aid in paying for the essentials while George was suffering his dry-spell.  It
was a blessing in the eyes of Mary, as now George’s stresses had dwindled down,
as did the nightly sessions of abuse. Wendy’s nightly prayers had been
answered, and things seemed to begrudgingly return to normal.
                That is, until one dreadful morning.
                It was just hours after Wendy Darling had finally gone to sleep
when a horrific outcry abruptly shook her out of the haze she’d fallen into.
This time, it was different from the typical angry slurring which usually
echoed from the lowermost floors; it was utterly despairing.
                “Papa! What’s happened?” George’s voice resounded fearfully
from across the hall. A young yet sturdy pair of footsteps patted past Wendy’s
door, followed by a more timid set shadowing just behind.  Her brothers had
also recognized the unusual hopeless tone of their father’s slurring and had
since gone to investigate.  Good on them, Wendy thought, recalling the night
she’d tried to be brave, like them.
                Suddenly, without barely a moment to separate the two events,
John’s thundering footfalls echoed towards Wendy’s room before he abruptly
threw open the door and grabbing the older sister by her forearm, his face as
pale as the first winter’s snow while panic possessed his features.
                “What’s wrong?” Wendy cried in dismay, her gaze flickering over
George’s in hopes of revealing the truth for herself.
                “Mother’s not breathing.”
                Wendy’s heart was a lump of coal before John had even concluded
the statement.
                Her mother was… dead. She couldn’t be dead—She was Mary
Darling—she was supposed to live until Michael got married and Wendy had
children. Mary Darling couldn’t not be alive.
                In only her nightgown, Wendy raced to her mother’s bedside,
unbelieving of what she saw deep within the shrouded bedroom.
                There she laid, her skin the color of dust as she portrayed an
almost tranquil expression over her features.  It was as if she simply were
sleeping as her hands hugged the patterned coverlet to herself.  When Wendy’s
fingertips brushed against her mother’s cheek, her breath caught, the chill of
her mother’s once lively spirit now vacant from the shell now resting before
them.  She was as cold as a statue, the wine-colored bruises still visible over
her arms, neck, and face.  Had she died from the violence inflicted on her? 
Or...
Wendy couldn't even conclude her own thoughts. Numbness took hold of her
thoughts and emotions.
                “We must alert the authorities!” John shouted amidst tears in
his eyes.  Michael didn’t say anything, simply nodding in grim agreement as he
clutched his favored teddy bear in the crook of his arm and nuzzled his face
against the aged cloth.  George nodded numbly, simply sitting across from the
bed in a massive armchair, a tin flask clutched in his left hand. 
                Meanwhile, Wendy was beyond distraught. Was this a preventable
conclusion to her beloved mother’s demise? Or had it been a mercy killing? 
Wendy couldn’t even fathom the possibility that her father might’ve delivered
the killing blow that sent their mother up to the heavens, but that also
could’ve been a possibility.  As John and Michael chattered away to the
constable over the phone, Wendy slowly looked up at her inebriated father.
                “Did you do this?” She whispered, her voice betraying the true
horror her mind was still fixated on. George jolted up as if he hadn’t heard
the timid voice of his own daughter just now.
                “Of course not, stupid girl!” George retorted, glaring at the
ashen figure strewn across the grand bed. “How could I have? You may have lost
a mother, but I lost my wife.”
                Wendy heard the despair in his voice and quickly recanted her
accusations with a bow of her head. “I’m sorry, Papa.” She whispered, big,
plump tears rolling down her youthful cheeks as she clutched the haggard corpse
of her mother.
                It wasn’t long at all before a resounding thud announced the
arrival of the police who carefully assessed the scene and were forced to take
the body of the youthful woman to the mortician's. Wendy, at first, would have
none of it, her arms constricted around the chilled body as she pleaded with
the officers to leave their beloved mother alone, and that she surely would
wake again like in the Faerietales.  No one wanted to separate the mourning
girl from her mother, but eventually, such maneuvers had to be observed as two
officers held Wendy as if she were a porcelain doll, and the rest of them spent
a few minutes carefully placing the dead woman onto an awaiting cot, all while
George Darling observed the performance without emotion.  The three Darlings’
held each other as the officers bid their leave, taking with them the once
vibrant woman that was their mother, away as though she were naught more than a
broken fragment of machinery.  Wendy and John nestled Michael between them as
they cried into the other’s shoulder, each one calling out to the woman who’d
never again arrive at the summon.  They hardly even noticed George getting up
and leaving to go for a walk, flasks in hand as he clumsily wrapped his
overcoat around himself and gruffly smacked his hat on over his balding head. 
                That was when it was decided that the three Darling children
would adjourn into the nursery and stay in the same bed in order to protect one
another from the potential violence that their mother could no longer shield
them from.
                As was the tradition, Wendy would open the window looking out
towards The Big Ben, tuck Michael into the center of the bed, before permitting
John and herself to nestle themselves in.  The door was already locked, and a
chair had been expertly placed beneath the handle.  If their father were to
return in the wee hours of the morning, he would have no one to attack but
himself or the inanimate objects which littered the house.
                For the first time, despite the abrupt and unfortunate
circumstances, Wendy could feel herself dozing off in the safety of her
brothers’ warmth; Michael now resting his face against the puff of her
nightgown’s sleeve.
                “Mother doesn’t have to worry about getting beat again,” John
said softly in the gloom of the dark Nursery.
                Michael made a noise of agreement, “She doesn’t have to worry
about hiding her bruises anymore.”
                Wendy gave Michael a kiss on his forehead for such an innocent
proclamation.
                “That’s right.” Wendy agreed as she stroked her younger
brother’s thick brown hair and tried to ignore the heat of newly brewing tears.
                “Wendy?” Michael inquired softly against his sister’s neck.
                “Yes, Michael?” She replied gently as she stared into the
ceiling as though it were a faded collection of hieroglyphs on a wall.
                “Will you tell us a story about Peter Pan like you used to?”
                Wendy was glad it was dark so that neither of the boys could
see the tears rolling down her cheeks upon hearing her youngest brother’s
request. It’d been seemingly years since she’d told such a tale, even though
it’d barely been a few weeks at the most.
                With her fingers combing unconsciously through Michael’s
ravenous bed-head, Wendy allowed a small smile to part her pink lips.
                “Once upon a time, on an island called Neverland…”
 
((((0000))))
 
The funeral held for Mary Darling was a dainty spectacle to be had.  She had
many friends in her lifetime, and seemingly all of them had attended, each one
adorned in a matching ebony shroud.   Yet to make the display even more
theatrical, the day of the funeral was laden with a wash of gray clouds and
rain, as if heaven itself were also mourning the dismal loss that humanity had
suffered. 
Wendy, John, and Michael walked ahead of the droves, just behind their father
as he held a massive display of creamy flowers which looked like they’d been
woven in spider-silk.  Mary’s brother, sisters, mother, and an innumerable
collection of former college associates, childhood friends, and even various
acquaintances from George’s former workplace, who’d once been introduced to the
doting mother, were gathered to the local cemetery to mourn the loss of one of
their own.  There were so many tears shed on behalf of the pale woman on
display in her coffin before the priest, joining the rain in their cascade
towards the mossy floor.   Latin chanting was declared to the crowd, promising
that Mary’s dedication to the church had assured her a prosperous afterlife in
Heaven, with God.
Wendy fidgeted with the corset wrapped tightly around her abdomen, her emotions
drained from having to exhibit the frail corpse that had once been her mother
over a dozen times in the past few days.  She noted that the lace sleeve
adorning her mother’s wrists had fallen, exposing a collection of yellowing
bruises which would most certainly offer speculation in the eyes of any who
were able to chance a glance downward from young woman’s heavily painted face.
As soon as she was able, Wendy carefully set the porcelain rose to stretch
overtop her mother’s folded arms, her fingertips chastely brushing over the
lace in order to conceal the abuses she’d suffered prior to her death.  She’d
hoped that there’d be no contact between herself and the icy flesh that was now
her mother, but there was, and that alone sent chills running up Wendy’s spine.
George carefully pulled her away from the coffin, and that’s when Wendy
realized she’d been staring for far longer than was considered normal. George
was next, and Wendy admired him so for placing a kiss on his mother’s forehead
while placing his own flowers over her breast.  Wendy never would’ve had the
courage to do so on her own.
Lastly, Michael approached the coffin, his deep blue eyes dewy and forlorn.
Instead of setting his own flower where his elder siblings had, he removed a
familiar teddy-bear she’d given him for his first birthday.  Without a word to
counter the hushed comments rippling from the crowds, Michael placed the worn
teddy-bear so that it nuzzled along her neck.  
“I love you, mummy.  Teddy's helped me when I've had bad dreams... maybe he'll
help you now.” Michael whispered, his voice cracking just before Wendy scooped
him up and held him as though he were an infant once more.   There wasn’t a dry
eye in the audience as they witnessed the sentimental offering donated by the
youngest of the Darling children.
               
                With as much reluctance as could ever be displayed, the droves
having gathered now began to dissipate and adjourn back to their own families. 
George had left long before, obviously having made up his mind to visit the
local tavern and drown away his sorrows in the day’s grog.  Wendy, John, and
Michael were left to admire the display of flowers having been set over the
dirt which now covered the body of their mother.
                “It doesn’t make sense…” John murmured, his voice stiff and
unwavering.  Wendy turned to her seemingly apathetic sibling in confusion while
she rocked John who’d by now almost fallen asleep on her shoulder.
                “What’s not making sense?” Wendy asked, her voice cracking at
the sheer bewilderment of her brother’s statement.  “She’s dead. We’re alone
with our father--.”
                “No, not that… she died suddenly, did she not?” John retorted,
the rain having distorted his eye-glasses so that Wendy couldn’t scrutinize his
true expression.
                “Well..., yes…” Wendy replied as the trio slowly began their
long walk home, following the trails left behind by the former guests of the
funeral. 
                “She was fine, and then she wasn’t. I will say this now; I’m
more than certain that father had something to do with it.”
                “John! You cannot say that aloud!” Wendy pleaded as they
emerged onto the sidewalk, receiving various nods of empathy from the company
shambling along the walkways.
                “I can if it is true, and it is. While father is still away at
the pub, I’m going to investigate like a true detective.” John boasted, despite
his deep voice wearied with grief.
                “Not now, John, you’re exhausted, and we’ve had a long day…”
The Darling children rounded the corner onto their beloved terrace, quietly
admiring the buds of flowers that their mother had planted only that spring. No
one would be around to replace the bulbs once they’d concluded their terms.
                “It must be now! There must be justice for our mother, Wendy!
Don’t you understand?”
                “Not so loud!” Wendy whispered hoarsely as she carefully
carried Michael up the stairs and into the nursery so he could take the nap he
so desperately sought. “If the neighbors hear, and word gets back to father,
he’ll… he’ll…” Wendy was shaking like a leaf, but not from the cold.
                John’s shoulders slumped in grim agreement. “You’re right.  I
will not say anything until there is concrete evidence.  Does that satisfy you,
sister?”
                “It does,” Wendy replied before she, too, adjourned to her own
bedroom, slipping off the tight-knit ebony garment she’d forced herself into
that morning.  Without worrying about the need for a nightgown, or any other
sort of covering to conceal away her underclothes, Wendy slipped into her bed,
lethargy having washed over her limbs and forced her to abide by the demands
they lacked.  After all, now was the best time since her father wasn’t home,
and there was always the possibility of reading if it was found that she
couldn’t sleep that night.
                That’s when she was instantly reminded of the lock on her door,
and how it would be especially essential under the implications of her father
returning home in a state of absolute rage.
                Scampering over to the door, a horrifying realization befell
Wendy upon the discovery of the former slot beneath the knob, intended for the
key to be slotted, was now nothing more than a hole which went right out to the
other side of the door.
                Her father must’ve stolen it away, Wendy thought with a rush of
panic. What was she to do if her father decided that she had vexed him somehow?
                She feared the results of informing her brother of the recent
turn of events, and so, set about closing the door once again, and then bracing
the back of her chair beneath the doorknob as a makeshift barricade.  It wasn’t
nearly as grand as the steel hull of Captain Hook’s ship, but anything was
better than being completely without defense. If it were in her power, Wendy
surely would’ve barred her door closed forever with iron locks and chains to
keep her father from harming her as he’d done to her mother. She would then
await Peter Pan to rescue her as he’d done countless times before. 
                With the fragments of a smile causing her lips to curl upwards,
she fell asleep to the hope that her beloved Peter would return so that she
could give him... a thimble.
 
 
***** Now I Lay Me Down *****
Chapter Summary
     Gonna be fucked up, guys, thanks for reading this far and sending me
     such warm praises! <3
                There was someone in the bedroom with her.
                At first, Wendy had believed it to have been a dream, but soon
the noises became all the more insistent; a soft rustling of fabric somewhere
near the corner of her room, over by the doorway.
                Confusion, followed by a sense of dread at once washed over
Wendy as she opened her eyes, yet still pretended as though she were asleep. 
Her door was open, the chair having been placed on the nearby wall.  That’s
when she caught sight of a hunched figure standing at the adjacent side of her
bed.  Chills ran up and down her spine at the mere knowledge that someone,
anyone, was watching her while she slept. The fear that it might’ve been
Captain Hook, or perhaps even a burglar having broken in, caused tremors of
fear to race up and down her spine; yet the very real possibility of it being
someone much closer to her could’ve caused her to faint from the racing
thoughts ensnaring her mind. 
                Despite the still impossibly dark room, Wendy already could
tell that the figure was at least twice her size, and most certainly would not
allow her any feasible victory if she were to attempt an escape.
                That’s when her coverlets were sluggishly drawn aside, exposing
her bony little legs to the crisp night air.  Her timid feet quickly retreated
to the warmth of the blankets once more, but a beefy hand wrapped around her
ankles, pinning her down.  Goosebumps blanketed her flesh.   
                A slurred rasping resonated from the stranger, indicating that
he was as drunk as a fool while he let out a blubbering cacophony of chatter
which Wendy couldn’t attempt to decipher.  Now, she was afraid but could do
nothing while her panic froze her in place.
                That was when the unthinkable happened.
                By now, through the attempts of her nervous legs to retreat
into warmth again, her nightgown had risen far past her knees.  
She hadn’t considered the repercussions of the thrashing until it was far too
late.  With a graceless succession of movements, the inebriated creature
clambered atop her bed and pinned her down with his bulbous legs situated
between her own.  A yelp escaped her lips, which then caused the man to realize
his ploy had been found out.  At the same moment, the blubbering he’d iterated
before now emerged in full translation.
                “… So much like your mother...”
                A clumsy hand brushed upwards towards her womanhood, eliciting
a wide array of foreign feelings coursing through the young girl like a
hurricane. 
                “Papa, no!” Wendy pleaded, but not before he silenced her with
a forceful kiss against her face, his breath rank with the day’s drinking.  His
hips began to plow against hers, though he did not penetrate while her
underthings stood in place. 
                He was naked from the waist down, her father’s typically regal
attire now unkempt and disheveled in his haste to satisfy himself.  Wendy could
feel his warm skin against her own.  It heated her icy flesh, but inevitably
triggered more panic than ever the young girl had experienced in her short
lifetime.  
                “Yes, yes… Please~!... Mary!” He moaned, his grinding becoming
more labored and frantic while he rasped against her throat, biting it to halt
any further refusal.  Tears ran down Wendy’s face as she continued to strain
against his advances, but found that her efforts merely provoked more enjoyment
from him.  Her nightgown now rested above her belly-button.
                Without any legitimate warning to prepare the young woman for
her fate, George Darling then ripped her underthings away and tossed them into
a corner. 
                “Please, Papa--.” She whined in desperation as she continued to
kick and fight against him.
                It was then that his hips came crashing against her, his
hardness forcefully tearing through her virgin entryway despite how much it
resisted.  Wendy’s pleas were silenced as a hoarse wailing ripped through, so
pitched and unwavering it simply came out as a dry hiss. 
                “Stop fighting!” George growled as he forced her face to the
side with his forearm while his other hand grasped tightly against her hip.
 That’s when the worst of the torturous endeavor began, the sheer agony of it
all being the only thing Wendy could focus on as her father relentlessly thrust
into her until he was able to form a rhythm in his movements.  A sticky wetness
emerged between Wendy’s legs, which served to lessen the impact of her father’s
merciless thrusts. 
                “Such a good girl, such a good girl… so wet for me…” He moaned
in a slurred rasp while his fingertips sluggishly ran through her stringy
lengths of hair as a drunken effort to pacify the pain resounding through her
with each thrust.  Wendy couldn’t find a response to justify her thoughts as
she desperately willed away the agony coursing through her.  Numbness claimed
her senses as she stared off into the distance, eventually associating herself
with it and allowing it to consume her entirely.  
Then, and only then, did she find a slight glint of peace amidst the chaos
unfolding around her.  She became as limp as a boned fish, and in doing so,
allowed her to regard the assault as being an unavoidable event that would hurt
less if she simply accepted it.  Like a shard of driftwood amidst a raging
storm, she would allow the ocean to do with it what it willed, even if it meant
she could lose herself in the process. 
George’s thrusts became more insistent and surely as he let out a cacophony of
moans and whimpers.  He forced her face to stare up at him as he continued to
rock against her, the darkness concealing his features, but not the animalistic
hunger in his eyes.
“So beautiful… My darling Wendy… Now a young woman…--.” His words were halted
by a resounding moan, the loudest one yet, followed by a riotous spasm of his
hardness still inside her.  A rush of warmth overtook Wendy’s body as her own
father’s seed filled her until it eventually spilled out from her.  The warmth
her father had forced into her stung her raw flesh as the foreign essence bled
out, but Wendy couldn’t find the ability to care anymore.  It was over.
George slid out from her, panting heavily with exhaustion as he brushed his arm
against his forehead which glimmered with sweat.  Wendy couldn’t move in
response, her body aching with each slight movement. George left her there,
tugging his trousers back over his toned legs before departing from the bedroom
of his eldest daughter.
A strange substance leaked out from between her legs and pooled on her
mattress, but the strength to care about anything anymore had long ago departed
from the young woman.  Despite the unwavering chill in the grand bedroom, Wendy
fell asleep once more, completely disregarding the chilly state of her legs and
waist while they remained uncovered by the blanket having protected them for so
many years before.  Where now was the protection her blanket had supplied since
she was young?  Why had it forsaken her when she needed it most?
Despite there being no nightmares to plague her rest, the unyielding darkness
prompted her hopeless fear and panic in a way that was so much worse than any
nightmare. 
Too broken to cry, Wendy felt less like a human and more like a statue. 
Perhaps she subconsciously wanted to be a statue so that she never again felt
pain…  Were there yet any scientific anomalies that had the potential of
transforming her to stone?  Such a magnificent spectacle she would be for all
the city to view and appreciate.  Everyone would gather around to bear witness
to the girl-statue who looked out to the crowds with reverence and dignity.  No
one would wonder about her past, nor how badly she might’ve been hurt during
her lifetime.  They would simply admire her radiance as though she were an
ancient goddess…
Oh, how magnificent a statue Wendy would be.
       
 ****
                Blood.
                It had been blood which leaked from between her legs all
throughout the night. 
                When she’d finally yielded to the summons of the morning, Wendy
found she could hardly move without a harsh, shooting pain roiling up her every
nerve and causing tears to sting the edges of her vision.  That was when she
forced herself upright with great strain and difficulty, and abruptly
discovered the horrifying burgundy stain painted overtop her once flawless
cotton sheets; physical evidence of her father’s transgressions against her. 
                The flesh between her legs burned and ached without ceasing,
the pain amplifying when she’d sat up, which caused the persistent tears
welling behind her eyes to abruptly fall.  It wasn’t simply the physical pain
which caused her to weep, although it played a significant part, but also how
fast her own father had disregarded her own comforts in service to his own.  
He hadn’t even thought to check on the girl he’d so carelessly destroyed, but
for that, she was genuinely grateful.   She didn’t even feel bad that her
brothers had not checked her as they regularly did at about that time of the
morning.  It gave her the time she needed to process her next course of action
while she tended to the sickly crimson mess now painted over her linens.  At
least it was over…
                Pain and fatigue compelled her feeble efforts towards
concealing away her father’s transgressions until she finally made up her mind
to lay down once more when everything had been thrown into the launder’s
basket.  She would wash those later, but for now, Wendy would treat her
injuries like any other she’d ever received during her lifetime; through
resting. 
With a cloth bandage rolled up and pressed between her legs to absorb the
remaining carnage that might’ve been left behind, she dressed into another
nightgown, though adamantly slowly while her joints fought in protest.  She
could feel the bandage already gathering up the residual blood-flow and felt
ashamed at the diaper-like padding pressed so against her nether region.  What
had she done to deserve the abuses she’d received? There was no denying that
the crimes were hefty as she’d never before experienced a worse disciplinary
tactic than the one she’d been given late last night.  Did all Papas do that to
their daughters?  Had George and Michael had similar punishments wrought upon
them?  All these questions and more weighed heavily on Wendy’s mind with each
second seeming to mock her as it passed.  She ignored when her brothers had
come to collect her for afternoon tea, feigning illness when they pleaded for
her.  It stung to rebuke her younger kin so, but Wendy could see no other
alternative, and to have them potentially discover the truth behind her frail
and sickly composure would’ve destroyed her.  
She was Wendy Moira Angela Darling, and she wouldn’t allow her beloved subjects
to bear witness to her lowly human suffrage, even when her one true love, who
had every ability to steal her away from this torture, would not reveal himself
at her pleas. 
Peter… Oh, Peter… Won’t you return to me?  For I’ve forgotten how to fly…      
***** The Clipped Lark *****
Chapter Summary
     NYEH I NEED THERAPY
Her father returned to her again that night, as reckless and unsurely as he’d
been before.
Only this time, he hadn’t waited for Wendy to be asleep. 
She’d been dutifully reading one of the classics in hopes of it lulling her to
sleep, but all such trials ended when her door was thrown open with a horrific
‘Crack!’ 
                Splinters and chips of plaster fluttered to the ground from the
sheer force of the blow but went entirely unnoticed as Wendy instinctively
crushed her knees against her chest in hopes of that providing some semblance
of protection against her father’s predicted advances.
                Dried vomit stood out against his once befitting white suit-
shirt and blood streamed from a freshly torn lip only for it to be mopped up by
the unshaven scruff of his chin.   As far as Wendy could tell, today’s visit to
the tavern had not resulted in any pleasantries spared by her father’s
reflexive fury, and the injuries he’d sustained further proved her theory. 
                George Darling snarled at the frightened figure in the bed, his
eyes burning with rage as his fingertips flexed into fists.
                “John tells me you’ve done nothing but mope about in your room
all day; is that so?”
                The supposed question concealed the unforgiving demand for an
answer—and God save anyone who dared to deny the disgraced upholder of
household law his self-proclaimed rights. 
                “I have been feeling ill, Papa, I’m sorry I couldn’t tend to
the chores today without getting everyone else sick--,”
                “Rubbish!”
                A porcelain figure having rested daintily on Wendy’s side-table
was abruptly hoisted and tossed across the room for it only to smash into a
plethora of shards against the floor.  Wendy suppressed a sob of remorse for
the dainty heirloom, but not before her father had abruptly torn her coverlet
from the mattress and tossed it so that it now served as a shroud over the
porcelain fragments.
                “Get up!” He roared, causing Wendy to cower in absolute terror
as she held her hands up as a feeble attempt to shield herself against any
potential blows.  This only served to worsen her father’s already heartless
disposition towards his daughter, and with that, grabbed the smaller woman by
one of her defensive wrists, and twisted her around so that he could take his
place at the edge of the bed and place her over his knees.
                “Nasty brat!  Nasty, nasty, nasty thing!” He slurred.
                With each nasty, another smack was planted against her bottom,
causing her to scream and cry out for mercy.  That’s when he stopped, which
gave Wendy the illusion of her night’s torments being over early.
                But how wrong she was…
                As she was still reeling from the humiliating beating her
posterior had received, she suddenly felt her undergarments being thrown aside,
along with the bloodied rag having rested there.  This seemed to intrigue
George Darling, who didn’t waste a moment before he’d shoved his index and
middle fingers into her battered entrance and quickly pulled them back out.
                “My darling Wendy,… you’ve had your first bleed.”
                She could almost sense some praise in her slobbering father’s
tone, but such a tranquil moment did not last for long, for her every fear was
soon realized and abruptly used against her.
                “That doesn’t mean that I shall not savor your delicious cunt,
child, but rather, will ravage it all the more as a celebration of your newly
established womanhood.”
Like a villainous tyrant in a book Wendy had once read, he seemed to laugh in a
mocking, crow-like cackle, before tossing her from his lap and onto her bed.
                Before her pursuer had a chance to pounce on her, she allowed
the violent toss he’d elicited to become a determined tumble off of the bed and
onto the awaiting floor below.  A vile cacophony of slurred abuses rained down
against her ears, but they did nothing to calm her racing heart as she ran
towards the door.  Her bare feet padded rhythmically against the floorboards,
and only stuttered after the tender flesh of her heel had been penetrated by a
wayward shard of porcelain.  George fumbled to catch his daughter, demanding
that she return to him immediately or risk a far worser punishment than the one
just recently bestowed.  Blood drained down the insides of her legs in
rivulets, but regardless of the growing stain now emerging onto her lacy
nightgown, she continued to pursue the illusion of freedom which loomed so near
to her.  All she had to do was get to the front porch and out the door before
she--.
                “Gotcha!”
                With only the slightest amount of the timidly pluming skirts
trailing behind her, George had managed to surprise Wendy enough to cause her
to trip and tumble down the hellish number of stairs. 
                Every joint burned with the abrupt conclusion to their gallop,
an iron flavor pooling on her tongue from accidentally having bitten it during
the fall.  Wendy didn’t even have time to calculate what number of stairs were
left until the landing before a raging pain ripped through her head and caused
a pitched whine to tear from her newly bruised lips.
                George had taken a fistful of her unruly blonde locks and had
proceeded to yank them, inevitably forcing Wendy to stand out of desperation to
escape the resounding pain.  Yet although she had conformed to his wordless
demand, he continued to pull and yank as though her dainty locks were no more
than a leash.  With Wendy’s desperate attempts to free her hair from the
relentless heaves, her father began smacking her face back and forth until it
was as red as her equally throbbing arse.  Her pleas for mercy fell on deaf
ears while he was as belligerent as he was aroused for the child whos demeanor
matched that of his late bride's. 
Things began to darken around the edges as blurry tears cascaded from her
sapphire eyes as she accepted the possibility that she might not survive the
night.  Yet rather than such possibilities tormenting her until her eventual
demise, she felt at peace. 
'Mother, you wait for me... Welcome me into your arms--' Wendy pleaded
silently, willing herself away from the pain being inflicted on her person. 
A resounding howl rang clear somewhere far off.  Wendy was on the ground, the
disassociation she'd been plagued with only serving to confuse her more.  What
had happened? 
Michael was by her side in an instant, tugging his sister anxiously while she
laid dormant on the wooden floor. 
"Wake up, Wendy, come on!- Come on!" He pleaded as big fat tears rolled down
his youthful cheeks.  Wendy hardly had the strength, nor the motivation to
rise, every bone in her body choosing to remain vulnerable despite Michael's
incessant protests. 
That's when a stronger pair of arms were wrapped around her hips, scraping her
doll-like figure from the ground.  It was a face she recognized but could not
place a name to.  He was a little taller than Wendy, fair, freckled skin
boasting many months and years of outdoor exploration and adventure.  The
strange boy's eyes glimmered beneath his ravenous ginger locks with a wisdom
which far exceeded his youthful presence. 
"Peter!" Michael and John cheered simultaneously.  Wendy could feel a foreign
sense of joy shock briefly through her system but kept reserved in the event
that all of this was but a facade of the mind meant to trick her. 
In his scrutiny of the bulbous figure lying unmoving on the ground, Peter
turned towards Wendy's brothers, hate written plain across his features for the
unconscious adult. 
"What's happened?  Who did this to her?" Peter inquired stiffly as he continued
to clutch the barely coherent woman to his chest.  She burrowed her face
affectionately into his shoulder. 
George was the one who'd answered, "It's too long of a tale to tell, just get
her out of here, for her sake." Michael demanded after some muffled chatter
resonated incoherently against Wendy's ears.
"And leave you behind?" 
'No, Peter, don't leave them here!'  Wendy pleaded in her head, the strength to
move and speak freely having been reaped from her.  Sleep was fast approaching,
and Wendy knew it wouldn't be much longer before it would finally consume her. 
"Yes, we can take care of everything here, just get her away from this...
please..." 
That was the last thing Wendy was able to understand before succumbing to her
exhaustion, a dreamless slumber affectionately welcoming her as though they
were old friends. 
She wouldn't fight anymore; it was time to sleep.  
      
               
 
 
End Notes
     The idea is that Peter is kindly to Wendy at first, but later, after
     Rufio's death, he's consumed by his hatred for Captain Hook, which
     then turns him into the malevolent creature we see in Once Upon A
     Time. Don't worry, it'll all tie together in the end... I hope...
     Feel free to comment!
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