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Awakenings	By : KimberlyA Category: M through R > Peter Pan > Het Views: 16011 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Author's Notes: In case anyone's wondering, yes, despite its reputation for fog, London is sometimes very warm during the summer. On my first visit there in 1987, it was well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit on the day we arrived, and the temperature didn't fall much below 90 for the following two weeks. Bleh! So, anyway, windows open at night wouldn't be particularly unusual.

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Chapter 5
An Unconventional Courtship
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Wendy woke the next morning in time for breakfast, but she felt so sleepy that she claimed wasnwasn't feeling well and sent Mother away, staying instead to luxuriate beneath her white quilted bedclothes with a wonderfully secretive smile upon her face.

She had asked Peter to bring her home soon after he had behaved so strangely. He said he hadn't felt pain, but she had seen his face -- so shocked in the throes of some sudden torment -- and heard his animal-like cry, and she was not sure if she should believe him. Some strange thrill had thrummed within her at the sound of his groan, but she did not understand why. She was certain he was hiding something from her, but she had not been able to determine what it might be. He could o fro frustrating sometimes!

Until his strange behavior, however, it had all been so very lovely! The hillside overlooking the fairy castle, the wild roses perfuming the air, the tall grass that surrounded them like a fragrant refuge from the world's eyes ... it had all filled Wendy with a yearning she could not resist.

Wendy knew that some day soon she would be expected to choose a man to be her husband, a man with whom she would spend the rest of her life. Since she had come of age, at every ball and party and dinner she attended she had been presented to a seemingly endless parade of identically unremarkable but eligible young gentlemen.

They all wore the same starched shirts, the same vests with fashionable pocket watches, the same straight-creased trousers, the same primly buttoned jackets, the same snugly knotted ties, and the same fatuous facial expressions. They all said the same things -- I say, pleasant weather we're having, Miss Darling! That dress is most becoming, Miss Darling! What a charming lot of brothers you have, Miss Darling! You dance most divinely, Miss Darling! Shall we have a walk in the garden, Miss Darling? -- which frequently made Wendy feel that she might scream with boredom.

But Wendy knew that it was her duty to choose a proper husband, and she therefore would do so. Her parents could not, after all, be expected to support her forever, particularly given the large number of fast-growing boys they were raising.

Yes, Wendy knew that it would be her duty to choose a husband soon, most likely a fashionably-dressed young gentleman with a fatuous expression who spoke to her of the weather.

But, until that day, was there any harm in giving herself some small, precious joy to press secretly to her heart forever after, to last her through a lifetime of politeness and propriety?

Was there any harm in allowing herself these stolen moments with Peter Pan?

If there was, she refused to think of it. Soon enough would come duty. For now, she wanted only to truly live, to follow the call of her heart ... while she still could.

* * *

Peter, of course, felt no such hesitations or concerns in the wake of their evening among the wild roses, for no rules applied to his thoughts or behavior.

Peter lived quite as if he were the first man ever to exist in a pristine paradise, hemmed in by no expectations, doctrines, ideologies, or protocols. He was a living, breathing, feeling creature, and he behaved according to his nature. Just as the first man took the first woman to wife without benefit of church steeple or magistrate, Peter had taken Wendy to wife within his heart and with his body.

He would not have phrased his feelings and actions in such words however, for in the chaotic jumble of his thoughts and emotions he could clearly identify only one certainty above all:

He wanted Wendy.

He was not entirely sure exactly what it was that he wanted, but he knew most definitely that he wanted Wendy.

He wanted to hold her tightly in his arms and kiss her until her lips were red and swollen, until her eyes looked up at him again with that dizzyingly wordless beg for more.

He wanted to stroke her mysteriously curved body beneath her nightdress, wanted to touch and taste every inch of her skin until he knew her so thoroughly that she was almost a part of him.

He wanted to again hear her soft moans of desire, to hear them grow louder and more insistent as he learned ways to give her even greater pleasure than before.

He wanted to hear her gasp his name, moan his name, cry his name aloud because of his touch.

He wanted to be there when she felt the lightning strike, if he could find a way to make it happen. He wanted to watch her face, to see what that exquisite ecstasy looked like in her lovely eyes.

He wanted to feel her tongue and teeth once more upon his skin, sending wild shivers all through his body.

And he wanted to learn how it would feel to have her hands, instead of his own, stroke his hardened flesh.

He wanted obscure, mysterious things for which he had no words, but only instinctive urges and intimations.

Given one intoxicating taste of passion, he wanted more. He wanted so deeply that it seemed he could feel the want tighten more hungrily in his body with every passing moment.

In short, to repeat, he wanted Wendy.

And he was fairly certain that she wanted him, too.

* * *

The next night, Peter flew to Wendy's window again, a confident smirk upon his lips and a devilish light in his blue-green eyes.

Wendy was waiting for him at the window, as he had hoped she would be, her long hair flowing in front and behind her in glossy rivers that shone like silk against the cotton of her white nightdress.

Peter, hovering silent before her, could not help but reach out a finger to stroke that shining softness, just as he had done when he had found her sleeping upon the windowsill. Had it truly been only the previous night? It seemed so very long ago, for so much had happened between them since.

At Peter's touch upon her hair, Wendy smiled her most lovely, sweetest smile.

Reaching down to take her hand in his, Peter whispered eagerly, "Come with me!"

But Wendy shook her head, explaining apologetically, "Peter, I can't. I need to sleep, or else Mother shall grow suspicious when I am so tired again."

Peter frowned most annoyedly. He had once thought that Mothers were a fine thing, but now they seemed more of an inconvenience than they could possibly be worth. "So are you sending me away?" he asked with a definite sulk in his voice. Peter did not like being refused what he wanted. He never had. It was, perhaps, the most unpleasant of all unpleasant things, for it had no edge of enjoyment to it as many other unpleasant things do. Pirates can be battled, pain can be bravely endured, wounds can heal to impressive scars, defeat in one battle can simply whet the appetite for the next ... but disappointment -- true disappointment -- no, there is nothing even remotely enjoyable about that.

But Wendy was leaning forward, her hand warmly squeezing his, her other hand reaching toward his face, and Peter could not help but smile at the welcome he saw quite clearly upon her lips. He floated closer to the window so that her hand could press gently to his cheek.

"Kiss me, Peter," whispered Wendy with that sweet smile, and Peter could not deny her.

* * *

Peter visited Wendy's window every night, and every night they talked and exchanged passionate kisses, and every night Peter tried to tempt Wendy to come out to fly with him, but Wendy demurely insisted that she needed to sleep, that she mustn't leave.

In truth, despite her rational decision to steal what happiness she could from this brief time with Peter Pan, Wendy had grown rather frightened of the feelings stirred within her by their night on the grassy hillside. Though she had sometimes felt faint whisperings within her body before, often in response to her dreams of Peter, she had never felt the deep pulse of desire he had wakened with his kisses and his touch of her body beneath the stars in their bower of grass and wild roses.

Since that night, her dreams had grown more sensual and more disturbing, only intensifying her nervous hesitation. She dreamt again and again of Peter's hands upon her bare skin, his lips murmuring impassioned words against her flesh, his long legs twining with hers, his strong chest pressing against her aching breasts, his hips moving with a desperate, dark urgency between her legs.

In her dreams, feeling herself writhe beneath his bare and leanly muscular body, she felt almost as if she were flying through the sky again in his arms, and she often woke panting and slicked with sweat, her heart beating a rapid tattoo in her chest, a throbbing ache between her thighs.

She was, if truth be known, frightened by how very much she wanted to be touched again by Peter.

This fear, along with her confusion over Peter's mysterious shout of not-pain and his subsequent collapse upon her body, caused Wendy to hesitate to venture again beyond heated kisses at the window, despite her own longing.

But, like a persistent suitor, Peter arrieacheach night, freshly scrubbed -- for Wendy had indeed noticed that his hands, and presumably other parts, were no longer so grimed with dirt as they had once been -- and often bearing gifts. One night it was a crown woven of vines and pale blue flowers, which Peter told her were blue as the color of her eyes. Another night it was a bracelet of rich pink pearls, which Peter told her had been found and chosen for her by the mermaids themselves, to match his description of the color of her lips.

And then, one warm and cloudless night, Peter brought her two particularly seductive gifts: a fragrant white wild rose ... and a small pouch filled with fairy dust. As he leaned near, Wendy could smell the faint tang of ocean salt upon his skin, bringing a surge of remembered pleasure shivering through her. He touched the rose softly to her lips, his eyes filled with some unspoken entreaty, some unspoken promise, and he then twined the slender stem into her hair so that the flower was suspended above her right ear.

Peter did not speak for long moments, his eyes intent upon Wendy's as if he were searching for some answer to his heart's entreaty. At length, finding some wordless reply in those clear blue depths, he suddenly smiled, his mood lightening instantaneously from hopeful intensity to confident anticipation.

Floating outside her window, once again sporting that same smug grin that somehow never failed to charm her, Peter slowly and deliberately emptied the bag of fairy dust into his flattened hand. "Come with me," he coaxed, his eyes now bright and mischievous as stars. "Come fly with me, Wendy!"

And Wendy, bewitched by the wild rose in her hair and the scent of ocean upon Peter's skin, found at last that she could no longer resist -- no longer wished to resist -- and so she smiled, and nodded, and Peter grinned with a shout of triumph, Wendy finding herself in the next moment showered with sparkling magic, her stomach aflutter with nervous excitement at the thought of what might now happen between them on this warm and starry summer night.

With a shy smile, the fairy-dusted Wendy flew forward from the window to take Peter's hand, and away they soared above the gray slate roofs of London, beyobeyond.

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Author's End Note: I didn't want to dive right back into more sexy stuff immediately, because that just didn't ring true for me, based on my own youthful experiences with such things. Next chapter, however, watch out!
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Awakenings