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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Late afternoon light was reflected on the ripples of the sea, forcing Peter to squint as he stared out at the island. Hook's spirits had been most foul since the day they neared what they all thought was an unknown shore. The man was surprised-- they had not been in open sea two days before sighting land again. They approached it, unsure if it was an island or a jut from some continent.

Peter looked down at his wrist, still marked with now yellowish bruises from Hook's grip. The captain had yanked Peter out of bed very early that morning, and dragged him to the deck, not even taking precautions against escape besides his vise-like clutch on the boy. Peter confirmed his worst suspicions-- the island before them was indeed Neverland. Though they had sailed without veering away from their initial direction, some bewitchment or sabotage had pointed the bow back towards the island and caused them to approach it from another side. Hook debated his next course of action on his feet, pacing around the cabin furiously while Peter huddled on his makeshift bed, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. His wrist throbbed then-- swollen and feeling snug in the restraint with which Hook re-chained him. It was the first physical violence he had suffered from the captain in weeks, and summoned back old unpleasant memories.

They sailed out in a second attempt, glum in their outlook this time. Hook was out on deck most of the day, and Peter was left alone, having to complain discreetly but rather persistently to even be fed in the evenings. It was better not to attract too much attention from the captain in those days, in any case, and Peter only worried that the man’s late night drinking might result in capricious violence. He went to sleep as early as possible to avoid confrontations.

The daytime boredom was excruciating at first, but Peter quickly found himself a hobby. He took every opportunity to peruse the picture of the girl in Hook's log, sometimes for hours a day in his stifling seclusion. It was a secret pleasure, which grew as he experienced it more often, until the pleasant tightening in the pit of his stomach would begin as soon as he flipped to the page. Looking at that weathered portrait flooded his body with more warmth than he had felt even looking in on Wendy at the window. He took every chance he got, pretending to be reading on another page if the captain suddenly walked in, instinctively wishing to keep everything a secret. He dreamed up the adventures they would have, and for a few moments his mind would let him forget that everything, even Neverland itself, was forever marred for him.

Peter sensed they would inadvertently return to their home, and knew he had been proved right when Hook stormed into the cabin, hurling an empty gin bottle against the bookcase. He cast angry glances at Peter, who now appeared to be the only inhabitant of Neverland who could leave the island at will. Thankfully, Hook had said nothing, and only made Peter clean the explosion of glass shards on the floor.

Now that they were anchored near Neverland again, Peter idly estimated how long it would take him to reach the tree house from this point to pass the time. Based on the pirates’ predictions of his fate in the outside world, as well as his own limited experience in it, he was happy their plans had somehow gone awry. He leaned over the edge, breathing in the fresh sea air, staring down in search of mermaids. He did not notice a dark shape in the water until it was close enough to draw attention with its sheer size. It drifted ponderously towards the ship, with purpose but in no hurry.

“Hook!” Peter shouted just loud enough to be heard on the upper deck, where the captain stood surrounded by his crew, discussing their next plan of action. The shape surfaced, murky green scales breaking the water. Hook’s gaze followed the boy’s thin index finger slowly. He raced down to the lower deck, and cautiously peered over. The crew was only a step behind him.

“No ticking, Cap’n!” Alf remarked. “You think I haven’t noticed, you idiot?” Hook hissed, and though his eyes did not turn away from the source of the commotion, Alf backed away-- unwilling to test whether the captain had completely outgrown his old habit of gutting his men for minor offenses. Peter saw cold sweat bead on the man’s paling face. His whole frame shook. “Maybe it’s some other one, Cap’n,” Cecco offered, but Hook recognized the dogged hunger in those yellow reptilian eyes all too well. Everyone knew there was only one crocodile in Neverland-- decreed, as if by some law, that she would never find a mate nor die. Peter felt the man’s callused hand rummage for a hold and settle on his still-sore wrist with a painful grasp. At the same time, he felt Starkey groping his bottom as they all stood close, watching the beast lie silent and ravenous near the ships’ bow. Peter moved in towards Hook, amazed at what havoc the animal could wreak on the man’s countenance.
***
Tremors coursed Hook’s face at every hint of a splash outside. He was biting at his index finger in a most undignified manner, evidently too distracted to even drink the lone glass of gin that would shake in his hand if he did take it off the table. Occasionally, the pirate rushed to the window, searching for the creature he hoped not to espy in the black waters below, and would return, hardly pacified by its absence. Peter watched him with a morbid fascination. It was unsettling that the man he had come to depend on and grudgingly respect could be so unsure of himself. Most disconcerting of all, Peter was beginning to feel a definite growing sense of irritation at the fact that Hook was not focusing on him in this time of leisure. The captain finally glanced over at the boy, who was sitting uncomfortably on the floor of the cabin. “Sorry, Pan,” he said. “It’s about time you got some sleep.” Hook undid the locks, and held Peter’s torso just tightly enough that the boy knew attempts at escape were unlikely to be successful. He chained Peter’s wrist to the metal ring inserted into the wall, and tucked the boy in without a word, eyes staring off, lost in disorganized thought. He sat down for a moment on the edge of the bed, his face turned sharply towards the window beyond which lay the threatening waters, a slight nervous tic sometimes visible at the corner of his lips.

Perhaps Peter was simply not tired. He suddenly had an urge to do something very peculiar, and followed his instinct without much premeditation. Sitting up, he wrapped his unchained arm around Hook’s neck. Hook’s pulse shot up sky high. The bony limb on his shoulder brought the boy’s body into tempting proximity, feeling not heavy, but ponderously significant. Hook dared not turn his head and face Peter, and was rewarded with something that felt ever so delicate, moist, and coy on his cheek. It was very late, and the reappearance of stubble must have made his skin rough, Hook reckoned, desperate to grab on to a mundane thought as the rest of his mind reeled with confused excitement. Yet those sweet, childish lips lingered on the unpleasant surface longer than he expected, suddenly opening up, a blossoming of velvety rose petals, with just the tiniest hint of dampness left to simmer after finally breaking contact. A childishly small mark of affection, to be sure, but Hook felt himself go slightly giddy at this surprising turn of events.

Peter pulled back, and Hook turned, staring at him wide-eyed. The boy felt his heart beginning to beat faster. What he did seemed innocuous enough, but why was Hook’s expression so hungry?

“…What?” Hook finally asked suspiciously, almost shyly. Peter’s eyes fluttered two rapid blinks, and Hook felt pent up desire flooding his guts.

“I just want…” Peter hesitated, trying to identify his motives. “I don’t-- I don’t like it when you worry so much.” Hook tucked Peter back under the covers, his hands trembling lightly. He leaned in over the boy and planted a gentle kiss at the base of the neck. Suddenly all reserve flew out the window, and there was no return. Neck, shoulders, cheeks, ears, forehead, and the little bit of chest that lay exposed above the edge of the bedcover were mercilessly attacked by Hook’s lips and tongue. He was waiting for a hand to try pushing him away or to slap him across the face, but there was no resistance from the boy. Curiosity won over lust, and Hook backed away temporarily. Peter lay on the bed, looking not nearly as uneasy as Hook expected.

“You… like this?” Hook asked hesitantly.

Peter’s mouth wrapped itself into an asymmetrical, wistful smirk. “Not really. But as long as it doesn’t hurt.” Peter gave a small sigh and smiled, sinking further into the soft mattress as he relaxed any remaining tension in his body. “I know you like it,” he added. Hook dove back into Peter with renewed fervor, shaking with the unexpectedness of this release. What he was most eager to taste were the boy’s lips, but he refrained after noticing Peter shift uncomfortably whenever the kisses neared his mouth.

Peter lay inert for the most part. The memories of all the rapes occasionally intruded themselves on his mind, and his heart would begin to beat faster whenever Hook planted a kiss particularly roughly or began to suction the skin in. But there was a strong contentment to alleviate his worries. Peter had found just how powerful a sway on Hook’s emotions he had. The crocodile was by now completely forgotten, and Peter Pan was once again the most admired and adored inhabitant of Neverland.

“Kiss me again,” Hook’s low voice murmured, while he busied himself with Peter’s collarbone.

“But… I don’t have a kiss here.” The boy’s coy voice prompted Hook to stop.

“What do you mean? Just like this…” Hook leaned, his mustache brushing against the tender skin of the boy’s cheek, mimicking the chastity and earnestness of how Peter had kissed him moments ago. “Just as you did.”

“That’s called a thimble,” Peter declared with a condescending confidence and giggled. Hook smiled indulgently.

“Right, then. I’m sorry, I meant thimble.”

Peter smiled and obliged, feeling important and powerful for freely dispensing out something Hook apparently valued so highly. After several minutes, Hook stopped and sat back, asking if Peter was tired of the activity. Feeling unusually magnanimous and bold, Peter shook his head. Judging affairs childishly, he assumed that Hook’s oath not having been broken several weeks necessarily set it in stone and precluded any future violent advances. There was something almost amusing about the captain’s desperation, now that Peter did not expect to be painfully ravaged.

It was agonizing, in a way. Hook took care to avoid bothering the child with the arousal that was tormenting him, and remained kneeling on the floor, his hips grinding into the ruthlessly hard, wooden side of the bed. He felt his will to keep his promise corroding away with every moment continued in this teasing play. Desire finally swelled to an uncontrollable level, and Hook began to pull back the cover, already looking forward to the treasure awaiting him underneath with anticipatory ecstasy. Suddenly a small hand landed on his own. He looked at Peter’s face, and saw no anxiety, but an astoundingly earnest expression.

“I don’t want that.” It was said so matter-of-factly that Hook was dumbfounded into inaction. His body shuddered, and he had the urge to weep as his hips ground into the merciless wooden side of the bed once again. He knew he should pull himself back up to his feet, but Peter’s smooth skin perpetually screamed out to be touched one more time. He finally stood up, conscience warring with body, and proceeded across the room with an awkward gait, shutting the door behind him emphatically as he exited, off to release himself from the agony somewhere out of the child’s view.

Peter sat up in his bed, vaguely worried. Had he enjoyed too much fun at the captain’s expense? A small fear began rising that Hook would return with a somewhat different, more licentious disposition. All the frightening nights quickly flooded to the forefront of Peter’s memory in graphic detail, and he suddenly wished he had never tempted his keeper so recklessly. The boy pulled the blanket up to his chin and gathered his legs up closer to his body, feeling very small and vulnerable.

Hook strode back into the cabin in a happier mood, taking off his belt and the metal appendage, before practically leaping in next to Peter. The boards of the small bed creaked plaintively under the added weight, and Peter was squeezed against the cabin wall. Hook finally saw fear in Peter’s eyes and chuckled gruffly. The strong arms swaddled Peter in the blanket many times over, keeping only the arms out of the bundle. Rolled up like this, Peter was lifted onto Hook’s body. Peter’s heart was racing, but the buffering of the blanket between their bodies was somewhat reassuring. The pirate’s lips again began tracing out trails across Peter’s shoulders and neck, but much gentler this time. Calmer after his release, Hook reveled in his ability to soberly enjoy Peter’s beauty and semi-willing company this evening. As Peter sensed the danger of rape dissolve away, he also relaxed into Hook’s kisses. The game was growing monotonous, but Peter was not one to goad Hook on to any changes in the repertoire. His unchained hand eventually found a diversion-- intertwining its fingers in Hook’s luscious locks outspread chaotically over the sheets. Hook suddenly grabbed the hand and engulfed most of the fingers in his mouth.

“Beautiful, slender fingers you have,” Hook cooed once his mouth was empty again. Peter beamed smugly. The child was prone to vanity, Hook noted gleefully, and began to declare bits of banal praise for Peter whenever his mouth was not otherwise occupied.

“My most beautiful-- my loveliest-- my most wonderful--” At each punctuating kiss, Hook looked at Peter’s face, eager to make certain the boy’s ego was being gratified. “The most wonderful boy…”

“In Neverland?” Asked Peter, naively hopeful, unashamedly fishing for compliments.

“In the world,” Hook whispered and felt Peter melt into his arms.

Finally Hook stopped and simply let Peter lie on top of him, still wrapped in the blanket and his affectionate embrace. Peter’s head lay just under the pirate’s chin, his feet ending somewhere near Hook’s ankles. His body moved up and down in time to Hook’s deep, contented breaths. The captain planted one final kiss on top of the boy’s head.

“When I’m afraid, when I’m lonely, when I feel an urge to put a pistol to my head--” Peter felt the vibrations of Hook’s voice moving through his own frame. “I’ll always think of you like this, boy. As you are now.”

Peter smiled, and absorbed the words with great pleasure and a bit of self-importance, but Hook knew he could not possibly appreciate the full extent of their truth. This was no facetious praise now.

“And when I’ll think of you like this, I’ll always be afraid,” Peter answered in retort. Hook looked down brusquely. Peter was smiling sheepishly, his eyes betraying uneasiness at having done something wrong. “Only joking, of course.”

So like a child-- to break an atmosphere with paltry quips. Hook suppressed annoyance. He could afford to tolerate any inanities from that lovely mouth that night.

“And why shouldn’t you be frightened?” Hook whispered, and squeezed the body on top of him into his own. Peter let out a small laugh, failing to mask his nervousness. An anxious, inexperienced child, for all his countless years inhabiting the island, Hook marveled. It was perfectly lovely. The evening was nothing like any of his original violent fantasies, but Hook found something unexpectedly satisfying about the tenderness of the proceedings and the placid compliance of his former nemesis. Not merely placid. Hook discerned that Peter was positively cheerful, for one reason or another, and this suddenly mattered. Hook himself had plenty of reasons to be happy. He could not have been more explicitly tempted, and yet he had gallantly resisted.

“I love you.” The words escaped Hook’s mouth like traitors. He had not wanted to voice sentiments that he doubted in himself, and which were sure to be unreciprocated.

“I know,” Peter replied with such neutral bluntness that it might have irritated the captain, had the boy not been so tractable all evening.

Thus fell asleep James Hook, in the rather uncomfortable undersize bed-- leather boots still on, hanging out slightly over the edge--striving to think of a suitable way to reward the boy in his arms for his good behavior. Peter, in turn, had little choice but to fall asleep as he was, exultant to see how he single-handedly soothed away Hook’s neurosis, and unwilling to acknowledge what an illusion his supposed control must be.

***

Late morning light streamed in through the glass, blinding Peter's eyes just as he opened them. He turned away quickly, remembering why he felt so cramped when he saw Hook’s face directly in front of his own. The man was still asleep, snoring lightly, hair in such a mess all over the pillow that Peter felt quite a few strands under his own cheek. Hook must trust him, Peter mused, being this vulnerable in such proximity. Not that Peter could have done the man any serious damage, even had he wanted to, in these particular circumstances. It was less trust than confidence in his helplessness, Peter thought glumly. His hand shot down to Hook’s waist, but alas the keys were on the belt that Hook had taken care to leave out of reach. Neither could he surreptitiously entertain himself with the ship’s log, with Hook’s body between him and the little nightstand on which the book was kept.

Peter slumped back and took the opportunity to peruse the captain’s face for lack of anything better to do. The realization hit him quite suddenly. Peter stifled a gasp and attempted to forget the thought, but it was indelible. The shape of the eyes, and even more so the mouth, had incredible resemblance to the girl in the log. He had not seen it before, but it was perhaps the mustache’s fault. The man who was so far removed from the way he imagined this girl now unquestionably shared some traits of appearance with her. It was a riddle to him, and a cruel irony. He felt a rush-- not quite the same feeling the picture would trigger-- but he felt as if he could spend hours studying the face he had previously thought was too familiar, especially when the girl was out of reach. Hook shifted, and Peter felt himself being trapped even more snugly against the wall, Hook’s body overwhelming with its size and masculinity. Peter ran a finger across the muscular arms and chest. The skin was weathered, the flesh relatively bulky. So unlike any of the children Peter had been accustomed to live with. He wondered if he would have looked anything like this, had he grown up.

Hook woke up to large green eyes doggedly staring at him. Peter’s delicate fingers were holding a strand of the long, auburn hair between his immaturely soft nose and a playful smirk.

“A fine mustache, if I ever saw one.” Hook could hardly summon the energy to smile. Mornings invariably felt miserable, but he put on a good face for his bedfellow. Peter was by now unwrapped from the blanket, and Hook felt strong desire again, to his dismay, especially when he felt the boy’s body touch his own in their close proximity. He got up, aching and cramped up, and retrieved the piss bucket from under the bed. It was now embarrassing-- that he had consciously decided to keep the less pleasant things in the corner of the cabin the boy inhabited.

Peter climbed out as well, as far as the tether would allow, which was barely an inch from the edge. They relieved themselves simultaneously before Hook dressed, and walked out to change the water. Peter smirked when he remembered how he had often taken the liberty to decorate the glass of Hook’s windows with yellow streams once he learned where it was in the ship that the captain lodged. So playful and naive were those days.

Hook returned with the breakfast tray Smee usually brought in later, when the captain would finally wake up. He slid the bucket with the clean water under his own bed. “You’ve been exceedingly good, lad, and I never let such things go un-rewarded, even among those scurvy dogs…”

“Preserves!” Peter beamed. The boy had an outrageous sweet tooth, Hook discovered during the first of their abortive voyages. It came in handy when the porridge was days old, and the boy was being picky.

Hook chuckled. “Yes, berry preserves, and a whole lot of them, but it’s really not what I had in mind.” He set the tray on the table before unlocking the manacle holding Peter fastened to the wall. The boy sat still, calmly waiting to be dragged and re-chained to the table, but Hook merely stood back.

“I thought your flying skills might benefit from a little practice after all this disuse,” Hook said, his voice impassive, but his piercing eyes watching for every small change of expression on Peter’s face. The boy’s breath hitched, and he was pushing off the bed in no time.

“On one condition,” Hook added hastily, and was pleased to see the boy obediently settle back down, awaiting his word. “Take off your clothing.”

Peter’s body instinctively gathered in. “My clothing? But… why.”

It was hardly a question, since both knew the answer well enough.

“So that it won’t get in the way,” Hook said as amiably as he could muster.

“Then take these things off. They bother me every hour of the day,” Peter said, pointing to the giant earrings.

Hook smirked. “Not your way.” But when he saw Peter’s poised body slump, and dejection write itself so obviously on his face, he quickly added that he was only joking, of course, and took them off with no more ado. The boy’s smile returned. He knew there were foreboding elements to this request, but he could hardly deny himself the pleasure of flying now-- even in that close space-- when his very muscles were tingling with anticipation. He removed his clothes hesitantly, all too aware of Hook’s greedy eyes-- eyes that could not help but see teasing in the languor of the boy’s movements and his pitiable efforts to remain diffident as he stripped.

The man sat down to make his arousal less obvious, and to more comfortably watch the boy’s body acquire an entirely new grace in the air. Peter lifted with enviable ease, and began to fly rounds around the relatively small arena afforded him. The light of the sun played wonderfully across his blemish-free skin. Peter quickly grew bolder as he felt familiar with the space. Aerial twists, corkscrews, somersaults, and pikes were executed with amazing precision and due caution not to snag any of the nearby furniture. Best of all, Hook realized, this show was for him. Peter was acutely conscious of his audience, and wished to impress almost by instinct. Every sinew was taut like a bowstring, but with no unsightly strain, Hook mused, his head forced to turn now and then to follow the boy’s hectic path.

“Alright, lad, come down,” Hook finally said quietly when his arousal began to fade. Peter looked back unenthusiastically, and embarked on a few more rounds, pretending not to have heard.

"Your breakfast will get cold." The voice was getting sterner, so Peter floated down to retrieve his clothing. Hook pulled out a chair for him, and the boy sat down, reluctant, but also unwilling to irritate the captain when he was being unusually generous. Peter’s appetite fired up once he had food in his mouth.

The door to the cabin suddenly creaked open, and Smee came in with the laundry. Hook's eyes immediately shot to Peter, who had dropped his spoon in surprise, his body tensing. The boy remained in place, however, and finally looked back at Hook questioningly.

"Shut the door, Smee."

"Yes, Cap'n," the bosun replied, at first attributing the strange abruptness of Hook's command only to the captain's usual ill humor in the morning, but then noticed the boy's lack of confinement. The old man gave a brief smile, but left promptly-- afraid to have angered Hook. Peter continued staring at the door, before finally looking back at the porridge in front of him on the table. His heart pounded. He knew his chance of escape was still slight, but it was one of the finest opportunities he'd ever had in the period of his captivity. He had a far greater opportunity moments ago, but this was gone and would probably never present itself again. It was a shame that Hook had to have been rather considerate on this particular morning, otherwise Peter might have been more willing to risk it and try bolting across the cabin. Instead he resumed his breakfast, following Hook with his eyes as the man walked across the cabin and locked the door with the keys on his belt.

There was an awkward silence, finally broken by a nervous, tittering sort of laugh from Peter.

"All that time..." the boy said, not knowing how to continue without making a painful observation that would risk tears coming to his eyes. The truth was not as sardonic when it was left unsaid.

Hook erupted with chuckling of his own. Peter's laughing was marred by a disappointment and a reawakened longing for freedom that had recently grown quite muted. Hook's was colored by a certain feeling of guilt-- for all his efforts to do something pleasant for Peter, he would never do the simplest thing that would truly make the boy happy. It was, nevertheless, the first time the sound of two such disparate laughs simultaneously bounced off the cabin walls.

The unbid tears finally came to Peter's eyes, though his skittish laughing continued, now interspersed with sobbing. Hook stood aloof, feeling incapable of calming the boy.

Everything he had been happy about, Peter realized, was empty and would have disgusted him before his captivity. There was no honor in being pleasing, especially to someone like Hook. He was utterly friendless here, kept like a trinket, and, worst of all, was apparently beginning to forget how he used to live free, careless, and happy.

"Stop this nonsense,” Hook finally said, irritation overpowering his sheepish compunction. “It doesn't befit a boy to cry, especially so absurdly.”

"I'm not crying." Peter could barely speak. "It's just funny..." He buried his face into the silk napkin, weeping. Hook did not opt to say a word until the eyes reemerged into view, reddened.

“Go on, finish your food,” Hook said, running his hand through Peter’s hair. “I think you need a bath. That’s it. We’ll give you a nice hot bath today.” He leaned over and pecked Peter on the cheek, still all wet.

“You’ll like it here, I promise you. I’ve nowhere to go, but being stuck in a little paradise like this isn’t so bad, now that I’ve given it some thought… It’s the kind of life every man wants to retire to, after all. And I’ll have you to keep me from becoming bored. We’ll teach you, and pamper you to no end.” Hook planted a series of kisses on Peter’s neck. He watched the boy add an obscenely large dollop of berry preserves into his porridge before continuing to eat, tears silently falling right into his bowl. “You’ll be quite spoiled, I realize, but I’ll love you for it.”

Peter winced as he heard one, then another, click of the metal earrings as they were put back into place.

***

The bath was exquisitely pleasurable, and Peter sat in the tub until the steaming water turned almost cold. The captain always took his bath behind a curtain, but Peter was on display for Hook to see all, though the boy was slowly learning not to feel self-conscious even without any clothes. It was easier to be happy, he had decided earlier that day after his tears stopped-- even if it meant winking at certain circumstances. Certain circumstances like Hook’s insistence that Peter sit on his lap, straddling him, to be dried off.

Peter was growing uncomfortable. Hook was not only drying him off, but simultaneously bouncing him up and down in his lap, and it was surely an erection he felt hardening underneath him, practically into his exposed cleft, buffered only by the man’s breeches. The friction against Hook’s torso had produced an arousal of his own, and Peter’s face flushed red to feel himself inadvertently hardening into the stomach of the man he was straddling.

Hook pretended to pay no heed, merely stroking the slender body flirtatiously now that it was mostly dry. He wished he could just unbutton his pants and slip inside Peter’s exquisite tightness. He felt more corpse-like than ever before, sure that he had only a couple of days remaining to live, and consequently felt maddening urges to take Peter a few last times. The boy was admittedly the root of most of his problems, but, Hook felt, he could also prove their remedy. He practically effervesced youth and vitality, and these were things Hook desperately craved to partake in. Yet he had to do it properly. He had already carried the game too far, and could see the fright building in the child’s eyes as, even muffled by the clothing, the erection desperately sought to plunge up into what was currently stifling it with its weight.

“Will you be sad when I die?” Hook asked, his voice embarrassingly husky after prolonged silence and arousal.

“Why will you die?” Peter asked right back, so matter-of-factly that Hook’s morbid sense of humor was tickled. Peter arched away from the towel as it repeatedly swept over his opening, which launched him right into Hook’s abdomen. Hook shivered when he felt two hands press themselves against his chest, and though Peter was only trying to prevent falling over forward, it was easy to attribute sensuality to the move. Hook preferred sensuality.

“The crocodile’s clock has run down. And with it, my time is up, I suppose. The beast won’t rest until it has me, and I can’t escape it any more than I can escape this island.” The towel dropped to the floor.

“You know what I think?” said Peter, attempting to extricate himself from his provocative position to no avail, as Hook held him put. “I think it just means you shouldn’t obey time. You don’t have to die, you know, if you’re careful.”

“And yet she’ll get me one day, especially if I can’t hear her approach. I’d rather die of old age than go down her gullet in the prime of life. But it will happen, one way or another, you’ll see. Even you weren’t careful enough.” Hook pressed Peter down to further stifle his erection, and let a moan of pleasure and pain escape his lips as Peter’s mild fright made him tighten his meager muscles. Hook’s arms inadvertently relaxed, and the boy floated out of his reach, across the cabin to retrieve his clothes. Hook watched the tantalizing bottom disappear from sight as the boy quickly pulled his shorts back on.

“Still better than getting old,” Peter said quietly, springing onto his bed and staying put, restrained by habit by now, if not with metal chains. He longed to ogle the girl’s picture when his body was already so primed and excited, but he dared not open that book in the captain’s presence, nor allow himself to stare at the man as a substitute.
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Peter Captured