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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 8: The Abduction It had been a year since Quatre was on the cusp of death from the "yellow plague". While he was fully recovered, he wasn't as virile as he'd been before he'd gotten sick. It took him six months to gain back the weight he'd lost and that was mostly due to Trowa practically force-feeding him foods that were rich and fatty. If there was one thing Trowa was good at, it was looting luxurious items which also included a wide variety of delectable foods. By far, his favorite were the little fruit pastries they'd picked up in Zurich. It had taken nearly three months for Trowa to quit hovering over him like a worrisome shadow, afraid his catamite was going to keel over at any moment. Quatre had to exercise monumental self-restraint not to snap at the captain for nearly smothering him with attention. It was nice while he'd been recovering, but once he was as back to normal as he was going to get, he just wanted a little room to breathe. They'd reintroduced sex slowly, under the bullish orders of the First Mate. Wufei had staunchly declared that he was not going to be responsible for any injuries, or lapses in health due to their "nocturnal activities". The first time Trowa even dared touch him in any way that was remotely sexual had been two months after he was given the all clear. He'd kissed Quatre with brain-melting tenderness as his oiled fingers reduced the boy to a trembling, whimpering mess and huffed into his soft neck while his catamite brought him to completion with a warm hand around his cock. Steadily, they built up their sexual routine over the course of several months until they'd reached pre-disease status and once Trowa was certain Quatre would not succumb to exhaustion, or illness, he was as passionate as ever, if not more so. Quatre couldn't get enough of being pinned to the bed, moaning brokenly as the captain's cock touched him in all the right places. To his surprise, Trowa not only allowed him to resume his work with the navigator, but actually encouraged it. Even more amazing, Quatre found himself no longer being supervised when he was off doing some task, or another aboard the Catherine. Trowa would look over his work with a critical eye, praising him when he did good and providing constructive criticism when he felt the boy could do better. It was oddly similar to how he treated the rest of the crew and Quatre boggled at the feeling of almost being an equal. He'd also heard the arguments between Trowa and Wufei, the two men engaging in heated debates about Quatre's abilities and how much freedom he should be allowed off the ship. Trowa, in the beginning, was steadfast that Quatre was not permitted to be anything more than what he was, but Quatre noticed over time that Wufei began to wear down his resolve. He was excited at the prospect of learning how to fight, but a little frightened at the idea of being promoted as a member of the crew. He'd been a catamite for so long now, he wasn't sure if he knew how to be anything else. Wufei had a knack for reassuring and easing his insecurities, insisting that Quatre already was more than that as he had demonstrated on many occasions. After a few months of nagging and finagling, Trowa eventually gave in, but with strong reservations and strict conditions. Quatre was not allowed to carry a weapon until he was proficient at wielding it and he was still not allowed to go off on his own when they were off the ship. Both catamite and First Mate agreed and soon, Quatre was being woken up at first light by a fully dressed and immaculate fighting instructor. As the sun rose over the horizon, they would occupy the main deck before most of the crew was awake. Quatre was taught the most basic techniques of wushu and also how to load and fire a revolver. Wufei was surprisingly a very patient and hands on instructor, standing behind Quatre with his hands placed over the boy's while he taught him how to move, where to step, and how to swing, parry, and thrust. The styles that were used were not only deadly, but aesthetically pleasing, like an elegant dance. Quatre soon found himself looking forward to his lessons even though it was difficult to leave the warmth of Trowa's arms. It had really only been five months since he'd begun learning the art of fighting. Nowhere near proficient. He didn't know how long it would be before he was actually allowed to carry a weapon, but now he wished he had been able to carry one considering his current predicament. *** He had no idea what happened, or how he got separated from Trowa in that marketplace. The captain had gotten a little more lenient about letting him stray several feet away, especially if one of the vendors had something that caught his fancy. He'd spotted a beautiful bronze medallion, shaped like a crescent moon which hung from a brown leather cord. Etched into the metal was the Shakesperian quote, “Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly.Then your love would also change." Quatre instantly fell in love with it, knowing it would look breathtaking resting in the deep golden dip at the center of Trowa's chest. He pulled his tiny wool pouch out of his pocket containing a small amount of reales that were given to him as an allowance and was relieved that he'd had enough money to buy it. He thanked the vendor and stuffed the medallion into the pocket along with his empty pouch and turned to head back to wear he'd last seen his captain. Only Trowa wasn't there. He looked around frantically for him, panicking when there was no sign of him, Wufei, or the rest of the crew. He was walking back and forth through the marketplace, desperate for a glimpse of his captain when he was grabbed from behind. His shout was muffled by a hand clamping over his mouth. He punched at the arms holding him, feet kicking against his captor's shins, his screams for help smothered by the large hand. His pleading eyes briefly met visitors and vendors alike, only to have them turn away, not wanting to face retribution for interfering. In a last ditch effort to free himself, or at least be able to scream loud enough that Trowa might hear, he bit down into the soft flesh of his captor's palm, tasting the copper of blood. The man cursed vehemently and pulled his hand away and Quatre used the opportunity to holler at the top of his lungs. Another man crossed in front of him, his unshaven face sprinkled with dirty blond hair, his lip curled up in a snarl. "Shut that l'il urchin's bellyachin', for Christ's sake! 'E's givin' me a right headache." Quatre's head spun from a blow to his temple. It wasn't hard enough to knock him unconscious, but it stunned him enough to silence his screams. He hung limply in his captor's arms, blinking dazedly up at the man with the dirty blond beard. The hair on his head matched and looked like someone had taken a dull blade to it. It stuck up at odd, uneven angles and it would have been funny if Quatre's circumstances weren't so dire. Despite the almost comical haircut, the man's face was hard, brown and lined from spending years in the sun, though he couldn't have been more than thirty. There was a long, jagged scar that started at the side of his neck and curled up over his jaw and cheek, ending just below his left eye. Quatre guessed it was probably from a knife attack. The man sneered at him and shouldered a cloth sack and Quatre could hear the clink of coins and other items inside. His energy was returning as his mind cleared from the strike to his head and he started struggling again. The man with the dirty blond hair pointed a finger smeared with dirt in his face. "Don' make me hit ye again, boy. So 'elp me, I will knock ye dumb." The man holding him clamped his other hand over Quatre's mouth and hissed in his ear, "Bite me again, pup, and you'll regret it." Quatre was considering doing just that when his captor addressed the man with the scar. "You sure about this, Solo?" The man shrugged and stuck a wooden pipe between his teeth, his speech slurred when he spoke. "S'what the cap'n said. The blond one. E's the only blond I see 'round here. Should get a hefty ransom for 'im. 'At necklace alone'd buy us an island." "Then let's get out of here, before his family finds out we took him." Quatre blinked in confusion. Family? Oh, Allah. They must think I'm nobility. He wiggled fruitlessly as he was carried through shady alleyways, his captors avoiding the main traffic of the marketplace. He realized with a sinking feeling in his gut that these men were pirates and as such, there was only one place they could be going. Terrified of being taken onto another ship, separated from Trowa, from the men he felt safe with and possibly never seeing them again, he fought like a wildcat, screaming, scratching, kicking. He bit down into the man's other palm and shouted when he pulled it away. "Goddamnit! You little bastard!" "Let me go! Let me go! I'm not nobility. I'm Capt -" A deafening blow hit his temple again and this time, his protests and his thoughts faded away into darkness. *** When he woke up, aside from the splitting headache that felt like he'd been kicked in the head, he found himself standing upright against something rounded, like a pillar of some kind. He groaned and tried to lift a hand to rub at his eyes and found he couldn't. Jolting into full awareness, he glanced down to find ropes crisscrossing over his chest and torso, all the way down to his legs. His arms were wrapped around the pillar, stretching behind him and a quick glance around revealed that he was on an unfamiliar ship, tied to its mast. A look over the railings determined that they'd already set sail. He craned his neck, straining his eyes for any hint of land and found none. The sun was lowering on the other side of the horizon, indicating that he'd been out for several hours and his body drooped with dread. He had no idea where he was, whose ship he was on, how far out to sea they were, or if Trowa had even realized he'd been taken. Though by now, he must have, but it was anyone's guess if he even knew who'd taken him. The distinct sound of boots approaching on the deck alerted him. The man with the dirty blond hair and the scar up the side of his face appeared from behind his right shoulder. Quatre wracked his brain trying to remember what the other man had called him. Sulu? Silo? Solo. That was it. He narrowed his eyes as Solo stepped up to him. The man's gaze was stony like flint and he chewed on the end of his pipe with surprisingly healthy looking teeth. Quatre wondered how his mouth wasn't full of splinters by now. "How ye feelin', kid?" He reached up and brushed a tendril of blond hair away from Quatre's temple. "Ye got quite the nasty bruise there," he said with a gravelly voice. Quatre was able to place his accent as lower-class English. This was someone who probably lacked education and became a pirate out of necessity more than anything else. He flinched away and hissed, "Don't touch me," and flinched again when the man grabbed his face with his fingers, squeezing his cheeks together painfully. It reminded him of when Trowa had taken him and wondered if it was some kind of pirate habit. Solo leaned in close and he could smell the hint of tobacco on his breath. "Ye best watch yerself, ye l'il brat. We don' have the time, or patience for spoil't l'il whelps, y'hear?" Quatre glared at him, but bit down on his lip to silence the snarky comments that wanted to come out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The only way he might have a way out of this was to reason with them. "Look, please just turn around and take me back to Turkey. I'm not what you think I am. I have nothing to give you." Solo yanked the pipe out of his mouth and wiped spittle from his lips with his sleeve. "Ye were wearin' 'bout a thousand escudos worth of booty 'round yer neck, boy. Don' gimme that shite." "Yes, because -" "There ain't nothin' ye can say that's gonna convince me yer not the kid of some rich sheikh, or summat." He gave Quatre a lecherous look, his eyes travelling the length of the boy's body. "Or yer some kept boy, mayhap?" That was a little closer to the truth. Okay, a lot closer. "Yes, that's what I am, but he's not nobil -" "Either way, m'sure ye cost a pretty penny to someone. Someone who's got the means to pay up," Solo said, shrugging and chewing on the end of his pipe. Well, yes. But Quatre didn't think Trowa was going to give these goons anything except a sliced throat. That is, if he ever caught up to them. He lifted his chin as Solo's eyes gleamed, trying not to show his trepidation at the hunger in his eyes. It was a look he'd seen far too often. "Ye better hope yer owner can foot the coin, whelp. Otherwise -" "Solo, are you terrorizing our guest? Don't be so rude." Quatre turned his head at the deep, smooth, but amused sounding voice and narrowed his eyes at the man as he came closer. He was stunningly handsome. His black peasant's blouse was open down to his naval, revealing sun-kissed skin and a musculature that rivaled Trowa's. A long chestnut colored braid was draped over his right shoulder, the tip reaching his hipbone. He was cleaner than Solo, well-kempt, and beautiful. His gait was predatory, like a big cat, his violet eyes even more so. They were the eyes of someone intelligent, bookwise and streetwise. His aura reeked power and dominance and Quatre swallowed down the lump in his throat as his mind began to connect the dots. "Welcome, lad," the man said. His accent was a strange mix of upper and lower class English. Quatre surmised he must have started out poor and somehow achieved good fortune. He said nothing as the man stopped in front of him. He knew, instantly and without a doubt that this was the captain. One side of the man's mouth curled up as he looked down at the boy and cocked his head. "My apologies for the bump on your head. T'was necessary to get you aboard the ship. Solo and Greenwich told me you were...uncooperative." "Wouldn't you be if you were abducted off the street?" Quatre snarled before he could stop himself. He realized his error when the captain grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked on it. He yelped and tilted his head, trying to ease the strain on his scalp, breathing hard through his teeth. "Considering the position you're in, lad, I would think a little more respect is in order, hmm?" Quatre panted as the captain let go, wishing his hands were free so that he could massage his aching head. The captain smiled cheerfully. "Good. Glad we understand each other." He turned and gestured to another man who stepped forward with a bundle and strip of cloth in his hands. "I'll not be listenin' to your pleas, nor your lies, boy. We know you're nobility. It's all over you. Your mannerisms, your cleanliness. You stink of wealth and privilege." He pinched the boy's cheek painfully and stepped away to allow the man with the cloth to approach. Quatre knew right away what the intention was and tried to avoid being gagged by turning his head this way and that and then ultimately snapping his teeth at the man's hands whenever they got close. The captain watched this dodge game for a few moments before he rolled his eyes and grabbed the cloths. "Gimme that, you incompetent fool." He grabbed Quatre's face, digging his thumb and fingers into the hinges of his jaw. Quatre groaned with pain as his mouth was forced open and before he could do anything about it, the man shoved the wad of cloth into his mouth. He coughed and tried to spit it out, but the captain stepped behind him and secured the bundle by wrapping the strip of cloth around it and tying it at the back of his head. Quatre shot daggers at them with his eyes and huffed through the gag, already feeling his saliva glands kick in. It wouldn't be long until he was drooling like a literal idiot. The captain stepped back around and stood before the boy with his hands propped on his narrow hips. "Now, that's better, innit? And because I am a gentleman, I believe introductions are in order. I am Captain Duo Maxwell. Welcome aboard theShinigami. She's a beauty, isn't she?" He made a grand sweeping gesture with his arm and looked back at Quatre, taking notice of the boy's shocked look and grinned like a shark. "You've heard of me, I see. Well, good news travels fast," he said with a chuckle. He pointed to the members of his crew who were milling about on the deck. "This is Solo. The stodgy man over there is Greenwich. I don't think you've formally met him. That dark fellow over there is my deckhand, Smith, and these other scary looking degenerates are...well, you don't really need to know everyone's name." He turned back to Quatre. "And yours?" Quatre's brows lowered over his eyes. "Oh, that's right. Cat's got your tongue." He felt the first of the drool roll over his bottom lip and down his chin and tried in vain to suck it back in as Captain Maxwell turned away and clasped his hands behind his back. "Allow me to explain how this is going to go. We are approximately forty eight kilometers away from shore. Soon, we will drop anchor and wait for word on your family and whether, or not they agree to our demands. If our demands are met, we will return to shore to make the exchange." He swiveled on his heel and gave Quatre a dark look. "For your sake, you'd better hope they meet our demands." Quatre swallowed hard and looked away. There was no way they were going to find his family, much less get a ransom out of them. His heart dropped into his stomach as the gravity of the situation settled onto him like an ominous cloud. He was going to die. They would not get their ransom and they would kill him. This is it. I'm dead. I'm so sorry, Trowa. I should have stayed close to you. I love you. *** As expected, his family could not be located and the ransom was not paid. An attempt to find Quatre's "owner" also failed to come to fruition. When they untied him from the mast, he was sure they were going to kill him, or throw him overboard. Instead, Captain Maxwell waved his hand and said, "He's all yours, lads. Might as well get our money's worth." He walked away, disappearing into his cabin and Quatre realized that while he may not be dead, he would much rather be compared to what was about to happen. He was stripped naked and taken to the crews' quarters where he was deposited onto a bed. He fought initially, but soon gave in, his body going limp with lassitude. There was no point in fighting. There were simply too many of them. He endured the dozen, or so calloused hands that stroked, grabbed, and groped. He squeezed his eyes closed and retreated into the deep recesses of his mind as his legs were forced open. He endured the seemingly endless chain of buggery while they used his mouth and arse. It became a blur after the first few had their way with him and he quickly lost count of how many times he was taken. After a while, he was able to tune it out and turn his mind to more pleasant times, namely those peaceful moments of laying in Trowa's arms. The shared laughter, kisses, and touches. The exquisite lovemaking and he was thankful that those were his last lingering thoughts before he lost consciousness. He welcomed the bliss of darkness, no longer caring about the degrading words, the restraining hands, or the cocks that pillaged and plundered. He woke again sometime later. He had no idea how much later, though he could tell it was daytime if the light spilling in from a square hatch in the ceiling was any indication. His body was curled up in a confined space, sore and achy, especially between his legs and his skin was sticky and reeked of come. At least they had the decency to give me a shirt, he thought bitterly, though it was huge on him and he had to keep yanking the collar back over his shoulders. He felt around blindly in the dark and discovered he was in a box, or crate of some kind. His fingers found the iron bars at the front. Allah, they bugger me and then put me in a cage as if I'm the animal. The irony was just too much. He was mercifully left alone for a few nights. He was given meager amounts of food and water. Enough to keep him alive and they were usually given with a mocking, or lecherous remark as the pirate relegated to frequent the bilge came to feed him and take him out of the cage long enough for him to relieve himself. Every fortnight, he was taken back to the barracks, stripped out of his shirt, buggered, and then returned to the bilge and the somewhat familiarity of his cage. Despite the dark, lonely isolation, he learned to associate it with reprieve and peace. At least he wasn't being touched. After what he thought was three, or four weeks, though he really lost track of time, he was taken out of the cage and brought back up on deck. He had to hold his arm over his eyes as the blinding sunlight hurt after being in the dark for so long. He timidly gripped the hem of his shirt, trying to keep a semblance of dignity despite the jeers and touches to his groin and backside. He obediently held his hands behind his back so that they could tie his wrists together and then he was manhandled off the ship and taken to an Inn where they would be staying while the crew of the Shinigami drank, looted, and had their fill of whores. He recognized the language of the locals, realizing they were somewhere in Greece. He was taken to a small room with one bed and his wrists were tied tightly to the iron bars of the headboard. The position forced his shirt up, exposing his groin and he stubbornly kept his knees up and his thighs squeezed together. He was surprised when Maxwell arrived soon after with another boy, one he hadn't seen aboard the ship and wondered if he was a local whore, though by the looks of him, he was not Greek. Quatre picked out distinct Asian and European features. He was strikingly handsome with dark brown hair and shockingly sharp blue eyes. The boy didn't speak as he laid down beside Quatre and obediently held his arms over his head. Quatre watched, stunned, as Maxwell secured the boy's wrists to the headboard and then reached down and squeezed his groin. The boy whimpered and bit his lip, though from pleasure or fear, Quatre didn't know. Maxwell fondled him for another few moments, then straightened up and grinned at both of them. "You two make a pretty pair. I believe I'd fancy you putting on a little show later." He winked one indigo eye and turned on his heel, leaving the room and locking the door behind him. Quatre glanced over at the boy and saw that his eyes were closed. "Hey...psst. Hey, boy. Are you sleeping?" "No." "Where did you come from? Did he just take you?" "No." Quatre huffed. Well, he's talkative. "What's your name?" "I'm not sure we should be talking to each other." "Why not?" The boy didn't answer and Quatre turned his head away, miffed. He twisted his hands, testing the give of the rope. It was tight, but maybe...if he worked at it hard enough, he could get free. He twisted them again, his wrists already heating up from the friction, and realized they were going to be raw and bloody by the time he got them out, if he got them out at all. He curled his fingers, searching for the knot, but couldn't get it at from the awkward angle. "Don't bother." Quatre turned his head and stared at the boy. "What?" "It's no use. You'll never get free. Captain Maxwell's knots are legendary." So he wasn't new. "How do you know that?" "I've tried." "Were you on the ship?" "Yes. In his cabin." Ah, that explained why Maxwell hadn't partaken in making sport of him. He had his own catamite to please him. "How long have you been with him?" "I don't know. Two years maybe?" "Hmmm. Well, I don't know about you, but I do not belong with your captain, or his crew. I have my own captain to get back to and I'm going to make sure I -" "What captain?" "Captain Barton of the Catherine." Heero's eyes popped open. His head turned, slowly, looking at Quatre for the first time. "Are you serious?" "Yes. I was stolen from him in Turkey." Heero cursed and turned his head away, staring at the door on the other side of the room. "That...complicates things." "Is he going to kill me?" "No. But he's not going to be happy when he finds out who you belong to. I'd be willing to bet your captain isn't either." Damn, but if that wasn't an understatement. "Why didn't you tell Captain Maxwell who you were?" "I tried! They wouldn't listen to me and then they gagged me so I couldn't!" The boy let out a long sigh and closed his eyes again. "This isn't going to end well. Blood will be spilled over this." Quatre's heart pumped harder with a rush of adrenaline at the possibility of violence, though he didn't know why it should come as a surprise. "You think so?" "You don't?" He'd hoped it wouldn't, but deep down he knew there was no other way. The two most dangerous pirates alive were going to have it out at some point. It was inevitable. He glanced back at the boy. "What's your name?" "Heero." "I'm Quatre. I'd say it's nice to meet you, but..." "I know. Get your rest. You're likely going to need it." Quatre's body was riddled with anxiety, not knowing how he was going to be able to sleep, but Heero was right. He blew out a sigh, closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind. Side by side, in the momentary peace of the tiny room of the Inn lay the catamites of the two most notorious, deadly men of the sea. The two captains would eventually meet. The chances of blood being spilled were more than significant. It was a certainty. One of them would die, but which one? Would this boy lying beside him become his enemy if it was Maxwell who succumbed? Was he already his enemy? Or would Quatre be forced to witness the death of his own beloved captain? There was always the possibility that they could inflict catastrophic injuries on each other and both perish. And then what? Where would that leave he and Heero? It took a while for sleep to come, far too unsettled he was, but soon enough, exhaustion and the fact that he was on a real bed began to take precedence. He finally drifted off after a short, but heartfelt prayer. Please, Allah. Don't let it come to that. I'll do anything you ask, but I beg of you. No more blood. No more death. Please...
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