Fanfiction: The Meaning of Work.
LJ-SEC: (ORIGINALLY POSTED BY shaismile)
Title: The Meaning of Work Author:shaismile Warnings and Disclaimers: Not safe for work - shipboard sex. Also, this is my first time playing with laylah's wonderful world of Casmile. I'm hoping I did it justice. Note that I've made a number of assumptions/speculations regarding Garnet and maritime geography which are likely to be wrong. For that I hope I may be forgiven.
The Meaning of Work
Some people didn't know the meaning of work. He looked at the rent boys in their scandalous costumes tossing saucy jibes at the other crewmen and tasted envy sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion of voyage end.
They were headed down Kite street so such sights were unavoidable, but had there been an alternate route to their lodgings, he would have taken it. The red light district was not a place he cared to visit, particularly not in the company of the hands.
"Peter! Look ye at them'uns! Why can't ye be more like'm?" George was no midshipman, but even the lowest deckhand had the rank of a cabin boy. The leer he cast back over his shoulder held far too many memories in it and Peter - a name given to cabin boys and hardly the one his mother knew - scowled to cover his shiver.
"I doubt a one of 'em could run th'riggings or tie off a block to save 'is life," he declared, loudly. The bravado felt better than fear, but as he finished his statement, he found his eyes meeting those of a beautiful youth on the balcony.
"I know a knot or two you might appreciate, seaman," the young man yelled with a smile.
Peter froze in the other boy's regard and George's sudden mirth. The deckhand laughed and clapped him on the back.
"A seaman he calls y', Peter." He gasped it around his laughter and Peter hoped he'd choke. "Yer giv'n yer first title by a whore! Bain't that perfect?"
The boy who wore the name of Peter and could not yet claim a seaman's tithe from the purser felt his blood run cold.
"I'll be a seaman soon, George. An' when I am, I'll come back an' teach yon pretty lad the difference." Peter said it too quietly for the whore to hear, but he watched the boy's eyes the whole time with an intensity that burned brighter than his hatred of George. He thought about those painted eyelids burning in the sun, thought of those soft hands bleeding against the ropes of a mains'l, thought of that pampered body tossed from its hammock in the dark of off-shift, peeled from coat and leggings and forced against the rough wood of the scuttlebutt.
He licked his lips, and felt the desire pooling, warm and irrevocable in his belly. Oh, yes. Someday he would teach that ignorant whore the meaning of work.
---
His name was Davy by the time he'd turned sixteen, and the tithe he drew was that of coxwain. This name too was not the one he'd been born to, but as a name given him by the bosun, he liked it well enough. He'd sent George to Davy Jones with a twist of old rigging and a cannonball tied to his ankles and although the Captain claimed not to know, the crew had begun calling him Davy the next morning. There were worse names.
Like Ladyslipper.
When she'd been christened, there had been jibes and jokes aplenty, but within three years, the ship had become one of the most feared privateers on the high seas. She had an iron bowsprit and liveoak-clad hulls, and under the half sail could outrun most ships of the line. Under full sail, her speed could only be called murderous.
The navy feared her, the Captain respected her, the men prayed not to encounter her and Davy... wanted her.
"You're mad," William informed him, even as his eyes were closing and his hands clenched in Davy's hair. "It'd be pure suicide trying to take her with the Gallant."
Davy let his teeth scrape William's cock a little, dug his fingers into the pilot's hips and was rewarded with a groan.
"We'd be out gunned - ah! - out-outrun. S-she's the d-devil's...own...ship."
William shuddered then, all unwilling, and Davy stood up, pulling him into his arms for a fierce kiss. He let the pilot get a taste of his own pleasure before turning him, shoving him against the railing and pushing his trousers down just enough to bare the man's perfect ass.
"'m not afraid o' no devil, Will. Way I figure it, the bastard's me own da.'" He growled this confession into the pilot's ear even as his finger's pressed into the gaping mouth to slick themselves on the man's soft tongue. "You could find her for me, Will. You're the best damn pilot on the main." The older man moaned as Davy's fingers left his mouth to push between the cheeks of his ass. "You could do it, Will. You could find 'er and when you did, I'd take 'er," he punctuated it with a harder thrust, caught the pilot's gasp in his palm, held him closer as he replaced fingers with cock. "I'd take that bitch like she'd ne'er been taken, Will, an' show them pirates a thing er two."
The thought of it was more exciting even than Will's whimper and Davy's brain filled with visions of cannonfire and clashing bows even as his hips pumped mercilessly. He could smell the gunpowder, taste the spray. In his minds eye, the shining cutlasses of the Captain and the pirates' Master skewered each other in a fountain of blood, and the gleaming decks of Ladyslipper beckoned him through a wash of crimson. He muffled his shout of pleasure in the wool of the pilot's coat, coming hard and panting against the rough fabric.
Will's squirming gradually penetrated his brain and the coxwain withdrew perhaps less carefully than he ought. A small smear of blood admonished him to be more careful with his well-bred toy, who was after all, essential to his plans.
"Ah... sorry, Will."
"It's Pilot-Major, Coxwain," William insisted, even as he readjusted his uniform. Clearly their interlude was over, but his tone softened a little and placed one last kiss on the corner of Davy's mouth. "Anyway, you can't take prizes as a coxwain. You need rank and more education before you'll have a shot." He removed a slim volume from his coat and handed it over, suddenly more circumspect than he'd ever been about their trysts. "You memorize everything in that book, and I shall talk to the Captain about a commission. Although... I do hope you'll still favor me once I've gotten you what you wanted." His gaze was a little wistful, but then it was gone and the pilot was striding away back to the quarter deck. Davy smirked at the slight caution in his steps.
As officers went, the pilot was a decent man. Certainly as good as any wench when the voyage was long, and far better in terms of his favors. But Davy knew better than to love him. The sea was the only mistress a sailor could dare to have.
He looked at the book in his hands and pondered the next turn in his future.
---
She wore a different coat of paint, but longshoremen knew the Ladyslipper when they saw her. For over a month, the rumors had been filtering into Casmile of mutiny on a ship of the line and then some hellish battle at sea. A name was making the tavern rounds: Laughing Davy, blackest pirate ever to command a ship.
He was also one of the youngest, and cut the sort of dashing figure on the quarterdeck that made ladies of all ages swoon. When his ship took her berth on the Casmile docks, flying Cabiral colors and bearing the name 'William Carlisle', there were rubberneckers aplenty hoping for a glimpse of him. Davy did not disappoint.
"I need men," he called to the harbor master, leaping the port side gunwale to land lightly on the pier even before the lines were fully tied. "I'll be taking on able seamen, a wright an' a cook, so spread the word if y'will or e'en if y'won't." The purse he tossed to the master was too heavy to hold copper.
The harbor master smiled. "'Twill be me pleasure, Cap'n..." but he paused, because a man's rumored name and his real one did not always coincide. Casmile had the sort of lose relationship with the Navy that would not necessitate a pirate's taking an alias or any such nonsense, but still a little caution was always wise.
"Davy," the young man finished, with a smile that promised a world of terrible things to anyone who couldn't remember it. "Laughin' Davy, an' my crew are the richest men on the high seas, Master. You be sure to tell the lads that as well, when y'find 'em."
The harbor master could well believe it, noting the captain's velvet frock coat and the golden embroidery on his sleeves. More telling still, his ship was pristine from stem to stern with fresh polished fittings and dark blue sails which must have cost a fortune, even straight from the indigo islands. There were some signs still of her recent battles - a split in the mast that only replacement could hide, a shortness of crew that only skill could have compensated for - but clearly, she was not lacking for spoils.
"I'll send 'em t'see yer sailing master, then?"
"Aye, do that," the Captain nodded. "He'll know what 'm wantin'. We'll be berthed for four days, takin' on provisions an' a new mast - quartermaster'll be needin' a word with you."
They exchanged an handshake of agreement - this was how such things were done - and then the Captain strode away down the pier, through the gawkers and the hawkers with a confidence of purpose only captains and scoundrels ever possessed.
It made the harbor master smile, as he added the ship to the registry. Pirates were good for business, in a trading town like Casmile. Gossip was good too, and a dynamic presence like this Davy was sure to generate a fair bit.
Davy himself would have laughed at the man's speculations, but as it was he was too busy for such amusements. The other purse, the one neither harbor master nor any but the sharpest of pickpockets might notice, was a cool weight in the sash around his waist.
He did not make the amateur's mistake of checking on it as he walked, but considered he would be glad to be rid of the thing. The diamonds he'd taken from the Ladyslipper's purser were beautiful, but little stones were too easily lost aboard a ship. They could not be eaten and they could not trim a sail, and there was no lady alive whose charms could not be bought for less. No, treasure was all well and good, but letters of credit and the security of a reputable trading consortium's bank were where a ship's monies should rest. Will had taught him that.
Poor Will. Davy grinned lest any lingering regrets show themselves on his face, and reached into the cuff of his frock coat. The paper there listed the name of a man who apparently knew all there was to know about precious stones. A noble, or at least someone wealthy enough to support such a rumor, the man's name was Corlinne and he was said to give fair appraisal. Davy simply hoped that such was still the case, since the merchant who'd given him the information was even now marooned three week's voyage distant. It would be damned inconvenient to sail back just to punish his corpse.
He needed this money to hire some new crew, and cannonballs weren't free either. More expensive still was information. Ferreting details from the mistresses of one merchant or another could only get a man so far, but pay off the clerk at a counting house and one's pickings increased a hundredfold. Davy even knew the clerk whose pockets might desire lining, but first these diamonds must become cash, and to sell them required an appraisal. The captain knew the sea like the palm of his hand, but on land... he knew better than to ask the worth of a thing from the person who offered to buy it.
He read the paper scrap once more and headed for town hall to make inquiries. With any luck, this Corlinne would be as good as his reputation and see the benefit of sharing his knowledge. Their fortunes would both increase today.
---
Dear Captain,
I regret I cannot meet you at the coffee house Tuesday afternoon as I am expecting a shipment of a rather different sort to be delivered to my House. However, if you would care to meet me there later that evening, I have an office which I assure you would be sufficiently secure to transact our business. You will find the address on the reverse of this card.
G. Corlinne
"Yer off t'do business on Kite Street, Sir?" The first mate smiled knowingly, but Davy didn't bother correcting his assumption. The men had been worried about him since he lost his eye in their conquest of the Rachel, and it was nice to see something other than pity for once. Bad for the reputation if one's men seemed too devoted.
"Aye an' I'll be late, so the conn's yours. I trust y'can keep the quarterdeck to rights a night without me?"
"Sir, that I can," the mate agreed, a slight salute betraying his naval origins. Davy shook his head and adjusted his hat. He managed a small smile despite the ache in his cheek and eye. Then he nodded to the middies and stepped down from the quarterdeck, disembarking and heading for town.
It was a fair evening with a westering breeze, which made for a pleasant walk inland. The ground felt strange, as it always did, but the sensation never lasted very long and in the mean time, it gave him something to think about. He still did not care for Kite Street.
The Lady Corlinne seemed to understand this about him. In the two years they'd been meeting over gems, she'd never before suggested meeting there. He had learned enough to know she ran a house, but as she still remembered all her late husband had taught her of gemstones, her current enterprise didn't truly concern him. She was smart and shrewd and straightforward enough with him, and if the price of her assistance was high, it remained a better value than most.
Kite Street itself had not changed much in sixteen years. The sounds of revelry and the calls of whores still wafted on the perfumed air. From open doors and windows he heard familiar voices, and reflected that more than half his crewmens' wages were likely being spent here even now. A few even recognized him, called out for him to join them in a drink, but he declined with a dip of his hat and a laugh. Laughing Davy had become truth more than any name before it.
Eventually his footsteps took him to the landmarks the card had described, and he let himself gaze upwards in search of her business.
And stopped.
The balcony was not the one he remembered, but more than close enough and the smiles of the ornamented rent boys were the same. Young, beautiful, perfect; they were eternal in a way. Yet... they were caged. Not for them the taste of hardtack or grog, nor for them the sharp kiss of the lash. Their arms never burned with rowing. Their hair never bleached in the sun. They would never know the harshness of the life of a working sailor, but then they could never know that freedom either. His old envy melted away beneath the satisfaction of the life he'd chosen.
And in its wake, the thought of tying one bonnie lad up to the bowsprit as some exquisite figurehead was beguiling. To see such a lovely face caressed by the spray of the open sea... He shook himself from the thought, realizing he was staring like a lubber new on deck, and instead made his way up the steps.
"Captain!" the lady smiled, as she doubtless did for any client. "You've been away far too long!" She noticed his solitary eye, but said nothing of it, instead gesturing to a pair of cushions. "I put the fabric you gave me to good use - such a lovely crimson."
It was elegantly set off by a tawny-skinned youth, and perhaps he stared a moment too long, for the touch of Lady Corlinne's hand on his wrist caught him by surprise.
"You've been working too hard; you're tired. If you'd like, I could offer some refreshments?" Her fingertips traced the curve of a perfect cheek, and its owner smiled at him boldly.
Davy laughed and shook his head. Stunning figurehead indeed.
"Business first, m'love," he decided, although it had been an age since William died. He wondered if this boy could moan as sweetly...
"But afterwards?"
She had his number, and he tossed his hat to the smiling youth.
"Afterwards," the Captain agreed with a smile. Afterwards, he'd let this whore show him what he knew of the meaning of work.