Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1021310.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Wendy_Darling/Peter_Pan
  Character:
      Peter_Pan_(Once_Upon_a_Time), Wendy_Darling_(Once_Upon_a_Time)
  Additional Tags:
      PWP, sorta_-_Freeform, With_a_helping_of_angst, boys_are_so_dumb, dumb
      dumb_dumb, Pre-Series
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-28 Words: 1362
****** in the absence of her ******
by winterbones
Summary
     do not fly close to the sun when your wings are fashioned in wax. or,
     a lesson the pan of neverland never learned.
     sequel/side-story to like_something_hungry
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
It bothered him that the air seemed stifling without the infusion of her
scent—something powdery, like a half-remembered dream from a time before he was
called the Pan, master of Neverland, but he didn’t like to think of those
times, because Neverland was sprung up from the very garden of his bones, and
he didn’t like remembering the world bereft of Neverland; it felt wrong and
perverse. But her scent had gotten caught in the Pan’s nose, unwilling though
it might have been. Fresh powder and downy sheets, the frilled ruffle coverlet
she had no doubt been dozing in when his shadow had stolen her away.
The Pan was known for his dark, mercurial moods—as fluid as Neverland itself,
the mermaids took to calling him woodland-born because they were convinced no
mortal mother could have birthed him, that he was sprung up from the dark heart
of the sticky Neverlandian jungle. The Pan liked to humor himself in thinking
they were right, though the visages of a former life clung to his eyes like the
remains of sleep.
His lost boys knew to keep distance from him when he was in one of his fouler
moods, but this one set them on edge, like a knife pointed lightly to their
gut. One of the boys had had the misfortune of knocking over a pot and
disturbing his musings—the Pan had let a jungle cat chase the lad for miles
before whisking his battered body back into the fold; a lesson learned. The
other boys had laughed, feasted on the violence and smell of ripe terror, but a
cord of nervous warbled below it.
“Should have killed the bird when we had the chance,” he had overheard Felix
mutter, mostly to himself.
Felix had a point, he always did. The Pan dreamt that night of sinking his
teeth into her pale, ivory throat, swallowing the addicting taste of her,
filling himself up with her. He woke up with the nether part of him throbbing
like an open wound.
The concept of hell was a foreign one to the Pan—it was a construct of adults,
and those who felt mortality breath on their neck—but if he had understood it,
he might have wished Wendy Moira Angela Darling to every corner of it and back.
The damage she had wrought was already done—he could feel it. He had not been
as he should have been when the bird had been dropped into his lap, the death
of magic already taking its toll on the body of the boy who was the embodiment
of all its wildest properties, but she had made it worse. He could feel a
tingle in his fingertips, when he thought about twining his fingers through the
wild curls of her honey-rich hair, muscles clenched in his legs when his name
tangled on her lips in a plea. Growing pains—and he should have never felt
them; his body should not be half-an-adult, stunted in a purgatory of not
nearly grown, just enough to keep Neverland alive. His body was expanding,
while his world was contracting. He would not fit in it for much longer, if he
was not careful.
Perhaps he should have drowned her; or given her to the mermaids for the task.
The Pan kept the thought ideal at the back of his head—but remembered her mouth
hot beneath his, her hips canting upward, receiving him. He had brushed against
the adult world before, but it had never left an imprint on him, it had never
held any thrill for him. When she crashed through the glass plating of his
world, he had begun to image what it would have been like, to be a man, to be a
man who could take a woman.
He dreamt of her now, and of the night in the jungle, in the little hidden away
section of cleared trees. He had been enraged that Hook had had her—a man,
something inside him had hissed and had paced around his brain like a caged
beast—but he had intended to kill her there, wet her blood on his sword, but
then he had kissed her and pushed her to the ground and undressed her and she
had gasped his name into his mouth like he was something holy.
And then he’d been a man, taking a woman. He’d known what it meant, even if the
particulars had eluded him. Wendy had already mocked him for not understanding
the subtle differences of mother and father and husband and wife. He’d shown
her he had, and that night he had made her his wife—leafs in her hair and dirt
on her knees, and him inside her.
“Peter,” he could almost hear her pant into his ear, and the Pan twisted
sideways in his half-sleep. He was called the Pan, Peter the clinging remnants
of a boy he had buried a millennia ago in offering to his immortality, but he
hadn’t been either of those names that night. He’d been something she had
conjured up, brutal and hard and dark and wild and completely wedded to her,
unable to divorce himself from the essence of her, breathing for her.
Alone, in the little hollowed out nook at the top of a thick tree, the Pan’s
eyes fluttered in a dreamstate. He remembered Wendy’s puckered lips, and them
imagined them fluttering kissing along his naked chest. She was naked, too, of
course. He had a clear memories of her breasts, budding and fascinating, too
small in the cup of his hand but soft and warm. He kissed them as he had that
night, tongue over the beaded nipple as she arched into him, fingers clawing at
his hair.
The fuzzy edges of the scene were ignored; her lips coasted back over the
planes of his chest, across the ridges of his ribcage, to the jut of his hip to
his—his dream was disturbed by his brain stuttering over the right word,
grasping at cock; he’d heard it once, from a pirate crew in a vague memory from
long ago.
Her mouth closed over his—his cock. The Pan was certain Wendy wouldn’t know to
do such a thing. He wasn’t even sure how he knew, except a body must have some
instinctive knowledge of the best ways of chasing pleasure. Her tangled hair
spilled over his hips, tickling his naked thighs, as her mouth kissed his
aching shaft, stiffening impossibly with each shy brush of lips.
She tongued his mushroomed head, her own bowed so he could not see her eyes.
Something was wrong about that, but the Pan could only arch his neck backward
and howl. Her hand rested flat on his stomach, and he caught it, dragging it up
and ignored her mild sound of protest at the hyperextension. He sucked one
finger into his mouth, creating a circuit between them, a current. Emboldened,
her mouth came fully over his cock, her cheeks hollowing out as she drew him
into her mouth, swallowing him, consuming him. He widened the spread of his
legs, and she settled between them comfortable, the sound of her sucking making
twin blotches of color stain his cheeks, the veins in his neck throbbing in
time with the bobbing of her head.
“Wendy,” he groaned out, the closest thing he had ever come to a prayer.
And when her hips lifted, the fingers of her free hand slipping between them to
touch herself, the visual was too much. He climaxed with a crazed groan, and
she licked and sucked more, draining him dry, finally easing him out of her
mouth with a wet pop, her cherry-red lips swollen and gleaming. She lifted her
chin and at last he could see her eyes—
The Pan woke up, one hand wrapped around his flaccid cock, the sticky fluid of
his release already drying on his stomach. Wendy was gone, because she had
never been. He’d sent her away because of this very reason. The danger she
posed to him.
And with all the strength and selfishness half-a-man-half-a-boy could muster,
he wished her back.
End Notes
     1. because everyone wanted the pan's side of the story
     2. sorry i am in love with unrepentant evil villains who are still
     capable of having feelings
     3. boys are dumb
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