v pink today

Found and Lost

You never imagined that hell would be so cold. Of course, the Underworld wasn’t hell, but rather the resting point between death and an eternal sentence. Nonetheless, it was cold here, and the unease of restless spirits was beginning to soak through your sweater as you walked through both familiar and foreign streets.

What were you thinking, allowing yourself to come to a place like this? The heroes had launched themselves into a quest to reclaim Killian, and you foolishly decided to tag along. Anything was better than slow life in Storybrooke, you thought. You missed adventure. Craved it. It had been quite a while since you felt anything, really, and your veins ached for that familiar rush of adrenaline.

A few days had passed since you had winded up here, and to be perfectly honest, it was dull. Killian hadn’t been found, and the heroes spent all their time cooped up in the Underworld’s version of their apartment. You took this time to explore the place you would one day end up. It wasn’t an unnerving thought, and you did not allow yourself to think about why that was. But deep down, you knew that you could never be afraid of place that was one step closer to being reunited with…

No. You would not even allow the deepest parts of yourself to remember, to think of him. So instead, you made your way around the corner, and spotted Mr. Gold’s pawn shop. Well, the mock version of the real one in the land of the living. You pushed open the door, pleased to find it unlocked.

Gone were the benign trinkets that usually lined the shelves. Here, it was mostly bare, the display tables thick with dust and showcasing few artifacts. A little straw doll caught your eye, and you stroked a finger down it, admiring the innocence of it. You backed up to go explore the rest of the shop, and tripped. Staggering backwards, you collided into a a table. A resounding crash was heard, and you turned to find that a porcelain marionette puppet had shattered on the floor.

“Shit,” you breathed. No one was here, you thought. You could just leave, quickly, and avoid whoever owned the shop down here. Based on some encounters you and the heroes had had so far, you knew that they were probably not anyone you would want to piss off. It would be fine. You headed for the door.

“Can I help you?” A clearly upset voice barked from behind you the moment your fingers grazed the door. Truth be told, if you had heard anyone else’s voice, you would have bolted right out of there.

But there was something in that voice. It was too familiar- that accent, you knew it all too well. It couldn’t be,  you thought. There was no way…

You turned around slowly, not daring to believe it.  

But Peter Pan stood in front of you, his features morphing from an annoyed expression to a disbelieving one.

His jaw dropped.

… … …

He was here. It was him.

“Peter?” Your whisper was barely audible.

“(Y/N),” he breathed, taking a step towards you.

“Peter,” you whimpered, and you stumbled into his embrace. He clutched you tight.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” Peter burrowed his nose into your hair as you snaked your arms around his neck, clutching him close. “It’s you. You’re here. Darling-”

You couldn’t wait another moment. You began peppering his face with kisses, and he laughed, fucking laughed and your heart swelled at the sound, a sound you thought you’d never hear again. “Love, are you…?” You understood what he was asking.

“No,” you started. “I’m alive. I came down with…” You trailed off, not wanting to get into the long story. Not now, at least. Right now, all you wanted to do was…

You cupped his face, eyes flickering up to his. Studying. Savoring. Peter licked his lips, and you closed the gap.

Oh.

The kiss burned through you, slow and sweet, and your mind reeled as your lips were reunited with his. It had been so long since he had been ripped from you, and each day since you had shoved down the memory of him. Thinking about Peter broke you, but now, being here with him… It built you back up.

The kiss was more fervent now, his tongue massaging your bottom lip as your fingers glided through his hair. You had truly missed this, you realized. Missed him. It was never adventure you had been craving lately. It was Peter. And now, your bones ached, ached for him.

“Peter,” you moaned into his mouth. His hand slid over your backside as he led you to a wall, pushing you up against it. He groaned against your lips, and the vibration reached your core. “Peter,” you tried again, hands grabbing his hips and pulling him flush against you. It had been too fucking long. You needed him to take you now. If you had to wait another minute, you would fucking explode.

He chuckled at you, and suddenly, the pair of you had evaporated into the air, reappearing in a bedroom. You didn’t know where you were, and you didn’t care. All you cared about was about Peter giving you exactly what you wanted very, very soon.

No words were spoken as you helped each other undress, and no words were spoken as he placed kisses down your body. And no words were spoken even as he slid off the last bit of his clothing, crawling over where you were laid on the bed, emerald eyes drinking in each detail of you. Everything that needed to be said was translated through kisses and moans.

Peter pressed himself against your entrance, and slid up and down the length of your lips. Once. Twice.

Tease, you conveyed through your eyes. It was torturous and he knew it.

Peter smirked as if to say, You got me. Perhaps this will help…

He rolled his hips, and the length of him slipped inside you. You arched your back.

“Fuck,” you broke the silence as Peter began to thrust into you, pace picking up as your legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. Fuck. He felt so good, so right, and you relished the groan he gave out as he sucked against a sweet spot on your neck. Peter awakened something in you, made you feel things you hadn’t in the longest while. He was practically pounding into you now, and you let another moan, relishing the way he moved inside you.

You were close, so fucking close. If only he would…

As if he could read your mind, Peter slipped a hand down between you, thumb grazing above where you two were joined. “Peter!” You cried out as he began circling the bundle of nerves, and you repeated his name over and over. He mirrored you mantra, murmuring your name against your neck, breath hot against your ear.

Suddenly, he removed his hand, and you could have sobbed at the loss, but he flipped the pair of you, and you were then sat upon him. The angle was different, deeper, and you rolled your hips, eliciting a groan from him. Peter sat up as you continued to ride him, one hand cupping your backside, the other sliding up your spine. You cupped his face, and gazed at him.

Peter moved to thrust up into you to match your rhythm, and you sped up, needing to reach that imminent paradise, the place where you and him would once again become one.

You finally came, lights exploding behind your eyes as Peter’s mouth crashed to yours, and his lips sucked and nibbled as you rode your high. You were delirious with pleasure, and as your muscles contracted against him, he came as well, crying out your name, and the pair of you were finally joined in bliss.

You collapsed atop him as he fell back onto the bed, and you were enraptured by the feel of him continuing to twitch inside you. He was delicious.

He was yours. Your head rested in the crook of his shoulder as you brushed back the hair from his face. “I love you,” Peter whispered, and you smiled at him.

Emma had come down here to bring back the one she loved. You would do the same. As you gazed at Peter, you promised yourself that he would come back with you. The pair of you lay there late into the evening, and you told him everything that had happened since you lost him. You told him about the mess you were, and Storybrooke, and why the heroes were down here in the first place. He grinned lazily at you as you revealed that you would help him do whatever it would take to bring him back. And you knew you would. You could feel it in your heart. The pair of you were going to make it.

… … …

It didn’t turn out that way, in the end.

Emma had succeeded, yes, in bringing Killian back to Storybrooke, but Peter?

He never made it back with you.

You broke your promise.

You failed.

It was all going fine until Rumplestiltskin had shoved a heart into him, the heart that was supposed to save him, bring him back. Peter flashed a smile at you the moment before, the most beautiful one he had ever given you. And that was the last thing you saw before you both realized what had been done - that you had been deceived. As the water from the River Styx seeped throughout his body, you screamed, horrified as he died before you again. You caught him when he collapsed, and you’ll never forget his terrified groans as he labored his final breaths.

It was wrong. So wrong. This was never supposed to happen. You should have never gone down to the Underworld. You had done this. You had ruined this.

You had killed him.

And after he had looked into your eyes with the most despairing look of fear before evaporating into smoke, and after you had launched yourself at Rumple, shrieking as you clawed at his face, and after the heroes had to fucking drag you away from the spot where Peter had died into that goddamned portal, then, and only then, did your heart go silent.

… … …

It had been a month since you had left the Underworld. Or perhaps it was only a few weeks. Maybe even a few days. You couldn’t keep track of time. Didn’t even know what day it was. You didn’t care. How could you? There was no heart in your chest to feel anything at all, so what was the point of keeping track of something as pointless as time?

You trudged into Granny’s, plopping into a secluded booth. Honestly, you didn’t need to hide. The few heroes in the diner knew better than to try and talk to you. The guilt of allowing your happy ending to be lost was eating them alive.

If you had even an ounce of a heart left to care, you would have been glad of their shame, but you had no heart, and so you didn’t care.

You were lost in your thoughts for who knows how long before a familiar melody floated into your ears.

There was a time when I was alone Nowhere to go and no place to call home My only friend was the man in the moon And even sometimes he would go away, too

Shit. This song. It had been your favorite as a child, and you sang it frequently to Peter back on Never- no.

You blocked the memories out. But the song continued, and images flooded your mind.

Then one night, as I closed my eyes, I saw a shadow flying high He came to me with the sweetest smile Told me he wanted to talk for awhile

Fuck. You remembered that night. It was chilly and quiet, and when you saw him, he truly looked like an ang- NO.

You slammed another mental wall down upon your thoughts. You didn’t get to think of him, not when you had failed to bring him back. But it felt so good to remember, you thought. And he had looked so beautiful…

He said, “Peter Pan. That’s what they call me. I promise that you’ll never be lonely.”

He had promised, you recalled. And he had never faltered, never waivered from that vow. And what had you done? Tears swelled in your eyes.

And ever since that day…

You had failed.

I am a lost boy from Neverland Usually hanging out with Peter Pan And when we’re bored we play in the woods Always on the run from Captain Hook

The tears ran freely now, streaming down your cheeks as the first sob hit, the sound raw and hollow. You muffled the sound with your hands, heaving into the cries, giving in to the emotion.

Peter was dead. He had died again and you could not do a single thing about it. You had refused to mourn, refused to let yourself cry since you had gotten back, because if you had shed a single tear, it meant that it was over. That it was truly over.

And so you silenced your heart, not allowing yourself to feel anything. How could you? How could you let him go?

“Run, run, lost boy,” they say to me, “Away from all of reality.”

You wished you could. Oh, you wished you could. Anything would be better than this. Your heart was screaming for him as you wept bitterly into your palms. The Underworld was dreadful, but this? This was worse.

This was hell.

The last look in his eyes was branded in your memory, the unadulterated fear scarred into the back of your eyelids.

The song played on, and you sat in your little booth alone, so very alone.

You were lost. And Peter was dead.

And the heartache would never end.