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Peter Captured	By : lexyhamilton Category: M through R > Peter Pan > Slash Views: 19630 -:- 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
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Warning: The following story is rated NC-17 for non-con male/male intercourse.. who am I kidding-- there's semi-graphic slash rape... and one of the participants being underage to boot. If any of this displeases you-- well, congratulations! You haven't been corrupted yet. I would advise you to keep it that way and leave immediatement.
Disclaimer: The GOSH (a children's hospital in the UK) still own the copyright to Peter Pan, at least in some countries. In short, I don't own any of these characters.

I have not updated this story in a long time, but I think I'll pick it up again. The only change made now is I finally wrote a beginning to the whole thing. Which turned out to be quite a hassle using AFF.net's system hehe. In any case, at least the text in all the chapters is no longer garbled. For now. ^__^
And thanks a lot for all the reviews I have gotten so far! I never properly thanked people for reading.

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The prisoner beat himself against the door of the powder room, but it hardly budged from the impacts. The violence was being done mutely, so that Hook began to doubt whether it was really Peter Pan he had locked in.

“Pan? It’s no use trying to escape. Hand over your weapons, slide them under the door.”

“Over my dead body,” the boy’s voice sounded, all too recognizable even through the muffling door. Why was the child always so gratingly fearless? “Come in here and take them away yourself, Captain.”

“I’m afraid I’ll just have to wait then,” Hook called out. The man sat down onto the edge of a nearby barrel, still trembling in his excitement. His prize was just on the other side of the door, almost ready for the ripping and gutting. The crew had gone to land to re-supply hours ago, but they were probably helping themselves to a few extra hours of rest by staying on land longer than the task required.

The wood of the ship groaned all the time, and Hook would probably not have even noticed the creaking of the doors, but for all his years with this particular ship. He knew every sound that would emanate from its bowels, and this one had been alien. Peter Pan must have suffered from quite the opposite effect, because he paid no heed to the several slow creaks produced when Hook made his way to see who it was that ventured to explore their vessel.

Thinking the whole crew was out looking for him, with Hook at its lead, Peter was eager to explore for himself the ship that housed his enemy and greatest source of entertainment. Hook startled Peter just as he peered into the darkness of the powder room. The boy parried successfully, but it had been easy to push him inside and lock the door. Hook ran over the moment for the tenth time in his head, immense satisfaction and even disbelief at how easy it had been, in the end, warming his soul.

It was a few hours before Hook heard anything from inside the room again.

“Please-- let me out. I need to…” Peter’s voice trailed off, unsure of the words he had never had to use before.

“Why so demure now? What you’ve been doing around my ship all these years was worse than pissing. I’m not letting you out with your weapons.” There was a short silence, and suddenly a dagger slid under the door, pushed out by slender fingers.

“And the rest of what you’re wearing. So that I’ll be able to see you’re unarmed.” Hook smiled as he saw a complicated fabric of leaves follow the dagger. “Is that really all?”

“Yes! Now, let me go.”

“It’s a bit too early for that, I should say.” Hook said, picking up the clothes on the point of the dagger.

“But you promised!” Delicious exasperation colored the boy’s voice, but Hook only sat back on the barrel, running the leaves through his fingers-- greedy for a foretaste of his nemesis now that he was almost in his clutches. Before, he had cherished every bit of blood left on a blade or his hook—tasting it, reveling in having forced Pan to betray a sense of mortality. Now he had so much, and the boy himself soon enough. There was a bang against the door again.

“Kindly calm down and quit ruining the door!” Hook voice rose to a bellow. The inside of the room grew quiet, until not long afterwards he heard the faint sound of trickling urine against a wooden surface. The crew returned and Hook reluctantly gave up his post, bidding Robert Mullins only watch the door and not offer to say a word. Night fell, and Cecco reported that the boy was crying for water.

Hook walked down, and when everyone in the vicinity grew silent, quiet sobbing from inside the room became distinct. Smee protested on Peter’s behalf, but Hook would have none of it. He had decided to take no chances, and have the boy remain in there as long as possible to sap him of all strength and spirit. It was a pathetic and ungentlemanly tactic, but Hook was more than willing to put such considerations aside when permanently capturing the boy was at stake.

On the second day Tinker Bell appeared on the ship, obviously searching for her missing hero, and was caught easily enough by one of the crew in her agitated state. Hook kept her in a glass jar in his cabin, studying her figure when what he was really impatient for was to have the boy already physically restrained. Yet though he trembled with anticipation, he did not hasten the proceedings, and stayed away from the powder room altogether to avoid temptation and open it prematurely. After all, Peter Pan would not fall for the same trick again. That is, unless he forgot. Hook grinned to himself, but was not about to take any chances.

It was on the third day, after Hook suddenly noticed that the fairy had expired sometime in the afternoon, that he went to check on his prisoner. Nothing had been heard inside since the morning, Cecco reported, having been on watch since the early hours. It was time. Hook entered the room himself, sword drawn just in case, offended by the rancid smell of old urine. There in the darkness, the boy lay on the floor. Just as Hook sheathed his sword, sure that his nemesis was unconscious—if not worse—the boy swiveled his head to face the captain, eyes hollow and tragic.

“Water… please, Hook… water,” his voice crackled, barely recognizable. Hook approached him cautiously, but finally took up the body to carry it out. So small! Was this really his feared nemesis? For a fleeting moment Hook felt as though he had lost his mind and locked up a tiny child undeserving of any such fate. Peter’s hands and ankles were bound immediately and Bill Jukes held him face down into a barrel full of dank rainwater. Having had his fill he sat on the deck, restrained by a chain to an oversize cannonball.

Amazing how quickly the boy recovered, Hook mused, as he watched Peter Pan show his fiendish lopsided smile again, evidently enjoying the sunlight and hardly perturbed by the dire situation he was in. The crew stood around, looking at him with a mixture of wonder and fear. Indeed, even Hook had never had the opportunity to study the boy’s features before, having only been in proximity during battle where he paid more attention to the blade than the boy behind it.

Peter, on the other hand, seemed to have little interest in studying his nemesis up close. “Hey, Mr. Smee, I’m a bit hungry. Mind making me something?”

Smee hesitated, looking at his captain, but trudged off almost before Hook had nodded. It had to be admitted that the boy was used to commanding. It almost felt like a waste to execute a being so resilient, but an echo of pain shuddered through Hook’s right arm as if to remind him that an execution would be a mercy for this sprite.

***

Peter was kept in the hold before they could adequately prepare for his demise. In truth, there was less physical than mental preparation for Hook. When finally faced with the prospect of killing his enemy, the end seemed anti-climactic. Especially since the boy made it such a point to remain cheeky and happy, though Hook was sure this was all facade after hearing those sobs from behind the door on that wonderful day that saw the boy’s capture.

He came down to the hold often, admiring the culmination of years of pursuit. Peter would smile and stick his tongue out, and then say something new to irritate the captain. Sometimes it was nothing clever, merely the nonchalant way in which the boy spoke down to the man who would soon kill him.

“Ah, you’re here. That’s good, because I need to take a piss.” Pursed lips. As if Hook had neglected his duties by not coming down earlier. Though Hook had the urge to kick the boy sitting so smugly in front of his boots, he suddenly thought of a more traumatizing punishment. Surely it would be sweet revenge to enjoy something that would hurt the boy… Hook knelt down and tried to extricate Peter out of his complicated clothing to no avail, until he finally untied the boy’s hands and let him do the honors.

He stared at the naked body displayed so unashamedly before him. One of Peter's legs twisted inward slightly in that irritating, childish way, as he continued to urinate. The sound of it hitting the pot ceased, and Peter reached down for the pants pooled at his ankles. He suddenly felt a strong arm grab him about the waist and a hand roughly picking his chin back up, straightening him out about halfway before he felt his back pressed into the large body looming over him. Never had the two been in such proximity, and the boy grimaced at the strong reek of tobacco, sweat, and metal. Hook's head was so close that Peter could see long, dark ringlets fall on either side of his own head. He tried to extricate himself from this strange embrace, especially when he felt the hook begin to dig into his side. He could feel Hook’s heartbeat pound into his back.

“Do you know what I did to butterflies when I was a wee child in grammar school?"

Peter could hardly recognize the captain’s guttural voice rasping into his ear. Hook scooted forward, pushing Peter along unceremoniously, their feet jumbling together as Peter’s were particularly uneager and unsure of their destination. They proceeded towards a barrel that was within the reach of the chains restraining the boy’s ankles.

“I’d go out into a garden with a net and catch them in midair. Oh, how they’d flop about, desperate to fly away again, beating their flimsy wings against their cruel confines…” Peter’s pathetic struggles ceased, at least for the moment, though he was still shaking and tense. He could not have known what was in store for him, Hook reasoned, but his mere tone must have been sinister enough for the boy.

“And after I returned inside, can you guess what I did with them?”

Peter tried to turn his head and at least see, if not face, his attacker. Before Hook realized what he was doing, he leaned down and kissed the cheek that revealed itself when the boy turned in profile. He cursed himself at doing silly things like this. He did not even find Peter’s body very pleasing, much less anything else about him, and the boy certainly did not merit any such attentions. It had not been wise to envisage Peter Pan while bringing himself to completion all those times in the privacy of his cabin, for though the daydreams had all been ones of gruesome triumph, now the boy seemed to conjure up something like lust in any context.

“I’d pin them…” Peter had only a moment to tense himself before being thrown onto the barrel's edge. “--and mount them.” Peter groaned as Hook’s added weight made the edge cut into chest. The captain laughed and undid his clothing just enough.

Peter heard Hook shuffle around with something. Roughened fingertips brushed against his body in a place that should not, by all rights, have been touched. And then came the invasion, unlike any other. The finger had been wetted with saliva, and slid in easily enough after the initial, uncomfortable breach, but Peter felt outraged that he could do absolutely nothing to stop the pain and humiliation.

“N-n-no… you can’t do that…” He gasped and jerked, lacerating himself against the hook when a second finger reached in. He wished he could turn enough to face the man who was breathing so hotly down his exposed back.

“Doesn’t… hurt…” Peter finally stuttered out, determined not to show weakness. He wished he could see the pirate’s face, because this torture was less painful than disturbing and incongruous.

"Pleased to hear it, Pan," Hook muttered, fingers pulling out. "Because soon your worthless bag of bones will finally be put to some real use."

Peter felt something completely unfamiliar threaten to enter him in the same ignominious way, and could do nothing but breathe raggedly as pain suffused his body. Tears sprang up involuntarily as he felt himself being filled up with something hot and massive, which seemed to plow into him and shove his very insides apart, straining his opening with burning agony until it felt that he would inevitably tear.

Hook could see his heavy breaths move the boy’s hair, but only when he managed to keep his eyes open. The pleasure denied him so many years was now his and more blissful than he had remembered it. The astounding tightness of buggery, the weak squirming of the body underneath him, and, above all, the knowledge that it was his nemesis he was deflowering made him shake with ecstasy. He only wished he could see the boy’s face and watch it as it lost its innocence. One of the boy’s hands moved back and made spastic efforts to push Hook’s body away-- slender fingers digging into the lush velvet with pathetic urgency. No, Pan was no ethereal sprite. The pleasure he gave was quite corporeal.

Hook began to thrust, and Peter found it very hard to stay silent. Worst of all, he knew nothing about what to anticipate, and was deathly afraid when he heard Hook’s pleasure-filled moans above him. It ended sooner than Peter had feared, but he was not the better for it. Hook turned the boy around, gleeful when he saw the boy’s reddened eyes widen to behold what had been the instrument of torture. As Hook stepped away and brought himself back to order, Peter’s hands hesitantly traveled to the site of injury-- afraid to explore what it was that was leaking out of him. Peter shuddered when he discover a sticky mixture of red and white glop, on his fingers. Hook slapped Peter hard enough to send him to the floor as soon as he cared enough to look over and notice the boy’s self-examination. The captain hated the possibility of his prisoner pleasuring himself when left to his own devices during what was supposed to be his damnation.

“Never touch yourself, you scraggy sack of scum,” he said rather nonchalantly, following up with a couple of half-hearted kicks from which Peter barely tried to dodge. In the torrent of verbal abuse that followed, Hook used many words Peter could not even begin to understand, before going up the stairs to leave boy lying in the dank darkness, a stranger to his own body.

Smee came into the hold with the leftovers from the men's meal some time later. He could not immediately find the boy cowering near the wall, as far as his chain would allow, still undressed. Nor could he coax him to divulge what had happened, until the dried streams of blood on the skin of Peter’s thighs came into view in the dim light. The airs of familiarity of the old pirate finally broke Peter down and he disclosed everything, stumbling over his words in his anxiety. Peter could feel his face burning with shame by the time he finished, but it did feel better to have found someone who could listen and even commiserate.

Smee corrected Peter on several counts, namely that he had not been ‘pissed’ into, and that his hipbones were, very likely, still intact. Peter listened in awe as Smee related how he had been in a similar situation when he began life on the sea as cabin boy.

"And he said I might as well consider myself a girl now," Peter echoed a dismaying phrase that had haunted him.

Smee took Peter's head, pressing it to this grubby striped shirt. "You’ll always be a boy, son. Don't worry your sweet little head over that. Now, I was older than you when it started, and it still hurt, and I cried at night at first, fearing all sorts of things from the other men in the dark sometimes. But no one laid a hand on me ‘sides the Cap’n. And you cut a bonny figure-- more than I coulda ever hoped for. If you play your cards right, not only will the Cap’n not execute ya, but he might fret over ya and keep ya in good health."

“I’d rather die…” Peter said, suppressing the feeling of tears coming on. “I just want to go home.”

“We all do,” Smee said, suddenly uncomfortable with his position as an accomplice and taking solace only in that he had always owed allegiance to the Captain, first and foremost.

Rumors of Peter Pan's status as ship's whore spread fast, starting as mere speculations when his execution was postponed and solidified into law when Cecco and Bill happened to walk in on the captain taking his pleasure. By that time Peter was no longer concerned with keeping up appearances of being unaffected and would let out screams loud enough to be heard in all but the deepest recesses of the Jolly Roger. Before long, members of the crew were asking the captain for permission to visit the hold, where the debauchery took place. They came down in pairs, taking turns holding the boy put. Though Hook never monitored their activities directly, there was an unspoken understanding that Peter was not to show signs of egregious abuse by the end of the day, when Hook would descend to have a taste for himself. Thus, even the vilest among them were careful to do no physical damage. Peter Pan's rank thus drifted from a revered and reviled prisoner to merely a precious commodity. More than a week passed in this fashion, during which the boy attempted everything from physical resistance to hunger and silence strikes, with no other success than making his old caretaker worry.

***

Smee trudged to Hook’s cabin. Part of him was glad that the boy had escaped before any more harm came to him, but he also worried about the captain’s temper. There’d be no easy living on the ship for days, and Smee sincerely hoped he would not be personally accused of negligence in his duties.

He knocked and swung the door open when Hook’s voice bade him enter, already beginning to relate the tragic news of Pan’s escape, but stopped short. He could go no further inside, stupefied by the scene unfolding before him.

The tragic boy lay naked on the bed, his wrists chained to the posts, and his legs thrown up so high that his very knees rested on his chest and his ankles extended beyond his head. Hook held him in this uncomfortable position with his own person, ostensibly doing nothing more than stroking the boy’s hair.

“Observe how limber he is, Smee. Oh, what a joy to have such a body at one’s disposal, don’t you think?”

Smee could not face the captain when he was sitting astride the child who was gazing so plaintively toward the doorway now. “If you please, Cap’n, he’s only a boy.”

“A boy?” Hook scoffed. He released the pressure on the small body, and Peter immediately took imprudent advantage by delivering a sharp kick to the man’s jaw. “He was, flying around these, parts, before you were, in your cradle, Smee,” Hook spoke-- a bit brokenly because he was simultaneously shaking Peter’s head back and forth as punishment for his recalcitrance, threatening to tear hair right out of the scalp.

“A pretty face, isn’t it, Smee?” Hook suddenly said, taking the boy’s chin and forcefully turning it back and forth between him and the old boatswain. “Not a classic visage, by any means, and perhaps much too gaunt in some places, but there’s some untamed, exotic quality that makes him look rather pristine."

“Yes, Cap’n,” Smee mumbled, avoiding Peter’s forlorn stare, and turning to leave-- exceedingly sorry now that he had no news to report. A sudden call of his name prompted him to face the captain again.

“Have new clothes made for the brat. We shall be keeping him long enough to warrant it,” Hook said. “Oh, and none of that complicated full body tripe. Make the pants easy to remove.”

Peter winced as the door clicked closed, remembering that the main event was still to come. He was constantly sore, and had been used so many times that each separate instance was beginning to coalesce into one massive blur in his memory. Each time, whether with Hook or the others, he thought he could fight-- that he could do something of extraordinary ingenuity or agility that would let him escape-- and each time he ended up a crippled heap, his desire to live only a consequence of his desire for vengeance. Hook felt Peter's body relax, the ribcage expanding before letting out a defeated sigh.

"What's the matter, boy, are we losing our mettle already?" Hook pushed Peter's legs apart with ease. The boy fixed his eyes on the ceiling, scrambling to think of something pleasant, even as he braced himself for the worst. Smee’s repetitive advice had been to relax, and relax Peter did, knowing he would shortly be breached whether he accepted the invasion or not.

"Have we turned into such a whore that we don't even want to fight back?" Hook brushed the skin of the boy's sunken in abdomen. Peter made no answer, though his pulse was quickening, and he knew he was inadvertently tightening up.

"Aren't we ashamed of ourselves in the slightest?" Hook asked, teasing his finger into Peter’s cleft but no further. Peter finally looked down to see the man leering. "Used by my men worse than a rag to wipe their feet on… Stinking of the water in the hold… And lying here, naked and wanton, for me to use as I please..."

"Why should I be ashamed when you're not?" Peter finally said quietly, cheeks starting to burn in spite of himself. His shame was returning indeed, and on its heels, his anger.

Hook knew Peter well enough by now to notice and grinned. "That's the spirit, lad. Nobody wants you as a willing catamite." The man pinched the sensitive skin near the opening. Peter flinched and managed to free one of his legs enough to deliver a kick to Hook’s face. The slap of the captain's hand across Peter's cheek rang out across the cabin, and the boy's tears finally came forth.

"Give me a good fight, like old times, and your precious bottom might go without the pounding it deserves…" Hook said, reveling in this new game. Each teasing advance prompted some inefficient flailing out from Peter, and this, in turn, earned the boy painful corporal punishment. By the time Hook grew tired of the cruel play, Peter lay bruised in many places, gasping and trembling, eyes wild like a wounded animal’s.

"It wasn't good enough of a fight, I'm afraid," Hook panted out, though even as he said it he was rubbing his chest where Peter had delivered a particularly painful kick. Peter's tear-filled eyes stared resolutely at the pattern of beams on the ceiling. Hook moved into him with the aid of oil, but it still left the boy's opening burning. Hook gasped through teeth clenched in a grin as Peter’s body presented a frantic kaleidoscope of sensation-- pushing out, then trying to pull in, then deciding better again-- gripping the intrusion mercilessly all the while. That lovely head thrashed back and forth, tearing eyes squeezed shut, as if it could somehow detach itself and block out the unpleasantness inflicted on the rest of the body below. Hook smirked as he saw Peter’s fly open when his legs were forced farther apart, just in time to see Hook thrust even deeper into him. Hook’s black locks hung down like a curtain around the boy’s head and chest, brushing the white skin with each thrust into the contracting heat. Oh, how Peter Pan could delight, in spite of himself!

***

Hook never brought Peter down to the hold again, though this hardly meant less suffering. With the boy always under hand, Hook took to using Peter several times a day, and the pattern of the headboard of the bed and that of the ceiling beams were ingrained into the boy’s memory quite well from his efforts to fixate on something else as he experienced hellish agony. When Hook felt disposed to entertain himself early in the morning, he would often leave the boy chained up-- whether out of sheer laziness or malice Peter could never quite guess. Smee would tend to him as best as he could, feeding the boy and offering him the bedpan even as he lay prone and largely helpless for most of the day. Peter refused most of his services and would protest vehemently against being lubricated for the next session ahead of time, though he knew full well it was only for his sake that Smee went to the trouble. He shed tears freely when Hook was not present, loathing his forced bedridden state, and yet praying Hook’s return would be postponed as long as possible.

At other times, Hook held the boy restrained on the floor, with the same apparatus as had been used in the hold. In short, hardly anything had changed. Peter could find only small consolation in the dry floor and copious sunshine that penetrated the cabin at some periods of the day, in contrast to the dank darkness he had to endure before. Escape was made impossibly difficult through Hook’s many precautions and Peter resigned himself to biding his time and waiting until his keeper grew more confident and careless with him.

Though the novelty of corrupting his enemy’s innocence wore off quickly, as Hook had dreaded, he continued looking forward to ravishing Peter each day, for other reasons. Where the boy’s body had been almost displeasing at first-- all bones and sinews, not a curve in sight-- Hook found something alluring now. Past physical activity rendered its motions unintentionally graceful. The lanky frame was of the simplest design-- the absolute minimum required for inclusion into the human race. It amazed Hook that the tight little vessel could stretch to accommodate him inside it, however unwillingly. The thirst for Peter’s body—its youth, and smoothness, and tininess-- was becoming unquenchable, and Hook was glad about his decision to seclude his prisoner from the other men’s grubby clutches.

Peter dared not hope for the best, but the frequency with which he was used slowly diminished. Even the raping itself became less brutal, and Hook often lay beside the restrained boy afterwards, licking away traitorous tears, trying to kiss away the frown, and, failing at that, moving down to the delicate chest and the navel.

“Pretty, livid little thing,” Hook would taunt him, and Peter could not help but tremble at the lust that slowly but ever so surely replaced the anger with which he was treated. That particular tone made him sick to his stomach and he almost wished it were back to the kicks with the boots.

There was a certain sense of discomfiture in having the boy residing in his cabin. For, as much as Peter was helpless against scrutiny, nothing missed his eyes either. Hook began to sleep in most of his clothing and was chagrined to notice that Peter could still smirk, however wistfully, when he watched the rather undignified procedure of putting the harness on. One of these days, Hook swore to himself, he would shove his stump far enough down Peter’s mouth that he would not dare smirk at anything ever again. Not before he was finished adoring that intoxicating body, however.
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Peter Captured