Chapter Text
The summer sun was brutal. Worse than brutal. Blistering heat and the calm ocean beyond made for humidity that was grueling and inescapable. Only the steady sea breeze rolling in off the waves offered any respite.
Sweat rolled down Peter’s back in fat droplets, a waste of the water he desperately needed. Manacles cut into his thin wrists, a twin set clamped around his ankles as he walked. It was torture, this march - this parade.
“Keep up!” The handler to his left demanded, “haven’t got all day!”
A whip cracked beside him, and Peter couldn’t help but flinch. Even now, between jobs, when he was being bartered and sold, the torment didn’t end.
Slave handlers were hardly any better than the masters, and in most cases, they were much worse.
Peter had been lucky enough to be sold in most instances for menial labor. His mutation, though mild with his lack of proper nutrition, lent itself well to a hard day's work. He worked as aggressively as he could on his feet to avoid what other omegas in his position dreaded: a long night on their back.
So far, his hard work has paid off. His frame was sleight compared to most betas, but the kerchief on his neck remained intact, and hardly any slavers bothered to remove it to scent him. Alphas tended to pay him no mind, perplexed by his existence. It was strange for an omega to have the kind of strength he possesses - stranger still for them to be born male.
His thoughts muddled under the heat of the afternoon sun. His mouth was so dry it felt like he’d swallowed sand. He could barely shift his tongue without it sticking to his teeth. He heard other slaves beg for water as they walked, voices hoarse and broken. The crack of the whip was the only response.
They marched for what felt like hours under the sun, paraded through the small fishing town like livestock until they reached the town square where they’d be auctioned. A meager stage was set in the center where they’d been expecting them.
From here, Peter could see the ocean curl across the horizon. It was a lovely view, all things considered. The beaches were covered in row boats, the fishermen bringing in their daily catch to be sold at the market just up shore.
Peter remembers the life of an oceanside town. He remembers the smell of the markets early in the morning, the spray of the sea against his face. He recalls laying out in the sand late at night when everything was cool, memorizing stars and dreaming of adventure. He remembers May, and her almond flour cookies… Ben and his fishing boots, far too big for Peter’s feet.
A lifetime ago.
The sound of the ocean so close drowns out the noise around him, filling his ears. Slaves of all shapes, ethnicities, and sizes are marched one by one on stage and auctioned off to the highest bidder.
A rather meager crowd had formed, though Peter wasn’t surprised. This was a small town, not many people can afford another human being to do their work for them. Whatever… whomever wasn’t sold here would be marched back aboard wagons and carts to be wheeled off to another town.
It was a vicious cycle that Peter had endured, and one he wasn’t sure he could survive much longer. Hope of freedom slipped away long ago.
Now, feeling much older than he actually was, Peter reminisced of the days when his body didn’t ache and his bones didn’t show from beneath his skin. Now, Peter wonders if he could survive freedom if it was even an option, or if the black pit inside of him would swallow him whole. Now, Peter’s dreams are filled not with freedom, but of peace by whatever means.
It was a black dot on the horizon when the ship first caught his attention. A mere freckle against the vast backdrop, only spotted by Peter because of his superior vision. As it came closer into view, Peter’s pulse gave an uncharacteristic jolt. He recognized the flag the ship sailed under.
Pirates. Mean, dirty, awful pirates.
He weighed his options, of which he had two.
One, he could open his mouth (for which he would potentially take the whip), try to alert the slave handlers and gathered crowd, and get loaded back onto the wagons before the ship ever even touched land. Perhaps he would be rewarded for alerting them. Perhaps they wouldn't even hear him out before punishing him.
He hated his handlers, but they had to be better than bloodthirsty pirates.
Two, he could keep his mouth shut and allow the oblivious townsfolk and handlers to be pillaged. If this was the case he could use the distraction to run. He had chains on but once he was out of reach of the handlers, there would be no stopping him. He would run and run and run as fast as the restraints allowed, until his feet bled and his lungs collapsed. This way at least he could die under a canopy of trees, listening to birdsong and the crashing of the nearby waves.
Long minutes passed as Peter watched the ship on the horizon draw closer. The auctioneer’s voice echoed across the square and jostled his soul. Humans being auctioned off like cattle, nothing more than property.
With a sneer, Peter pulled his gaze away from the ship. Let him be taken by pirates; beaten, enslaved, or worse. The people around him deserved a death delivered by brutal hands. These people deserved far worse than what was sure to come.
It took nearly fifteen minutes before the calls started echoing across the beaches.
“PIRATES!” They called to one another, bracing for an attack.
It took only another five minutes for the pirates to be upon their shores, boots touching the beaches and pounding like thunder as they pushed their way into the town. Like waves the pirates came crashing down. The handlers didn’t have enough time to gather them all so they took who they could and ran; back to their wagons, back to where they thought they’d be safe.
But more ships appeared over the horizon, and even as Peter was jostled to and fro by the panicked crowd, his feet stood firm. His eyes were glued on the horizon where ship after ship waved the flag of the pirates: a flag that meant death.
A dozen ships at least came to empty themselves onto the beaches, a hundred men unfolding onto the town like the plague. Nowhere to run, nowhere to escape.
Frozen in place, Peter watched as the pirates pillaged the town, mothers screaming as their children were knocked to the side in the pandemonium. Dressers were upturned into the streets, shops were looted for goods and wares. They even managed to drag the safe from the small bank, likely the only one in town, into the square next to him.
Peter watched, tears welling in his eyes, as lives were destroyed right before him. The men of the town took up arms but there were so many pirates… so many that fighting back was fruitless.
Peter had long since forgotten of his plan to run, lost in the anarchy around him, he had merely stood still, along with quite a few other slaves. They had nothing to defend besides their persons, and the pirates seemed to pay them no attention. Whether it be from surprise, or fear, or the deep rooted obedience that had been instilled in them, they stood in that town center, waiting for slaughter.
The pillaging was over before Peter could even shift his feet again. Many of the pirates retreated to their ships, gold, jewelry, and other valuable loot heavy in their arms. Others wreaked havoc amongst the townsfolk, ripping down buildings and slaughtering livestock.
Just as the fray began to die down a pirate approached him, sword in hand lifted to the sky. Peter had the good sense to raise his hands to protect himself against the blow, but it didn’t come to his flesh.
The crack of metal on metal rang through his ears and his manacles pulled harshly at his wrist before there was… nothing. A lightness to his hands made him look. No longer tethered together, Peter could feel the easy weight of freedom, and nothing more. No longer did he even feel the weight of the cuffs still claiming his wrists.
With another downward swing, the chains between his feet were severed as well. All around him, the ring of swords against chains clamored as pirates freed each slave, one after another.
Like rebirth, Peter felt anew. Now, he did not worry about survival after freedom, he only absorbed every moment. From one second to the next, he remembered what it felt like to be glad he was alive.
“All slaves are tah be freed by order of dah Pirate King. Where are dah rest of ye?” The pirate in front of him glared down at him, but Peter was beginning to think it was more because of the sun in his eyes than the hate in his heart.
Peter lifted a weary finger in the direction the slavers had run off and the pirate looked to the men surrounding us. With a nod in that direction the other pirates were off, running to find the other slaves that had been dragged ahead.
Peter’s jaw was nearly hanging open, only kept shut from the severe dryness than had glued his lips together, when the pirate said, “All freedmen are welcome tah board with da rest ah da crew. We’s a fair and just bunch, so if ye have no sea farin’ interest, yer free to be on yer ways.”
The men, all of them, not just Peter, stared at the pirate in shock. The choice to choose. Freedom, no matter how they wanted it.
“Close yer jaws and make up yer minds quick. We sail out in ten minutes whether yer aboard er not.”
Quick as he came, the pirate was lost in the crowds filing their way back into the beaches and onto the ships.
Peter had been right about the flag then. The Pirate King himself had come to raid these shores. And, as it would seem, to free any slaves that were being sold here.
It didn’t make sense, he had never heard of the pirates doing something so…. Well, heroic.
Perhaps, he realized with a look around, heroic only in the eyes of these freed slaves. Screams still echoed the town as men nursed wounds, women and children cleaning up the debris and carnage.
Peter turned to the treeline. He could go. He could run away and never look back again. He would find somewhere secluded and small to live out the rest of his life in peace. It’s what he had dreamed of every night.
But there was something calling to him from the waves. Maybe destiny, maybe the lust for adventure that had fueled his youth, he didn’t know. A stirring in his heart pulled his feet to those sandy beaches, wind and mist and the salt of the sea calling for him to follow.
He would leave his past behind him, he told himself as his bare feet burned against the sand. He would forget the days of being a slave, forget the torment and the horror and the trauma. He would be born anew, transformed back into the boy he was in his childhood; courageous, and stone-willed, and strong. Today marked a turning point in Peter’s life.
No longer was he a slave to man. Today, he would become a pirate.
“No omegas.”
Peter sneered up at the pirate before him, lip curling and nose wrinkling. “Excuse me?”
“No. Omegas,” the pirate exaggerated each line, greasy hair swaying back and forth as he tilted his head to the side. He was speaking to Peter as though he were a child.
“The pirate in town said all slaves are welcome to board the ship and join the crew,” Peter spit angrily, a still manacled hand lifting to point back up the beach where he had stumbled from. “All freedmen, that’s what he said.”
The pirate followed Peter’s finger with his gaze. He looked absolutely bored as he sniffled and looked back at Peter.
“No omegas. Is bad luck. Lady of the tides ain’t like it.” The pirate, certainly an alpha based on the sheer size of him, looked over at a fellow plunderer.
“Lil’ buggah thinks he can board the ship jus’ cause he ain’t a slave no more.” He looked back to Peter with a wolfish grin. “Betas and alphas only lil’ boy. Omegas ain’t good for nuffin’ but tha’ whorehouses”
Peter was about to shoot back something rather obscene before the man who had just been brought into the conversation replied.
“Maybe you should bring him aboard to meet the captain, Farny. One meeting with him should set the lad straight.” He looked to Peter then, a kindness in his eyes Peter didn’t expect to see in a pirate. “Pillaging ain’t for everyone. Better you see now than join us and want off before we reach the next port. C’mon, I’ll take you aboard”
Peter nodded slowly, grateful to speak to anyone other than the snaggletoothed ingrate in front of him.
“My names Bastian,” the far friendlier man said as they settled into one of the many rowboats making for the ships.
“Peter,” he offered in return, holding out an unsteady hand. It felt weird speaking so much after all this time. His mouth still stuck together awkwardly, his tongue heavy, but he didn’t want to look weak by asking for water so soon.
Bastian took Peter’s hand in his own. He wasn’t too much bigger than Peter generally speaking, but his hand still dwarfed the young omegas as he shook it. Peter couldn’t help but notice how firm his grip was, the calluses on his hands, no doubt from manual labor, snagged on Peter’s own as he pulled away. So close now, an acrid scent drew Peter’s attention immediately. The sneaking suspicion that this man wasn’t a simple beta like he had initially assumed wormed its way deep into his thoughts.
“Pirating ain’t for the weak. There’s a lot of work to go around. When we aren’t raiding ships and overturning towns there’s endless jobs to be filled aboard the ship. What Farny was sayin’ is true, it’s not much of a place for an omega.”
Peter nodded slowly as he watched Bastian begin rowing the boat hard against the current. Waves bounced them up and down as they approached the ships, larger up close than Peter could have imagined from the shore.
“I’m a mutant too,” Peter said quietly, looking off on the distant horizon. “Freakishly strong most days… amongst a few other things.”
Mutants, while they weren’t outright hunted and killed, were certainly taboo. Most of them had been chased out of towns and cities, fleeing to the mountains for solitude. Peter had even heard stories of mutant towns being resurrected, a safe harbor for people like him to find solace.
“We have our fair share of mutants…” there was a slight pause as Bastian kept rowing, his deeply tanned skin glinting with the sweat that beaded at his forehead. “You’ll find more of us aboard pirate ships than you would in any town from here maybe all the way to Krakoa.”
“You’re a mutant?” Peter asked quietly, leaning in with anticipation.
A small laugh and a nod made Peter’s lips crack as a smile pulled across his face. More people like him…. The thought made him giddy.
It took only a few minutes to reach the base of the anchored ship, the largest in the fleet. Peter swallowed hard as Bastian reached up and took hold of the ladder.
“Go ahead, I’ll keep the boat steady,” Bastian said with a smile.
“Thank you,” Peter replied as he stood on unsteady legs, a small blush creeping up his neck at the insinuation that he would need help (even though he certainly would).
It was a strange sensation, climbing a ladder. After so many years of lifting and pulling and walking, it felt like he was using a whole different subset of muscles as he pulled himself upwards. The strain felt good, freeing even.
Up on deck, the crew ran about like a frenzied bee hive. Loot and goods were being dragged here and there, all of it cataloged by one of the many men with parchment. At the center of the ship, Peter realized, was where they piled all of the good stuff. Gold and jewelry and money bonds lay in a heap, untouched by passing pirate hands.
This, he figured, was the captain’s share. No pirate brave enough to pull from it, they all maneuvered around the riches like they were afraid to even breathe in its direction.
“C’mon,” Bastian mumbled, surprising Peter as he came up aboard the deck behind him.
With a gentle but firm push to the small of his back, Peter had the momentary clarity to realize he may very well have been lured by a honey trap into another form of slavery. Perhaps he wasn’t going to be allowed to leave the ship after this meeting, an omega for this crew to use and pass around.
Panic spiked through him and Bastian’s nose wrinkled. Peter saw a few Alpha heads snap in his direction, even if briefly. He supposed Bastian was one of them then. On the small side, for an alpha, but an alpha nonetheless if his reaction to Peter’s emotions was anything to go off of.
“S’alright, little omega,” he hushed as he guided Peter through a door leading below the top deck, “I’m a man of my word.”
Peter relaxed a bit at that, though his anxiety spiked again as he took in the room around him.
It was dark, barely lit aside from a few candles burnt nearly to the wick. Papers littered the large oak desk in the center of the room, various knives and jewels peppering its surface. Glass, worn from the sea, framed a few portholes along the walls, though the light didn’t seem to reach all the way through them.
The carpet beneath Peter’s feet was worn and barely covered a quarter of the room. The plush surface had long since been trampled into that of a threadbare mat.
Spiderwebs lined the corners of the room, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to be a spider aboard a ship. Here one moment and then there another. Traveling around the world and not even having the sense to know it.
There was a large bed tucked away in the far corner, no doubt nailed to the floors, but the down comforter laid neatly across its length. Pristine…. Untouched, unlike every other surface which boasted an air of inured use. On every item and object in this room, scars and the stories that accompanied them could be found. All except that damned bed.
The emptiness of the room felt palpable, a shadow over every surface. For all the feigned luxury, there was a quiet loneliness that hung in every breath.
“The captain must be above deck, setting out course,” Bastian explained when the brute was nowhere to be seen. “I’ll go fetch him, you stay here.”
Peter looked back to him to reply, to explain that this room made him feel strange in a way he couldn’t explain and that he’d be more comfortable accompanying him above deck, but Bastian was already gone: lost in the crowd of pirates.
A few of them looked him over, eyes snagging on the scarf around his neck. It kept his scent diminished, but was a telltale sign of what he was. Only omegas had something to hide.
Peter tucked his chin to his chest, cheeks burning from the attention as he closed the door. A soft click was the only tell that he was well and truly alone. With the door between them, Peter felt utterly apart from the crew, like he had somehow left them behind. A different ship, a different world.
He knew, of course, that the room was probably just more soundproof than he was used to. But that didn’t stop his shoulders from relaxing, or his too-long-held breath from fleeing. He felt as though he could finally have a moment to suck everything in, to absorb everything for what it truly was.
He couldn’t help the way his nose prickled at the scent still lingering in the air. Alpha. Well and truly. The kind of scent you hear about in story books. It was wild and angry and feral.
And something about it made Peter breathe deeper.
He couldn’t help his curiosity. His bare feet hardly made a sound as he came around the desk, glancing over official looking paperwork. None of it made sense to him. Not because he couldn’t read, he certainly could, but because it seemed to be in an entirely different language. A code, perhaps.
The sound of rustling paper brought a smile to Peter’s lips. It was something he hadn’t heard in a while. It was something he had missed greatly. The smell of ink clung to the desk like its stain clung to his thumb.
He pressed the smudge to his tongue, the bitter taste familiar and nostalgic as he scraped his teeth along the pad of his finger. He used to see his uncle touch the tip of his graphite sticks to his tongue and Peter had often mimicked that in his studies. It wasn’t until much later that Peter had realized that the reason his Uncle did it was specific to the medium he chose. Quills, May explained, had decidedly not needed to be licked.
Tears filled his eyes at the memory. Moments with his aunt and uncle had been one of the few joys he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on over these past years. It was too painful. Too raw.
Aside from the desk, there was little of interest in the room that Peter felt comfortable touching. The gold and jewels strewn about he was sure would be missed. The clothing and weaponry were all placed in a way that was messy, but deliberate.
Once again, Peter’s attention was drawn to the bed. Getting closer he could see wrinkles in the fabric, either from use, or from age. His guess was that of the latter, given the contrasting state of the bed and the rest of the room.
Why would the King of Pirates and captain of this ship not sleep in his own bed? Certainly any of these crew members would kill for the luxury.
Peter’s lips twitched, nervous as his fingers gingerly danced across the down stuffed duvet. He hadn’t slept in a bed in years. He hadn’t thought he ever would again.
His heart pounded in his chest as he looked over his shoulder at the door. Certainly Bastian would be back with the captain any moment. Lying in the damn Pirate King’s bed would be the last mistake he ever made.
His thoughts screamed at him for the stupidity as he lowered himself onto the mattress. Idiotic, that was what it was. He would be killed for this.
But that didn’t matter.
The feeling of the bed beneath him was divine. Decadent in a way he had forgotten.
A harsh breath loosed through his nose as he settled farther into the feathered mattress. Gods above he had missed lying in a bed.
He had enough sense not to crawl under the covers and tuck himself in, but Peter felt glued to the top of this bed. He could smell alpha amongst the plush, faint as it might be, and it made him melt all the further.
Rich mahogany cracked with seasalt, mingling delicately with frost touched lavender; an odd combination but one that had Peter’s omega preening. Instincts had him pressing himself so far into the bed that the frame beneath him creaked. His toes curled against the wood of the floor below.
He wanted to climb into the bed and sleep forever. He forgot how comforting a bed was, how nostalgic. He didn’t care that his fingers were bunching the duvet into his palms or that his hair was so greasy it would likely stain the fabric. Peter’s mind was hazy, blissful, contended in a way he hadn’t been in years. He wanted to savor this, to indulge in this. His omega needed this.
But then there was the click of the door shutting. And the stomp of heavy boots.
There was the scent so powerful it pulled him from his trace.
Alpha it screamed.
Pirate. King.
Fuck.