Hook scowled deeply and scratched his quill across the parchment,
scribbling out the last two sentences he'd written. "This... infuriating,"
he mumbled, as the sharp nib of the quill gouged a clean cut through the
paper.
He leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment, inhaling a frustrated
breath.
His first novel, tentatively entitled 'Captain Brooke, Lord of the Sea',
wasn't coming along as nicely as he'd hoped. He had notes, plans and plot
twists all worked out, even one or two diagrams, but translating it all into
something legible wasn't as easy as it he'd imagined.
His finest creation, the aristocratic, handsome, and widely feared pirate John
Brooke wasn't the problem. Brooke's arch nemesis, the irritating delinquent
David Dan, was causing Hook the most grief. He had always believed that
stories were under the control of their authors, but for the life of him
Brooke and Dan seemed to want to head in directions Hook hadn't intended. He
had yet to figure out why he couldn't make them do what he wanted - they
weren't real, for pity's sake. They were figments of his imagination. He was
their master, so they should speak when he wanted them to speak, fight when he
wanted them to fight.
It had all been going so well, too: Brooke had Dan captured on his ship, tied
up in the hull, bruised after a bit of roughing up and begging for mercy as
the boy should be. And just as Brooke was about to kneel and slice through the
petulant little bastard's neck, what happened? Brooke paused, and started
talking.
Hook knew he'd been trapped on Neverland for many years, maybe even centuries
(he didn't like to think about it too closely). He was at last resigned to the
fact that there would be no leaving for him. But he hadn't thought the island
had driven him mad as yet.
So where had all that unbidden dialogue come from? He glanced at the
parchment, at the ripped part where Brooke had started speaking.
It just would not do.
Hook sighed, steeled himself, picked up his quill again and bent his head to
the page.
'"The time has come, boy," Brooke rasped, rounding on the frightened Dan.
"You've run around this island for too long, taunting me, acting as if you're
some kind of king, toying with my crew. It ends here..."
Dan turned his tanned, tear-streaked face up to the tall, good-looking
captain. "Please, sir. P-please don't kill me!"'
"Yes, beg boy, that's right," Hook said aloud, writing faster now he was
getting back into the swing of things. "Not that Brooke's going to listen to
your feeble whining."
'"Silence! I haven't time to listen to your feeble whining." Brooke sneered
charmingly.
Dan did not relent. "I - I'll do anything!" He shifted on the floor until he
was kneeling before Brooke, head lowered. "I'll do anything you want. I'll
behave, I promise."
Brooke drew his sword, raised it in the air, preparing to land the fatal blow.
He had been waiting for this moment for so very long.
"I wish to serve you, sir," Dan said quietly, his voice shaking with fear.
Something hot and fierce rolled through Brooke, and slowly, he lowered his
sword, staring down at the boy.
"Let me serve you," Dan went on, "I am yours. I will do as you want - in every
way." Cautiously, Dan reached out and with one small, smooth hand he stroked
slowly up the length of Brooke's thigh.
A shudder passed through the captain and he-'
A shudder passed through Hook and he stopped writing immediately. No, no, no!
Dan wasn't supposed to tempt Brooke into keeping him. He was supposed to die a
horrible, gruesome death as penalty for being an irritating little prick.
Brooke was merciless!
At least, he was supposed to be.
Hook rose and poured himself a generous shot of whiskey, then downed it in one
swallow. He stared out of his cabin window, out towards the distant forest. He
had been so wrapped up in his novel over the past few weeks that he had barely
thought about Pan. He wondered what mischief the brat was up to at that
moment. Probably off with his little band of imps, wreaking havoc on the other
side of the island. In fact, Hook hadn't seen the boy for quite a long time, a
good month or two. Maybe, with a stroke of luck, Pan had buggered off to the
Nether World and decided to stay there.
Hook could only hope.
As it was, there was no time to further ponder Pan's whereabouts. Hook turned
away from the window with a "tsk" and returned to his desk. Once again, now
warmed and slightly cheered by the alcohol, he picked up his quill, dipped the
nib into his inkwell, and put it to the paper. Maybe a change of direction
would help.
'Brooke sat at his desk, pouring over maps and charts. He had to find a way
to get off the island; he had to keep searching. He thought back to the night
his ship had been caught in a storm off the coast of Bermuda. His crew had
slogged through the dark hours until their exhausted bones ached. They had
eventually moored on the shore of the deceptively attractive Alwaysisle.
Brooke hadn't then known that by some strange magic they would not be able to
leave. Though he never gave up hope. With his intelligence and cunning, he
would defeat Alwaysisle's hold on him and his crew.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
There came a noise from nearby, an odd, sucking sound and what could only be
described as a soft moan.
Brooke inhaled deeply and spread his legs wider.
"Sir?" came a voice from under the desk.
"What now?" said Brooke shortly, glancing down at his lap.
"It's just too big, sir," the voice went on. "I can't fit it in all in one
go." There was a shifting, something small and warm brushing against Brooke's
bared thighs, and Dan emerged, his mouth wet and rosy, cheeks flushed
prettily. He was naked-'
Hook stared at the words on the parchment for some time.
What the devil was going on here?
His heart was beating quite fast by now, his hands sweaty, brow furrowed so
tightly that his left eyebrow started twitching. Something was seriously
wrong. He felt perfectly healthy, but the words on the paper were making him
doubt himself, contradicted everything he believed in.
Neptune's beard, but he must really be going insane.
More whiskey was needed.
Instead of simply pouring himself another glass, he carried the whole bottle
to the table and made a hearty start on it. Over the next few swigs, he
pondered the possibility that he was possessed by some malignant spirit intent
on driving him mad. Or that the quill was malfunctioned - the bird he'd ripped
it from had looked a bit rabid, now he thought about it. Or perhaps it was
fairy magic - the nasty little bugs were fond of playing tricks on people for
entertainment. He hadn't seen any fairies for some time, however, and he could
usually detect if they'd been in his cabin from the sparkling gold dust
residue they left all over the place.
By the time the whiskey bottle was half-empty Hook was feeling a lot calmer
(even though his cabin was now tilted to one side). When he looked down at his
manuscript the words were blurry and moving slightly on the page. He bared his
teeth at them. "Sit still."
Hook let out a delicate burp and, figuring third time had to be lucky, began
to write, the quill a tad shaky under his hand.
'Brooke stood majestically at the wheel, steering his great ship, The
Happy Harry, through the dark blue, endless waves. He always felt powerful
at the wheel, and liked to think of his ship as his child. With a fatherly
affection, he scanned the deck: there was Twee, his faithful bo'sun, lugging
the large fishing nets down to the cook, who had bowed legs but could prepare
food that didn't poison the crew. The Gentleman Stalley, who was up in the
Crow's Nest keeping watch and repairing a damaged beam. Bob Lukes, whose feet
were back-to-front; he was a fine Gunner, regardless of his disability...
All in all, a very capable crew, a group of men worthy of respect from their
captain, as they respected him in all things...'
Hook sighed wistfully and continued:
'Then, the captain's gaze was drawn to the balcony in front of his cabin.
There stood Dan, blinking blearily at Brooke as if he'd just woken from a deep
sleep. He offered Brooke a coy smile, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth,
and waved.
One corner of the pirate's mouth curled up in acknowledgment. He watched as
the boy's expression turned from cherubim innocence to devious, and knew
something naughty was afoot.
Dan wandered to the top of the stairs so he was on full show, and started to
slip his strange leaf-woven garments off, first the vine crossing one
shoulder, letting it slide down his golden-coloured arm, then his shorts, that
he tore open and let fall around his ankles. He had very girlish ankles, all
delicate and pretty, Brooke noticed.
The boy didn't stop there; now naked, he ran his hands up his legs, hips, over
his young belly, to his chest, where he rubbed gingerly at his little pink
nipples.
Brooke was frozen to the spot, all thoughts about his ship, his crew, the
universe, completely vanished from his mind. There only remained Dan, putting
on a truly debauched show for him, enticing him with a curl of his index
finger and a decidedly 'come hither' pout.
Oh, how Brooke wanted to go over there and capture the boy up, lick him, bite
him - his earlobes, his neck, feel those extraordinarily long eyelashes
fluttering silky against his cheek in pleasure...
But what about his crew? Good lord, they were right there. When Brooke
finally tore his eyes from the raunchy play Dan was putting on for him, he
realised none of his dogs were paying the slightest bit of attention. How
peculiar. Brooke quickly stepped down, tapped Twee on the shoulder and
indicated for him to take the wheel. Stalking across the deck with his boot
heels clicking and blood-red coat flapping around his calves, Brooke went to
the stairs leading up to his cabin and ascended. He grabbed an armful of warm,
pliant boy and dragged Dan inside.
"Ohh... ohh..." Dan was moaning already, and Brooke hadn't even touched
him properly yet. The boy clung to the captain's broad, toned frame as if his
life depended on it, and Brooke felt the press of Dan's arousal against his
hip. He quickly deposited the boy on his desk, upsetting the inkpot and
scattering leaves of paper all over the cabin floor. In a flash, Brooke had
his belt undone, his fine velvet breeches down around his thighs and his
large, erect penis in one fist.'
Hook groaned, his fingers of one hand curling around his cock, the other hand
frantically scratching across the page. He wrote feverishly, barely heeding
the words or the way the ink smudged across the parchment. He was so close,
his fist sliding smoothly up and down his moist length, groans floating out
into the silence of his cabin.
'"Please..." whined Pan, staring at it. "I want it - I need it! I've
been bad. You should punish me."
"Oh, you'll get it, all right," growled Hook, flipping the boy over onto his
stomach as if he was made of driftwood, until Pan's legs were dangling over
the edge, his upper body flush against the cool, polished mahogany.
With one swift, hard thrust, the captain was inside the tightest, most perfect
heat...'
Hook shuddered and jerked, still pulling on his cock as quick threads of come
spilled onto his fingers, his legs, the desk front. The quill dropped,
forgotten, onto the table as he became lost in the absolute bliss of his
orgasm...
* * *
He woke with a thumping headache and a foul, sour taste in his mouth. His
teeth felt furry and his back ached something chronic. When he sat up various
bones unlocked and clicked in protest.
"Ungh."
He had fallen asleep at his desk. Beside him sat an empty whiskey bottle. No
wonder he felt like a flock of seagulls were pecking away at his skull. He
lurched out of the chair, over to the mirror to check the damage. His
reflection gave him a bleary, pained look; there were black ink splotches over
one side of his face where he'd rested it on the parchment, and his quill was
stuck in his thick black curls. He batted it away.
He looked down, saw that his breeches were unlaced and stained with white. He
hastily slipped out of them and pulled on a fresh pair.
Hook couldn't recall exactly what had happened the night before. He could
remember being angry and frustrated with his novel, opening the whiskey, then
the first five or so shots... tanned arms, a small, pink mouth open in a
cry... but after that everything was a hazy fog.
Dubiously, he glanced over at his desk where his novel sat. Did he really want
to know? Something within him sincerely doubted it, shady remnants of the
night before warning him not to read.
In the end, he couldn't not look at what he'd written. The curiosity
outweighed the fear.
Moments later Hook stacked the fireplace with logs and lit them, tempting the
flames up high as quickly as he could with some bellows. He forced himself not
to think about the fact that he was hard, that he really needed to sort
himself out before it got painful. Instead, he concentrated on getting the
fire going, getting it ready.
Once the flames were licking snugly around the alcove Hook took up his
manuscript, paused for a heartbeat or two, then reluctantly threw it in. He
watched the yellow paper curl and turn black at the edges, saw the words
burning away to nothingness as if they'd never existed. He felt relief.
Sadness, too. All that work, all the long hours spent writing... now there was
nothing to show for it.
However, after reading what he'd written last night, he had quickly decided
that he was not meant to be an author, after all.
Turning away from the fire, Hook cursed, then resolved to take up a new hobby.
~Fin~
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