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"A Pirate's Trade"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Alternate Universe - Pirates, yes I
went there, Yaoi, Smut, Questionable Pirate Morality, Arrrrg Pairings: 2x1, 3x4 Summary: Captain Maxwell of the Shinigami, second
most feared pirate to sail the Seven Seas, unwittingly stole precious
booty from the one man who is more feared than he is. Oops. "A Pirate's Trade" Chapter 11: A New Purpose
Being a comforting presence was not something he was accustomed to. It wasn’t as if he’d had much practice, or any for that matter, especially not since he’d been taken on board the Shinigami. His heart went out to the boy, able to empathize and even sympathize with his plight, but he just wasn’t sure what to do about it. He didn’t want to smother Quatre, but he did want him to feel like he could trust him.. “Are you alright?” Quatre’s eyes met his own in the mirror and Heero was encouraged by the response. He watched the other boy fuss with his golden ringlets until they laid prettily about his head. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” “Do I?” Quatre’s voice was muted, but tinged with something resembling bitterness which surprised him even though it shouldn’t have considering what he’d done to him. Still, he felt an urgent need to reach out to him and refused to give up. “Quatre, you can trust me,” he insisted, trying to keep his voice as gentle and non-threatening as possible. “I don’t -” He paused and shook his head, tucking a blond curl behind his ear. Heero got the sense that he was trying to organize his thoughts, but he was desperate to clear the air about what they’d done. “I’m...sorry. About...all of this. About what I did to you. I understand if you don’t think you can trust me. I just want you to know that I -” “It’s not you,” Quatre interrupted and turned away from the dresser. He was visibly unsettled and busied his hands by fiddling with the laces of his shirt. “I don’t blame you and I really didn’t mind it.” The corners of his mouth curled up just slightly and Heero was taken aback when he winked a turquoise eye at him. “You’re rather good at that.” He flushed to the tips of his ears and rubbed his nose in an attempt to hide his grin. “You don’t have to tell me that. I haven’t done...well, it’s been a long time.” “You fooled me,” Quatre said with a soft chuckle. “And I’m not just telling you that. I mean it,” he added, his eyes twinkling with sincerity and Heero, God help him, he believed him which probably wasn’t a good thing. This boy was technically the enemy, even if only by association. He was the catamite of his Master’s enemy. In any other situation, he’d be a rival, but with Quatre, he found he could harbor no ill will towards the boy. It wasn’t the first time Heero had been acquainted with the catamite of another pirate captain. In his experience, he found some of them to be a great many number of things, but none of those traits ever represented anything he considered to be honorable. Vain, spoilt, vindictive, underhanded, insipid. They clung to their captains and simpered like pathetic weaklings while their kohl-lined eyes burned with threat anytime another catamite was nearby. They were fiercely possessive of their Masters and viciously hostile towards other catamites. Heero unfortunately found that out the hard way after catching the eye of Captain Dekim Barton who ironically shared the same surname as the captain of the Catherine. Dekim had a young, dark haired catamite of his own, perhaps a year, or so younger than Heero himself. Like him, the boy was a mix of European and Asian ancestry, but he lacked Heero’s startling blue eyes. Blue eyes that Dekim was intensely fascinated by. He supposed he should’ve been grateful that Captain Maxwell did not like to share. There were certainly plenty of other captains that had no qualms about passing their bed warmers around like the commodities they were. He was spared subjugation at Barton’s hands, but not before the man’s catamite plunged a small knife into Heero’s back during a fit of jealous rage. Thankfully, it missed his vital organs, but that excursion nearly cost Barton and his little whore their lives. He wasn’t sure what had possessed Maxwell to order him to bed Trowa Barton’s catamite. Then again, Maxwell was notoriously unpredictable which was part of the reason he was so dangerous. Heero had seen him feign forgiveness for a minor infraction only to turn around and gut the poor bastard who foolishly let his guard down. It was the first time he’d been with anyone besides Maxwell since he was taken off the streets of Bangladesh. He would never admit it, especially not to Maxwell, or Quatre, but he’d thoroughly enjoyed the experience. To bugger a pliant body, to not be the one spread out in supplication was empowering and he craved to do it again, though he knew that was unlikely to happen. He was even more reluctant to admit how much he enjoyed sex with Maxwell. The undeniable fluttering of excitement in his belly every time he was hauled off to their cabin and thrown onto the bed. But he didn’t have to admit it. Maxwell knew. He knew because Heero was unable to control his body’s responses as he was dragged across the ship, catching the lecherous gazes of the crew, the dark laughs and lewd gestures of the men who were well aware of what happened when he was taken to Maxwell’s cabin. He was unable to stop himself from getting hard, even when he put up the pretense of resistance. Maxwell could clearly see his traitorous erection jutting up from between his thighs when he flipped up the skirt of his tunic. He could feel the stiff flesh against his belly and groin when he laid himself over the boy and pinned flailing arms against the mattress. Heero never could smother the whimpers and moans when Maxwell’s cock touched the places deep inside him that rendered him helpless with pleasure. He never could refrain from tilting his hips up as his arse was bared, silently offering himself up for the taking. He tried. Oh, he tried to resist, but he knew now that he’d been doomed right from the start. The first time Maxwell bedded him, he fought like a wildcat, punching, kicking, scratching, biting. He screamed in impotent fury as he was overpowered and then penetrated, weeping brokenly beneath the force of Maxwell’s jarring thrusts, grieving his freedom, his autonomy, and his humiliating degradation. He realized he’d been fooling himself all along. Resistance was futile. Always had been, always would be. The independence of his life on the streets, quickly becoming a distant memory. Though, he wondered now if he’d simply been blind to the truth. As a whore, he did have the option of turning down a potential customer, but that also meant he might not eat that day. It seemed as though the two circumstances were not all that different when he stopped to really think about it. Maxwell, for his part, fed him, clothed him, and protected him and in return, Heero paid for those privileges with his body. He was still a whore. The only difference was his clientele. And he loved the sex as much as he abhorred it. He’d spent the first year of his captivity despising himself and his body for its repeated betrayal. He hated Maxwell for knowing how to make him shamelessly beg like a bitch in heat, and he hated Maxwell for exploiting it at every opportunity. Maxwell fucked in much the same way that he killed. With violent, blazing passion, wild and untamed. Everything from his beauty, his grace, his voice, mannerisms, demeanor, posture, and aura bled ardor and brutality that stoked the fires of carnal desire in man and woman alike. Heero had spent many a night tucked away in the corner of a seemingly endless string of dingy, seedy taverns where sin took precedence over morality. These were the places where men went to indulge in the acts that would surely buy them a one way ticket to eternal damnation. They came to drink, gamble, fight, and sate their wicked sexual appetites, the sort of vile perversions that they would never attempt with their God-fearing wives, in a place that did not judge, or condemn. There was no God there. They were the Devil’s domain, as unholy as it got. He’d spent many a night in these dark, obscure places curled in on himself so as to avoid being fondled while he watched Maxwell tear open bodices and press his face between supple breasts, tugging tiny, peaked nipples into his mouth. He watched Maxwell’s hands, the same hands that had conquered his own body too many times to count, lift young women onto tables and delve beneath ruffled skirts and petticoats. He watched Maxwell penetrate them with his fingers and he watched the women tremble and moan when he buried his face between their creamy thighs. But he never fucked them, no matter how much they begged him to. He would bring them to shaking, howling climaxes with fingers and mouth, but he never disrobed for them. His cock always remained inside his breeches, off limits to them and their wandering hands. Instead, he would turn away, leaving them panting and desperate to be taken by the next man waiting his turn . He always came for Heero after that. Sometimes, he would wait until they returned to their room at whichever inn they were staying at and then Heero would find himself pinned against the wall the moment the door closed behind them. Maxwell usually didn’t have the patience to fully undress either of them and simply wrenched open the front of his breeches, hoisted his catamite up into his arms, and pushed his way inside after a quick and clumsy fingering, holding Heero’s arms above his head as he buggered him into the wall. He was especially ravenous on those nights, growling and biting the tender skin of Heero’s neck, thrusting roughly against the soft flesh of his arse and rasping the filthiest words Heero had ever heard into his ears. Those were the nights that he could wait until they were behind closed doors. On the nights that he couldn’t, Heero would wind up flat on his back across a weathered wooden table in the middle of the tavern with his tunic rucked up around his chest and his legs draped over Maxwell’s shoulders. It took a long time for Heero to reach a point where he was no longer mortified by being buggered in front of a rapt audience. He remembered those early days when he would squeeze his eyes shut to avoid having to see the glittering, beady eyes of drunk and raucous patrons hungrily watching his sexual degradation from within the dark haze of the tavern. If there was anything to be learned by being Maxwell’s catamite, it was not to fret about such things. Or perhaps now he was simply too jaded and disillusioned to feel shame at his predicament. Perhaps once you’ve been stripped and buggered over a table in a place where debauchery is a way of life, there’s really not much else to lose. He’d already kissed his dignity goodbye a long time ago. His status and position left little room for pride. It was absurd to be outraged over being treated like a toy when you knew that was what you were. Of course, after his last escape attempt nearly a year ago, Maxwell still didn’t trust him even though Heero had been on his best behavior ever since. He still mouthed off on occasion, spoke out of turn, and expressed anger when he thought he was being treated unfairly, but most of the time he readily surrendered himself to Maxwell’s whims. He’d learned a valuable, but painful lesson the day he tried to escape. In the beginning, his numerous attempts never invoked such fury because Maxwell expected as much. It wasn’t the escape itself that provoked his violent rage the previous year. It was because Maxwell had begun to trust him after months of good behavior and Heero had betrayed that trust. Normally, if one was foolish enough to betray Maxwell, he was lucky to still be breathing. Most men did not get a second chance at redemption and Maxwell had been adamant about reminding him of that for the entire duration of his punishment. Heero was painfully aware that he was still alive only because he served a purpose. If he was of no benefit to Maxwell, he would be rotting at the bottom of the ocean. While he’d contemplated suicide at times, he knew it was something he would never actually do. He detested his position, but it was still better than being dead. And as perverse as it sounded even to him, he’d found a strange sort of value in what he was. Up until his captivity at Maxwell’s hands, he’d never felt a sense of belonging before. Not with his family, or anyone else. The people he’d sold himself to, first on the streets of Japan and then later, India, were merely faceless entities who relegated his existence to what he had between his legs and the pleasure he could provide with his hands and mouth. Short, meaningless bursts of passion that dwindled and died once the ecstasy of their couplings reached its crescendo. After that, he ceased to exist beyond a few coins carelessly tossed in his direction as his patrons left with scarcely a glance at the obsolete toy that had served its purpose. He had his regulars. Those who repeatedly sought his services and some he had to concede were not only attentive, but titillated by the prospect of pleasuring him. They caressed his skin with loving hands and soft kisses, whispering the most delightful of lies into the sensual grooves of his body. They sucked him into their mouths while stroking the most erotic of places inside him with skilled, knowing fingers, basking in the beauty of witnessing their pretty whore coming undone. Those brief moments where he could pretend he was loved invoked an eagerness to please them in return, dropping to his knees to take cocks deep into his throat and parting fleshy thighs to lap and suckle at the delicate folds of vaginas damp with arousal. He brought the women to shuddering climaxes and then fucked them, hungrily mouthing their heaving breasts and savoring the clench of legs around his waist. The men would lie back on the bed and relish the exquisite, velvety heat of his body as he sunk down onto their cocks and the hypnotizing beauty of watching him bugger himself to a messy orgasm. Yet it was always over as quickly as it began and he was left feeling dirty and deserted with the remnants of their pleasure drying on his skin. He learned not to take it personally, or at least he tried not to. It wasn’t easy to dismiss what little love he got when he had no one else to lean on, or confide in. It was a lonely, soul-killing way of life and while it gave him a purpose, it wasn’t a fulfilling one. Once the rapturous haze of sexual release wore off, he had only aching loneliness for company. In all honesty, as much as he tried to tell himself that his current circumstance wasn’t all that different, deep down he knew it was. His purpose was the pleasure his body provided for Captain Maxwell, but it was more complicated than that. Now, he was worthy of keeping in contrast to the quick roll and a meager handful of coin for his trouble. Granted, he was treasured because of his sexual desirability, but in the end, it didn’t matter why he was treasured, only that he was treasured. After all, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was valuable enough for one man to want to keep him at his side. He was valuable enough to be well kempt, draped in the finest fabrics and jewels. Valuable enough to be fed three square meals a day and even earn an occasional treat when Maxwell was especially pleased with him. It wasn’t an ideal life by any means, but it was far better than the life he came from. He knew he was cherished because he was important enough for Maxwell to take great pleasure in doting on him. Heero was unequivocally bitter and resentful, but not so much that it clouded his ability to see when something ultimately benefited him. Maxwell had done him a favor. He, in a sense, saved Heero from a life that was slowly killing him. And when he thought about it that way, he was baffled by a troubling sense of guilt over the way he’d behaved on many occasions since he’d been taken aboard the Shinigami. He was petulant and ungrateful, unwilling to accept that he’d been looking a gift horse in the mouth all along. “Heero? Are you alright?” He was startled by a soft, worried voice and shook himself out of his trance, feeling disoriented and strangely tired. He rubbed his eyes and looked up to see Quatre cautiously approaching. The blond paused, his steps faltering once Heero’s attention was focused on him and stood in the middle of the room with his fidgety hands tugging at the laces of his shirt. This boy...no, not a boy. Man. They were both men now. This man who’d somehow ended up in the same situation that he was in, this man who wore his kindness and compassion on his sleeve for all the world to see, this man whom Heero had made love to just hours ago...this man understood. Quatre understood him in ways that no one else ever could. And Heero found that he was utterly incapable of regarding him as an enemy, despite the fact that he knew he should. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not after feeling Quatre’s lovely body beneath his own. Not after Quatre had willingly consented to buggary without harboring any resentment, or blame. Not after the unforgettable experience of being inside him and listening to his genuine whimpers and cries of pleasure. Not after he looked at the man a few feet away from him and saw not a rival, or enemy, but a beautiful human being who was worthy of dignity and respect. He knew the likelihood of Quatre not surviving this situation and the prospect left him feeling winded by a profound sense of grief even though Quatre was still standing in front of him, healthy and whole. Heero had seen many people die, most at the hands of his Master and he’d reached a point where he was relatively indifferent to violence and bloodshed. For the most part, he felt no real emotion over it. It was simply the way of things. But with Quatre, it was different. It wasn’t even the blond’s death that had him rattled, it was the idea, the dreadful anticipation of his death. If Heero were honest with himself, he knew he couldn’t stomach witnessing such an event. He would grieve. He’d known Quatre for less than a day and he was already mourning him. Quatre took another step forward, only one, but his expression belayed his fear over Heero’s detachment and lack of response. Heero’s heart broke for him, not only for the crime of inciting such an emotion, but at the probability that this precious young life was going to be brutally cut short very soon. And what happened after that was anyone’s guess. Once Captain Barton discovered that his catamite was dead, all hell would break loose. Of that Heero had no doubt. Would Maxwell also kill Barton, or would Barton kill Maxwell? And if Barton succeeded in avenging Quatre, what would become of Heero? Would he also be killed, or would he remain on board the Shinigami in the off chance that it wasn’t sunk, and become the catamite to her new captain? Would he be taken on board the Catherine and used as sport for the crew the way Quatre had on their ship? Would he be put in chains, taken to shore, and auctioned off to the highest bidder? He didn’t know and for the first time in nearly a year, he felt genuine terror as he was faced with a volatile and uncertain future. Looking into Quatre’s eyes, he saw the same fear reflected in the turquoise depths. Fear, but also defeat and Heero’s heart throbbed in sympathy. Whatever was going to happen was essentially out of their hands. Beyond their control. The only thing they could do was wait and see what their respective Masters did and hope for the best. The silent communication and understanding that passed between them was inexplicable, strange, but powerfully intimate as though a bond had been formed. Whatever came their way, they were in this together. Quatre was not his rival, or his enemy. Quatre was his ally, his brother, his friend and Heero realized with jolt of surprise that he would do whatever it took to ensure he survived the days, weeks, and months to come. He smiled. A tense, uneasy smile, but it was the least he could do for Quatre. In a few steps, he bridged the gap between them and took the boy’s wringing hands into his own. The physical contact solidified their pact, joining them in a contract of friendship, solidarity, and protection. He pressed a kiss to the back of Quatre’s hand and then leaned forward until their foreheads rested together. “You’re going to survive this,” he assured the blond. “How?” “By any means necessary. I promise I will not let anything happen to you. I will do everything I can to get you back to Barton safely. You have my word.” Quatre’s voice was a mere whisper, as if he was afraid someone might overhear. “You shouldn’t promise such things.” Heero gathered him into his arms with a tenderness he never knew he was capable of. The sensations of warm flesh and the faint thump of Quatre’s heart against him were both comforting and stimulating. It triggered an instinct deep within him that existed to defend and protect at all costs. It was something he hadn’t felt since he’d left his home in Japan, but this time, his sense of duty was given of his own free will and not the result of indoctrination and forced training. Perhaps he’d been mistaken about his purpose all along. Perhaps this was his purpose. His opportunity to make his mark on the world before it was too late. Now, he had a direction, a drive, a mission and for the first time in his life, he was looking forward to whatever fate decided to throw at him. Do your worst. I can take it. I will take it and when it’s all over, I will stand bloody and beaten, but not broken. You cannot take this man from the world. I will not allow it. This world needs him and I will see to it that he survives long enough to make it a better place. That is his mission and this, this is mine. You want him, you will have to go through me and I swear to you, I will not make it easy for you. “You have my word,” he vowed, tangling his fingers into soft, silky curls and holding on tight. “And I never break my word.”
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