Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

Peter Captured	By : lexyhamilton Category: M through R > Peter Pan > Slash Views: 19631 -:- 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
- 9
- 10
- 11
Peter suddenly lifted off the bed, sobbing.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

“Surely you can,” Hook said, a bit hoarsely, now mad with desire unfulfilled.

“I can’t. It hurts. I won’t do it.”

Hook rose to his feet, inelegant in his arousal, plucking Peter from the air and pressing the boy’s body back into his own. Peter’s arms circled Hook’s neck, sobbing raggedly into his own arm.

“I do want to leave. I just can’t… make myself…”

Hook sighed, devastated. He pulled the boy back to the bed. Peter’s sniffling continued.

“You’re not angry with me, are you?”

The innocence of the boy’s voice dissolved any remaining annoyance that festered in Hook’s heart, especially as a new idea crept in uninvited. “No, lad. I love you too dearly.”

He lay back beside Peter, hand suddenly descending down to the boy's crotch. Peter sucked in air and tried to squirm away, feeling the strange stiffening up again.

"Stop," he whispered without conviction, beginning to writhe in shameful responsiveness as Hook's hand continued manipulating his body, knowing and experienced. It was a strange sensation, and not very pleasant. Peter felt suddenly needy-- craving contact. His own hands slipped down, vacillating between the urge to help with other nearby areas and an impulse to manually suppress the excitement. Tinker Bell had scolded him thoroughly about these phenomena when she first discovered him in the deep woods with the naughty fairies, and Peter learned that this pleasure was not for him but for the ordinary people living in London and other such mundane places. He flew into the woods only when he was sure Tinker Bell would not follow-- eager to remain distinct from his race in her eyes. And yet Hook, who was by no means a confidant, now enjoyed being privy to these dark secrets. Peter threw his head back, trying to remember the motions of that large firm hand for later use, but at the same time completely distracted by the strange, mind-melting effects they produced.

Hook, on the other hand, was growing concerned. Peter was obviously enjoying the skills he had to offer, however reluctantly, but never seemed to reach the verge of a release, and the excitement began to wane of itself.

"You're so young…" Hook whispered in dismay, slowing down his strokes. "How cruel that such a lovely creature must be forever barred from one of life's greatest ecstasies…"

Peter managed to push the hand away and curl up, facing the wall. "I don't want you to see me naked," he sobbed. "I don't want to do anything. I just want to go to sleep."

"That's the rum talking." Hook wanted to turn the boy around again, but a mere touch sent him sobbing and trying to bury his face in the bedcovers.

“I’m a whore… just like they said.”

“You’re not a whore…” Hook said, trying to frantically think of some other name for what he was forcing the boy to do. “We do this for love. In loving…” His finger idly stroked one of the two indentations on Peter’s bony back, but the boy flinched away.

“I don’t love you. And I never will.”

It was a bitter truth Hook knew well enough, though he dearly wished the boy had not set it in stone. “As friends, then.”

“A friend would let me go,” Peter muttered into the bedspread, gathering his body up even more tightly.

“I will,” Hook whispered into the boy’s ear, leaning over him. He rolled Peter back around to face him. The chains for the large bed had been left on the bedposts, though they had not been used in weeks. Hook quickly shackled both of the boy's wrists, taking advantage of his distracted state.

“I’m going to help you help yourself, boy,” Hook said slowly, positioning himself on his knees between Peter’s legs. “You’ll see that it’s not as horrible as you imagine, and then you can decide for yourself about the other times.”

“No, no, no… stop it… please…” Peter whimpered as he felt Hook’s hand come underneath and lift his bottom to slip in a pillow.

“So it won’t hurt as much-- because I do want to see your face… These sheets are freshly laundered, and I promise you there won’t be a drop of blood spilled.”

The tears came unchecked once Peter realized it was no longer his decision whether he got used or not. He squeezed his thighs together and tried to kick Hook hard enough to deter him. The man wanted to apply more oil, but Peter must have been clenching on purpose, and even a finger could hardly slip inside. No kisses, compliments, or threats had any effect. He finally chained Peter's ankles too, with some difficulty.

"What I do now, is entirely my responsibility," Hook attempted to reassure the boy he had so forcefully sprawled out into the wanton position. "There's nothing you can do, and therefore you're not whoring yourself."

There was doubt as to whether Peter even heard the captain's words through his own hysterics. His limbs still struggled against their restraints, his lean body managing to twist and contort itself, not welcoming Hook's intruding digits in the slightest. The man coaxed as long as his patience allowed -- longer, even, it seemed -- but there was no sign that the crying would ever let up. When Hook finally slapped Peter on the cheek out of frustration, the latter only set to bawling louder. He did not want to start with the boy in this condition, and finally opted to use the painkiller, pouring it down Peter's throat, with more than half spilling out onto the sheets from the boy's protestations. Hook rose from the bed to wait for the drug to set in, pacing the room and wiping the sweat off his brow.

“You gave me the painkiller,” Peter moaned, not the accusation but the pathos in his words curdling Hook’s blood with guilt. “You didn’t even give it to me when I was hurting because you said it was bad…"

“If you had had any intentions of calming down without it…” Hook trailed off, at a loss for words when he saw the last shimmering droplets spill out of the eyes he worshipped. The boy relaxed any tension in his coercively sprawled body, acknowledging defeat. There was something sickening about it all, but it was too late for amends to be made. Hook began to slicken up his own member, which, after all this time of unappetizing struggle, was quite quiescent.

He suddenly remembered that he had not diluted the drug as he should have. Indeed, the boy had grown very quiet, and his eyes were beginning to linger on the blinks. The sinking feeling that had begun before was now the dominant sensation in Hook's body. "Damn you, Peter, damn you and your tantrums! If you don't wake up tomorrow, it'll be your fault, not mine."

Peter only gave a small sob. Hook was very busy with trying to resurrect his arousal, but it was to no avail. His hands shook. The like had not happened to him since he had been a young boy, and he now felt a compulsion to beat Peter to a pulp for his antics. He unlocked everything except one wrist, and turned Peter onto his stomach to avoid the boy's mournful gaze. Yet his former excitement was still not to be salvaged.

"I just want to go home…" Peter sniveled. He was mostly quiet now, besides the occasional convulsive sniffle, but this served no purpose for Hook in his incapable state. The man felt strong urges to take a sword to the lithe body displayed so conveniently before him, but Peter rolled over to relieve the uncomfortable twisting of his arm. His face looked more childish than ever-- pouting and drowsy-- and Hook could swear he made it look that way to spite him. He left the cabin, out to join his men, who had taken to carousing every night under the relaxed discipline on the ship. There was nothing like rum to drown shame and frustration.

***

Peter woke up promptly when Hook stumbled into the cabin, slamming the door carelessly, a half-full bottle still in his hand. The boy had never seen him so drunk.

"Do you know, Peter, that my life holds no meaning?" He almost shouted, waving the bottle about. "I have no place to go, no friends to speak of. Do you know what my most ambitious goal is, of late? To rape you. My entire life… revolves around your ass. Your exquisite tightness."

Hook laughed loudly though not mirthfully, his eyes clouded over. He staggered over to the bed.

"My entire life now!" He pulled a pistol from his belt, laughing stridently, and brought the barrel to his temple. Peter's breath hitched, as he immediately imagined the unpleasant outcome of such a suicide. His resentment dissolved into fear, and, even in his stupor, Hook noted this.

"Nervous are we? It's very bloody business… very bloody." He lowered the pistol and practically fell onto the bed. Peter's one tethered arm prevented him from moving to the other side entirely, but a desperate twist of his body brought him out of harm's way.

"You're very drunk," the boy said timidly, hoping the man would abandon his whimsical inspiration and put the pistol away.

"And you're very pretty, even when you've been crying. All swollen. All rosy." Hook descended on Peter's mouth with his own, still burning with residual alcohol. Peter made no resistance, too frightened of what Hook might do in this state, even if unprovoked. Suddenly he felt something cold and unforgiving at his entrance.

"If I want to end my misery, then I should end the root of my misery, right? Right?" Peter's eyes grew enormous as he felt the metal barrel of the gun entering him. He shook his head frantically, breathing going ragged from the terrible fright sweeping over him. He could already imagine the pain, unbearable and deep inside him, if Hook were to pull the trigger. He could not say a word, and merely grasped Hook's arm, supplicating with his eyes. The captain was in a strange humor, and grinned languidly as Peter whimpered, taking in the gun to the trigger. Peter breathed in short bursts, pathetically afraid to die. He gasped and jerked when he felt Hook's finger move and heard a click, but no shot sounded.

Hook roared with manic laughter.

Peter could not help the sudden fury that built up. "You bastard!" he shouted, not hesitating on words he had only heard from others before. He pummeled Hook's face with his free hand as aggressively as he could in his somewhat awkward position. The captain yanked the gun out. Small parts of the barrel were sharp and protruding, but Peter only vaguely felt the lacerations inside. He groaned as he thought of how he would feel after the drug wore off. Hook’s amusement turned to anger at Peter’s blows, his rage given righteousness by the alcohol he’d imbibed. He hit the boy several times in retaliation, but his aim and force were greatly diminished by his drunken state and did the boy little harm.

"You pervert!" Peter continued when he felt no more blows and reopened his eyes.

"Nobody's perfect, Pan, nobody," Hook drawled repetitively, face very flushed, and eyes obviously unfocused. "Nobody… except you, my little whore." He ran his tongue over Peter's lips before easily flipping him over onto his stomach, tethered arm twisting more painfully in their haphazard positions. The dimness of the remaining candles' light, and Hook's general disorientation, made it difficult to thrust in properly, and he found the place only after four excruciating attempts that had Peter bawling before he was even breached. Peter cried for oil and for Hook to take off the metal appendage that he feared would accidentally impale him at any moment, but he doubted that he was even heard amid the loud grunts above him and the squeals of the wooden joints of the bed punctuating each thrust.

Hook's hand somehow alighted around Peter's neck as an anchor against his body, and practically kept him from breathing until completion. The act itself was mercifully short. Fewer than twenty quick thrusts and Hook was satisfied-- barely pulling out before slumping back onto the bed next to the body that he had defiled. Peter's neck ached almost more than his backside. The asphyxiation had made it well-nigh impossible to unclench and accept Hook's intrusion, much as Peter had tried. The boy remained motionless as his rapist instantly fell asleep, snores hot and heavy on the back of his neck. A heavy arm lay across his back, and the man's body was still partially on top of the slight frame. He had never felt so devoid of everything. The feeling of utter emptiness prevented even tears from forming. Peter continued to lie in silence, occasionally shuddering from the pain that was mounting as the painkiller wore off.

He fancied he felt nothing-- the soreness seemed to wrack only the heavy burden of a shell that his body now seemed. It was a shell he heartily wished he could cast off as easily as Hook had stripped him of his clothes earlier in the evening. There was no anger, no sadness, nor even wish for a physical escape or anything else for a long time.

Time passed, though Peter did not even venture to guess how much. His thinned blood made his injuries only worse, and he was still bleeding enough to feel it ooze out of him, warm and sticky between his thighs. The room was in complete darkness as the last of the candles burned out, and Peter grew too uncomfortable not to shift. The captain had not undressed in the slightest, besides unbuttoning his breeches and undoing his belt, and something metal on the latter had been continuously digging into Peter's flesh on one side. A spark of life returned to the boy’s visage when his apathetic mind finally ventured to guess that it was a bundle of keys. The bundle of keys Hook had always meticulously kept out of his reach. Peter shifted under the heavy arm, momentarily paralyzed by a pain of new intensity. He did not let out a sound, however, and only inhaled deeply, tears springing to his eyes as a weak will to escape, or at least survive, re-materialized. His fingers traveled shyly across the sheets, groping for the metal in the dark. It was a hefty bunch, and Peter slid them off the belt with excruciating slowness. He had always watched carefully for which keys Hook used, especially for the various restraining devices, but it was very dark and shuffling through them by touch with only one hand was a hard task. Soon enough he undid his restraint and slid out from under Hook’s arm with due caution. Walking was unbearable and moreover loud on the creaky floorboards, so he drifted like a ghost across the cabin, finding the door left carelessly unlocked.

The night air that greeted Peter's body on deck was colder than he had anticipated, and he was sorely tempted to return and retrieve his clothing, lying somewhere in the dark, near the bed. Fear stopped him from turning back, however, and the easiest expedient he could think of was to wrap himself in the only piece of fabric to be found on deck-- the ship's flag.

He flew off soundlessly, a dark form over the water, shivering from cold and ever-mounting pain. He settled into the branches of a tree only a little way from shore. Feeling neither excitement nor urgency, he remained thus-- unable to sleep, watching the pirate ship sit motionless in the moonlight. Peter's occasional sniffles could barely be heard over the veritable din of crickets in the grass.

***

Hook awoke to a searing thirst and pain in his head, but could not summon the energy to get up and attempt to alleviate either. The events of the previous night slowly began to resurface to the forefront of his memory, fuzzy and deranged.

Pan.

He felt a twinge of some unpleasant but hazy recollection and looked across the cabin to the boy's empty bed. Blood stains on his own sheets finally caught Hook's eye-- dark burgundy by now. He groaned and buried his face back into the pillow, hoping everything would return to normal if only he woke up properly. He could remember sweating, and writhing, and frantic, grasping, thin fingers on his arms, but hardly anything else.

He opened his eyes cautiously again, grimacing at how the sunlight in the room seemed to penetrate his very brain. The sight of the unlocked chains on the bedposts was sobering enough to urge Hook to get up. He dunked his entire head in the washbasin, the cold shock prompting him to recall some grating sound of incessant, hysterical crying. Suddenly nearly everything that had happened before he out-drank his crewmembers rushed into place-- their agreement, Peter's exasperating change of heart…

Hook found his keys immediately outside the door of his cabin, on a floor that was dirty enough to almost obscure a trail of occasional blood drops. Hook felt his innards sink. He had taken the liberty to rape Peter Pan, and could not recall a single pleasurable thing about the experience. Worse yet, he had let him blithely go on his merry way. No, not blithely, Hook thought worriedly as he returned to his cabin and inspected the blood on his bed. The boy had been bleeding profusely. Had he beaten the child? Where was he now? Dreadful images were conjured up of that gangly body lying moribund in the woods, or perhaps even slimy and bloated at the ocean bottom. Or perhaps the boy was alright after all, and heading back to his home just as he had wished through his pitiful sobs yesterday. The thought was somewhat comforting, but not enough to make the pistol inexplicably left between the sheets look any less friendly.

Had he gone mad and shot his obsession? Hook reassured himself that he would likely find a bullet mark somewhere if he had. Unless it had lodged in the body… There was an awful lot of blood on the sheets.

Hook resolved to stop contemplating the matter and try to enjoy his few last moments. He loaded in a bullet and powder from a drawer in his desk and sat down-- ready to serve as prosecutor, judge, and executioner, all in one. A despicable end to a despicable life. He stared at the barrel, too lethargic to consummate the sentence, which was really less a punishment than a cowardly mercy. Living had grown extremely tiresome in the course of the last few days.

"Cap'n!"

Hook grimaced when he heard the gratingly familiar sound of Smee's voice.

"Cap'n, what in the name of Proteus are you doing?!"

"It's only the best remedy on the face of the earth for a headache." Hook was too miserable to snigger. Smee hurried over and officiously put the pistol out of reach. His old eyes needed only a quick scan of the room to notice a certain prisoner's absence.

"Oh, Cap'n, you'll catch him again, some day. He'll get careless…"

Smee picked up the crumpled pile of the boy's clothing from the floor and Hook could not help but feel an inadvertent pleasure at imagining the boy cavorting about the woods in delicious nudity. He sighed, disgusted by the prospect of another day in this meandering eternity-- apparently not even a conscience to keep him company in this godforsaken land.

***

Peter had not done more than intermittently doze during the night. His blood flow eventually ceased, though the coarse canvas that kept him from the cold was made impossibly dirty before that. He watched the ship sit quietly, now bathed in sunlight and its occupants still invisible. He was injured, and his surroundings triggered an instinctual response to stay put and nurse himself to health before attempting any long journeys. There was a part of him that was also curious to witness the commotion caused by his escape. No commotion seemed to be starting, even at this rather late hour, and Peter finally cursed himself for remaining in the vicinity of his captors. As if he did not really wish to leave, Peter spat in disgust at himself, realizing too late that even this was a habit he had picked up on Hook's ship. Wincing, he lifted into the air, wrapping the flag around his vulnerable body, and began to head in the vague direction of the home he had not seen for so long.

He reeked of blood and the pirate ship, so creatures of the woods, with whom he would have formerly been on friendly terms, shunned him. He took an opportunity to bathe in a brook he passed, and washed off the dried blood and the makeup still caked on his face-- a hateful reminder of his status aboard his prison. To his dismay, he found the water too cold, and sincerely wished he could take a leisurely, steaming bath in Hook's cabin. His makeshift garment continued to carry the scent of sea salt, gunpowder, and violent injury wherever he went, and he wondered if the creatures around him were not right in their suspicions. No pirate, he was, but his ordeal did make him feel alien to the island he had claimed as home. He foraged for berries on his way, but his jaws moved mechanically; he derived no pleasure from eating, or anything else around him.

Everything would be put right when he would arrive home, he assured himself, though he also greatly dreaded the inevitable questions, and inquisitive eyes roaming his damaged figure. He cringed when he merely imagined the pity that would suffuse Wendy's gaze, but he was also too listless to invent an alternative explanation for his absence. He would need to return to his old assertiveness and independence. How difficult it would be-- to emulate what had come so naturally to him before. He flew slowly, and reached the tree house when the sun was already setting.

The underground home was abandoned, and small cobwebs in certain places hinted that it had been unoccupied for many days. Peter knocked politely on Tink's boudoir, just in case, but found it empty when he opened it. He lit a tiny candle and collapsed onto his old bed of leaves, staring up at the gnarly branches above him, both heartbroken and relieved to still be in solitude. If the boys had gone off and found new shelter for fear of the pirates or Indians, he would find them eventually. He preferred not to dwell on these thoughts, because they inevitably led to a glum suspicion that he had been deliberately abandoned. It was impossible to fall asleep in his bed, in the harrowing silence, and exited the tree house, wincing at the awkward, now painful, motions he had to make to do this.

It was using the sun's last rays that he found a place in the middle of the woods and crouched down to perform what he had been dreading all day. His straining transformed soreness back into debilitating agony. There was no one present to see him bawling, to make jeering remarks, or pass judgments with perhaps no words spoken but nevertheless a smug, sneering expression. Yet neither was there anyone to worry about his blood flow reopening, no one to give him painkiller, and hold him, and clean him, and caress him. How pathetic he was-- practically pining for the companionship of the man who had been so brutal to him only the previous night. He was in desperate need of other people, Peter finally admitted to himself. The Indian village was the surest bet, and he made a beeline for it as soon as he had cleaned up the traces of blood.
- 9
- 10
- 11
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Peter Captured