Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3400391.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Peter_Pan_-_J._M._Barrie
  Relationship:
      Captain_Hook/Peter_Pan, James_Hook/Peter_Pan
  Character:
      Captain_Hook, James_Hook, Peter_Pan
  Additional Tags:
      Mpreg
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-20 Completed: 2015-02-24 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 23028
****** Nature Boy ******
by Fisticuffs
Summary
     It was Hook's newest obsession to torture his juvenile foe in the
     most adulterous of means. From it he would reap torture, suffering,
     and satisfaction. Obviously, he never expected anything tangible to
     develop.
Notes
     Chapter one is cause. Chapter two is effect. So if you just want porn
     and not mpreg, the first one's for you. Though there is also porn in
     the second chapter. Porn and mpreg. This ended up being a lot longer
     than I'd planned. But I did enjoy slowly adding to it whenever I had
     a free moment.
     And don't complain to me about the subject matter. If you can read a
     fic, you can read the tags. Besides, there are A LOT darker fics in
     this fandom. Though I’m not very good at tagging things. So let me
     know if there are any I should add.
     Takes place after the events of the book/movie. With the one obvious
     caveat that Hook is still alive. Also the Crocodile is never
     mentioned, assumed dead.
***** Cause *****
James Hook looked upon the dark sea of night, drinking his last glass of
victory. He had waited so long to toast the capture of Peter Pan. Quickly did
he realize one drink would not do. Indeed, he had consumed an entire bottle of
his oldest and most favorite wine. Momentous day.
"Cap'n," Smee spoke, coming beside him.
"All prepared, Mister Smee?" he asked, and he watched the splashing waves with
something akin to happiness, knowing once more what it meant to be content.
"Yes Cap'n," he said.
Hook breathed deeply through his nose, releasing that captive air with a
predatory growl. "Marvelous." He handed off his glass and stood at the top of
the steps. "Should this actually need saying, I shall now take the time to say
it, Mister Smee. Any crewman who should come to my quarters will know only the
last two knocks of his life: his own upon my door and the second when he hits
the ground with a bullet in him."
"Yes Cap'n."
"Marvelous," he said again. Then loudly did he address the crew. "Continue your
celebration, gentlemen. I go below to finish mine." There was a roar of seedy
raucous laughter, knowing his intent.
Hook descended from moonlight to lamplight. When he came to the door of his
cabin, he could already hear that predictable rattling that begged for freedom.
He took a deep breath. The drink calmed him, but a moment of hesitance prepared
him.
He walked inside.
The boy was on the ceiling. His legs were bent with little knees up near his
chest. His hands gripped and pulled at his trap. The manacle around his right
wrist would not budge however, nor would the chain attaching it to the wall.
"Well," Hook exclaimed with mock surprise, "look at what I've caught, a little
flying fish to be gobbled up for dinner."
"Too small for you, James Hook," Peter said, and his arrogance in the situation
told that he did not yet understand its full weight. "Better throw it back."
Hook only grinned, a sloppy thing, crooked with his inebriation. "You see this,
Pan?" He pointed to a box with a keyhole in its middle, mounted like a safe
upon the wall. From his pocket he took the key to its reveal. "My own personal
design. My gift, from me to you." He opened the door and inside was a crank.
His hand began to turn it. "You see, it can give reward or punishment or
perhaps," he chuckled, "my own peace of mind." As he spun the handle, Peter's
chain pulled, retreating inside the hole it came from, reeling him in and
tearing him from the ceiling. "If you are a good boy, I give you more length to
explore the cabin as you wish. But if you are bad," he tsked, "I am afraid I
have to take." Peter pulled, trying to keep the length of chain he had been
given, but the tug ignored his struggle. "It seems Smee was kind enough to let
you work on credit." He laughed. "However, I believe you should be forced to
earn every inch."
Hook stopped turning the handle and sealed the small door before hiding its key
away. Peter was left with his manacle stuck up against the wall and no slack to
be taken. He hovered inches above the soft bed with its dark sheets of luxury.
It seemed his last available defiance.
"I can't duel like this," Peter complained. "It's not fair." He pulled on his
bond and the chains rattled inside the wall.
"Fairness has no place here, Pan," he said. "In fact, I believe you would do
well to forget the concept altogether. It's simply not for you anymore."
Hook doffed his hat and coat. They were small, inconsequential items, thus
nothing was thought of their loss. The boy watched him through narrowed eyes of
suspicion, very much the cornered animal.
Using fingertips licked with spit, Hook extinguished the light of a candle. It
went out with a hissing sound. He walked the room in a circle, repeating the
process and leaving them in the dark. When he had finished, all that remained
was moonlight in the window and a single lantern on the wall beside the bed.
"I'm not afraid of the dark," Peter shouted, thinking that was Hook's big
cruelty, to leave the little boy alone in a pitch black room.
"Don't worry," Hook told him. "We'll change that."
The man drew his sword and slowly, expertly pressed its tip to Peter's throat.
The boy gulped and he shuddered, but he said nothing. Hook drew the weapon
down. It snagged on foliage and he cut the vines that clothed. They snapped
apart and fell off Peter's shoulders. He continued down, down, severing each
tie and exposing youthful flesh. When one was persistent, he dug in harder,
cutting the boy. And then Peter was bare, his crude clothing lying on the bed
below him like the forest floor.
Hook picked up the leaves and vines with the tip of his sword, then he slung
them across the room. "No longer necessary," was all he said.
"I am not embarrassed," Peter stated proudly, though his cheeks were pink and
he met Hook's eyes in a way that overcompensated.
"That's good," the man said. "Wear your new uniform with pride."
Hook sheathed his sword and unbuckled its belt, placing the instrument with
care upon the table. Next came his long waistcoat with its many buttons. He
undid each one with his singular hand and slow progress. But pleasure was
better when postponed, and he had waited so long for this one that mere minutes
of delay could not darken his spirits.
He removed his tall boots and stood upon the wooden floor in bare feet and
nothing more save trousers and shirt. And that seemed little enough to
continue.
The man checked the security of his hook and how well it was fitted in place.
Then he approached the bed.
With a turn of his hand a small vial of amber liquid appeared like a magic
trick. He showed it off to Peter. "For my comfort, I assure you," he told the
boy, making certain to clear up any assumptions that he cared.
Hook knelt upon the bed, first with one leg, then the other. He moved across
the silken sheets until he was beside the boy with those thin legs hovering up
beside his chest.
Though the man was in perfect range for a fight, Peter did not kick or attack.
Perhaps at that stage he was curious, as all little boys are, and as yet had no
call to be provoked towards action.
"Lie down like a normal child," Hook ordered.
"I'm not normal," Peter argued with a haughty grin.
"Then turn over at least," he said.
"Why?"
Hook struck without warning and scratched the boy's throat, keeping his hook
there as a warning. He had no patience for childish games. "Because I told you
to."
Peter had no head for consequences or reason to fear the enigma of death, too
vast for him to ever contemplate. Thus he did not see Hook's threat as anything
more than a step in the adventure they played at. But he did comply and spun
around so that he looked down upon the bed. He was always ready for a new game.
Hook grinned to see the small bottom before him, smooth and untouched. He
crawled closer on his knees and fitted his hook around the boy's throat again.
"If you fight me," he warned, "I will slit your throat. You will die, Pan. Do
you understand?"
"Yes," the boy said, though he so obviously didn't.
"When you die, you don't come back. There are no more adventures."
"There will always be adventures," Peter spoke happily, his smile bleeding into
his words.
"Then enjoy your new one and do not fight it," Hook said. "Because it is the
only one you will ever know again."
Peter nodded his head, but he did not understand the concept of finality. He
did not grasp that what was about to happen and what he had to look forward to
for the rest of his days were the same.
Hook undid the buttons of his trousers and slipped his hand inside. He was hard
already from anticipation, and when he gave himself a stroke he could not stop
the loud groan from his lips.
"Yours is big," Peter said. Hook looked up. The boy's head was dipping between
his shoulders to look down at why the man had made that sound. Hook pulled his
right hand in and snapped Peter's head back up with metal that clawed.
"Yes, it is," Hook agreed. "I hope you sound as impressed with it in a moment."
With some degree of difficulty, Hook removed the stopper from his vial of oil
and poured several drops along his stiff and lusting cock. He replaced the lid
then used his hand to spread the liquid, smearing it until he was satisfied
with how slick and covered he was.
"I haven't forgotten about you," he grinned. Hook opened the oil once more and
dropped an ample amount into the splitting crevice of the boy's backside. Peter
shuddered at the feeling, but Hook held him still. "I will enjoy this come
struggle or no," and his words sounded ominous enough to make Peter tense with
suspicion.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
But Hook did not answer. He was too captivated in watching that pale skin level
with his chest. His rough hand came up through thighs smooth as the silken
sheets. Peter did not fight him and even spread his legs a little with
curiosity. Hook trailed a finger down his cleft. Peter shivered but did not
deem the touch unwelcome.
Then the long, groping finger breeched. Peter yelped in surprise and tried to
fly away, but the man kept him still with hook in place against his throat. He
tried to pull away or clench his thighs, but Hook's response was to press in
deeper.
"No!" Peter said, shaking his head so quick it might have made him dizzy. "No,
I don't like this game!"
"That's the beauty of it, Pan," Hook said with cruelty, "you don't have to."
That pink little hole held his finger tight, any ease made possible by the
meager oil that had slipped in with it. He moved all about, feeling every inch
of soft insides that he looked forward to memorizing. Hook groaned again at the
thought. "Well," he said, "I think that's enough preparation for today."
He removed his finger and Peter tried to fly away again. Hook slapped him hard
across that unblemished mound of skin. Peter flinched and released one childish
cry of surprise, but he did not stop his struggle. Thus Hook did not stop his
rough spanking, hitting the boy on either side without mercy.
Peter's small rear became reddened with abuse. And when Hook did place a more
gentle palm upon him— encompassing the flesh with his groping hand— it was warm
to the touch. He seemed pleased with himself, and Peter had stopped attempting
futile escape. "Perhaps that's simply what you've needed all along, Pan," Hook
said. It was unbelievable, to say the least, imagining the spoiled child had
ever had a proper spanking.
Hook spoke not a word as he took his cock in hand again. Let the brat suffer
through surprise, he thought. He removed his hook from Peter's throat, and when
the boy tried to surge forward, he dug the fingers of his hand into the tender
flesh of his ass. Nails bit down like an animal's teeth, splitting the red
skin. With that hold alone, Hook brought him down closer.
The newly freed hook dug between the boy's thighs, pulling one aside with a
strength the protesting child could not fight. Hook let his hand fall to the
opposing leg and pulled it further apart as well. So delicious was the sight
that greeted him: a small virgin hole glistening with oil in the lamplight.
With Peter's refusal to land, Hook could see its every puckering wrinkle,
raised up to chest height as it was. That clenching little opening was the
picture of innocence. And he wanted nothing more than to destroy it.
Hook dragged the boy to his standing cock, wrapping parted thighs around him.
His sensitive head laid against its new home and Peter tensed. He could not
have known the intent, for his perpetual innocence of childhood did not allow
such thoughts, but perhaps he sensed some impending doom. Hook released his
hand from the boy and grasped himself instead. He waved his cock up and down
the boy's ass, gathering any oil. Then he positioned himself before that virgin
hole. And he pressed in.
Peter cried out and flew forward as far as he was able, but Hook followed him.
He shoved the boy against the wall and pushed himself in further, encompassing
the entire head in that tightness, that warmth, that plundered hole which
belonged to him alone forever and always. It felt so good, almost rivaling the
larger victory of the boy's long awaited capture.
Hook was not gentle. He pushed in at his own leisure, going at a pace he could
handle. The gripping hole and unstretched insides within nearly hurt him with a
painful squeeze. But he reveled in every depth he claimed, owning the boy inch
for inch, as far as he could reach.
"I don't like this game," Peter said. His voice was quiet and broken apart, and
it was obvious he was crying. "It's not fair. It hurts." Hook would have mocked
him for his sobs, his insistence for fairness, but he was far too busy enjoying
himself.
"Bear with it, Pan." And he groaned low in his throat as he thrust forward
again, nearly seated inside. "It's your new lot in life, and you'd do well to
let loose and adjust." He pushed in a little harder and Peter shrieked.
"Perhaps find your own pleasure."
Hook reached around with his hand, and Peter gasped when he wrapped his entire
palm around the small cock of a child. It was soft and limp and precious in its
own way. He squeezed the little thing and Peter shook his head. "I don't like
it," he said, but Hook felt the boy would find depravity one day.
He picked his hand back up and used it to pull apart those reddened cheeks,
watching his own show. The puckering he had gazed at with such interest was
stretched to its limits, wrapping around him like his own second skin. The pink
of it was now a fierce blood red, strained but unbroken. He watched the flesh
push in, hugging his cock and trying to follow but remaining on the outside,
ready to welcome each new length he gave.
Then his vision was obscured by his own pressing groin. His hips had met the
boy's and he was completely inside.
"Do you feel that, Pan?" he asked, leaning forward and whispering it to him.
"That's the end."
"No more?" the boy asked with hope. When he turned his face to look at Hook for
confirmation, there were tears all over him, an ugly display that shone in the
lamplight, set against a red and splotchy face.
Hook did not answer. He only smiled, a wicked warning lit with its own white
light. Above that twisted mouth, eyes blue as the sky seemed to change,
becoming red and horrible.
He pulled back, abandoning the boy's look of relief to instead watch his own
exit. The ring of his ass gripped just as tightly on the way back out, clinging
to his cock as far as it could follow, as though it did not want his departure.
Hook obliged the greedy hole.
Peter screamed as he pushed back in, whether from pain or surprise, it could
not be said. He began crying anew, calling Hook a liar through fresh sobs.
Though he had not said one untruthful word, Hook did not fight him on it. He
was far too preoccupied.
The pleasure of rutting into a hole newly broken and stretched specifically for
him was an addiction that required his utmost attention. Hook beat away at the
boy with a pace he cruelly changed at every turn, never letting Peter adjust.
His groaning pleasure mixed with a begging wail, and those played against the
slapping noise of flesh upon reddened, tender flesh. Thus were the sounds of
their performance.
Then, when he was nearing his completion, an extra burden fell into Hook's
arms. Peter dropped to the bed like a sack of rocks. Hook came hard inside of
the boy, finding his deepest pleasure in knowing that he had drowned out all
happy thoughts. With that knowledge and the squeezing tightness he'd forced
himself into, Hook had found his own happy thought, enough to send him over and
coat Peter's insides with his warm seed.
He did not stay inside long. As soon as he was spent, he pulled his cock free.
Using hook and hand, he parted the tender muscle that hid away his newest
treasure. Peter's hole was red with irritation and worn with abuse. It puckered
still, now absent of penetration, but not as tightly as it had. There remained
a clear line of sight into the boy's insides. Hook put his thumb to the gaping
hole and pressed against the bottom of it. A thick whiteness trickled out. He
grinned at the debauched display and collected what he'd left on the pad of his
thumb before pressing it back inside. Peter would keep it all.
"Go to sleep, Pan," the man whispered. "Relive it all in a nightmare."
Peter hiccupped and cried, but he did find sleep, huddled up in a tight ball at
the edge of the bed. Hook watched him for a time until he fell to sleep on his
own side.
***** And Effect *****
Chapter Notes
     Who's ready for male pregnancy in a perpetually young boy? (That's
     your fresh warning. Beware.)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The rattling sound of a chain disturbed woke Hook up again. He opened his eyes
at once and saw Peter, floating above the bed and pulling hard on his bindings.
"Pan," he exclaimed, "why are you flying? How?"
"It hurt to sit," Peter said, but he gave the man little notice as he continued
to tug. Futility took long to realize. He did give up after several long minute
though, and he drifted down. "How did I get here?" he asked.
Hook was at first confused and then angry. The boy had completely forgotten the
previous night. Growling his fury, Hook grabbed Peter and pulled him down to
the bed.
He had him again, rough and painful, giving every inch of ire the boy's
insolence invoked. Peter may have forgotten his first time, but he would
remember and walk crooked with the second.
And yet when Hook returned that evening, the boy was flying and as happy as any
caged lark could be.
It took much trial and error— a fortnight of forcing himself upon the child—
until eventually Hook realized his solution. If traumatization broke him and
repaired him, there was little choice left. He must, regrettably, be gentle.
With fettered strength and a kinder touch, Hook welcomed Peter once more into
the secret pleasure of adulthood. He whispered soothing lies to the boy and
encouraged him to endure.
And Peter remembered.
The next day he recoiled to touch and dropped his eyes with shame. Hook loved
to watch the awkwardness.
Peter fought against his advances once more come night, but Hook easily quelled
the struggle in a way he so enjoyed. He walked the line as close as he could
between tenderness and pain, leaning more often than not to his natural
predisposition. Still Peter remembered.
But with the gentleness he enforced and a body that had come to know him
already through repetition, Hook could not steal all his happiness. And that
made him bitter. So he took it upon himself to find new amusement in the act,
for he would not risk pain and Peter forgetting once more. He would instead
make the boy enjoy it.
To dote upon a partner was new to Hook, but he learned as Peter learned, though
the kindness left him ill and often flaccid. Right behind catching the elusive
little brat, it was easily the hardest thing Hook had done in his life.
As reward for Peter's slowly budding cooperation, Hook gave him individual
links of chain, allowing a greater freedom. But it came slow and took long
before he even reached the edge of the bed. When Peter allowed himself his
first orgasm, Hook gave an entire foot to the tether. And he could see outside
the window.
Hook thought he had found himself regretting the leniency when he woke early
one morning to the window being thrown open with a loud bang. Peter was hanging
half outside, and the man pulled tightly on his chain. The boy held fast
though, gripping the windowsill for all he was worth.
Irate, Hook got up to grab him, but just as he touched, Peter became sick,
giving up what meager food he had been allowed over the side of the ship. Hook
let go and left him to it, but he stayed near, cautious in case some futile
escape should be tried.
Peter was sick the next day, and after. Hook thought for certain he had broken
him or that perhaps the child was ill. But every morning after he finished and
sat a moment with a glass of water, all seemed well again, as though he hadn't
been crying through a nausea that would not ebb.
As there seemed to be no lasting affects, Hook greatly ignored the morning
routine. But he would give the boy large pieces of plain bread each night.
Because he himself did not enjoy the brief smell of bile from an empty stomach.
"I don't want your bread anymore," Peter said after a few days. "It makes me
throw up."
"Stupid boy," Hook mocked, reminding him that, "the sickness came before the
bread." But he took the plate away, out of small arms' reach, and let Peter
suffer through his lesson the next day.
And suffer he did.
"I don't feel good," Peter murmured, huddled up under blankets in a tight ball.
He had spit bile until there was little left in him. "Can you make it go away?"
he asked pathetically, begging reprieve from an enemy. "I'll take medicine if I
have to."
"People don't usually take ill in Neverland," Hook said. He sat at a small
table by the window, drinking a cup of tea and pretending he did not see the
pale and pitiful face amid dark coverings. "I'm afraid you're freakishly odd
and we've nothing to accommodate you with."
Peter whimpered and dug deeper into his little nest. "Will it stop soon?" he
asked. His voice was muffled almost to incomprehension, mouth stuffed and
covered by blankets.
"How should I know?" Hook snorted. "I've just told you you're a freak, Pan. I
can't possibly help you, not even if I wanted."
"Can I have more bread tonight?" he said quietly, cautiously, knowing he might
very well be denied.
Hook said nothing and sipped his tea.
Peter asked again before bed, knowing the look that did creep into the man's
eyes at that hour. Once Hook was upon him, there would be no freedom until
dawn.
Hook contemplated leniency. He decided instead on a bargain. The bed dipped
from his weight in the small section he sat upon. Parting the buttons of his
pants, Hook pulled himself free, a limp aggressor lying against his leg and
waiting for attention. "Come, Pan," he said.
Peter stood a moment more, certain he had been ignored. Slowly he obeyed,
readying himself. When he reached the bed he raised a leg around Hook's hip,
making to climb into his lap.
"Ah-ah," Hook chastised. "I don't want that end, boy. I want your mouth."
"My mouth?" Peter questioned, for it all sounded very odd to him.
"Are you so uneducated that you can't decipher basic anatomy?" Hook mocked. He
grabbed the boy's face fiercely between thumb and fingers, squeezing his cheeks
and puckering his lips. "This is your mouth. Put it here and suck," he ordered,
pulling the captive face down, forcing him to kneel. "And if you use those
child's teeth, I will beat you, and take chain from you, and above all give no
bread."
Peter agreed by blinking his eyes with a quick, emphatic fluttering. He
understood. He wanted none of those things. Hook dropped his hand and placed it
opposite the other at his side, pressed into the sheets. His blue eyes watched
the show, a pathetic display of bumbling ineptitude.
Those small hands had never touched him there before. To Peter, it was only an
instrument of torment that pushed inside and left disgust. To willfully further
that goal was strange.
Peter poked at Hook's flaccid cock with one finger and then the rest, wrapping
around and picking it up. Foreign touch was new to the man, a sensation of the
past almost forgotten.
He told the boy to stroke him and Peter gradually complied. Blood rushed and
filled him. It came quick with excitement. And through his probable disgust,
Peter did seem to find the steady rise interesting to watch.
"Now the mouth," Hook said once he felt he was hard enough.
Peter stared for a long moment but eventually he parted those pink lips of a
child. He leaned down and consumed, as though he gobbled sweets without his
teeth, only the soft ring of his mouth. Lips stretched wide around his head and
Hook groaned to feel it.
"Use your tongue," he said. Peter recoiled slightly, perhaps not finding the
taste to his liking. "Go down as far as you can." He would train the child
through it all, but for the moment, it would be worth noting how far the
bribery of bread took him.
Peter slowly dipped his head. Hook's cock slid across that tongue and gagged
the back of his throat. He pulled away with a cough. Hook ordered him back to
work immediately.
With surprising initiative, Peter began licking him all over. Perhaps the
cunning brat thought the attention would save him from penetration. Hook
allowed it for a moment, for it did feel so good. "Lower," he said, and he took
his balls in hand, raising them in front of the boy's face. "Suck on these."
Peter hesitated, but he did obey. There was warmth and a pressure too tight as
the boy did take "suck" rather literally. But it was good, even as it leaned
towards the painful tendencies of the masochistic.
"Enough," Hook said after a moment. Both his tender balls were red and shining
with spit. "Get back on here," he commanded. And he took his cock in hand and
hit it several times against Peter's face. It made a lewd slapping sound.
"Swallow and suck." He then quickly amended with instructions on the severity
of Peter's sucking.
The boy was horrible. It was to be expected of that pitifully virgin mouth, but
that knowledge didn't make it any easier for Hook to find his pleasure. He gave
so many orders for the use of hands and tongue that he might as well have
finished himself off, or thrown Peter on the bed and had at his ass.
But wetness and warmth and determination did go far, though inexperience took
long. Eventually Hook did find his orgasm, creeping on him slowly then
suddenly. And it was the proper insertion of a tiny tongue in his slit that
finally triggered him.
"Prepare yourself, Pan," he warned, and almost immediately did he begin coming
onto that tongue. Peter pulled back with surprise, but before he could even
spit out the thick assailant, Hook pushed him back down. "No, you don't," he
said. "You will take every drop." The boy's consensual cooperation was over
now. Hook took control.
He placed his hook against the back of the boy's neck, holding him down as his
hand gripped tight that curled hair. Hook claimed his mouth as he had that
greedy little hole of his, with force and penetration that went as deep as he
was able. At last he had taken what he truly wanted the entire time. Peter
gagged to have it in his throat. Hook continued, using his hold to do all the
work, thrusting Peter's head up and down, choking him far past comfortable
means.
Perhaps it was surprise more than anything, or maybe an instinctual fight for
survival, but Hook felt scraping little teeth, almost enough to pierce the
skin. It was definitely enough to be unpleasant. Doing his best through
discomfort, Hook finished, leaving some of his seed in that tight throat to
choke. But most he shot in the boy's mouth on his tongue, letting him taste.
Hook pulled free and closed those lips with hand upon his head and hook beneath
his chin. "Swallow every bit," he commanded.
Peter had tears, incidental from choking. Fresh ones seemed to come with each
small swallow. After a minute, he blinked his eyes as a signal.
Hook removed his hands. "Open," he said. Peter showed off his empty mouth. He
had indeed swallowed all. "Good." Then Hook threw him hard onto the floor and
inspected himself in the low light of the room. There were light pink tracks,
superficial. But his anger was already awake and justified and so Hook let it
loose. "Miserable brat," he growled, kicking the boy's ribs with a foot still
in its boot. "I tell you not to bite and you do so anyway. Did you think it was
funny?"
"No," Peter answered, but he was grinning.
"You do then," Hook observed. "You thought it was amusing to bite. Well, Pan,"
he said, "I can be amused as well."
He tucked himself away and traveled the room. "No, stop it," Peter shouted when
he saw the twinkling key. "That's not fair!"
"'Fair'," Hook chuckled. He opened the small door and began turning the crank
inside, stealing what Peter had bought. "You still think fairness exists for
you. That's... precious." The word sounded bitter when said by him.
Peter fought. He pulled at the chain, but it brought him in almost without
notice. Then he grabbed the leg of the bed, nailed to the floor. It was a
worthy effort, and he held on long, delaying cruel progress, but eventually his
right arm was pulled free and he held on with only one. It stretched him as
though he were tortured on the rack.
"Let go," Hook told him, trying to give another forceful turn. Peter shook his
head. "Every second you do not let go, I will take another link," he
threatened.
At last, and with a pitiable whimper, Peter released his hold. Hook calculated
every second of rebellion and took all he promised.
Peter cried like a baby. Hook thought it was hilarious, a glorious music that
played as he readied for bed. He laid down and made himself comfortable.
After a while Hook felt the blanket pull with little hands. A shaggy head
popped up. "Don't even consider it," Hook said, and his voice was a low
warning. "If you want to bite with the mad teeth of a dog, you can sleep on the
floor like one."
"I'm sorry," Peter said. His sincerity was unclear but most likely false. That
he had said it at all was surprising though. "Can I try again? I'll do better."
And he looked reluctant but willing, ready to win back accommodations.
"Not tonight," Hook said, for even with such put upon eagerness at his
disposal, he doubted he could be ready again so soon. Peter looked utterly
heartbroken and at a loss. Hook turned away from him so as not to see the
pathetic display. After several long, dragging minutes of indecision, he
finally said, "Some dogs are allowed to sleep at the foot of the bed."
The next morning it was so amusing to watch Peter stick his head in the
smallest corner of window he could reach while his arm was pulled tight behind
his back. The smell coming up from his empty stomach was less pleasant.
Hook let him have bread that evening, but only after he had proven himself and
his tongue, his compliant lack of teeth. It was still a compliment to even call
Peter "sloppy", but the boy did so yearn to prove himself and keep away the
threats.
And while Hook did enjoy the ministrations of his slobbering little mouth, he
took far too much pleasure from the other end to abandon the practice. When he
switched back the next day Peter seemed relieved. Afterwards he asked that they
keep to that one. Hook made Peter beg for it, beg him to fill his tight hole
every night. When Hook was pleased with the sincerity— almost choking on a
groan to hear the boy ask for it again and again as though he truly craved it—
he said that the other method would be less frequent and only when he was in
the mood. Then he mocked Peter for his disgusting lustful greed until the boy
fell asleep.
+
"My stomach's never been so big before," Peter said. He had won enough slack
that he could make it to the mirror, and he looked at himself from every angle,
admiring the reflection that had only ever appeared in still water.
"You've never eaten more than nuts and berries," Hook snorted. However, he knew
he did not provide much better, did not feed the boy to excess. Table scraps
were all he received. Therefore it actually was odd to see that slight curve of
flesh, so obvious against its tiny body. Even more curious to its existence was
Peter's continued sickness. How he retained enough to swell in such a way was
indeed a mystery. "And you're lazy." While he himself was the cause for
slothfulness with his imposed boundaries, Hook never missed an opportunity to
mock.
"I'd like to go outside," Peter said.
"And the damned would like water," Hook replied. Peter looked sad at the
refusal and the man approached him. He put his hand around the boy's throat and
rested his hook against his stomach. By that point, Peter knew better than to
fight it. "Look at you," Hook tenderly said, watching them both in the mirror,
"unclothed and full of shame. Tsk, tsk. You're not suitable to be out among
people."
"Can I have clothes?" Peter asked, and to emphasize his desperation he gave a
little shiver, though the room was not cold.
"You don't deserve them," Hook said. "You don't need them. The bed is all
you're good for and clothes would only get in the way." He leaned down and
rested his head atop Peter's. His mustache caught in messy blond hair. "I could
never let you out," he whispered. "You're mine, Pan, mine alone. I never want
any eyes to see you. I'd blind the man that looked."
"I thought you didn't like me," Peter spoke, and his voice followed down into
the low volume, like a secret.
"I don't," Hook said, and it was the truth. "But I covet you and I own you. And
I am so greedy with my possessions."
Peter clearly did not like any of his answers. But then, he didn't really have
to. All that was required of the boy was that he endure.
"What a cruel irony that I should hate the breed that is children so much, yet
find the worst of them so beautiful." He turned Peter and raised his chin with
metal hook, looking into his big eyes. "Get on the bed," he said.
That night was different. Hook took out a small chest and inside gold shone
like the sun. But it was not coins; it was jewelry. He decorated Peter.
Layers and layers of necklaces hung from his neck, dangling at different
lengths all the way down his bare chest, some going over his curving stomach.
Bracelets were too big, but Hook pushed most up his unchained arm until they
caught on thicker muscle. Other bands remained loose around his wrist and
clattered. His fingers became golden towers of rings all the way up to the nail
beds. A crown was placed on his head, but it was not the thick headpiece of a
king. No, Hook had taken it from a princess himself, the thin circlet that
dropped down into Peter's hair, that rested on his forehead. Lastly, and with
an argument, Hook pierced his ears. Flowing earrings dangled, framing his small
face and lying on his shoulders, weighing down those red aching ears.
"Just like that," Hook said. And he reached into the chest one last time and
found the kingly crown that suited him just fine.
Peter laid on his back that night, but Hook did not see him. His eyes glowed
with gold.
For months Hook conditioned him further to his chained life, sometimes with
threats. Other times there was gentleness, but only when he was distracted by a
higher purpose. Peter did not like it, nor did he accept it, but he did endure
it.
+
Hook walked in the door and Peter came running at him. It was only midday, so
what he had to get excited about in the scarce hours Hook had been away was a
mystery. He came up short some five feet away and pulled desperately on the
chain that held him back.
"What on Earth has you so worked up?" Hook questioned, and he was most amused
to see the anguish and despair in the boy.
"There's something in me," Peter cried, looking so afraid. "That bird I ate
last night or something," he breathed hard in a panic, "something evil."
"That bird you ate was dead and cooked," the man said as he doffed his hat,
setting it on the table. "There is nothing inside of you."
Peter frantically shook his head. "There is! I felt it move."
"And is it moving now?" Hook demanded. Peter reluctantly told him no. "Then
you're lying because you want attention."
"I am not," Peter said, arguing for understanding. "It stopped, but then it did
it again."
"And let me guess," said Hook, "it ceased once more just before I came in?"
Peter nodded. "How fortunate then. Now you don't have to prove it."
Peter looked at him and big tears started to fill his eyes. He sat on the floor
where he had stood and began crying.
"You're pathetic," Hook said, and he picked his hat up once more, not wanting
to stay near the boy. "And a liar. I'll not reward your tricks with my time."
Peter only whimpered where he sat. Hook was almost out the door when he took
one look back and saw that Peter's hands were on his stomach, that curve
sticking from his body without explanation. "When it moved," Hook spoke, for a
moment indulging the lie, "it was in your stomach?" Peter nodded. "Down low,
around the navel?" Again he confirmed.
Perhaps it was nothing, childish games or imaginings, but it would be remiss of
him not to lend a moment to investigating.
"Get off the floor," Hook barked. He shut the door and walked to the boy,
kicking his bare thigh with a boot. "Up, you sniveling brat." Peter stood. "Up
on the bed."
He sat above the blankets, leaning into pillows. Hook perched on the edge
beside him. "It was here," Peter said, and he pointed to an area of his
stomach, "both times."
Hook hummed as acknowledgment that he had heard but said no more. He waited for
proof. If it did not come, he would punish the boy severely for his lying game.
They waited an hour and Hook's patience grew thin. Peter must have sensed his
temper emerging because he began babbling excuses to save himself. "Maybe it's
gone now," he said. "Or sleeping. It has to be sleeping."
"Or it was never there," Hook growled. He shoved the boy down on the bed,
pushing his face in the blankets, smothering him. "Do you think I have nothing
better to do than indulge you, selfish brat?" Peter did his best to hit at the
arm holding him down, but the angle was wrong and he was weak. "When I return
this evening I will make you suffer so horribly you'll never consider such a
game again." He shoved Peter's head down one more time and let up. "You wanted
my attention? I will give it to you."
Peter whimpered into the bedding, but through his sobs there were words,
muffled and incoherent.
"What?" Hook yelled.
"I said it's doing it again," Peter shouted, picking his reddened face from the
blankets. He rolled over to lay on his back. "Right here." He had a hand
pressed firm against his stomach. "But you can't," he explained with a groping
defiance. "It's not as obvious on the outside."
"Move," Hook ordered, swatting his small hand away. He pushed hard against
Peter's stomach, digging into the supposed movement. "Oh," he said, because
there did come a tiny flutter beneath his fingertips. As Peter said, it was
barely to be noticed by feeling alone, but it was there, something. And through
the muddied logic of fantasy given to him by mermaids and flying boys and a
land that did not age, Hook thought he could guess what it was. "Do not move
from this spot."
Smee came to his call. He touched the boy and he prodded the boy in a way Hook
had promised only he ever would. Many murmured observations came from the old
man's mouth, nonsensical sounds that made sense only to him. Then he released
Peter and stood. To Hook's waiting question he gave a single nod. The captain
led them out the door.
"And you're certain?" Hook asked, looking to the closed door of his cabin,
thinking of the absurdity that lay within.
"Been around enough ill-reputed women who found themselves in the same way,"
Smee said, and as an afterthought he considered being ashamed of that. He
cleared his throat. "Also my mother was one of those midwives. So I've seen my
share."
"Indeed," Hook said, and he could think of no other words to add. He was too
distracted by thought.
"Cap'n?" Smee said, trying to win all or most of his attention. "He's unusual,
but I'd wager we could get rid of it. If you wanted."
"'Get rid of it'?" Hook questioned, and he was offended by the remark, yet
devious and sadistic all the same. "Why ever would we do that?"
"Probably on account of the fact you don't like children, Cap'n."
"Oh, but my own, Smee," he said, conspiring in his mind. "My own could be a
wonderful little devil." To be honest— for once and only to himself— Hook had
cares only for the child he already owned. Peter was all he could ever need or
want. And with this new knowledge, Hook thought only of how he could use it
torture the boy. "No," he said, "let's keep the horrid little thing. It could
be... fun."
Smee nodded and he gave Hook a quick warning of how things could go different
for Peter, with his age and his obvious gender divergence. Hook didn't care.
Healthy or no, he would be satisfied so long as the boy didn't go and die on
him. But he had tried killing Peter Pan enough to know it was impossible.
He thought to himself for a long time, alone out in the narrow hall. A good man
would tell Peter. A good man would tenderly explain his malady and put that
little mind at ease. A good man would let him know all to expect.
James Hook was not a good man.
He knocked as a mocking pleasantry and entered the cabin. Peter was sat in the
middle of the bed with his legs folded and his hands on his ankles. "What is
it?" he asked.
"Hmm?" Hook said, feigning ignorance to what his question could possibly mean.
Peter stood and approached him, but the chain stopped before he wanted. Hook
employed something akin to pity and closed the space between them.
"What's wrong?" Peter asked again, and he looked horribly concerned for his own
fate.
Hook let his hand drift over the boy's soft flesh. He touched his shoulders and
chest, those freckled cheeks. Then he let his fingers lay in curly hair. He
tilted Peter's head back to look at him.
"Ridiculous child," he said, and his tone was too ambivalent, too queer to give
away his mood, be it good or bad. Peter watched him with open reservations.
"Spent too much time with fairies. You're fay now, abomination. No one else
could possibly want what you've become." He pulled the boy closer with a cold
hook against his back. "You are so lucky, Pan." He smiled. It ridiculed. "I
love disgusting things."
Then he did something to the boy he never had, not even in his wildest
imaginings. He kissed him. He knelt down and kissed him. Peter fought, but Hook
forced. And when the man did relent, Peter pulled away, shaking his head and
declaring his thimble was for Wendy. Then with sadness and secrecy did he admit
he didn't remember who that was. Hook didn't care. The girl was never coming
back. Peter's thimbles were his alone now.
Hook pressed his hand to that bare and rounded stomach. Then he kissed Peter
again and took him to bed with a new fascination upon that unnatural body.
Long after they had finished and Hook was nearly asleep, the boy saw fit to
rouse him. "Am I going to die?" Peter asked quietly. So out of the ordinary had
been his day, with its kisses and foreign prodding and Hook's taunting words of
ambiguity, it was no surprise he feared the worst.
"No, Pan," he said, and he grinned to hear that grown up concern spoken in such
a small voice.
Perhaps Peter believed him, or maybe he did not. Either way, the boy slowly
slithered in against him. He didn't lie flat along Hook's larger body. He
remained in his curled ball, now wrapped around his stomach. But he was closer
than he usually came by his own will, with little knees pressed up against
Hook's side.
"You honestly come here seeking comfort?" Hook chuckled. Peter went stiff and
then began backing away again. "No," said Hook, "come here, boy." He held open
his arm and Peter tentatively moved into its hold, fearful for some hidden
trap.
Hook pulled him closer and Peter played along. Gradually he laid himself out
against the man's side, conforming to his shape. But that stomach kept much of
him from coming too close. It pressed into Hook's hip and he allowed himself to
let his hand drift and touch. No normal weight gain would have felt so hard
with pressure. If not for the unnatural circumstances, Hook was certain he
would have noticed so much sooner.
"You're such a little freak," he softly taunted, pillow talk. "Abhorrent and
vile, ungodly." Every word he gave made the boy more desirable in his eyes, for
he had spoken the truth. He adored disgusting things.
+
Hook gave away nothing, but Peter was young, not stupid. (Well, not quite so
stupid.) The boy could tell. He knew that Hook hid the secret of his condition.
He asked often, but was denied. Hook said there was absolutely nothing wrong
and that he simply had a voracious appetite. But he said it with a wicked
smile. Therefore he could not be believed.
Time passed and the little boy received no answers. Hook loved to play with his
worry, to watch it grow beside that belly. Uncertainty was better than any
conceivable torment. It was always at work in that childish mind. When Hook was
gone, when he was asleep, Peter would still think of it, his inescapable
sickness.
Sometimes Peter pretended it didn't bother him, that round stomach of his that
moved, heavy on juvenile bones. Hook saw through his obvious ruse, almost
insulted that the boy actually believed he would lose interest in keeping the
secret if Peter had lost interest in asking it.
When that didn't work, Peter would demand again, insistent or passive. Hook
always told him nothing was wrong, but the lie wore down Peter's state of mind,
eating him alive. Sometimes he lashed out when Hook denied, breaking things or
hitting. Then the man would draw in the chain or take him from behind with an
assaulting rhythm of agony. Any gentle patience he had would leave. With it
went Peter's ability to sit for a few days.
Hook became delighted to learn that unbearable pain no longer stole Peter's
memory. So long had he been conditioned, so long had the torment built upon
itself as unmoving stacks in his mind, he had trouble replacing it with any
other life. If he had forgotten, there would have been precious little to
remember in its stead. That was never more obvious than when Hook returned to
the cabin late one night.
Peter was sitting in the open window with moonlight painting his skin as
glowing white. He used to be tan once, his face and arms, those skinny legs.
Now it had mostly faded and he was fair as any maiden.
He looked up and his expression was one of confusion, as though he only just
realized the man had went away. "Where do you go," he asked, "when you leave
the room?"
"What an odd thing to say," Hook chuckled. He was of a mind to ignore it, but
Peter's wide eyes bore into him. The question was an honest one, very curious.
"I go up above deck," Hook told him. "Sometimes when I feel like stretching my
legs, I go ashore."
"To the island?" Peter asked, and he was excited at the thought of it. "That
island there?" He pointed out the window.
"Of course 'that island'," Hook scoffed. "There's no other land here, no matter
which direction you would sail."
"I'd like to go to the island someday," Peter spoke, and there was nostalgia in
his voice, though not the remembrance to go with it. "What's it like, the
land?"
"Stupid boy," Hook said. "You would forget your silly little head if it wasn't
attached to that body of yours." He walked up to Peter and picked him from the
windowsill, setting him on the floor. Such fetes were perfectly all right for a
flying brat. But his happiness was in constant fluctuation, and with his
current condition of frailty, Hook would not risk Peter falling out and
dangling by his chain, hitting the ship over and over again with the rocking
waves. "You've been to the island," Hook said as he closed the window. "For a
long while you lived there."
"Out there?" Peter asked, ducking under Hook's arm to catch one last glimpse of
the sandy beach and its far off trees.
"Yes," Hook drawled. "And you played with adorable animals and mermaids."
"And Indians?" Peter questioned with excitement. His feet lifted off the ground
and he came to look at the man eye to eye. "And fairies? And other little boys
like me?"
"So you do remember?" Hook said.
Peter looked at him with an odd expression. "I didn't," he admitted slowly, and
he was very confused, "but now I do again." He paused for a second, thinking
hard and trying to grab a memory that continued to slip through his fingers.
"Where are the other little boys? Are they all right?"
"Oh, Pan," Hook sighed with false pity, "they left you. Don't you remember?
Those cruel children went away and left you all alone. They didn't care what
happened to you, nor did your precious Wendy."
"What's a Wendy?" Peter asked.
"What do you think it is?" Hook countered. It was a memory he would not help
recover. The girl would split his mind, and Peter's attention was only for him.
"Is it a bird?"
"Yes," Hook cheered, "it's an annoying little white bird, easily fooled and
helpful at times, but treacherous and untrustworthy, as all females are."
"Then I do not want a Wendy," Peter said.
"It's for the best," Hook replied. "Because she didn't want you either. She
left with all the little boys and they never gave you a second thought."
"Not a one?" Peter asked, and he looked terribly sad.
"No," said Hook, "not a single thought. Those selfish children left you here,
all by yourself... unwanted... unloved."
Peter drifted down to the floor bit by bit. His head slumped between his
shoulders. His eyes grew dark and lost their twinkle. "Oh," he muttered.
"But you have me now," Hook said as bare little toes dropped all the way down
to touch wood. "And I'll never leave. Just as you may never ever leave me." He
put his hand on the boy's head, dragging his fingers through the messy blond
hair, yanking on individual strands.
Peter hugged him then, gripping hard with arms that wrapped around, barely
meeting in the back and not letting go. "I don't like being alone," he cried,
rubbing his snotty nose against Hook's waistcoat. "Why did the Lost Boys leave?
We had fun. We played all the time. What more could they want?"
"Why they wanted a family, the greedy brats."
"I don't," Peter whimpered, and he continued digging his face into Hook's
clothing. "I never ever want a family. I just want to play."
"But there's no one to play with," Hook pointed out cruelly. "All of your
little playmates abandoned you. Now there is only you, and me, and our game."
"We can play your game," Peter said quietly, his voice all choked up and
muffled. "Just don't leave me."
Hook moved his hands around behind him, pulling at the grabbing arms to
separate. His metal claw scratched Peter's palm and he quickly let go. "Don't
order me, boy," he said. "I could leave you for days on end to make you
suffer." He knelt down and grabbed Peter's backside, squeezing the round cheek.
"And I would too, if I didn't so enjoy coming back to this each night." He
stuck a rough, dry finger in and Peter gasped. Hook prodded his insides for a
moment, reminding the boy he was owned. "Go get on the bed," he said as he
pulled his hand free.
Peter obeyed. He may not have been happy or eager, but he was very willing that
night. Hook watched him get down on all fours like an animal, waiting to be
mounted.
"Not tonight," the man said after careful contemplation. He looked at the belly
hanging down between Peter's arms and legs like some swollen pendulum. "Get on
your back. I want to look at what I've done while I take you."
That horrid stomach bobbed with every thrust. Peter put a hand on either side
to calm the motion and the sight of it made Hook moan with pleasure, watching
those tiny hands try and hold the large belly still.
That night he did not come inside. He covered Peter's abdomen with it. Then he
rubbed the white trails all over and wiped his hand clean on the boy's face. It
was a lewd thing to look at and he loved it.
"I wanted you for so long," Hook spoke. Idly he watched the unmoving ceiling
above, the moonlight upon it. He lay reclined into the bed with his hook taken
off and his arms behind his head. Peter sat on the bed's edge and cleaned
himself with rag and basin. "That insolence of yours was horrible. I wanted to
break it, destroy it. For so many years I tried to kill you. And then," he
sighed, "the Wendy Bird came and went. You were so sad, so lonely. Death would
have been merciful." He stopped to watch the dim silhouette bathe its rounded
stomach. "So I decided to act on other desires and capture. But then that took
a number of years as well."
Peter was quiet. But when he finished and put aside his bowl of dirty water, he
crawled to Hook with questions in his eyes. "I don't understand," he said.
"What's to understand?" Hook chuckled. "I saw the better merit in taking you
every night forever, instead of simply killing you once. I thought first to
have you stuffed and mounted, then I changed to mounted and stuffed." He
laughed at his own macabre joke.
"No, not that," Peter said, shaking his head. "You said 'many years'," and he
repeated the words slowly, instilling them with his confusion. "But I am only a
boy."
Hook laughed at him. Never would he grow tired of scratching at the fragile
walls of the boy's mind, the illusion he allowed himself. "Oh, Pan," he said,
and his voice was full of such mirth. "Do you know how old I am?"
Peter shrugged. "Adult age."
"I am," he stopped to think. It was a long time since he had last done the
math. "I am 237, or thereabout."
"Wow," Peter laughed, "you are an old boring codfish."
"And do you know what's even more funny?" he said, rolling onto his side to
look at Peter. He chuckled as if they were in on some hilarious joke together.
Despite himself, Peter let it catch on and started laughing with him. "The fact
that when a fateful maelstrom dragged me to Neverland some 190 years ago..."
His grinning face could have given gooseflesh to demons. "You were already
here."
Peter stopped laughing. He was in a great, denying shock. His eyes were wide
and his mouth was open and he shook his head. "That's not true," he said. "I
don't know how old I am, but I'm not..." He stopped and yanked at his hair. A
tantrum was in him, full of his want to block out what was said. "I am not old!
I'm a little boy!" he screamed.
Hook slapped him across the face. "You're a brat, is what you are." And he
pushed Peter down onto the bed and crawled across him. "You were born a brat,
you've lived a brat, and should you ever die, it will be with a whimpering cry
that life isn't fair and you deserved so much better." He chuckled cruelly and
let up, falling back onto his side of the bed. "So you have no worries, you
see, Pan? As long as you act as you do and forget who you are, you will never
have to face a silly thing like age."
Peter sulked and sniffed. "I'm a little boy," he said again.
"Yes, you are," Hook agreed. "And as much as I do truly despise children," he
let his hand wander mindlessly up and down soft skin, "I love this tight little
body of yours too much, even with all its whining. You should stay like this
forever."
"No time has passed," Peter continued to argue, stubborn and ignoring Hook's
benevolent approval of how he may live his life.
"It has," the man taunted. "So many years. Why," he smirked, "it's been almost
twenty-three of them since the Wendy Bird Darling left."
Peter did not fight him anymore. He only cried. Hook loved to make him cry,
great sobs that wet his pillow and choked his breath and made him sick. It was
the man's horrible lullaby.
"Fret not, Pan," he said. "You'll forget come morning."
He did not. Peter's depression and broken spirit made him catatonic all the
next day. Hook rutted into a motionless doll at night. But come the morning
after, when the boy had taken enough sleep and selfish indulgence of pity, he
was right as rain once more. In his mind and body and everywhere but a calendar
he was no more than eleven-years-old. Hook didn't mind the illusion fitting
back into place. The knowledge that he could break it again at any time was
like a secret gift he kept for himself.
+
"It hurts again."
Peter spoke in hushed whispers, as though relaying a secret that was anything
but. There were tears on his face, both new and dried. Discomfort had been
evident in the whimpering sobs of earlier, distractingly so.
"Can we stop, Hook?" he asked pitifully. "Until it doesn't hurt anymore."
"The time must be nearing," Hook commented with a tone mostly indifferent. The
boy's stomach was large and distended, the weight standing above him in a way
that was clearly uncomfortable, perhaps painful. "Lay on your side, Pan," he
ordered.
The boy wavered slightly, trying his best to roll over, but it was pointless.
He was like some pathetic turtle belly-up in the sun. Hook sighed at his
helplessness and put a rough hand on his shoulder, pushing him over.
Peter exhaled with relief. Perhaps it had given slight reprieve after all. "It
moves all the time now," he murmured, barely to be heard. "I see it poking out
my stomach. Am I going to die?" The man could only just make out the soft
question. So often did he voice it that Hook knew Peter either did not believe
his answer or thought he might change the prognosis whenever a turn for the
worse was taken.
"No, Pan," he said again. Then Hook looked, really looked, at him. That
horrible stomach was raised over the line of his side. The swell could be seen
even with him turned away, too large to look natural. Agony was evident in all
his actions. "Though perhaps it will be the end of you," he said.
+
Pity and lenience were not traits Hook had ever seen in himself. The next night
he ignored the protests so reminiscent of their first nights together. He
pulled Peter's body down towards his hips, knocking away the small hands that
hit at him.
"It hurts!" Peter shouted, kicking out.
Hook released his grabbing hold on small arms and slapped the boy across the
face. Peter still fought, so the man placed his hook against that delicate
throat, the curve of it pressing down and crushing the breath from him with
hard, unbending metal.
Peter's priorities changed from comfort to staying alive. He moved all fight to
instead tear at the unmoving hook. Exploiting his distraction, Hook ran his
hand across the boy's bottom, so familiar to his touch. But when his fingers
traveled higher, he found something different, something strange.
"Stay still, Pan," he said, and perhaps the change of tone, the lack of anger,
made him put down his protest out of curiosity. Peter dropped his hands and the
man removed the hook from his neck.
"What's wrong?" Peter asked, and it was childish trust that kept him from
thinking it was simply some ploy that took advantage of his concern.
"Something new," Hook said.
Leaning over the boy and towards the nightstand, Hook grabbed the candle in its
brass holder. He brought the light close to inspect with and Peter tried to
pull away, scared of the hot wax and flame. His thigh was promptly slapped with
the smooth bend of metal.
"Lie still, boy."
Hook gently placed the candle and its wide base upon the sheets. It wavered
when Peter moved again and Hook warned him against it. With his hand free, the
man ran fingers over the budding anomaly. It took some minutes, but he finally
realized what he was seeing and fingering.
"Oh, Pan," he chided, "this will never do. Far too small." He stuck his finger
in further and Peter cried. "Let's stretch it out."
He claimed the new hole with a beating fervency. Peter screamed.
+
It wasn't long, a week, until Hook awoke to a gray dawn with the sound of
crying in his ears. The bed was cold beside him. Leaning over the feather
mattress, he saw Peter hiding in a corner, withdrawn as far as his tether would
allow. He was sat awkwardly amid a puddle in the floor. When he saw Hook awake,
his cries progressed from whimpers to screams.
"What's happening?" he yelled.
With tenderness atypical, Hook walked over and picked the small boy up before
placing him gently upon the bed. "I'll get Smee," he said, brushing his hand
through curly hair already dampened with sweat.
Throughout the ordeal, there came no words of encouragement to help Peter, only
a warning that he could succeed or he could die.
It took hours upon hours, nearly an entire day. When the child was finally
born, it was in the dead of night aboard a ship tossed by a fierce storm that
blocked out the light giving moon. It was a night from Hell. And yet, between
the clapping thunder, a whining cry split the lull and made itself known.
Feeling whatever task he had been given was done, Peter passed out.
+
He woke and the sun was high, banishing the storm.
Everything burned with an unyielding pain. Muscles were sore from tensing. His
throat was hoarse from screaming. The lower half of him felt ruined. Peter
cried out with a ragged groan, for he was so hurt and so thirsty.
Hook watched the boy stir, slumber leaving him bare to the agony of
consciousness. "Well, well," he said, "look who's finally awake."
"I'm alive," Peter observed, and though it was an obvious statement, the night
had held the occasional doubt.
"Yes," said Hook, "though personally I wouldn't move too much. Smee sewed you
up, but I'm told it will take time to heal. Apparently we didn't stretch that
little quim of yours as well as I thought," he chuckled. "But you will get that
reprieve you wanted because of it."
Peter nodded, looking too distracted to be grateful. "Water?" he asked, and he
looked hesitant to voice it, as though the man would certainly deny him with
cruelty.
"Very well," Hook said. "You have earned it after last night."
He crossed creaking boards to the dining table and poured fresh water from a
pitcher. It was a difficult endeavor, for though he had free his good hand, his
other arm was laden with soft blankets and a small weight. He had been walking
the babe around the cabin until it at last found sleep. Too new was he in the
role of Father to trust the clumsy hands of bumbling idiots just yet.
Hook leaned down to give the boy his water, and through pain and exhaustion,
Peter sat up to look at what he held. "What's that?"
"What do you think?" Hook scoffed. "It's a baby."
"Where did the baby come from?" he asked, tired but very curious.
"From your belly," Hook told him.
The boy's eyes widened between their drooping lids. "I didn't eat a baby," he
said, shaking his head. "I'd know if I ate a baby."
"Idiot boy," Hook chastised. "You're Mother now." He thought better of himself
several times but eventually decided to hand the newborn off to the exhausted,
clammy child.
After one, then two protests Hook made him take the baby, pulling his thin arm
out to hold it. "I can't be Mother," Peter said, looking at the small face with
fear. "I'm a boy."
"You're a special boy, Peter," Hook said. "Don't argue. Look at the little
devil and tell me you don't feel it."
Peter looked hard, studying the rounded cheeks pushed up towards closed eyes,
watching gentle breaths through the parted and puckered lips. "But mothers know
stories," Peter said, looking horribly distressed. "I don't... I don't know
any."
"Why of course you do," the man argued. "All your little adventures. They would
make for wonderful stories."
"Yeah?" He looked hopeful.
"Yes."
"Then I must to tell him all I know as soon as he wakes up, any I can think
of." He jostled the baby with excitement and Hook knew his mistake in trusting
the boy with its care. For some time yet Peter would need to be supervised and
taught. "What's its name?" he asked.
"Oh," Hook drawled, "I was thinking perhaps to name him for his father."
"Who's his father?" Peter said, an idle question as though he expected the
mention of some inconsequential stranger.
Hook laughed at him, a cruel and demeaning noise. "Pan," he said, "'tis I, of
course."
Peter scrunched his face up unpleasantly. "I always knew there was something I
didn't like about you, Hook." He exhaled a moody huff. "You're a father. You'll
try and tell me what to do, make me grow up and be a man."
"Not you," Hook chuckled. "And not always have I been Father. Only recently,
and only to him. Just as yesterday you were not Mother, but today you are."
Peter nodded his head with pensive thought, but it was unclear how much, if
anything, he actually comprehended. "Baby," he said, looking at the infant.
"And I'm Mother. You're Father."
"Yes," Hook agreed, and to that point at least the boy was correct.
"Hook?"
The man hummed in his throat, giving his consent to be questioned.
"Does that mean we're married?"
Hook laughed at him again long and hard, a painful taunt that split his side
and brought a tear to his eye. After a long moment his merriment still would
not die, but the extent of it did. His heaving chuckles grew to be interspersed
with inhaling breaths. He calmed his noise and wiped at the wetness of his
eyes.
"Very well, Pan," he said. "Let us be married. You will stay here, with me,
forever, and I shall continue as I please with you. We'll have a whole family
of brats crawling across the floor."
"More boys?" Peter asked with childish excitement. Lit bright in his eyes was
the image of sword fights and dirty play to be taught.
"Yes," Hook told him, "we'll replenish your juvenile ranks."
"Think of all the fairies," Peter smiled. "I must make him laugh as soon as he
wakes. What's his favorite kind of joke?"
"Foolish boy," Hook grinned with condescension. "It will be some time before
that one laughs. Though I can't express my shared... enthusiasm. Fairies," he
scoffed, "pests on wings."
"Fairies are wonderful," Peter argued, and his mind was turned to happiness at
the fanciful thought. "If we are married, you should agree."
"Husband I am, aren't I?" Hook chuckled. "Husband, husband. Yes, very well,
Pan. Fairies are," he sighed, "a gift." Their imagined bond felt like a new and
unique method of mockery to use against Peter, of which he would make certain
to extort his own advantages.
"Will it take long for the new babies to arrive?" Peter inquired, and it was
obvious he expected a dozen within the week.
"Pan," Hook spoke with false kindness. He took such joy in tormenting the boy.
"Why do you think I did all of those things to you, even when you said to
stop?"
"Because you're a no good villain," Peter told him.
"No, my boy," Hook said. "No, no. That's how you make a baby." Peter pulled
away, disbelieving. "As an adult, I know so much more about these things than
you. And though you fought me every step, I took it upon myself to carry on,
for I knew how happy a baby would make you."
"For me?" Peter questioned, and he looked shocked then pleased. "I do like
little boys."
"I know you do, Pan. Yes, I know you do. And you see, with the desertion of
your Lost Boys, it was obvious you would need more." To Hook, lying was a
delicious second nature that might as well have been his first. And upon the
silly boy his work was made all the easier. "So I took it upon myself to help
you. I even took the brunt of your fights and horrible words."
"Oh," Peter said. "Well I didn't know." The boy did not feel regret, perhaps he
could not, but to sway him with gentle lies would make many things easier in
the future. "So how long does the baby take to get here?"
"Patience," Hook commanded. He sat on the bed, watching the small sleeping babe
in the boy's arms. "They take time to make, time to grow inside your belly."
Peter gasped. Suddenly he seemed to understand all: the nights of forced
pleasure and his growing stomach, the new stretch and tearing of the night
before.
"If we are lucky, Pan," the man whispered, speaking as though he gave away
precious secrets, "we can get one a year."
A smile spread across Peter's face. "I like getting Lost Boys this way," he
said, and already it seemed that he had forgotten the pain. It was wiped from
his mind. "I can play with them as soon as they are born. And I don't have to
wait and wait and wait one falls from his pram and comes to Neverland."
"Yes," Hook grinned wickedly, "I like it too." A false hand of wax stood from
his right wrist, ensuring he would not unintentionally scratch the baby. With
that unfeeling appendage he petted Peter's hair. His other hand, his real one,
brushed aside the bundled up blankets to look upon their creation. The man did
not feel love, not even a paternal one, but he felt a powerful possessiveness,
as all pirates did with their treasures. He looked forward to expanding his
hoard, especially through such delicious depravation. "I very much like it."
They had more children, many more, stuck in time as they were with no
limitations. The only inevitability they faced was that their young did age, as
all Lost Boys (and Girls) did. And when they came upon a certain year, Mother
lost all interest in them.
On the worst of all days, Hook entered and found Peter in the middle of an
attempt to kill their firstborn. The stress of it was too much perhaps. A
little boy could not have a child older than himself. After Hook pulled the two
apart, a new system was put into place.
Jim was given an honorable position, first as cabin boy, then as first mate. To
Hook alone he pledged his loyalty. To Mother there was no great love, only
hatred and an envy towards the young that still held favor. Jim despised them,
loathed them to dangerous depths.
Occasionally, perhaps once every couple of years, a child would die, and always
they were the chosen favorites. Most times the circumstances appeared
completely natural, if unfortunate. But there were some, those deaths most
horrid, when Hook suspected foul play, though he could prove nothing against
his wicked son.
Eventually and over time, all children became half-forsaken. Mother did not
want them. Father gave them work on the ship or an order to land. Any that
allowed desperation and homesickness into their hearts would return to Mother
and find only one heartbreaking truth.
He did not know them.
Chapter End Notes
     I wrote this because I enjoy Hook/Peter and also mpreg. The more it
     went on though, the crueler it seemed. But Hook is a villain, so
     keeping something like that from Peter for his own amusement hardly
     seems surprising.
     Sadly, as is his nature, Peter must forget to stay young. And nothing
     could ever make him give up youth. So if a child isn't around, he
     forgets them. And after awhile he also probably forgets that he
     hasn't always been on the ship as Hook's wife. He forgets land and
     maybe thinks the stories he tells happened to someone else. But if
     you think he's mature in his marriage and parentage, think again.
     I added Jim and his fratricidal/sororicidal tendencies as an
     afterthought. And I'm glad I didn't go too in depth because the more
     I thought on him the more it severely started to creep me out. Like
     maybe everyone is gathered around the body of a child that fell while
     playing on the rigging, and he just talks about how sad Mother will
     be with complete insincerity. And he probably sometimes sneaks into
     the cabin and tells Peter what he does and who he is. Just to watch
     Peter get upset with being reminded of his true age. Basically the
     kid is evil. Like maybe he even creeps Hook out a little. ......Okay,
     yeah I could write a chapter about that. Maybe I will. Any takers?
     Fuck it, I'm doing it either way.
     I know it's only ever said that Peter is immortal, but I like to
     think that Hook is too. I based his age here off the fact that he was
     Blackbeard's boatswain. Perhaps he's immortal through some deal with
     the Devil that also gave him his red and poisonous eyes. But that
     would exclude his crew. I'll just ignore that plothole. Though they
     are all fairly replaceable except for Smee. Maybe through the magic
     of Neverland they age slowly, but still do age.
***** And Jim *****
Chapter Notes
     Obviously this chapter is kind of dark. Mostly about their oldest son
     Jim and his life and him killing his siblings. But if you've made it
     this far, you're probably okay with darker stuff. Strangely there is
     very little porn in this chapter. I think I wrote plot or something.
     It's all fairly tame sex-wise. So you know, read at your own
     discretion. lol.
     I really enjoyed writing this chapter because you could literally
     never have a dynamic like it again. You can't reproduce these
     circumstances. It's specific to Peter Pan and especially to this fic.
     Also no, having so many children isn't life threateningly unhealthy
     for Peter (because I say) because I'm going with him not only as
     eternally youthful, but kind of immortal. It's the reward he receives
     for the steep price he pays. In this fic anyway. That's what I'm
     sticking with. He's fine. Everything's fine.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The room was a bustling catastrophe, loud and ever moving, like a schoolyard at
recess. Early to bed, late to bed, it did not matter. The children were always
up at dawn and ready to play.
Hook pulled on his boot and looked around for the other one, certain he had
only just had it. He leaned over and saw the sole just as it disappeared
beneath the bed. "Give me that," he growled. And he gave a hard yank to what he
could reach, pulling out the small girl on the other end that would not let go.
"Off," he said, and he grabbed the small wrist hard and squeezed, pulling it
from his shoe. She ran off to her mother, whining of her pain.
"A battle wound," Peter cheered, celebrating her bravery. The group of children
whooped.
Hook could take no more. "Order!" he shouted. They turned somber in an instant.
A schoolyard no more. It was his still graveyard. "In a line." They detached
themselves from wall and floor, stepping together. "By height," Hook amended,
and the line became much more orderly. This was how he liked them, quiet and
obedient. Often times he thought to break them away from Peter and his negative
influences. But then he or his crew would be stuck with them all day and he
hadn't the temperament for that either. "I am off."
He began at the end of the line and knelt down. "Goodbye Father," said the
little girl in her timid voice. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.
The next child did the same. "Goodbye Father," he said in a slightly older and
more courageous voice. He gave Hook a kiss.
And so he continued down the row until he came to the oldest. "Goodbye Father,"
Jim said, and his voice was deepest, his standing tallest. Hook barely needed
to bend for his kiss.
Standing at attention, Hook prepared to say his compounded farewell when a
slobbering mouth wet his cheek. Looking over, there was Peter, hovering beside
him and holding up the smallest baby with its shining mouth of spit. "One
more," Peter said, and the children had a great guffawing laugh at Hook's
expense.
His eyes narrowed, and they stopped immediately. His lack of appreciation for
fun and humor was well known to them all, old and young. "Goodbye," he said
with syllables clipped and terse.
He turned on his heels and left, unaware of the collective sigh the room
released.
"Hide and seek," Peter yelled.
They each placed a finger aside their nose and the last one to action became
their seeker. It was one of the smaller tots, and he had great trouble with his
numbers. He called out to "four," then waited for someone to tell him the next
one. Eventually they came to ten and that was good enough.
Most were found right off, for even though they had a seeker who could not
count to five, the room was very limited in hiding places. One was discovered,
then two, then three and four together as the twins refused to part. So after a
little while, eight of them were sat down beside the baby in its crib. Only
Peter was still in.
The little seeker boy looked and looked but could not find him. He pulled open
curtains and checked under the bed. He walked around the desk and the
harpsichord, searched in the closet. No Peter. The children watched him and
giggled. The longer he failed, the more they laughed. Eventually he could take
no more and stopped to yell at them for their cruelty. They looked up and he
followed their gaze. Peter was on the ceiling.
"Mother," he yelled, thoroughly upset, "flying is not allowed."
Peter floated down and stood on the floor. He did not appear the least bit
repentant. "I surrender myself for punishment," he said, "but first I must be
caught." Without a moment's hesitation, he ran off. The boy followed after,
chasing him around the large table.
After a few minutes, and with the interjecting help of the other children,
Peter was taken down. And when they began the new round, the rule of no flying
was established right off. He was found fairly quickly without the advantage.
"I wish I could fly," Jim said. He was bigger than the rest, and many hiding
places he had snuggled into as a smaller child no longer fit him. He was
usually first out. But he did not mind. Mother's company was second best to
winning.
"We need Pixie Dust," Peter absently said, watching the game go on.
"Where do we get it?" Jim asked.
"Fairies," Peter told him. He turned his head– looking so excited to go on and
on about the fairy grove they were not allowed the shore leave for– but
something stopped him from speaking. He looked at Jim and seemed displeased.
His finger poked the boy in the nose. Then he pinched his cheeks and pulled on
them, investigating what he saw. "Jim," he asked, "how old are you?"
He laughed as Peter prodded him. "Twelve, Mother," he said.
Peter nodded and his expression was very serious. "And you're my son?" he
questioned.
"Yes, Mother," said Jim. It was no new thing to him, Peter's tenuous memory. He
forgot many things, most things. Jim's entire childhood was unknown to Peter.
For stories of his younger days, Jim was forced to turn to his father with
scarce hopes the man had taken notice at the time. "I'm your eldest son."
Peter seemed lost in thought, an expression he did not often wear. For Jim to
be oldest meant there had been none before him. It was fact that Peter could
not recall there ever not being children, ever not being a round belly or a
small one to care for.
"How tall are you?" Peter asked with a rushed urgency. He stood and dragged Jim
to his feet. His leveled hand went back and forth between them, comparing their
height. It was a very close race. "There, you see," Peter exclaimed, happy once
more. "We're the same age. You're not so old."
"Mother," Jim spoke, and he felt a sad obligation to say, "we're the same
height, not the same age. You're older than me. You've looked like this my
whole life."
"Stop talking," Peter muttered. He put a hand to his head as though it hurt or
the room spun. "A little boy like me couldn't possibly have such a tall child.
So I can't really be your Mother. It's all make believe, isn't it, pretend?
Otherwise it would be so silly. Don't you understand how odd it sounds?"
"It's not silly," Jim insisted, "or odd. I am your son, but Father says you
don't want to grow up. I won't grow up either. We'll stay the same, forever."
His words did not soothe Peter's distress. And in honesty, Jim had no idea of
how he could remain a child. Only the older ones thought to question why Mother
did not grow. When asked, Peter denied their assertions. Hook had no answer and
told them not to speak of it.
"Lost Boys age," Peter said. It was a quiet murmur spoken to himself. Jim heard
only through their closeness. His mother looked horribly introspective, as
though he contemplated a great many things, or one large and weighty one. "Lost
Boys age," he said again.
But then the second round of hide and seek ended and Peter's deep concentration
was broken.
"King of the Mountain!" he called. And he jumped upon the table brandishing a
wooden sword. "I'll have at any black-hearted rogue who thinks he can take my
kingdom."
The children jumped about, clambering to win the table and take Peter down.
They all hit at his sword with one of their own, all except for Jim. Suddenly
he found no happiness, though he knew not why.
That night, Hook's hand was all over Peter and inside him, but the boy did not
seem to have a thought towards the game. He stared ahead at the wall, then he
dropped to his elbows with a sigh once it felt like too much trouble holding
himself up.
"I'm sorry," Hook apologized with sarcasm, "am I boring you?"
"Yes," Peter replied, "or no. Or maybe I'm only thinking of something else."
"How unlike you," the man snorted. "You don't think. You're nothing but a
brainless little doll. You are bed warmer and child bearer, child rearer, but
never are you thinker."
"I know," Peter said, in complete agreement. Thinking was a grownup thing. It
gave wrinkles and a better understanding of the world. Children had their
thinking done for them, and that was one less burden in an unburdened life.
"Can I ask something?" he said.
"'May I'," Hook corrected. Often he taught grammar to his children and his
little wife, but for one student, quite obviously, it would never stick.
"All right, but let me ask mine first," Peter said. He seemed eager yet
hesitant, shameful of his request. His head dug into the pillow and he muttered
it quietly, but of course Hook could not hear that. He grabbed Peter's blond
hair and yanked him back, stretching his neck unpleasantly.
"Again, you mumbling little fool," he said.
Peter closed his eyes and softly said, "Could you make Jim go somewhere else,
somewhere not here?" Hook dropped his little head and laughed.
"I knew you would grow sick of them," he said, snickering to himself and
gloating over the inevitability. "God knows I am." But why he chose Jim alone
was odd. The boy was oldest and helped with many of the responsibilities,
oftentimes with more maturity and a better follow-through than Peter. "Let's
send them all ashore in a boat. Perhaps the savages will give them refuge."
"No," Peter said, shaking his head, "just Jim. Make Jim go away."
"Need a break, do you?" Peter nodded. "What a lazy little brat you are. Who
says you get one?"
"Please," Peter begged. He turned his shameful face to look at Hook. His eyes
were horribly sad and their expression reeked of an adult's desperation, a
grown man at the end of his rope. "Make Jim go away."
Hook smirked. "Turn over," he said, and he flipped Peter so he was on his back,
looking into his eyes. "I like you when you're selfish."
Hook had him rough, thrusting into him with eye contact that did not waver. He
enjoyed Peter's shame and greed. He enjoyed putting his hand on that belly
swollen five months with child. But most of all, he very much enjoyed that
continued look of turmoil on Peter's face. He had purposefully put off
answering his request, simply to prolong the expression.
"Very well," he did answer at long last. He was sat up in bed and indulgently
smoking his cigars. When he opened his mouth, he blew the smoke in Peter's
face. The boy coughed and raised himself up, picking his head from Hook's
chest. He looked hopeful. "There had been, as I had planned, a supply run next
week, going ashore for fresh water and the like. Everything is down to the
bottom of the barrel, so it should take some time to restock. I will move up
the schedule. Tomorrow Jim will set off with the crew and finally he shall earn
his keep. Does that please your empty little head?"
Peter nodded with such enthusiasm and smiled wide. "Yes," he said.
He looked at Hook, trying to remember that thing adults did, that married
people did. And when he grabbed the memory, he leaned in, crawling closer over
Hook's lap. He kissed him as thanks.
The man allowed his childish kisses for a moment. Then he blew smoke in his
mouth. Peter pulled back coughing and sputtering. They did not kiss often, and
when they did it was always on Hook's terms. He liked making fun at Peter's
effort.
"You'll owe me for getting rid of the boy," he said. Though in truth it was his
crew who would have to deal with the inconvenience. Peter agreed. But what a
silly thing it was, Peter's permission. There was nothing Hook could not take.
And there was no ploy to be used that could keep the memory of debt in his
head. But, for a short time, he did so enjoy an acquiescent Peter, a little boy
who truly acted as though he owed Hook for all he was and all he had.
Compliance was a wonderful thing to steal.
Perhaps he would force one of favorite activities: the reading of Shakespeare.
Peter hated the Bard horribly. He could barely read– and hardly could he
understand– the complicated wording. Hook liked to watch him try, more to see
him fail. And even better would it be if Peter sat the whole time with his
greedy hole stretched around Hook's cock, seeing just how far they read before
neither could go on. Yes, there was a reason he liked winning favors.
+
Jim was ecstatic to hear of his new job, something he considered a mission of
utmost importance. For it was in his mind to deviate from his set path. He
would return with Pixie Dust. What a hero he would be in the eyes of his
younger siblings.
Hook did not deny his little quest. If the boy should wander and become lost,
well it was one less child underfoot and one less mouth to feed. Let him
scrounge a living out on land as his mother had so long ago.
When Jim left, the other children followed him on deck, waving him off and
wishing him luck. Peter was not allowed to follow above. And when Jim had said
his farewell and spoken of his plans, Peter seemed indifferent, as though he
was barely aware of his presence. Jim thought his mother to be in one of his
moods and thus did not press the matter.
The supply party was gone for one month. Occasional casks of water or foods
were sent back, but the largest of shipments waited until all was fulfilled.
It took three longboats, rowing from the shore with their organic treasures.
Two held a great stock of barrels and crates. The third was occupied by the
crew members who could not fit in beside the cargo.
Jim stood proudly in the front of the boat. So excited he was to return. In his
pockets were many tokens: a small pouch of Pixie Dust he had won, bartered
items from the Indians, the tooth of a bear. His brothers and sisters need
never know the beast was already dead. But he would tell them other stories
instead, as he had returned with many.
He climbed the ship like a monkey, full of excitement and with such speed he
might have possessed four hands. Hook met him at the rail.
"Father," Jim greeted, and suddenly happiness left him. The man had that
effect, a worry he instilled. The darkness of his soul seeped and crept in like
spilled ink. "I have returned."
"So you have," Hook said. "Come, come, let's have a look at you." He put his
hook to Jim's shoulder and spun him around. "Filthy, tsk, tsk." And Jim did
wear every color of earth, in his clothes, on his skin, matted in his hair.
"But my, you dirty urchin, look how you've grown," he continued to observe.
"You've shot up three inches at least. What a spurt you must have hit."
"I haven't grown!" the boy snapped. Hook's brow drew up scandalously high at
his tone, and Jim dropped his head with hope for leniency. "My apologies,
Father."
Hook considered punishment. It would do the boy well to remember that a life
aboard the ship was one of obedience. "You are to go wash up," he said. Though
their family was grossly unnatural, "bath" was as much of a four letter word as
any other household with children. It was the most lenient punishment possible,
and yet Jim was still less than pleased to hear it.
"May I see Mother first?" he asked, and he patted the small leather pouch that
held his Pixie Dust.
"I am not in the business of negotiating with spoiled children," Hook stated.
Jim's shoulders fell and the man groaned to see something so pathetic. "Go on,"
he relented. "As... payment for your work."
Jim's face became the horizon at dawn, a warm light dispelling melancholic
darkness. "Thank you, Father!" he said, and without a single thought for
propriety, he hugged the man.
Hook allowed it, for one second. "Off," he said. "Boy, get off." He put his
hand on Jim and shoved him away. "Not in front of the crew," he growled. And
though no heads were turned their way, a side glance could see many things.
Weakness or affection should not be one of them.
Nodding his head, Jim apologized and went down below into the cabin. The boy
was so excited. He must have thought himself Father Christmas, though Hook had
never filled tiny heads with such nonsense as holiday figures. Seldom did he
even give gifts.
Crates and barrels were hauled aboard the ship. Hook watched the shipment from
the upper deck with a cup of tea. A few good minutes passed with the luxury.
And then the screaming began.
It was a great, unholy symphony of childish shrieking, high pitched, fearful,
and the warning call of something horrific. The screams of innocent play had
never sounded so chilling.
"Cap'n?" Smee questioned at his side, curious when he saw no movement on the
man's part. "Don't you think you should maybe be looking in on that?" It was
ship law that no one save captain, children, or slave mother was allowed in the
cabin. If he did not act, no one could.
"Probably," said Hook, but he made no move to do so.
"It's just," the old man spoke, "it sounds serious this time, like one of 'em
could be dying."
"We should be so lucky," Hook scoffed. Most of the children ran together in his
eyes. The loss of one would hardly be noticed. But then his thoughts turned and
he thought instead of Peter's wellbeing. In so many, many ways Peter was
irreplaceable, precious in his own fashion, though still hated. Hook groaned
and stood up, shoving his cup of tea into Smee's hands. It would probably be
cold before he returned. "Very well," he said, and he descended the steps.
The screaming came and went, ushering through like waves. At its loudest it was
agony upon the ears. Hook waited for an ebbing reprieve and then he opened the
door to his cabin.
The room was in a great disarray. Many of his things had been knocked over in a
fight far graduated from playtime antics. And lying in the middle of the floor
was Jim with Peter on top of him.
Where the knife had come from, Hook could only guess. But what he could see of
its handle looked like a piece from his dining set. What a horrible child Peter
was to steal unnoticed, hiding it in case it should have use. And he did use
it.
Jim's arms were crossed up around his head and chest for defense. Peter hacked
at the flesh. But the worst part of all, the sight that haunted Hook, was the
blood that soaked the scene.
It was disgusting. Like the curse distilled by Hook's own veins, it was darker
than black yet somehow not absent of color. Yellow was the most prevalent, but
it was not the warmth of sun, nor was it alone. That blood was every shade and
yet none, the darkest nature of them all, each its own demonic villain. Hook
was petrified.
His blood, his one fear, had passed to Jim. What a horrid trap that cut off his
interference. "Stop this," he said, but his words were far too quiet and
shaking. "Stop," he said, a little louder.
"Father!" he heard Jim shout. Hook could not look, but he heard the boy
screaming for help again and again. "Father!"
"Put down the knife!" Hook yelled. Still he could not stomach the carnage and
that blood. He could not glance. But the screaming did not stop and he knew he
had been ignored. "Peter!"
"You brought him back!" Peter shouted, furious and desperate. In that moment he
was not mother or boy. He was an insane murderer who could not be swayed from
his kill. "You weren't supposed to bring him back!"
Jim was crying and shrieking, and Hook knew if he did not do something soon
Peter would succeed. He peeked. Blood and knife reflected light. His stomach
turned and he felt sick. But if he did not act, there would only be more
spilling on the floor. Hook stepped forward with that selfish idea in his head.
"The knife, Peter," he ordered, but the boy would not give in. He sliced at
Jim's arm again, trying for his heart.
Hook knew he could not safely take the knife without injuring himself. The mad
boy's hand flew violently. So he lunged forward, grabbing Peter around the
chest and slinging his entire body. He hit the ground hard and rolled until he
hit a table leg. And if it caused Peter to lose the current child he carried,
it was not Hook's fault.
He looked at the scared children who had huddled together against the wall with
heights and ages in a perfect step down from the last. "And none of you thought
to stop this?" he yelled. They retreated further, afraid of him now.
One of the oldest stuck up his head and said with utter fear and confusion, "It
was Mother." What mindless sheep, paying such worship to their playmate mother
that they would forsake the brother they adored.
Jim lay on the floor sobbing. He was so frightened that he had no mind for his
injuries. Hook tore a sheet from the bed and threw it over the boy so he
himself would not have to see that vile blood. "Go to Smee," he ordered. When
Jim did not move, he kicked him, hard, getting his attention. "I said go, boy!"
Slowly Jim sat up. The sheet fell around his shoulders, but he kept it covering
his arms. He stood on shaking feet and made for the open door. It was a retreat
that could not be permitted.
Peter screamed and tried again to destroy the boy whose existence contradicted
him. Hook grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. It choked and would likely
bruise, yet he could not free himself.
"Get out!" Hook shouted at the gawking throng of children. "Leave!" They obeyed
his fury and sprinted out the door, with the oldest carrying away those too
small for haste.
Peter hit Hook, angry at him for denying what must be done. When the boy turned
the knife on him and cut the hand that held, Hook threw him again. Peter hit
the bedpost with a hard crack. It must have pained him greatly, for he dropped
the knife at last. Hook kicked it away.
He picked the boy up and put him none too gently into bed. The tethering
shackle had long been taken off when cage and compliancy had been accepted.
Hook put it back on. Peter was of a crazed mind, and his actions could not be
trusted. He thrashed on the bed, and Hook slapped him across the face. It did
little good.
"Let me go!" he screamed. "I have to kill him!" He pulled on his chain like the
animal in a trap he so greatly was.
"Why!" Hook demanded, and he climbed atop Peter and forced him still.
"He's too old!" Peter shrieked, and he clawed at Hook and his ornate clothes as
best his little fingers could. "It doesn't make any sense! I can't have a son
so old." Then he began to cry, as he always did when the perception of his age
was challenged. "It doesn't make any sense." He broke apart and laid still.
Those hands so set on murder pressed hard into his eyes, but they could not
stop the tears. "I hate him, I hate him," he cried. "Make him go away. Please,
James, make him go away."
What a perfectly horrid little brat. But Hook could allow him the delusion so
fragile. "Make who go away?" he asked, cooing over Peter and petting his hair.
"There's no one here. It is only you and me. And when the children join us for
dinner, they shall be as perfect and small as you remember."
Jim would not be invited.
Peter fell asleep. He was always so tired when he was with child. The chain was
left in place, however, for at the moment his mood was still untrusted.
On his way out, Hook noticed the spilled bag of Pixie Dust. It was all over the
floor. One would need tweezers and a great dedication to pick it up. He kicked
the shimmering dust through cracks and sullied what remained with his stomping
boot.
Hook left the cabin and found Smee. The old man held the one courage Hook
himself did lack: he could look at that blood of his. What a boon Smee had been
on the day Peter hacked off his hand. He bandaged Hook's bleeding stump as he
now bandaged his son.
Hook knocked on the door of the kitchen and stuck his head in, but his eyes
were closed. "Is it safe?" he asked. "Is it hidden?"
"Yes, Cap'n," said Smee.
He walked inside and looked around. Jim was sat upon a counter. His arms were
white with many bandages that wrapped around and around. In his eyes was a ten
mile stare. He gazed at the wall across without blinking, without light or life
in him.
"The mother pushed the little thing from the nest, I'm afraid," Hook said. He
approached Jim and tapped the smooth little cheek with the back of his hand.
"Time to fly, boy." Though of course he meant that only in the figurative
sense. "You're not a child anymore."
His words roused Jim but not for the better. The boy's eyes scrunched in an
ugly way. His mouth twisted with sorrow. He began to cry. What a horrible
welcoming into adulthood.
"Stop it," Hook hissed. "Stop that this instant. You're not your mother's child
anymore. You're my son, and I'll not have you embarrassing me like this." Still
Jim sobbed like a little boy. Hook slapped him and grabbed his chin in a fierce
hold. Long fingers pushed against flesh and pressed hard into bone. "Stop it,"
he said again, "or I'll abandon you too, boy. I'll put you to shore and you can
pray for mercy from the savages."
Jim whimpered, but he tried his best to rid himself of tears. It took a moment,
and he coughed and gagged through it, but he called off his indulgent sobbing.
Only drying trails and red eyes and a running nose remained.
"Good," Hook commented. He turned the little head from side to side, inspecting
it for anymore childish nonsense. Finding none, he took out his linen
handkerchief and wiped at the ugly evidence remaining. "No more tears," he
ordered, "never. If I see them you will learn that I do not threaten idly."
Jim nodded his red face, still so splotchy with exertion. "Mother?" he asked,
though he seemed hesitant to do so.
"Doesn't want you," Hook answered. "You're too old now, James. He'll not have
you." Jim looked as though he could begin crying once more, but he managed to
keep his emotions under control. "You're not to go near Peter, for his
wellbeing and your own. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Jim said. "Yes, sir." It must have pained him to accept such terms. His
mother was his hero, the kind, fun, and nurturing figure of his entire life
thus far. On that day he was traumatized. "And the little ones?" he asked. "My
brothers and sisters?"
"Speak with them all you like," Hook allowed, "but only when they are out from
under Peter's foot. And be mindful, you are their peer no longer. You're not a
child."
"Am I a man?" Jim questioned.
Hook snorted. "Hardly," he said. "You're in the middle ground where no one
wants you." He put his hand to Jim's cheek and raked it through his dark hair.
"Poor forsaken boy. Mother cannot stand the thought of you, and I as yet have
no need for you." He kissed his forehead and stepped away. "So do hurry and
grow up, Purgatory's child."
Hook saw to it that Jim was given a hammock in the crew's quarters. The hold
was dark and it smelled. There was no happiness from the nursery he had known,
a room cleared and set aside for children.
The crew begrudged his presence and did not speak to him. What respect they had
forced during the supply run left with Jim's fall from grace. He laid alone in
the darkness and wallowed in sadness, but he did not cry.
Jim hated nights the most. They were the worst reminders to his fate. But if
the sun was out, he was out, up on deck. And even after the garish orb was
gone, he would remain for a long while. He did not like the inside. It was
naught but bad memories and horrible realities.
+
Jim sat on deck with his many siblings. His father had given him an old rusted
knife, and he had cared for it and sharpened it anew. He used it now to whittle
out a small bear, and the little ones loved watching his talented hands move.
When he finished, he held it up and all of them gasped at its excellence.
"Now," he said, "who gets to keep it?"
A great roar broke out with many cries of, "Me, me!"
Jim put a finger against his lips to quiet them. "Wendy," he decided. "Wendy
gets the bear." He had always loved her best, the first girl to come, born
behind a trio of boys. But as he looked at the small crowd, Jim could not see
her little blonde head. "Where is Wendy?" he asked.
"She's with Mother," said one of the twins. "They play all the time, just the
two of them."
"Yes," said another child, "it's not fair."
"Mother says we can't keep up with how well they play," said a third.
Jim's hand wrapped tightly around the wooden bear. He remembered all too well
when that had been him. Before all the others came, before they were old enough
to take part in imitation sword fights and colorful imaginings, there had been
only him and Mother.
Darkness pierced him. Suddenly his great love for Wendy was sullied green. He
looked at the toy in his hand. She did not deserve it. None of them did. They
had plenty. They had Mother.
He threw the bear into the water and walked away. Distantly he heard the little
children daring one another to jump in after it. He did not care what they
decided.
A month passed, then tragedy struck. It started as some discordant choir, heard
early in the morning almost everywhere on the ship. Hook brought the news to
Jim some time later.
"Wendy is dead," he informed. "Gone in her sleep."
"Oh, no," said Jim. "What happened?"
"No earthly idea," Hook replied. "There isn't a mark on her. I suppose
sometimes these things simply happen." He shook his head to clear it, looking
thoroughly exasperated. "And then, of course, I made the great mistake of
explaining death to all the other little brats. They haven't stopped crying
since."
"Yes, I've heard," Jim stated, and those horrible wails could still be picked
out from beneath their feet.
"I would very much like to get away from it," Hook said. "Care to join me in
going ashore? Wendy must be buried, and there really is no sense in putting it
off." He was very eager to remove himself from the childish cacophony in the
ship's belly.
As a pair of crewman rowed them and cold Wendy to the island, Hook commended
Jim. "You took your lesson to heart," he said. "I'm glad to have one child not
whining in my ears today."
"No more tears," Jim said, repeating what his father had told him the day he
last cried, "never."
Years passed and more children were cast out, plucked away by Hook before Peter
could return to his murderous instinct to cull. They accepted their new lot
better than Jim had, and perhaps his precedent and their lack of ushering
violence did contribute. They all looked terribly lost, however, unable to find
such purpose as Jim had.
He loved the ship and worked the ship, learning all its ins and outs. Every job
that could be done, he mastered. And when the slowly aging– but aging
nonetheless– old Smee did die, Jim took his place as Hook's second in command.
But no manner of fulfillment could quell the bitter envy in him.
Peter did not know how to properly distribute care. He always chose one child
above all others. They were his favorites, and he loved playing with them best.
His newest pick was little Louis. There was nothing special about him. In a
constant randomization of limited traits, he had inherited all the worst
features of both his parents. He was an ugly child. But he was energetic and a
born fighter. Thus Peter could play with him for hours.
Jim rarely saw Louis. He was always below in the cabin Peter was not allowed to
leave. But some days he did pop his head up, that freckled head with hair a
dirty blond, an ugly blond.
He was only seven and thought Jim was amazing. With so many children, they all
got lost together in the long line. But Jim was oldest. He was where it all
began.
Jim sat on deck repairing a sail that had been cut in a recent storm. Louis was
beside him on the railing, going on and on about all the fun he had with
Mother. He told Jim stories that had already been heard long before when he was
Louis's age. Jim bore it all and ground down his teeth.
The crew gathered around the small body. He had hit the deck hard and his limbs
were twisted around unnaturally. Louis blinked his big eyes, unable to
comprehend his momentous pain, and then he stopped. With one last breath he was
gone.
Blood seeped from him, filling the cracks of old wood. It probably dripped down
into the hold below.
Jim stepped inside the circle and stood by his father. "Oh, dear," he said,
looking at the ugly little boy, less beautiful now in death. His tone was calm
and indifferent. He gave more care in a day to dark clouds on the horizon than
he did the dead child. "Mother will be so sad."
Hook looked at him oddly but said nothing.
They buried Louis beside Wendy.
+
Jim hid in a dark corner of the hallway, waiting for his father to leave the
cabin.
Poor Peter was so sad, still sulking over the recent and untimely death of dear
Edward. The other children were sent out for the day. There they could feel
their own melancholy, leaving Peter alone to his. But Hook was still inside.
He did not love the Peter. Jim knew that. What his parents were, what they
felt, it was not right. He had watched their relationship from afar over the
years, listened to his father confide in him. It was different now from his
earliest memories.
Mother remained little more than a slave, but Father had turned less evil
towards him, more fond. They did not love, but they seemed to have resigned
themselves to what they had.
The door opened. "Go to sleep, Peter," came Hook's voice. "You'll feel better
if you do."
Jim knew the intent behind that order. He often heard the confusion from his
siblings. They could not understand why Mother always failed to recall a lost
or grown child. Hook most likely told them off against mentioning it again.
Perhaps it was in sleep that Peter forgot them, though it may have taken many
nights to do so.
Hook left, walked right past him. Jim waited. He stood in the shadows for
perhaps an hour. Then he crept inside.
The room was exactly as he remembered it, though he had not been inside in well
over a decade. Like most things, it seemed to have froze in time.
Peter was asleep in bed, positioned on his stomach with blankets draped across
his bare back. Was he nude? Had Hook seen to remedy his loss by giving him a
new child?
Jim sat on the very edge of the bed. For a long time he only watched. His dear
mother, with blond unruly hair and mischief on his face. In and out he
breathed, raising his exposed back and shoulders every time. Jim put a finger
just above his lip, feeling that breath on his own skin.
"Oh, Mother," he sighed, "I have missed your horrible existence."
Peter stirred at the noise but did not wake. Jim put his dry, callused hand
against the boyish face. He petted its soft flesh, over and over, indulging in
the feel. For sixteen years he had not been able to touch. And the only sights
had been brief glimpses from waiting by the door for someone else to come or
go.
He leaned down, brushed aside Peter's hair, and placed a kiss on his forehead.
"I hate you," he whispered in his ear.
It woke him. Peter opened bleary eyes and observed slowly. Noticing a stranger,
an adult, he jumped back, crawling to the other side of the bed. "Who are you?"
he asked. "What are you doing here?"
He wore loose, comfortable pants, and Jim then doubted the idea that he had
waited outside as his parents had each other.
Jim brought his knees onto the bed and gently moved forward. "I came to see
you," he said, but his amiable voice was undone by his crooked smile. "I just
wanted to see you."
"Who are you?" Peter asked again.
Jim did not answer. He advanced further. Peter made to jump off the bed, and he
grabbed that small ankle, drawing him closer, beneath him. The boy fought, but
Jim squeezed his wrists and towered above. "So rude," he chastised. "Very rude
indeed." Peter kicked and Jim released one of his arms to punch him in the
head. He calmed somewhat as his eyes rattled in their skull. Peter opened his
mouth wide to scream, and Jim covered it with his hand. "Shh," he whispered, a
simple sound that held so much threat. And when he spoke again, it was still in
that hushed voice. "Let Hook work. He's a busy man."
For some reason it calmed Peter that the man assaulting him knew the pirate
captain. But he did lick the silencing hand in the silly manner of children.
Jim pulled it away to wipe on his pants. "Who are you?" Peter continued to ask.
Jim did not answer. He only stared, looking at the unchanged face below him
that was straight out of memory. An entire day might have passed and he would
have been none the wiser. But after so long and so much denial, he needed to
have it.
He brought forward his hands. They did not shake, but it felt as though they
wanted to. He ran them over Peter's face, dipping into every drop and rising
with every line of cheek or nose. He sighed with contentment.
Peter shook his head and the motion turned Jim's hands from where they rested
on his jaw. "That game is only for me and Hook," he said, informing the man who
seemed to make advances.
Jim sneered and pushed him hard into the mattress gripping his hands, choking.
"Don't be disgusting," he hissed. What a lewd child his father had created,
unknowing that innocent touch could still come from adults.
He watched Peter, letting up on his hands to allow air in, but choking again
when it looked like he might scream. Then he left the job to one clenching hand
as the other moved lower. It sat flat on Peter's stomach.
"I should gut you," Jim muttered with pensive thought. He reached to his thigh
and drew out a long knife used for hunting or severing rope. "I should rip you
open and take whatever makes this possible. You don't deserve children."
Peter whimpered and shook with fear. Jim obligingly let up on his hold around
the boy's neck. "Don't," he pleaded.
"I'll make it a small cut," Jim promised, and he traced his knife down that
stomach without pressure, only threat. "A small cut with a thin scar. So he'll
still find you attractive." The knife tip sat on Peter's stomach below his
navel. "Are you pregnant now?" he asked. It was impossible to tell. Peter had
been stretched so much– twenty-four times with twenty-six children– he always
kept a thin layer of fat around his middle. He exercised through play, but not
everything would go away. "What are you hiding in there?" Jim began spinning
his knife in an idle circle, drilling into flesh.
"Don't," Peter said again, crying like the child he was. "If there is, you'll
kill him."
"Kill him?" Jim shouted, outraged. "As you tried to kill me?" He pulled his
knife back and sheathed it in one fluid motion. "As I've already killed them?"
"Who?" Peter whispered, afraid of the answer and afraid of the man on top of
him.
"All of them," Jim said. "I killed them all. First was Wendy. You loved her as
you had not loved since me. Her death was kindest. I gave her flowers the
Indians stay away from. She went to sleep, that's all. I was merciful." He
laughed and it was a hoarse hissing thing that depreciated the beauty of
everything around it. "But then you forgot her. And you turned your favor to
Louis. He was never anything special," Jim spat. "I couldn't understand. I
couldn't... understand." He shook Peter, throwing the blond head around. "I
wanted him to hurt. So I told him to have fun climbing in the ship's rigging.
But," he spoke close into Peter's ear with hushed secrecy, "I'd sawn the ropes
thin." Jim cackled at the memory and began to count the deaths on his fingers.
"Martha I drowned. Henry was 'lost' on the island and torn apart by wild
animals. Victoria, well that was poison again. The key is to keep it looking
natural, like fate. Bernard was–"
"Please," Peter begged, "I don't know who these people are. Why are you doing
this to me? Who are you? Where's James?"
Jim's heart fluttered and he smiled wide and bright. But then the shadowing
clouds returned as he remembered. He was but a junior to his father. Peter did
not know him in even the vaguest memory. "Your husband is above," he sneered.
In his biting words was the heavy implication of knowledge. He had learned long
ago the true nature of marriage and how humankind in the world outside defined
it. "But I came to keep you company."
"Who are you?" Peter asked again. "A pirate?"
"Mother," he gasped, though his surprise was false, "do you not know me? I'm
your son."
Peter shook his head. "That isn't true," he said. "I'm just a boy. Never could
I have a son so old."
"But I am your child," he said, and simply to torture, he called him, "Mother,"
once more. "Goodness you are old and ancient, but you hide it so well." He
grinned and jumped from the bed, dragging Peter with him. "Come on, Mother,
let's play. Like we used to."
Jim stood Peter on his feet and grabbed a wooden sword from the floor so
littered with toys. He put his hands on Peter's shoulders and moved him around
like a doll until he was satisfied with his placement.
"You had a chain then," he said, "so you could never go farther than right...
here." He stopped when he felt he had dragged Peter forward enough. "And I
would always stand right out of reach." He pulled his large knife again and
took a step back. "So you couldn't get me." Jim smiled, but Peter looked
frightened and confused. "Well, come on," he ordered, "get me."
Peter looked at the wooden sword in his hand. Then he lunged, attacking the
intruder who caused him so much turmoil. He hit Jim in the stomach, hard enough
to bruise, but was countered with a cutting slice to his forearm. Peter fell
back and held the bleeding wound.
"Come on, Mother," Jim said, goading him on. "Let me have it."
A quick jump and Peter hit him hard in the mouth. The hidden gums split and
that disgusting blood flowed, coloring his teeth when he smiled. He cut Peter
again, on the other arm for a perfect symmetry.
Peter hit and Jim would cut. They both turned battered, but Peter was the
worse. Tracks of blood joined like streams into a river and dripped to the
floor. His arms, only his arms, were striped as some horrific tiger.
"What is going on here!" came a surprising shout. Their play was over.
Jim would not look at the figure in the door. He only watched his mother, the
bleeding boy with his heaving breaths. Peter glanced once to Hook, but did not
trust his opponent not to strike. He watched as he was watched.
Hook stepped between them and broke that focused line of sight. "Leave," he
told Jim, and his voice was a low warning.
Jim put away his knife and grinned his tarnished teeth. Hook recoiled at the
sight and would not look at him. "Of course, Father," he said. His wicked hands
drew obediently behind his back like an innocent child. "My apologies," he
bowed, "for leaving Peter in such a state. I know he's of little good to you
like this." Jim stood before the open door but could not resist one final
taunt. "Give him time though," he said. "He'll forget I was ever here."
He left, courteously closing the door behind him.
Peter dropped to the floor. He sobbed. Hook was not happy to be left with the
cleanup of an assault that was not even his doing. He groaned and picked the
boy up from the floor, carrying him to bed.
He cried and Hook cleaned his wounds with water that soon became a murky red.
The marks were superficial. His son was good with a blade and knew exactly what
he did. They did bleed horribly, however. Hook wrapped the arms tight with
bandages.
When he finished, the image was repeated history, long white sleeves of binding
cloth, the same way Jim had looked years ago.
Peter sprang up, latching onto him as support. "What did he say to make you
like this?" Hook asked.
"He said he killed people," Peter shrieked in his ear, "so many people."
"Who?" Hook questioned. "Whom did he kill?"
Peter shook his head. "I didn't know who they were. I think he was lying."
Hook put his hand on Peter and pulled him away. He blotted at teary red eyes
with his white handkerchief. "Yes, of course he was."
It was a dark thing, to have suspicion validated. The pyrrhic victory of being
right was devilishly tainted by the knowledge it carried. One might think the
world a better place if they had been wrong the entire time.
Yet it still was not in Hook to step in with valiance, justice, and heroism.
And for a long while he dare not rock the strange peace that reigned on his
ship.
But some patterns, unfortunately, could not be broken. And some children,
regrettably, could not always be watched.
"Wake up," Hook said. He raised a lantern to his face and shook the figure in
its hammock. "Out of bed, boy."
Jim stirred and woke. "What's going on?" he asked, a groggy noise half in
sleep.
"Richard's been missing for six days," Hook told him. Little Richard, five-
years-old and Mother's newest favorite. The boy was happy and energetic, as
fanciful and imaginative as the little sprite who gave him life. "Peter thinks
he ran away to the island in search of stories."
Jim groaned and tried to roll over, but a hook caught his shoulder, pressing
but not piercing. "Let the crew search for him," he hissed.
"Get up," Hook ordered. He left, knowing he would be obeyed.
Jim joined him on deck five minutes later and fully clothed. A dense fog hung
in the air, not yet dispelled by dawn.
"Why must we search for him?" Jim asked. "Where is the rest of the crew?"
Hook smiled and chuckled. They climbed into the longboat, and the man gestured
to the mooring line. Jim lowered them into the water.
"This is nice, isn't it?" Hook said as they jostled with every haul of rope.
"How long has it been, just the two of us, father and son?"
"Too long," Jim grinned as he sat down in the rocking boat amidst the waves.
"It's hard to be alone on a ship."
"Then let us make a day of it," Hook said. He took his dual cigar holder from
his pocket and lit each end. "We'll look for your brother and spend some
quality time together." He motioned for Jim to steer them and the boy took up
the oars.
"And after Blackbeard's head had been hacked from his tyrannical body," Hook
spoke, "the thing swam round and round the ship, looking for what it had lost."
"You've never told me your stories before," Jim said, and he smiled to hear
them, though their nature was grotesque.
"My stories are not for children," the man said. Jim's face beamed with
absolute happiness to hear the great man his father was name him "adult".
For hours they trudged through the thick growth of a small jungle. "Richard,
Richard," they called. No answer came. The sun lowered, then it dropped. They
lit lanterns and continued on.
Hook thought he could allow the charade as long as Jim, but he had
underestimated the boy's dedication. So it was inevitably Hook who first tired
of playing along. After all, the longer they went, the bigger the fool he would
be perceived as.
He stopped walking. Jim took several more paces before he noticed and slowed to
his own standstill. "Where is Richard?" Hook asked.
"I believe if we knew that we wouldn't be stumbling around in the dark," Jim
said. He played if off as a joke, but when he turned around he could see by
gentle lamplight that his father was not amused. "How should I know?" he
sneered, and his face turned angry and offended.
Hook sighed. "Let's try this again." He pulled his pistol and cocked it, aiming
directly for his son's chest. "Where did you leave Richard?"
Jim cowered before the weapon. "Are you mad?" he exclaimed. He threw his arms
before himself in defense, as though they could stop the lead ball. Pale
scratches showed along his forearms, the long healed scars of his mother's
assault. "I'm your son!"
"Where is Richard?" Hook asked again, unwavering in his interrogation. "I've
buried your other victims. You're a poor brother to not allow him peace."
"Father, please," he begged, and he dropped to his knees with contrition. His
lantern fell from his hand and to the ground, casting its orange light upon his
face from below. It was eerie and horrific, catching all his worst angles. He
cried. It was ugly. "I don't know where Richard is. I want to bring him home,
same as you."
"Dry your lying eyes. You're embarrassing me," Hook scoffed. "And insulting me.
I've suspected you for a long while, boy, but I'm afraid Richard is the final
straw."
"Father," Jim sobbed. He crawled nearer. Hook moved his pistol to accommodate
the angle. "I love your children. They are my brothers, my sisters. I mourn
them." It was a flawless performance. But he ruined it. "More than their mother
ever could." In the task of keeping his bitterness at bay he was a sorely
inept. His nostrils flared with disgust and his mouth was an ugly sneer.
"You stole from me," Hook said. "I'm afraid I can't forgive that."
Still Jim continued to grovel, perhaps unaware he had given himself away. "I
would never," he said.
"Confess," Hook ordered, "and I won't shoot you in the head." He took a long
step forward and stuck the gun against Jim, digging into his dark hair.
"I didn't," he whimpered. "I wouldn't."
"You have until the count of three."
"Father!"
"One."
"Think of what you're doing!"
"Two."
"I'm your son!"
"Three."
The thundering call of gunfire did not clap. For Jim had put away his pathetic
simpering. It was as if some lever had been thrown inside him, like any great
actor stepping off the stage. He laughed and it was icy water. "I suppose," he
chuckled, "you can't fool the devil." His dirty fingers wiped away the fake
tears. "Tell me, if you knew, why did you let us traipse around this
godforsaken island for so long?"
"Perhaps I was being sincere," Hook said. He pulled back his gun and stepped a
fair distance away. "I did want to spend the time with you. We haven't been
alone together for so long. It would be a pity if I didn't allow it now,
today."
"Why today?" Jim asked, but Hook did not answer directly.
"You stole from me," he said again, same as before. "I cannot forgive that."
"I saved them," Jim insisted. "His chosen few would have fallen hardest. They'd
have grown and lost his favor and became the same as me. It is better they died
under the delusion of love than aging and seeing its farce."
"They were not yours to save."
"Is that truly all we are to you?" Jim shouted. "Treasures for a pirate king?
Belongs to be hoarded? We are human beings!"
"Shut your mouth, boy," Hook growled. "I've no idea what you are. You're
unnatural, vile, the unholy product of disgusting unlove. None of you are
human."
"Then if we are not humans, I am not murderer," he reasoned. "Be we animals? I
am hunter. Be we demons? I am the righteous priest. But if we are only
treasures, then I am only thief, a minor offense." He stood up on his legs with
the mud of the earth pressed into his trousers. "For which I give my apologies
to the wronged." He bowed low to Hook.
"No one steals from me," Hook stated. "Your mother did, many times, and look at
the end it bought him."
"You allow him his delusion and a gaggle of playmates," Jim argued, always
bitter to thoughts of that individual. "You've given the slut all he could ever
want. I punish him in your stead, giving him sorrow that is too brief. Because
he will forget them. He already has. Only we will know Richard in a month's
time."
"Yes, what did you do with Richard?" Hook questioned. "I really am quite
curious. Usually they show up by now."
"There's a pit here on the island," Jim explained, "from Peter's stories. There
is no bottom and I never heard him hit, only the scream as it got quieter and
quieter." He made a whistling sound that began high and loud but slowly dipped
to low and quiet. "That hole goes to Hell itself. And if we are unholy, I saved
Richard the long trip of life in getting there." He snickered to himself. "I'm
sorry, Father, there is no body for you to claim. But ask your little whore
wife for its location and you may leave a marker."
Hook raised the pistol he had dropped behind the stiff folds of his coat. "All
I wanted to know," he said. Again he pointed the gun to Jim's chest and the boy
snorted.
"Do you fear I'll become older than you as well?" he taunted. "Will I ruin some
illusion you, too, harbor?"
"You will never be older than me," Hook stated.
"Perhaps not in years," Jim said, "but in body." His realization seemed to age
him, deepening every year he owned and giving a handful of someone else's.
"No," said Hook, "you'll never be older than me because you will die... and it
is today."
Jim laughed with such haughty arrogance. "You won't kill me," he said. He took
one step and then another, advancing until the pistol knocked against his
chest. The open barrel lay upon his heart. He stared at his father in a
boastful challenge. "You won't pull the–"
Bang.
Jim gasped, but breath hurt to take. Hook eased him to the forest floor. "Shh,"
he said, consoling him through the pain. "Shh, shh." Blood drained heavily from
the wound, that grotesque color the boy had inherited. It turned Hook's
stomach, made him ill and afraid. He was as terrified as the child he held.
"You shot me," Jim said, and he was surprised and offended. The shock of it was
upon him, body and mind. "Father, you shot me," he repeated, for he could think
of nothing better to say.
"You stole from me," Hook said as justification.
"I'm cold," Jim said, and his hands began to shake where they pressed to his
chest, attempting in vain to contain his disgusting blood. "I'm cold, Father."
The man removed his coat and laid it atop the child, though more for his own
peace of mind than coddling warmth. He could not look at that blood. It gave
him fear he had not known for many years.
Hook tucked the coat in around his chin and Jim was three-years-old again, put
to bed as Peter made a game of going to sleep.
"I just," Jim spoke, softly but forced, using ever ounce of life inside before
it flowed out. "I just wanted him to... love me." A tear slipped free from his
eye, dropping down the side of his face. It was an honest one, so sincere with
the self-pity of his dark soul. "I thought if there was no one else, if it was
only me, he... might..."
"Peter cannot love," Hook said, "not even a regular affection. But a parent's
love is more impossible for him. It must be a selfless one, and he will always
put himself and his own youth first. He could never have loved you, even if it
were only you and him in this small world."
"Do you love me, Father?" It was, without exception, the saddest question Hook
had heard in all his many years.
"I stopped you," he said, "before you could go on, before the body count grew
so high you hated yourself." The gesture and its words were meaningless. Jim
had hated himself since he was a child, or rather, since the day he had stopped
being one.
Jim smiled, bittersweet. "You didn't... answer my question." They were his last
words.
Hook closed his eyes.
He knew himself to be no better than Peter. How unfortunate that Jim should be
interned in Hell never having known love, not even from those two who should
have showered him with it all his life.
Stagnant blood dripped from dead lips and Hook raised the coat to block out
Jim's face. He could not look.
Standing on his feet, Hook gazed at the covered body one last time before he
stumbled and ran several paces away. He vomited his fear and disgust, knowing
then he should have saved himself and poisoned the boy, his son, his first.
Jim had always been his favorite, though that counted for precious little with
a black heart like his. And even less did it matter when the boy had forever
been a spoiled mother's child, even through his loudest of denials.
Rowing the boat back to the ship was nearly impossible. His one good hand could
take hold easily, but the hook could not grip. It took him longer than an able
man. He hated Peter for his ineptitude. He hated Peter for giving him children.
He hated Peter for the forgetful life the boy obsessed with keeping.
Hook decided he would not bed Peter that night, or many after. It had begun to
mean less about pleasure and punishment; more it was the act before children.
He hated children and always had.
He descended the steps into the belly of the ship, and in the narrow hall
before his door he heard a great wail. Opening the wooden barrier increased its
volume, allowed the horrid sound to attack without interference.
Peter was heard but could not be seen. He was so hidden beneath blankets he was
nothing more than a crying lump.
Hook removed his clothing down to his trousers and went to bed. The mattress
dipped beneath his weight and only then did Peter seem to notice him. He sprang
from his hiding place and clung to Hook as if he were drowning.
"It hurts," he screamed in Hook's ear. "It hurts! It hurts!" His wails were
loud, horrible, and without end.
Hook looked him over for visible wounds but saw nothing. "Where does it hurt?"
he asked with sigh and insincerity. After the day he had been through with
hiking and murder, he did not have the strength to care for the spoiled child
snaked around him.
"Here," Peter cried. He pulled back and placed his small hand against his
chest, over his heart. "It hurts so bad. I think something tore." He began
sobbing anew, fresh big tears. Little arms nearly choked Hook when the boy
grabbed him tight again. "It hurts, it hurts," he said over and over for hours.
He did not ask why, though it was obvious he had no idea for the cause of the
pain.
Perhaps he felt guilty for not knowing.
Hook wanted no more children, not for a long while.
Chapter End Notes
     I actually wrote this completely backwards, oddly enough. First I did
     Jim's death (because I really wanted to write that scene) and then I
     worked from the bottom up.
     I don't really know what I'm doing with aging in this fic. Peter
     doesn't age, neither does Hook. Children do at a normal rate. The
     crew does but slowly. I guess eventually they would have to have more
     children just to run the ship. Heh.
     But oh well. I'm done with this fic now. I can't think of anything
     else to add. I hope you liked it, joining me down here in such
     depravity. With its underage sex and murder. I would greatly enjoy
     reviews, so I can know your opinion. And I completely understand if
     you want to do that anonymously. Ha ha.
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