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Not So All Alone (a Hook story with two tacks tacked on) by glacis. If you think Jason Isaacs is tasty enough to eat with your fingers, come on in. The water's fine. No big crocs here.
"You're old!" they cried.
He tried to think happy thoughts, to remain in flight and avoid the huge, hungry, bloody determined crocodile splashing directly below him. "Blood!" he tried.
"You're all alone!" they cried.
"Death!" That worked for a little while, but still he sank. Snap! went the crocodile's jaws, inches from his heels. "Dead puppies!"
"And you're done for!" they cried.
Damn. Even dead puppies didn't work. Dead fairies, perhaps? Ah, blast and double damn, they were right. He crossed his arms, hook close against his left shoulder, sword crossing his right, and sighed, "And done for." Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he sank through the air like a stone, directly into the gaping maw of the crocodile.
Good gad, but it stank. It was dark, too. And close. Thankfully, he'd been heading downward at quite a clip, so unlike when the nasty beast had eaten his hand (die, Pan, die!) the crushing jaws crushed nothing but air.
It was a very good thing he was adept at holding his breath, and the champion underwater distance swimmer of all the pirates (ah, the things one had to do to become captain...) as his experience stood him in good stead. As did his absolute fury.
Not bothering to open his eyes, Captain James Hook lashed out with both boots, swept out with both arms, cutting deadly true with sword and hook. There were a few tense moments as the crocodile thrashed, squeezed, convulsed, and it was a bit difficult to hack through the tough hide, but it was softer on the inside than the outside, and Hook was through and into the blessed sea long before he ran out of breath.
He finally opened his eyes, took his bearings, then kicked up toward the surface, making quite sure to slice open the crocodile's throat on the off-chance the beast could survive having its belly split open. A side kick and a twist to avoid the final death snap of the great jaws, and Hook was free of his nemesis at last.
Well, one of them. As he broke the surface and flung wet hair out of his eyes, he saw the other one, blasted fairies at his beck and call, stealing his ship and sailing it away toward the heavens, of all things.
Damn Pan. One of these days, he was really going to kill him. Really.
At the moment, Pan was out of his reach, however. And so, Hook did what he always did when Pan foiled him. He cursed filthily under his breath, and swam for shore, leaving the brat's demise for another day. As he pulled himself atop the stones leading to his black castle, he stood for a moment, waterlogged crimson velvet clinging unpleasantly, and shook his hook at the sky.
"You're a child and a fool, Pan, and will never be more than either. As for being done for... not this time!"
Then feeling a bit silly at the way his own words echoed back at him, Hook grumbled up the uneven stone steps to the heart of his castle, and took a very, very long hot bath. With bubbles. Lavender ones, to soothe his weary soul.
After a simple repast of cold meat, cheese, bread and stout red wine, he sat back, pulled the edges of his dark blue smoking jacket (it matched his eyes beautifully) closer about his throat (it was bloody cold in that castle) and wondered where Smee had got to.
Thought being father to deed, he called imperiously, "Smee!" There followed a long silence. Then a huffy sigh from Hook. Then a "Smee!" that could only be described as whining, followed by yet more silence. "Bother," Hook grumbled. "SMEE!" he bellowed.
"You bellowed, sir?" Smee asked politely from just outside arm's (or hook's) reach.
He wore his usual look of imbecilic innocence. At least the innocence was put-on. He also positively dripped with plundered treasure. Gold spilled from his pockets, jewels glittered in the brim of his hat and cuff of his pants, and an ornate candlestick stuck out at odd angles from the back of his vest. Hook's left brow slowly rose.
Smee blanched.
"What, pray tell, are you up to, Mr. Smee?" Hook asked with excruciating politeness.
"Promised I'd give up piracy, sir, when the children dropped me off the plank. Going to devote me life to good works, I am, and give all these ill-gotten gains to charity, I will!" From blanching to beaming in the space of a sentence. It was nauseating.
Hook's lip curled. "Those wouldn't happen to be MY ill-gotten gains you were planning on turning over to charity, now, were they?"
Smee nodded happily. Paled again, and shook his head fiercely. Hook shot him.
"Blast," Hook sighed, staring down at the corpse, "who's going to do the cooking now?"
Of course, he lived in a magic land, and he was the evil force counter-balancing Pan's good (according to all the literature, anyway) so he commanded quite a bit of magic of his own.
He made the castle do it.
As it turned out, the castle was quite a good cook. However, it was an astonishingly bad conversationalist. With Smee dead, his crew gone missing, Princess Tiger Lily and her tribe not speaking English (and shooting arrows at him whenever he came near), all the children gone so there was no one to terrorize, and Peter Pan still off with Hook's own ship somewhere in the far beyond, Hook found himself all alone indeed.
And bored out of his mind.
There were many, many things that were awful about being the only adult stuck in a child's fantasy land. One couldn't curse much, or really get drunk, or carouse, or have sex, and even the killing was oddly bloodless. For a pirate, it was pathetic, really. Stuck in Neverland with a bunch of fairies, too small to do any good as they were, and a bunch of Indians who wanted nothing to do with him. Hook heaved a sigh. Tore the last of the meat from the breast bone of the Cornish game hen (even the fowl were small in Neverland) and idly threw the bone out the window.
Froze.
Stared at the cracks between the stones on the terrace where the bone landed.
Leapt from his seat and stared harder.
Yes. It was. A flower! A straggly, bright disgustingly pink flower pushing up through the stones on the terrace. A maniacal grin split Hook's face.
"He's back," he hissed to himself, since there was no one else to hear. "Pan's back! Finally! Something to do! I'll go kill Pan!"
Disregarding how well THAT had worked out the last several times he'd tried, Hook struggled into his harness, dressed in crushed gold velvet for a change from scarlet, screwed in a nicely nasty hook, stamped his feet into his new crocodile-skin boots (he'd enjoyed having those made just as much as he'd enjoyed feasting on crocodile steak for a week after the beast's corpse rolled in on the tide), caught up his sword and went searching for his enemy.
But Pan was nowhere to be found! And truthfully, Hook searched everywhere. Pan was in none of his usual haunts. The mermaids finally gave up trying to pull him in when he cut off the heads of a couple of them, but still, they hadn't seen Pan. The Indians stopped firing arrows and throwing rocks at him long enough to tell him that no, they hadn't seen Pan, either. The fairies buzzed and dive-bombed him, but even after he stomped a few into fairy dust they wouldn't tell him where Pan might be.
It was all quite discouraging.
Disconsolate, he returned to his empty, cold castle. He felt incredibly lonely with no ship, no crew, no Smee, no Lost Boys, no Pan, nothing but himself and his new crocodile skin boots in his big echoing castle filled with loot. After another long bubble bath (lilac this time, as he liked the way it smelled), he took himself up to the tallest turret of his castle and stared sadly at the stars.
Only to see, of all things, Peter Pan himself, flying with an entourage of fairies into the sky.
The thought that he wasn't alone after all was such a happy one, Hook found himself floating! Higher and higher he went, until he was close enough to grab a handful of fairies and squeeze the dust out of them, all over himself. That, and the happier thought of finally killing Pan, gave him the boost he needed to follow the blazing stream of light.
All the way to London.
It was a big place, London. Lots of fog and towers and a bloody huge clock that Hook was sorely tempted to smash, but restrained himself. He didn't want to lose Pan's trail, after all. Catching a half dozen more fairies and stuffing them into his pocket for later, then buttoning it closed so they couldn't escape, Hook stealthily darted to the side of the building Pan now hovered in front of, hoping to flank his enemy and then cut him to pieces when Pan wasn't looking.
Except he got sidetracked along the way.
Looking in through one of the windows he saw what looked like several of the Lost Boys, only couldn't be, because they were both clean and fully clothed. Pan was close by, so Hook ducked further back along the side of the building.
And saw... a Wendy. A grown-up Wendy in soft rose-colored cotton with her hair falling about her shoulders. Hook wanted to dance with her. Before he had the chance, another person came in the room.
"All settled down for bed, Marion?" a voice asked.
Grown-up Wendy, or Marion he supposed, nodded and smiled. Oh! Her smile sparkled! Then the one who'd spoken to her came further into the room and Hook felt his jaw drop open.
What a stunningly handsome man! The pale blue of his pajamas made the blue of his eyes all the bluer. Even through the ridiculous spectacles. The nervous smile on his mouth made Hook want to pat him, and soothe him. Then Marion reached up and removed the spectacles, and the nervous smile softened, and Hook found himself holding his breath.
Marion leaned forward and placed a kiss on the man's mouth. Hook gasped, realizing THAT was what he wanted to do, but the sound was lost as Marion said sweetly, "As settled as they'll ever be, George. Nana's watching out for them."
George. The handsome man's name was George. And he was Hook's. All Hook's.
Then Marion kissed him again, and Hook amended his thought. George was Hook's, and Marion's. Hook didn't usually share, but, well, Marion was a grown-up Wendy, and he supposed, for her, he would.
Ah. George. Hook's very own darling. He waited for a moment, looking for the exact moment to snatch George up and carry him away, when Marion slipped George's top from his shoulders, and Hook was taken completely aback. Oh, my, but George was a very handsome fellow.
A moment later, as Marion's hands were stroking all over the fine chest revealed when she'd begun to disrobe him, George pushed the dressing gown from Marion's shoulders as well, and Hook found himself gulping. Oh, my, but Marion was a very beautiful lady.
He watched, smile growing wider and steadily more lecherous as the action progressed. He felt both exhilarated that he was a grown-up and therefore allowed to enjoy doing such things, and devastated that he was alone with no one with whom he could do them. He began to sink under the unhappiness of his loneliness, plans for a Darling-snatch fading away. Marion and George were quite satisfied with one another, and he had no place between them, and no one of his own.
It took squeezing every bloody fairy he had stuffed in his pocket to get back home. They complained, of course, but after he told a couple he didn't believe in fairies, then grimly showed the fairy corpses to the remainder, they obliged by giving him all the dust they could shake.
Once back in Neverland, visions of bare George and bare Marion twining round one another in his head, a foul-tempered Hook went searching for Peter Pan. He found him (Pan didn't make it all that difficult, what with sitting in the middle of a clearing in the forest in the bright sunlight taking a nap and sighing in his sleep over Wendy) but decided it wasn't worth the effort of trying to kill him.
Freedom wasn't worth much with no one left to share it.
Pan opened one eye, stared up at him, and nodded. Apparently Hook said that out loud. Hook sighed. Settled down in the grass next to Pan and absently dug the tip of his hook into the grass.
"I'll never grow up," Pan whispered fiercely, apropos of nothing.
Hook gave him a disinterested glance. "Idiot," he finally said. "You have no idea what you're missing. I, unfortunately, do." With that, he got up, turned around, and walked back to his castle. There was nothing for it but to do it.
The next evening, decked out in powder blue velvet with dashing silver trim, James Hook fairy-napped a score of fairies, shook out a load of dust, and headed back to London.
TACK ONE (Hook/George/Marion) Ends with a Kiss
The house was still there (of course). The children were somewhat quieter. Marion still wore rose pink, though not much of it. George still wore blue, happily not much of that, either.
Unfortunately, from the sound of it, George's nightclothes weren't the only thing blue about him. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. His shoulders sagged.
"Oh, sweetheart," Marion told him, and Hook smirked at the fact that she didn't call him Darling. "I'm sure that something will come along. You're an intelligent, capable man--"
"Who can't string two words together when faced with a superior," George interrupted her, sounded quite sad indeed, and not a little frustrated. "How on earth am I to provide for eight children, a large dog, a house, a wife, an aunt, and myself, with no job?" he cried softly.
"Oh, love," Marion answered softly, no answer at all, then pulled his head down to rest against her bosom.
Hook licked his lips. It was a beautiful bosom, of course, but that wasn't the reason his mouth was dry. Oh, no. It wasn't even because George had lifted his face to Marion's and kissed her, and Hook could see tongues tangling. Or even because Marion kissed George back quite thoroughly, then wound her arms and legs around him, and they moved quite energetically together for some time while Hook watched avidly.
All right, perhaps that had SOMETHING to do with his licking his lips, but really, it was because he had A Plan.
As soon as Marion fell asleep, he would put it into action.
George, bless his oblivious heart, made it easy. Gently extracting himself from Marion's embrace, George shrugged on his heavy robe and walked over to the window, staring out blindly at the skies. To Hook's great good fortune, not only was this the window by which he hovered, but it was also wide open. Ah, the English and their unnatural attachment to fresh air, even in the full blast of winter.
Hook took full advantage of the circumstances. Swept down. Covered George's mouth with his gloved left hand, wrapped his right arm about George's waist, and carried him away.
George was so gobsmacked he didn't even struggle. He lay against Hook's body still as a statue, only the occasional squeak escaping the muffling glove to show that he still lived. Hook was so happy at his George-napping that he didn't even need to squeeze any more fairies to get them back to his castle, which was just as well, since George was a double-armful, and Smee was dead (and couldn't fly even when he lived), so Hook had no hands left with which to squeeze fairies if he had needed them.
Once back at the dank stone castle, not quite so empty now, Hook deftly tied George to the bed. Then he stepped back and looked him up and down in a proprietary manner. George, wide-eyed and rather myopic, stared back at him. Hook smiled. Posed, showing off his flowing hair and wickedly gleaming hook.
"What in God's name have you done?" George suddenly shrieked. "And who the bloody hell are you?"
Hook winced, shook his head to rid it of the aftershock of that sudden shriek, and waited for the last echoes to stop bouncing off the stone walls.
"Captain James Hook, at your service," he announced in suitably plummy tones. Then he caught himself and smirked. Evilly. "Actually, no, that's not quite right. You, George-my-Darling, are at MY service!"
And so he was. Repeatedly. Until George finally fainted from over-stimulation. As it had been rather a long time since Hook had enjoyed himself in such a manner, it took a few moments for him to realize that George was, in fact, unconscious.
"Blast," he grumbled. "One would think from your appalling lack of stamina, sirrah, that coming seven times in an evening is uncommon!" He thought about it, slowing moving his hips back and forth as he pushed into George's flushed and rather soundly used rump. "Ah, well, eight, including the opener with your dear wife. I suppose that is a bit -- Ooooh! Yes!" His train of thought was at once derailed as he emptied himself deep in George's body. Collapsing against the sweat-slick, slack-muscled heap of exhausted man beneath him, Hook smiled. "Satiation. Another beautiful feeling that irritating Pan will never enjoy." He so loved being a grown-up.
Unfortunately, he couldn't quite get the image of Marion out of his mind. Or the worry with which George had been burdened before Hook took him away from it all and loved the stuffing out of him. There was one thing about being a grown-up... Hook was well aware that problems didn't go away simply by ignoring him. He left that sort of wishful thinking to perpetual children with a knack for memory loss.
So, regretfully withdrawing from George, washing them both quickly and bundling the still-unconscious George in warm clothing (oh, but he'd done a wonderful job wearing George out!), Hook squeezed a few fairies from his hidden stash, and relied on extremely happy memories of riding George into the sunrise to fly them back to London. Slung over his shoulder, he carried a bag of loot from one of the innumerable rooms of plunder at the castle.
Hook had an Addendum to his Plan.
The window was still open, but Marion sat upright, wide awake, staring about the room in a puzzled manner, when Hook flew through the window. It was a tight fit, what with himself, his sword and hat, unconscious George, and the sack of gold, but he made it.
"Good heavens!" Marion whispered. She watched, eyes nearly starting out of her head (yet still looking quite beautiful) as Hook gently lowered George to the bed beside her. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
Oh. Perhaps he should have left the leather cock-ring back at the castle. And while he'd washed them down, it had been in a rather slapdash manner, so the scent of sex did still somewhat linger. Not to mention the finger-shaped bruises on George's thighs. And the large mouth-shaped bruises on his neck. And chest. And nipples. And belly. And...
"Good heavens," Marion whispered again.
It sounded distinctly different this time. Hook ventured a glance over at her. She still stared at George, but the shock was quite gone, replaced by a liquid heat that caused Hook to lick his lips and shift uneasily from foot to foot in an attempt to alleviate some of the sudden tightness in his breeches.
Then Marion looked up at him. The heat flared.
"Good god," she muttered, "you're enough alike to be twins!"
Before Hook could move, Marion was a breath away, her hands tangling in his hair, her eyes raking over his face and body with such force it felt as if they were physically touching him.
"Hello, Captain Hook," she purred, then reached over and bit him. On the side of the neck, right below his jaw, her face pushing into his curls.
It was Hook's turn to squeak. He was quite dizzy, what with all the lovemaking then the flying and now the blood rushing from his head to points south. "Do I know you, madam?" he finally managed to ask, sounding ridiculously breathy even to his own ears.
"Wendy's not the first girl in my family to go to Neverland," Marion informed him before licking his ear and scattering his thoughts completely. "And Peter's not the only one with a memory problem. I see you've finally learned how to fly."
"Has he ever!" George's voice came weakly from the bed, gathering strength with each word. "I say, Marion!" he then exclaimed, causing Marion to pull back from Hook's embrace.
Not that Hook remembered actually embracing her. Oh, but she was stealthy! And sneaky! She'd make a good pirate! She kept one hand on Hook's waist, drawing him with her as she bent to press her mouth to George's.
"Welcome back, my love," she told him as sweetly as ever. "Isn't Neverland quite fantastic?" She reached down with her free hand and ever-so-gently flicked the cock-ring with her fingertips.
George groaned.
So did Hook.
There was nothing to do but to do it, of course, and a pirate is always one to seize his chance when he sees it. Drawing Marion with him, Hook knelt on the bed and lowered his head to kiss George. George instinctively raised his hands to push Hook off; more quickly than the eye could follow, Hook caught both wrists in the curve of his hook and clamped them to the bed above George's head. Objections out of the way, he then took his time and kissed George quite thoroughly.
Marion moaned.
Breaking contact long enough to drag in a breath, Hook glanced up at her in suave invitation. "Join us, my dear?"
The words were scarcely clear of his lips before she was on the bed as well, snuggled up against George's front as Hook aligned himself down George's back.
Several good gropes, many long kisses, quite a lot of nakedness, more twists and thrusts than one could count, and all three of them were moaning. And groaning. And chanting endearments (in Hook's case, curses, but it sounded the same). And collapsing together in a happy, satiated mound, with George still in the middle.
Quite some time later, Marion was kissing Hook as George was licking the side of Hook's throat, hands were lazily roaming, and the sun was breaking over the horizon. Hook's eyes popped open.
"Blast," he mumbled against Marion's mouth. She disengaged her tongue from his and gave him a questioning look. "Looks like I'm caught here for the day. Can't go flying about in broad daylight. The fairies wouldn't cooperate."
"Not like I have to go into work anyhow," George grumbled into Hook's hair. The breath ghosting over his skin made Hook shiver.
"Oh!" he sat up suddenly, prompting twin complaints from George and Marion. Hook grinned at them, not the least bit evilly, although they kindly didn't tell him so. "That reminds me!"
He scrambled off the bed and grabbed his sack of plunder, hauling it back to the bed. Two sets of heated blue eyes watched every move appreciatively. If Hook had known how to blush he would have; as it was, he merely smirked and upended the bag to rain treasure down upon his two lovely Darlings.
"Good heavens!" Marion exclaimed for the third time that evening, but this time with happy shock.
"Well," George said slowly, running his hand through one of the piles of gold coins, "for a return such as this, I suppose I could do a pirate now and then." The look he slanted Hook was delightfully sinful, immediately followed by a politely smoldering look at Marion. "With your permission, my dear."
"Of course, but only if I get to play, too. Or at least watch." She smiled broadly at them both.
"Only fair," Hook agreed. "After all, I've watched you."
That earned him another hour's romp in bed. This time, he was in the middle. By the time Marion went to get the children up, Hook couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. Snuggling up to George, carefully pushing his hook beneath the pillow so as not to accidentally slash anyone, Hook smiled as he dropped a kiss on George's bare shoulder.
Thank God, he thought as he fell into exhausted slumber, thank God I grew up.
Or, for something completely different…
TACK TWO (in which another universe altogether is subverted) (Hook/Lucius Malfoy) Enchanted to Meet You
Since there was no room for him between the Darlings, Hook decided to go looking for his own darling to kiss. As he was flying north of London, a strong breeze came up, tumbling him arse over tea kettle all the way up to Scotland, and nearly making him drop the fairies tied in his pocket. Finally righting himself with an effort, he checked to make sure his emergency store of dust was secure (as he certainly didn't want to find himself stuck in England with no way to get back to Neverland, and he knew he couldn't count on enough happy memories of his own to keep him flying).
Looking about, trying to get his bearings, he was startled to see that everything was grey. The land looked to be made up mostly of rocks, with a weed or two squashed between them. There were no people nor houses to be seen. It was desolate, dreary and dank.
Much like his castle, actually. He smirked, feeling quite at home.
Then squeaked with dismay as he found his feet dragged unrelentingly downward. One panicked glance showed him there was no massive crocodile waiting to make him its supper this time, so that was a relief. There were, however, a multitude of grey hooded beings shuffling toward him. They looked like they might perhaps be threatening. Hook grinned.
Unsheathed his sword, angled his hook, and dove in to battle.
Wicked light gleaming in eye and off teeth, sword slashing merrily and hook gutting everything in reach, Hook had a high old time killing whatever the hell it was that had come after him. Now this, THIS made him happy. Cutting and slicing away, dealing death like the professional pirate he was... seldom did he so enjoy himself. Only when his enemies lay in heaps about him did he stop for a breath.
"Ah, now, THAT was fun!" he proclaimed to the still air.
"How did you do that?" a voice asked behind him, startling him into a jump (that he skillfully disguised as a turn). "How did you overpower them? They feed on human happiness, draining thought and memory--"
"Well, that's easy enough," Hook interrupted before the drone of questions bored him to death. "As I have no happy memories, they couldn't harm me. As I also have both a sword and a hook," he brandished both flashily, smirking all the while, "I could do a great deal of harm to them."
The old man who'd addressed him, as grey as the beings he'd killed and nearly as droopy, in his grey long robe with his long grey hair, pointed a grey stick at Hook as if it were a weapon. Not giving his new enemy a chance to get the drop on him, Hook lunged forward and sliced the hand holding the stick right off.
"Too bad there aren't any handy crocodiles for you," he sneered, then stuck his sword through the man's heart, silencing the irritating screaming. Wiping his sword carefully on the grey robe (as one must take care of one's blades) and thinking absently that the red quite brightened the place up, Hook wandered through the fortress the dead grey beings no longer guarded.
Carved into the stones above the entryway was the single word 'Azkaban.' Hook stared at it for a moment.
"Who in the world would come up with a name like that? It sounds like something a bad stage magician would say whilst pulling a puppy from a top hat."
Hmm. Puppies. Hook hadn't kicked anything in awhile, so he kicked at the nearest corpse, for the fun of it. Then he stepped on it as he walked into the fortress. It rolled beneath his feet but didn't crunch. Ah. No bones. Well, whatever it was, it was no threat now.
The long entryway emptied into a series of hallways. Down each hallway were what looked like cell doors. Hook stepped up to one and peered through the peephole in the door with curiosity.
Yes. Cells. Complete with prisoners. Very dirty, very apathetic, very ugly prisoners. Hook's lip curled.
Well, he certainly wasn't going to waste his time breaking that one out! Or that one, he thought, staring into the second cell, or that one, at the third. And so it continued, until Hook was bored nearly out of his skull and seriously considering letting some of the prisoners out of their cells just so he could kill them and have something to do. Then he came to the last cell on the row.
Oooooh.
That one wasn't ugly.
Nor apathetic; more angry than anything else. He was rather dirty, but Hook spent most of his life as a pirate; a little dirt was nothing. And this one, beneath his dirt, gleamed.
His hair, long past his shoulders, tangled, still shone white-gold, even in the dim light of the cell. His skin was white beneath the grey dust. His eyes were silver blue, sparkling with fury as they locked with Hook's. Tearing his gaze away, Hook continued his perusal. The body lived up to the beauty promised by the face; even in shackles (perhaps especially in shackles) it was enticing. Ragged linen, smeared with dirt and sweat and blood, hung from broad shoulders, hinting at a muscular chest; the remnants of well-tailored trousers clung to strong thighs, draped the length of sprawled legs. The prisoner sat with his back against the wall, hands caught up in cuffs chained over his head, face turned with resolute hatred toward the door.
Now, this looked like fun! Even without the killing!
The door wasn't locked (between the now-dead grey beings and the shackles, locking the door would have been over-kill). Hook kicked it open and strode in, making sure to pose as the light struck him from behind, to suitably impress the prisoner. He knew, with his silver and velvet, satin and trim, feathered hat and flowing ebony curls, not to mention a body to die for, he was quite an imposing figure.
"If they've sent you to break me out, stop wasting time and get to it," the prisoner demanded imperiously, no sign of awe anywhere to be heard.
Well, that would never do. Hook felt his temper rising. Glanced down at his tightening breeches.
Not only his temper was rising to the occasion.
Gliding over to the chained man, who was attempting to rise, Hook caught the back of the man's ankle with the toe of his boot and took the man's feet right back out from under him. The prisoner landed flat on his arse with a pained sound and a glare up to Hook.
Instantly, Hook stepped between the prisoner's legs, kicking the thighs until they were splayed widely. At the same moment, he put the cutting edge of his hook beneath the man's chin, tilting it up and moving the metal forward until the man could feel the kiss of it against his throat.
"No one sends Captain Hook to do anything," he told the man fiercely. "I'm here for my own pleasure, and if you want to live through it, you'll do as your told without any further impertinence. Is that clear?"
"Go to hell," the man spat back at him.
Hook dropped the hook from its precarious position and backhanded the man hard. As the pretty blond head was still bouncing against the stones, Hook unbuttoned his breeches and caught the man's chin once more on the flat of his hook.
"Bite and I'll cut your throat," he said, then placed the tip of his prick against the man's closed mouth. Fluid from the tip smeared across the thinned lips. "Open up and take it like a man," Hook ordered him, pressing in with the sharpened edge against the tender skin of the prisoner's throat until he could see a trickle of blood trailing down to the ragged collar.
Silvery eyes full of hatred stared at him as the prisoner opened his mouth.
"Good lad," Hook praised him, then thrust all the way down the man's throat. Ignoring the choking sounds and the thrashing of arms in the shackles, Hook wrapped his hand in the long blond hair, angled his hips, and fucked away happily. Ah, it had been so long.
It was horrible being the only adult in a land full of perpetual children. He could have his wine or his grog, his cigars and his slaughter, but sex... sex was out of the question, unless one were of the sick sort that liked it with children, and Hook most certainly was not.
Well, children, or pirates (and none of his appealed) or Smee (and even Hook wasn't that desperate), or one of the Indians (and none would oblige). So the unaccustomed pleasure of a hot mouth and tight throat wrapped around his prick was absolutely wonderful, and he made the most of it. By the time he came, the prisoner had given up the unequal struggle and simply sat there taking it.
"Lovely," Hook said as he drew his spent prick from the man's mouth, not knowing himself if he meant the sex or the man. He bent down, pulling the man's head back by the hair, grazing his own knuckles on the stone wall, and thoroughly kissed the man, lazily sweeping his tongue over the man's teeth and tongue, cleaning up the last of the seed that hadn't been swallowed. "I think I'll keep you."
Before the man could ask, Hook shifted his grip and efficiently rapped the man's skull against the stone wall, rendering him unconscious. His hook through the link at the cuff of the shackles broke the link cleanly, and in a moment, Hook had his pretty blond prisoner all set to go to Neverland. Buffered by his recent happy memories of death and little death, boosted by a fairy or two that he squeezed for the dust before stuffing them back in his pocket, it was the work of a moment to fly to the stars and back home.
The castle welcomed him back as much as it ever did. Hook stalked through the drafty, echoing corridors until he got to his bedchamber. Once there, he commanded the castle to provide him with appropriate accoutrements; in moments, his bed was adequately equipped with silver chains and velvet-lined cuffs. Much nicer than the grimy rusting shackles the prisoner had back in the fortress. Not that Hook expected thanks.
No, the only thing Hook expected was sex, and lots of it. He hardly waited for the first signs of consciousness returning to start in on his new toy. There was one good thing to be said for shagging the barely conscious; the absolute relaxation made it quite easy to stick it in (which Hook did, with enthusiasm).
The man regained his senses to find himself splayed out on Hook's bed, bouncing away on the feather mattress, as Hook feasted on his mouth and plundered his arse. If he'd had a protest, he didn't give voice to it, most probably because Hook's tongue was in the way of any talking he might have tried to do. A man's body being what it was, and the prostate being the joy button it so often could be, at least this time the man was a more active participant
That is, if arching and screaming and coming like a geyser could be termed 'active', and to Hook, it was quite enough. The man's orgasm tripped his own, as his prick was squeezed in that nicely tight behind, and Hook did some screaming of his own as he came. That was followed by more kisses, and more wriggling, and sighing more than screaming. Eventually it settled into snuggling, as much as a pair can snuggle when one of the pair is trussed up like a Christmas goose.
"By the way," Hook finally offered, nuzzling the tangle of white-gold hair to get at the tasty neck beneath it, "my name is James."
His new toy gave a surprisingly elegant snort. "Of course it is," the man grumbled. "If it isn't Harry, it has to be James."
As that made no sense to Hook and was moot to boot, he bit the tender flesh beneath his mouth. Hard. The man yelped. "And you are?" Hook asked testily.
"Lucius Malfoy," the man replied haughtily, "at your service."
The words sounded rote, but as they were, in this case, completely true, Hook had to stifle a chuckle. "So you are," he agreed, and licked the place where he'd just bitten. At the same time, he lowered his hand to knead the sticky balls below the half-hard prick lying so temptingly beside him.
Lucius Malfoy was too busy moaning to answer.
The next few days passed in the same delightful manner. Fucking, hand-feeding, sleeping, a wash when necessary, then more fucking. Eventually, Hook unchained Lucius, long enough for him to use the facilities, but he always chained him up again. Hook didn't know (nor care) how Lucius felt about it, but he himself much preferred Lucius chained. Access was simply so much... easier that way.
The second time Hook unchained Lucius, Lucius tried to sneak out. Hook, being a professional when it came to sneaking about, caught him before he got out of the master suite. Being a bit of a showman, Hook went for the flashy move to stop him.
He reached down and caught Lucius' prick in the curve of his hook.
Lucius looked down. His eyes widened. His breath caught. He shivered.
His prick filled.
Ooooooh, very interesting indeed! Hook grinned. Evilly, of course. "You like that," he said. It wasn't a question.
Lucius slanted him a sideways glance. Pure heat shimmered in the silver-blue depths. A smirk quite as evil as Hook's own graced Lucius' mouth. He didn't answer.
Hook reached over and pinched the closest nipple. Hard. Lucius gasped. His prick hardened further. Hook walked closer, letting go of the peaking nipple to walk behind Lucius, changing the angle of his grip as he moved to keep the swelling prick within the metal embrace at all times. When he was behind Lucius, he wrapped his arm around Lucius' waist and pressed his hand solidly against Lucius' chest.
Then he moved the hook.
With the first strop up, Lucius gasped again, louder than before, and shuddered. When Hook stropped down, the flat edge of the hook pressing Lucius' balls back against his thighs and the tip of the hook barely pricking the skin on his groin to the side of his prick, Lucius moaned. It was stifled, as if Lucius was fighting it, and that made Hook enjoy it all the more.
"How delightfully perverted," he whispered, licking the side of Lucius' jaw. "We do make a well-matched pair."
He planted one boot between Lucius' bare feet and shoved forward with his pelvis, pushing Lucius' prick against the unrelenting steel of the hook, and not incidentally moving Lucius' thighs further apart. It was the work of a moment, as well-used as Lucius' arse was by then, for Hook to thrust his own dripping prick deep in Lucius' body.
That prompted a few more gasps, as well as some involuntary movement from Lucius, first back onto Hook's prick then forward into the curve of his hook. For the first time since he'd lost his hand, Hook put his steel appendage to use for something other than wreaking death.
From the jolt it gave Lucius, it was clear it wouldn't be the last such use.
It was a hard, long, awkward fuck, standing there, holding Lucius up with one arm and trying not to castrate him with the hook, keeping his rhythm and taking his pleasure at the same time. It was easier when Lucius reached back with both hands, wrapping them around Hook's hips and pulling him in. As his climax hit him, Hook burrowed through the hair in the way and bit down on the juncture of Lucius' neck and shoulder, leaving yet another mark.
Lucius came all over the hook without so much as a touch of living flesh to his prick.
After that, Lucius didn't try to escape again.
Still, after a few weeks of blissful fucking, and an occasional conversation, came the question Hook knew would eventually have to come.
"Will you allow me to go home?" It was obvious, from the white line around Lucius' lips and the tension in his jaw, that even after all their debauchery (and Lucius' submission in all its various forms) the plea didn't come easily. Hook rewarded him with a kiss.
Forty minutes later, after the thorough fucking the kiss prompted, they returned to the question at hand.
"What awaits you back there?" Hook asked.
"My family, wife and son, my duties to my estate, to my... master's cause." Lucius' voice softened with each word until by the end it was barely a whisper.
"Your master?" Hook asked archly, ignoring the rest. "I fill that role quite sufficiently, I must say."
He ran the tip of his hook down the center of Lucius' chest, leaving a thin red line in its wake. Lucius' eyes followed the hook's trail, visibly trembling, prick trying valiantly to rise. Alas, it had risen (and fallen) so many times recently it was not up the task. Hook dropped a nibbling kiss on the tip as consolation and Lucius whimpered.
Then he gathered his thoughts, forced his body to calm, and told Hook all about a wonderful ball of mayhem and madness, wrought by a mad wizard called Voldemort (Hook snorted at the name; really, who wouldn't?), complete with treachery and world domination and lots and lots of killing.
It sounded like jolly good fun. Hook was all set to head off and join in.
Only, oddly enough, as Lucius described it, he himself seemed less and less enthused to return. When he was finished, Hook smirked at him and asked, "Well, when do you want to go?"
Lucius' gaze swept over Hook's naked form, the rumpled bed, the shackles... the hook... then back up to meet Hook's eyes.
"On second thought, why bother? I'd just as soon stay here. Warm," he leaned over and kissed Hook, then murmured against his lips, "alive, and very well taken care of..." The words ended with his tongue in Hook's mouth, as he slung a leg over Hook's hip and ground their lower bodies together.
Well-taken, anyway, was the last coherent thought Hook had, before he gave up dreams of gory glory for the golden glory right there in his bed.
END (seriously)