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Fish Boy (Or Adventures in Atlantean Biology)

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Fish Boy

(Or Adventures in Atlantean Biology)




        Newt bent over to retrieve the filthy pantaloons, quickly pinching his nose and turning his head to the side in revulsion as the sea wind carried the scent. Carefully holding them between his pointer finger and thumb a good two feet from his body, he dropped them into the basket.


        “If I had known that pirates were such slobs, I would never have agreed to be captain. I’m a glorified babysitter .” Newt griped, reaching for another dirty article of clothing that had been carelessly strewn on the deck.


        “Quit yer complain’ and finish the job, boy.” The former captain of the Pirate Express said as he limped across the main deck of the  wooden ship.


        “You—you should be helping me!” Angrily, the Atlantean threw a pair of soiled clothing at the former pirate captain. It landed askew atop his hat and stayed. “Help? Hah! I'm a pirate, minnow, not a nanny. I'll leave the wenchly tasks to ye.” LaPoutine waved his hook offhandedly.


        At this Newt indignantly replied that he wasn't a girl, but the pirate just grunted and turned about, ignoring the dirty laundry on his head and instead went to grab the ship’s wheel. As soon as his hands touched the smooth wood, Newt’s head shot up and his hand shot out. 


        “LaPoutine, step away from the wheel,” Newt pointed in an aggravated manner at the captain, and then shifted the hand toward his pocket, “before I make a very unpleasant phone call.”


        The former captain’s hands jerked swiftly from the circle of wood with a muttered “Miserable little shrimp.”


        The pirate either didn't know the terrific nature of Newt’s hearing, or more likely, didn't care. Nevertheless, Newt stiffened at the comment. “I am not your maid, captain, and cleaning is not an exclusively female task .” He said through clenched teeth. The Atlantean dropped the basket he had been holding in favor of putting his hands on his hips. “In order to pass Gordon’s monthly inspections, this ship has to be in tip-top shape, and spotless. I expect you to pitch in and do your fair share just like everyone else.” He continued. 


        “Listen, guppy—”


        “Don't call me guppy!”


        “Now see here crabcake, I don't take orders from yer kind!” 


        “ My kind?


        “Aye! You an yer lot of sea monkeys ! Always poken’ yer nose where it ain’t wanted!”


        By this point, the two were practically at each other’s throats. They shared a heated exchange as the rest of the crew steadily gathered on the main deck, watching with a mixture of shock and awe. The pirate was throwing insults that hit home just under the belt, in typical pirate fashion, but Newt gave as good as he got. Before long, LaPoutine had resorted to swearing loudly and angrily brandishing his hook at the boy. Their faces drew close enough to touch noses, and that was when the argument took a turn for the weird. 


        As LaPoutine angrily snatched the underwear from his head and tossed it to the ground, Newt’s cheeks heated and his fists curled tight at his sides. His insides started to turn unpleasantly.


        From the sidelines, Booli elbowed Burt beside him, asking quietly, “Wasn't Newt’s hair green a second ago, mon?” Burt scratched his head in bewilderment and made a confused noise, nodding. 


        Suddenly, as his eyes left the boy’s face, LaPoutine finally noticed the change that had happened at some point in their tiff. His angry retort died before it left his throat, and he gaped in wordless confusion. 


        “Yer hair, Newt. What in the name of bloody Poseidon happened to yer hair?”


        Newt’s anger deflated instantly. Not understanding, he reached up tentatively to his hair, pulling a strand within his line of sight. As he saw that his normally fluorescent green hair had morphed into a bright coral instead, he gasped in horror. He frantically ran his hands through his hair, tugging as if he could pull the color out.


        “ No, no, no, no…”


        Newt cradled his head and mumbled what sounded like a mantra of ‘are you kidding me?’ and ‘not now’ to the assembled crew members. All of a sudden he went quiet, peeking through his fingers to see the crew watching him intently. He jerked his head up, and everyone on the deck collectively jumped.


        “I need to go to...go to my cabin!” Newt exclaimed loudly and darted towards the captain’s quarters. He reached the doors in under a minute, pulled them open in half a second, and had slammed them and clicked the lock before the pirate crew had time to blink. 


        “What just happened?” LaPoutine asked. 


        The crew shrugged as one. 


        Newt flew about the small cabin in a whirlwind, scrambling for paper and something to write with as he clumsily pulled out his shell. He fumbled with it, nearly dropping it on the floor. His hands hadn't stopped shaking since he closed the door, and his fingers barely cooperated in finding the right number. 


        “Hey—yes, Gordon, it's Newt…I know what day it is, but you—please Gordon, I’m begging you to just listen for a minute! I don't know who else to talk to!”


        Newt clutched the shell, sliding down against the wall until he was sitting on the floor in a huddled heap. His voice broke as he pushed back the rising panic and fought down tears. At any moment it felt he could turn into a blubbering mess.


        “I was arguing with LaPoutine—no, just let me finish—and my hair…”


        He took a gasping breath. 


        “It changed Gordon. It just...changed! What's happening to me?”


        Newt chewed the end of the quill feather nervously, looking over the information he had copied down at Gordon’s suggestion. He was still terrified, but Gordon had assured him that this was completely normal for someone about his age. It was bound to happen at some point. 


        He still wasn't sure what to make of what he had been told. He read the short paragraph aloud, Gordon’s voice repeating in his head.



“When an Atlantean reaches maturity, physically, they often experience one of two things. They may begin to notice an increasingly rabid attraction to silverware, or they may experience a change in hair color. As those born of the sea, natives of Atlantis may go through color phases just like a fish maturing out into its adult form. This is a perfectly normal process, and one that happens so quickly or so suddenly that often it happens without any prior warning at all. As you know already, all Atlanteans are born hermaphrodites. However, until sexual maturity is reached, only one of the two reproductive organs is used. When that point is reached, both organs become fully functional. The new hormones being introduced to the body, depending on the dormant organ, results in the above symptoms described.”


        Just outside, LaPoutine paced outside of the doors to his own quarters. He grumbled and kicked a slightly protruding plank in the deck as he waited impatiently for the Atlantean kid to come out. The crew was worried, and deep, deep, down, LaPoutine felt a mite troubled as well, certainly not however, mind you, out of concern for the brat. In his pacing, he heard the faint sound of Newt speaking, and in a moment of pure pirate instinct, he pressed his ear to the oak door. 


        “... you know already, all Atlanteans are born hermaphrodites..”


        The words were muffled, but as he stilled, he was able to make out enough to send him reeling back.


        Truthfully, as experienced as he was in dealing with them, Atlantean biology had always been a bit of a mystery. They were a particularly secretive race when it came down to matters of such an intimate nature, and outsiders could only theorize that they were simply embarrassed by how similar they must be, sexually speaking, to fish. Had LaPoutine not known some of the weight carried by that particular term prior to this, his curiosity would not have been stirred in the least by his snooping.


        But his interest had been piqued, and there was no stopping him now. 


        He stuck his ear back to the wooden door, but it seemed that Newt had already finished, as all was quiet within. Pulling back and stroking his beard thoughtfully, LaPoutine debated his next step. He could simply ask the boy directly, or he could wait for an opportunity to find out himself. Perhaps the boy would explain himself to the rest of the Pirate Express crew?


        Knowing Newt, and knowing Atlanteans, that was unlikely. The pirate wondered, briefly, what amorous relations were like between the fish people of the sea. If they theoretically had both the parts, who played the wench? His thoughts turned suddenly to Newt. Skinny, pale, puny Newt. LaPoutine had never noticed before how his diminutive stature made him seem less masculine and more...something else. Something that a pirate like himself would…


        That reminded him that the crew had not docked in Tortuga for some time. Clearly, his second head was getting the best of him to have him thinking of Poseidon’s son in such a manner. Not that he was opposed, mind you, to the son part. Pirates weren't really all that particular when it came down to it, except, perhaps, in the case of Armand. They all had their tastes , but most simply couldn't afford to have champagne tastes on a rum budget.


        Newt was rather young too, or at least he appeared to be young. Atlanteans aged differently from humans. Experienced some sort of life-altering-hair-color-change as well. 


        LaPoutine hurriedly shifted away from the door as he heard footsteps from within the quarters draw closer. He scooted to the side in an effort to avoid being caught eavesdropping. As he did, Newt threw open the doors, having paused at the last moment to gather his courage. The pirate captain was crushed by the heavy door, letting out a pained wheeze as it flattened him momentarily. Then, Newt was striding out, only a slight hitch in his step and breath, headed for the crew gathered at the bow. As they noticed him coming, they hushed and turned to face him.


        Booli spoke up first. “Captain...Newt, mon, are you okay?” 


        This was followed by a barrage of similar questioning from Armand and Burt, and a pile of vomit from Spewey. Newt smiled shakily and rubbed the back of his neck, scratching along the line of his gills. He forced a laugh more for his own benefit rather than theirs. 


        “I'm fine guys, really. I just had to talk to Gordon.” 


        “Gordon? We’re not in trouble are we?” Burt asked nervously.


        “No, least, not most of you…” Newt cast about briefly in search of the former pirate captain. “Anyway, I just had to take care of. Yeah, urgent business.” He laughed nervously and stilled in alarm as he saw LaPoutine finally making his way towards the group from the direction of the captain’s quarters, cracking his back and grumbling about heavy doors. 


        “Nothing to worry about.” He concluded, a note of finality in his voice, eyes tearing away from the pirate captain.


        “But what about your hair, Capitaine Newt?” Armand gestured to the Atlantean’s head with a concerned look. 




        Newt spoke so haltingly that he was sure the pirates would see right through his bluff, but with just a shrug from each crew member, and a shared glance of confusion, they accepted the explanation. 


        “So are you like a flamingo? eat pink and you turn pink?” Burt piped up, an oafish grin on his face.


        Laughing nervously and folding his arms defensively over his chest, Newt said “Yeah, exactly.”


        “Just like a flamingo.”


        “More like an eel if ye ask me. The fish boy may have ye lot fooled, but I'm too crafty for him. No one pulls the wool over Captain LaPoutine’s eyes!”


        Booli turned an unimpressed stare to him and tossed part of the laundry his way.


        “Oh, put a sock in it, captain.” The portly Jamaican laughed at his own joke, his deep chuckle echoing throughout the hold. The former captain peeled the soaking wet, woolen sock off of his face and hurled it to the side. 


        “Blistering barnacles! How can ye lot be so gullible?!” He bellowed and waved his arms. 


        “I'm not mutton-headed enough to buy his excuse captain, but if the boy doesn't want to speak about what ails him, then it's none of our concern, mon.” Booli shook his head and went back to scrubbing. He finished washing the last article of clothing, and passed it to Spewey to hang up. Armand was busily folding dry clothes and neatly tucking them into a basket. 


        The pirate captain fumed silently. Armand finished folding and stood up, wiping imaginary sweat off of his perfect brow. “ Monsieurs , I have done my part. Now who is to carry the capitaine’s clean clothing to him?” 


        LaPoutine crossed his arms, sticking his nose in the air. “Oh no, I am not delivering laundry to what should be me own quarters!”


        “Too bad, mon. You stood and watched Armand and I,” Spewey squawked indignantly, “do all the work. The least you can do, mon, is take this load.” 


        With a grumble full of resentment, the former captain stooped to pick the basket, and tottered down the dim hallway of the ship’s hull. At the end of the corridor he reached the stairs, carefully balancing on each step and muttering obscenities as the load tilted willy-nilly in his hands. Making his way across the second level of the ship, he nearly bumped into Burt, who was busily polishing his cannon balls. 


        “Disgusting lot,” the captain snorted and shifted the basket to one arm. 


        The sun was blindingly brilliant as the pirate climbed up the last short flight of stairs and onto the main deck. He hobbled over to the captain’s living quarters, what used to be his cabin, and with measured reluctance, knocked on the door. 


        “Fish boy! I've got yer clean laundry! Hurry up and open this door so I can gives ye what fer!”


        There was no reply within, and once more, just like that morning, LaPoutine found himself pressing his ear to the door. The sound of what might have been splashing came very faintly from within. LaPoutine fondled his beard, idly debating simply breaking in and dumping the brat’s clothing on the floor. However, a strange muffled sound emanated once, loud enough to be heard but not identified. It was enough to have the pirate captain’s hand inching towards the door handle, closing and equally slowly pulling the handle downwards. The door opened with barely a creak, and stealthily, the pirate pushed it open and closed it mouse-quiet behind him. 


        With Newt nowhere in sight in the main office, he carefully picked his way over the wooden floorboards, shifting his weight gingerly from his peg leg to his foot. He snuck across the room in this manner, carefully peeking around the door of the private quarters on the right side of the room. He entered and set the basket of clean laundry down on the bed, walking right past the pile of clothes lying haphazardly on the floor, a pair of distinctive red sneakers barely visible from under the bed. The sound that had coaxed the captain to enter had not ceased, but it was still low, and didn't lend any clue as to what it was. As he made his way through the bedroom and past the four poster bed, the sound grew steadily louder. He paused at the door of the master bath, the only possible source of the noise. 


        The door seemed to move on its own before LaPoutine realized he had gripped the knob with the ferocity of a starving man. He slowly inched it open, stuffing his beard through the crack of it until he could just make out the interior of the room. 


        What met his eyes was not altogether an unexpected scene; a bob of coral hair peeked over the edge of the bath’s metal tub, and the sound of water sloshing gently against the sides filled the still air. Despite there having been a bath drawn, the room was not the slightest bit warmer than the bedroom. That likely meant that Newt hadn’t prepared heated bath water. Was he using cold seawater? He was an Atlantean, and immune to the bite of the cold Pacific, so it seemed probable that he had simply gathered the seawater directly from its source. It was Newt himself that interested LaPoutine the most though and made the pirate lean further into the room. Newt was in the tub of presumed cold Pacific saltwater, but from what the captain could tell, he wasn’t bathing. In what seemed a rare show of ease, his eyes were closed, head tilted back, the lean column of his blue throat reflective with the sheen of salt. 


        LaPoutine quickly realized he was mistaken as he observed Newt’s teeth clench tightly and grind together, undoing the picture of ease. The sharp angle of his bare shoulders was made clearly visible as Newt gasped and his body curled inwards. The tub water sloshed forwards, gaining enough momentum to send some of it flying over the edge and splashing onto the floor. Newt’s back slammed into the metal of the tub, and he let out a sound that LaPoutine could not identify nor compare to anything he had ever heard before. It was something so completely foreign, so alien, and completely fitting of an Atlantean. 


        The soft keening lasted only a moment before it petered off and was overtaken by quiet gasps. LaPoutine noticed he was unconsciously leaning further into the room, a familiar deep warmth stirring in his gut. The door hid most of him from view, and with his eyes closed, Newt had not noticed his presence yet. Yet LaPoutine still held his breath, wary of being discovered, but unable to tear his eyes away from the fish boy. He was willing to take the risk, however, if it meant he could continue to watch the slow glide of water on blue skin, smooth as glass; shoulders rippling with lean muscle, ever so like the gleaming sides of a twisting fish. Newt was gasping softly now, fully absorbed in his task. The pirate captain now had an idea of what the boy was doing, yet the truth of the deed left him in disbelief. There was such a powerful discord in the Newt from his experiences and this Newt behind closed doors. But there was no denying that Newt was... pleasuring himself . How, the captain wasn’t positive; his earlier eavesdropping had left him unsure of what little he knew about Atlantean biology. 


        He knew, for instance, that males made a wider range of vocalizations than did females. At full physical maturity, Atlantean males had an immensely deep chest—in proportion to the rest of their body—capable of contorting sound like a drum. As small as he was, Newt’s bare chest struggled to make any deeper vocalizations. Instead, his slim build seemed only capable of producing high, almost musical notes. Why that made his breeches even tighter, LaPoutine wasn’t too sure. 


        He could chalk it up to not having any sort of release in months, but something told him it was more than that. The pirate certainly could admit that he wasn't opposed to the idea of exploring Atlantean physiology firsthand. But this wasn't just any denizen of the sea, this was Newt, twelve year old son of the god of the sea. Normally he would be disgusted by the very idea of intimacy with anyone under drinking age, but, his mind chided him, Atlanteans aged differently.


        During his time in the bottle, Henri de LaPoutine had watched Newt grow up in spurts, and he and his crew had lived in that bottle for three hundred years before Newt released them. 


        Somehow, trying to justify his conduct seemed worse than spying on the boy at his most vulnerable. That didn't stop him of course from slipping the door open another centimeter.


        LaPoutine watched with rapt attention as Newt’s arm moved out of his line of sight. Curious as to the task keeping the boy’s hands busy, the pirate captain had to rise to his tip toes, balancing precariously on his peg leg to see just over the metal tub edge. Below the water, Newt’s hand was moving in and out of his most innermost self, and though LaPoutine could not see that particular movement, he could deduce it from the steady rhythmic pumping of the blue arm. Each motion was punctuated by a breathy sigh, excepting the few that merited a low whine from a particularly harsh stab. 


        LaPoutine teetered unsteadily, beginning to lose his balance. He attempted to regain it by grabbing onto the door, forgetting momentarily that the door was open. Two things happened quickly after that: the door gave, and his peg leg drove into the floor like a vaulter’s pole. With slow but steady certainty, he tipped forward, arms windmilling desperately as he was sent crashing to the floor and into the room. 


        The fall itself was mostly silent and for that he was eternally grateful; Newt hadn't witnessed the undignified act. But over a hundred pounds of burly pirate impacting with the wooden floor had a much more impressive thud to it. It was accompanied shortly thereafter by the loud bang of the solid oak door hitting the end of its hinges. 


        Newt’s eyes flew open and he made eye contact with LaPoutine, who was now lying on the floor of the bathroom. The Atlantean started violently, backpedaling under the water until he hit the edge of the metal tub and could retreat no further. With a mortified sound, as if he had just realized he was nude, he tried to cover himself. 


        LaPoutine stared dumbfoundedly up from the floor, not sure if he should speak. The boy was clearly embarrassed. His normally blue cheeks were heated red, and he wouldn't look at LaPoutine. 


        Finally, Newt cleared his throat nervously and gathered his courage. “What are you doing here?” his voice trembled audibly. 






        “I see.” Newt cleared his throat again awkwardly and huddled lower. LaPoutine climbed to his feet. To the pirate's relief, Newt didn't ask how long he had been watching. Instead there was a pause between the two as they simply coexisted in silence. Then, leaning against the now open doorway, LaPoutine piped up.


        “Ye goin’ through some kind of fish period, boy?” 


        If Newt had been blushing before, his cheeks were surely scarlet now. He spluttered indignantly, not sure how to respond or if he should even acknowledge what had just been put forward. 


        “No, I am not. It’s more like puberty, really.” Newt pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. He was so incredibly embarrassed, and this whole situation was comically ludicrous. Perhaps that was why he even bothered explaining instead of simply screaming at the former pirate captain to get out. 


        “ fish puberty made ye want to pleasure yerself?” LaPoutine carefully schooled his features as blank as possible. Inside, he was grinning in anticipation of seeing the boy squirm in mortification. 


        For his part, Newt coped fairly well. He didn't even try to deny, but he couldn't look at the pirate without cringing. Instead, he slowly turned about face, and reached gingerly over the edge for a towel lying on the small stool beside the tub.


        LaPoutine had to hurriedly wipe the hungry look from his face as the boy stood and wrapped the towel quickly around his form. The pirate’s curiosity was not at all sated by the brief glance he afforded. He was further displeased as he noticed Newt had wound the towel around his entire body, deliberately choosing not to wear it around the waist like a man, partially hiding his shoulders from view as he clutched it tightly about himself.


        The towel hung off his thin frame loosely, the steady drip of water from the tub forming a growing puddle on the floor. Dark coral hair, heavy with water, hung about Newt’s face. The new captain of the Pirate Express looked even younger cocooned in the threadbare towel, and LaPoutine considered abandoning this endeavor altogether. 


        He licked his dry lips as Newt shivered.


        “It's complicated.” Newt said quietly. 


        “Having both?” LaPoutine raised an eyebrow, giving the Atlantean a slightly smug look. 


        “Both…?” Confused, the boy started to speak, and then the captain’s meaning hit him. His eyes widened in utter shock and he stared at the pirate. “How do you…?” He gaped and trailed off. 


        “Believe me minnow, when ye've been around the puddle fer more than three hundred years, ye learn things.” LaPoutine smoothly lied. Better to let the boy believe he'd learned it in his sailing, rather than from snooping. To seal the deal, he nodded sagely, the picture of understanding.


        Sensing opportunity in the way that Newt gratefully took his offered acceptance, he moved off from the doorway and took a step sideways. Newt looked up, momentarily startled, before pulling the towel around him tighter and brushing quickly past LaPoutine. The wheels in the pirate’s head were turning unusually fast as he watched the young Atlantean reach into the basket of clean clothes. 


        LaPoutine followed him into the room, stopping a couple of feet from the bed. Newt’s back was to him. The former pirate captain clasped his hands behind his back, or rather, his hand and his hook. The appendage sat awkwardly in the clutch of his hand, but the cold metal gave him focus from the heat.


        “Ye know lad, ye and me have something in common.” LaPoutine said as he watched Newt carefully.


        “Oh yeah? What's that?” There was a small note of challenge in Newt’s voice, but he didn't react otherwise, and didn't appear altogether concerned. 


        “We both seem to itch we can't scratch.” 


        Newt paused, going completely still long enough for the pirate to believe that the boy at least somewhat understood where this was going. 


        With a shirt halfway on, and towel now cinched neatly around his waist, Newt turned to look at LaPoutine with wary interest. To the pirate’s disappointment, there wasn't a flash of understanding in his pale eyes. Newt didn't know what he was offering. 


        “Whatever it is you're trying to sell, LaPoutine, I'm not buying.” Newt said firmly, refusing to play into the captain’s hand, although he was unsure of the game at hand. He pulled the nightshirt all the way on and let it fall to his knees. The towel he casually tossed to LaPoutine. “Please take that to Booli to be washed on your way out,” the boy said flippantly, busily shaking his wet mop of coral hair. He pointed to the door and added, “And while you're at it, tell Booli I'd also like some green tea, extra salt of course.” 


        LaPoutine gritted his teeth and gripped the towel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. With a grudging, “ Yessir, Captain, ” he swept out of the quarters with a dirty towel and unclean thoughts. 


        Booli had just finished with the laundry when LaPoutine found him. The burly Jamaican uttered a string of curses as he was delivered the soiled towel, but didn't complain at the boy’s request for tea. So here LaPoutine, former pirate captain of the newly christened Pirate Express , stood with a cup of hot tea at the entrance of the ship’s private quarters. He considered knocking again, but seeing as the boy saw fit to make him his manservant, LaPoutine did not feel inclined to extend any manner of etiquette. So he barged into the room. 


        The office was quiet and nearly pitch black except for a single lamp. The warm glow which illuminated the room came from its center, where the office’s desk resided. The whale oil lamp must have been lit by Newt soon after LaPoutine left, because the oil within was nearly depleted. Now it burned low and steady, the flame small but bright within its glass prison. LaPoutine’s eyes caught sight of a figure slumped over the desk in the receding light.


        Newt, sound asleep.


        Setting the steaming tea down, the pirate captain walked around the desk to read the documents Newt had been poring over, identifying it after a beat as the ship’s current inventory lists. At the opportunity presented, he studied the young Atlantean who had seized control of his ship.


        His chest rising and falling gently, the boy slumbered on, completely unaware. Newt’s upper body lay mostly on the desk, one arm splayed out and the other curled in. His face was resting on his arms, and LaPoutine surmised that he must have intended to rest his head for a moment, and drifted off. Despite how uncomfortable the solid wooden desk must have been, Newt’s breathing was deep and even. His sleep was that of the dead, to not have heard LaPoutine come barging in. 


        Thinking back to the scene earlier that evening in the washroom, LaPoutine suddenly had a wicked idea. After testing to see if he might accidentally wake the boy up, the pirate ever so carefully lifted the surprisingly dense child from his rather awkward position and laid him across the desk, his hips hanging slightly off the edge. The movement sent a few of the desk items to the ground with a clatter, making LaPoutine wince. When the noise didn't even stir Newt, LaPoutine became brave. Running his weathered hands down Newt’s thin sides, the pirate slowly pulled up his nightshirt, revealing a pair of plain cotton briefs. These too were pulled down as the captain’s hands hastened to explore further. Wanting a better look, LaPoutine gathered Newt’s lower limbs and pulled them aside to place the boy in a compromising position. He held pale, smooth legs out and apart to expose Newt’s nether regions fully.


        Newt was, of course, unblemished and completely hairless, his skin practically luminescent in the pale lamplight—though LaPoutine still had to stoop a bit lower to get a better view. Part of the Atlantean’s anatomy the captain was exceedingly familiar with as it was part of his own, minus some external parts, but the latter structure wasn't exactly like that of any woman and only left him puzzled. LaPoutine quickly came to the conclusion that trying to figure out the exact nature of the boy’s sex was an exercise in futility. What he did know was that before him was an opportunity to plunder some booty; and if there was anything a pirate was good at, it was plundering.


        LaPoutine fantasized taking the boy now, as he lay slumbering. It would be so easy to lose himself to lust, slipping into Newt’s sleep-pliant body if he was laid on his stomach atop the desk. With the right angle, enough force, and luck, he might even bottom out with the first push. And, if the boy woke and began to struggle, the pirate would force him back down, really trap him between wood and a hard place. In that position, LaPoutine could get a firm grip in his hair, pull his head back to expose the Arcadian column of his throat, a view as enrapturing as any Greek temple. Newt would make those wonderful little noises, panting and clawing at the desk, scrabbling for some kind of purchase; thrusting deeper, alternating between rough and gentle, would undo the boy completely. Rutting into the boy’s insides in his fever dream, he imagined that the other felt like the glass-smooth sides of a conch shell, but warm and soft. His mind supplied the sensation, and his body responded appropriately, the fabric of his underwear feeling a bit tighter. As he realized his hips had unconsciously canted forwards, pelvis now pressed sweetly into the crook of the boy’s hips, the captain composed himself enough to withdraw, glancing suspiciously at the closed door leading to the deck.


        The pirate dropped the boy’s legs and rubbed his hands together almost gleefully, his course now sure. He hurriedly replaced the briefs, leaving the nightshirt in its state of upheaval. LaPoutine scooped the fish boy into his arms and, after tottering unsteadily for a moment from the additional weight, he limped to the bedroom cradling Newt. If he didn't know any better, LaPoutine would have said the scene could be unassumingly construed as a devoted first mate carrying his exhausted commanding officer to bed. The thought caused the pirate’s mouth to curl a bit, and his eyes glinted with dark humor. Because although the boy’s head lay against his shoulder in the most innocent of ways, all LaPoutine could focus on was the feel of Newt’s small bottom in his hand and crude thoughts. 


        But he pushed his imaginings aside. The pirate was much more excited about the real version of events, although if he were a wiser man, he would have worried about the consequences. Poseidon would surely kill him for defiling one of his children, and he did run the risk of mutiny within his own crew, attached as they were to Newt. Such concerns, however, could wait until after. LaPoutine was a man that believed in keeping his eye on the prize.


        LaPoutine realized he had come to a stop at the door jamb of the bedroom, so absorbed in his own mind that his feet had simply remained rooted where they were. The captain’s quarters were pitch black, and after a moment of adjusting to the lack of light, the pirate could see the familiar bed that took up a third of the room. He deposited his charge not without some care, although arguably he was more concerned that Newt would wake up and ruin his game prematurely. The pirate thoughtfully tapped his chin and deliberated on whether he should face the fish boy to him or the bed. His imagination had created a promising option in that lower back. It would be easier as well to face the boy away from him, so that the pirate wasn't immediately identifiable. 


        Then, he remembered the tea. Still sitting right where he had left it during his exploration of Newt. The pirate amended the haphazard state of the boy’s night clothes before turning and hobbling quickly back to the desk.


        His mind had supplied a means with which to not only fulfill his desires, but also walk away unscathed. On his person, LaPoutine carried a small pouch of pale pink powder. The pouch and it's despicable contents had been a “gift” from a certain rival of LaPoutine’s; and while he utterly despised the giver, he hated the words which had accompanied the gift even more. “ If you ever find yourself in need of unpaid company, Captain ,” the leering tone had informed him as the pouch was tucked into his pocket. 


        LaPoutine had only found out later what that really meant, and was understandably furious. That mud-sucking leech had given him a narcotic meant to incapacitate an unwilling sexual participant. The insult of it had him dangling the cursed thing over the ship railing. Something, however, had prevented him from simply dropping it into the ocean. Instead, the pirate had tucked it away and ignored the slight weight of it on his chest. 


        Now, LaPoutine removed it from its hiding place and poured a small amount of the powder into the tea, stirring it in. He performed the task more or less guilt-free, his conscious quieting under the promise that at least Newt would not remember the events of the night, saving the boy from trauma and the pirate from certain death by a vengeful sea god. 


        The former captain picked up the now tainted drink and carried it back to the sleeping Newt. Gently rousing the boy by shaking his shoulder, he waited patiently as the Atlantean blearily took in the bedroom and finally noticed LaPoutine. The boy yawned and scrubbed a hand across his eyes, sitting halfway up on the bed. Schooling his expression to a careful neutral, LaPoutine held out the tea. With a grateful nod that almost made the captain feel remorseful, the other steadily downed the drink. LaPoutine removed his jacket casually, laying it over the back of a nearby armchair. Before Newt could even completely finish the tea, he had already begun swaying. 


        The cup crashed to the floor from Newt’s boneless fingers as he slumped forward, LaPoutine catching him by the shoulders before he could fall completely off the bed. Newt blinked sluggishly at the captain, all of a sudden confused and very disoriented. 


        “L’Poutine, what-t-t?” Newt’s speech slurred incomprehensibly. His hands clutched at the pirate’s lapel, desperately attempting to hold himself up without immediately toppling over. 


        The pirate himself was dumbfounded at how quickly the drug had taken effect, and somewhat worried that it would kill Newt. But it was far too late to look back now. With that in mind, the pirate captain cradled Newt’s face in his good hand. The hook he placed on one cheek, tracing its contours. Both limbs moved to just behind Newt’s jawline, hooking behind his head and pulling him forward as LaPoutine touched his lips to the boy’s feverish forehead. 


        Newt peered at him in confusion, his mind unable to comprehend the gesture. He didn't actually try to pull away, but he mumbled upsettedly at the former captain when he was dragged closer still.


        “La...Poutine...what...are you…?” The struggle to form the necessary words left Newt dizzy, and there was little he could do as the pirate placed his mouth over Newt’s own. 


        To his own surprise, LaPoutine actually enjoyed kissing the boy. He sucked teasingly on the Atlantean’s lower lip, teething it gently, his hand moving to Newt’s hair to keep his head up. The boy didn't resist whatsoever when the tongue went down his throat or circled the roof of his mouth in an exploratory manner. In fact, the body beneath LaPoutine was eerily pliant, like that of a doll. Reluctantly, the former captain broke away from the contact, curling his hand instead under Newt’s jaw and observing the dazed face, his hook moving to support the boy’s upper body. Holding Newt upright, the other joined him on the bed, careful to hold onto the fish boy lest he tip over completely. Settled on the comforter now, LaPoutine pulled Newt into his lap. The pirate stroked up and the down the small back, his hook coming to rest under the boy’s chin, cradling him as it started to dip wearily. Thin arms were hastily lifted to aid in the removal of the other’s nightshirt, before the pirate’s hook hand guided Newt’s head to rest on his shoulder. He startled as something began to seep through the material there, quickly forming a damp spot. LaPoutine realized that Newt was crying, the small frame shaking beneath his hands— probably terrified out of his mind , the pirate reluctantly concluded. 


        The pirate rubbed what he hoped were soothing circles into the boy’s back, trying unsuccessfully to convince himself that the tears were just an involuntary reaction to the drug. LaPoutine switched to stroking a hand down the boy’s spine until the sobbing subsided with a meek hiccup. He lifted the younger’s face from his shoulder, a hand tangled gently in coral hair to tilt the features upwards. Tear tracks lazily traced down Newt’s ruddy cheeks, his mouth slack. His eyes were hazy, unfocused, and the Atlantean appeared to be fighting to stay alert. 


        LaPoutine eyed the boy’s slightly parted mouth hungrily, his next debauchery already cementing in his mind. 


        Hands hastily pulled the boy down, the pirate arranging the small frame so that Newt’s head was cradled in his lap. The hot breath on his thigh sent tremors of excitement through the pirate, the feeling sending him reeling back to lean on the wooden headboard. He stroked a ruddy cheek thoughtfully before undoing the fastenings of his trousers, pulling out his soft cock with his intact hand. The hook he ghosted down the small face of the boy to tease his mouth open, tip carefully prying open the delicate jaw. A heady sigh accompanied the movement. Newt’s mouth went slack around the metal, opening almost reflexively for the hook that could easily embed itself in the soft tissue of his cheeks. LaPoutine gave his member an appreciative squeeze at the sight, blood rushing to the organ in a torrent. The pirate removed his hand from his own flesh to assume a grip in Newt’s coral hair, fingers settling in gently, almost reverently, before slowly tightening their grip on the strands. An unsteady hand guided Newt’s head down, LaPoutine clenching his teeth and stiffening as that hot mouth finally enveloped his cock. For a moment he simply basked in the feeling of the soft pocket wrapped around his sensitive flesh as it hardened. Then he began to push further, marveling at how easily the boy’s jaw seemed to part to take him in. 


        Truthfully, Newt took the violation well, with minimal gagging, and only a few new tear-tracks forming down his cheeks involuntarily. 


        Before long, the pirate let the tide of his own arousal simply carry him, thrusting in and out with the rhythm of the pulse in his head. Newt’s head he moved up and down along his shaft, letting gravity do most of the work, but occasionally using the leverage of his own hand to force more of his cock into the small mouth and throat. In those moments, his arousal peaked sharply, the raw physical pleasure encompassing his senses almost entirely. The world revolved around the sound of his wet fucking into Newt’s mouth, and the boy’s occasional choked whimpers; nothing else existed outside of it. LaPoutine felt his blood pump wildly as his hips jumped, his good hand keeping the boy’s face held steadfast to his groin. He felt himself sinking deeper with each wild thrust, until he was sure his cock had found itself all the way down the very tight throat of the Atlantean.  


        His good hand was replaced by the hook as it fumbled down to stroke the boy’s throat to check.


        He readjusted his grip, using his metal limb to keep the boy’s head in place and forging onwards. With splayed fingers, LaPoutine’s hand dragged across the column of the small throat, groaning as he felt the flesh below his palm bulge slightly with each deep thrust. Newt began to gag in earnest at the intrusion, his throat convulsing. The sudden sensation of the passageway constricting prompted the pirate captain to lean back heavily against the wooden headboard of the bed. He wrapped both hands around the back of the Atlantean’s skull, forcing the boy to take all of him into his mouth. Bursts of agonizing pleasure flared behind the pirate’s closed eyes, and his hips stilled to a dead halt, his manhood buried as far as it could go in Newt. He hovered on the precipice of climax for a tense moment, and then the fish boy tried to swallow around the cock in his throat. With a pained noise, LaPoutine came down the tight passageway, pumping slowly until the feeling subsided. 


        Newt retched weakly, coughing as the former captain withdrew rather reluctantly from the boy’s airway. LaPoutine noted with guilty satisfaction that the boy’s throat must be practically coated with his cum, some even seeping out the sides of his gills as testament.


        If the pirate had been any younger, the sight alone would have him immediately ready for another go at that heavenly Atlantean mouth. Preferably with Newt’s mouth right at hip-height for LaPoutine to witness firsthand the bulge of his thick cock protruding from that tight throat. Unfortunately, if LaPoutine didn't save his remaining vigor for the final debauchment, there would likely never be another opportunity as the one now.


        The sluggish fumbling of small fingers against his thighs brought LaPoutine’s attention back to Newt, now haphazardly splayed out on his lap. His motions lacked the force required to actually push himself up (or the captain away), strong as the drug was. It seemed some small mercy was in order. The discarded night gown was retrieved from the floor as LaPoutine wound the long piece of cloth around Newt’s hands, tying them securely together. Now at least the pirate could give the boy some sense of dignity in his own debauchment. In his brief pursuit of mercy, the former captain also gently wiped the boy’s gills clean with the bedsheet.


        With the garment secure, he eased Newt onto his stomach. With some deft maneuvering, being careful of his hook hand as to not cause damage, LaPoutine arranged the boy onto his knees. Propped up like this, the pirate knew from experience that the initial penetration would be much easier.


        The quick decision to remove his hook to prevent harm resulted in the prosthetic limb being placed to the side of the bed a moment later, before the pirate rejoined the prone form on the bed. He leaned over Newt’s slight frame, caging the body of the other with his own. With great care, he slid an arm underneath the slight curve of Newt’s stomach, balancing with his good hand. He regretted the lack of fingers with which to feel the soft underbelly of the boy on his stump arm, but he was grateful that he still possessed enough dexterity in the ruined limb to position the other. LaPoutine was forced to clumsily hunch midair for a moment in order to use his intact hand to drag his own trousers down with fumbling fingers. That done, he took hold of himself once more, sucking in a sharp breath at the contact. His nerves were alight, the member in his hand hot and a great deal heavier than he ever remembered it being. Poseidon’s beard, just the thought of what he was about to do excited him.


        It should have disgusted him. Or better yet, terrified him. Once more the image of his own untimely death at the hands of an angry sea god flashed through his mind. But as his cockhead touched the rim of that smooth paradise, LaPoutine knew he was doomed. 


        He breached the boy’s insides with disciplined care, holding tightly all the while to the wisp of a boy. 


        Progress at first was torturously slow, the pirate too wary to force himself in faster, lest he cause real damage to the boy, but also unwilling to back off even a millimeter. When he met resistance, his good hand scrabbled for Newt’s side, holding onto to the boy for dear life as he forced the younger down his member. The slow slide of flesh came to a sudden halt what felt like an eternity later, as LaPoutine reached the end of his exploration of Newt’s most intimate place. His invasion complete, the pirate basked for a moment in the warm clench of the boy on his swollen cock. 


        At the first rock forward from LaPoutine’s hips, the motion carried to where Newt’s shoulders met the bed. As pliable as the boy was, he felt like a toy in the pirate’s grasp, like he could take anything the other had to give. LaPoutine gave him another firm thrust. And then another. And another.


        His thrusting was measured at first, every fiber simply alight with the sensation of tight heat wrapped around his member, Newt’s warmth clenching around him when he went particularly deep. He had felt such sensation before, but the visual accompanying it, of Newt’s bent form, his hands bound but fingers loosely grasping at the air with each thrust, taking every inch of his cock, was erotic beyond words. At some point, Newt’s head had turned to the side so his cheek rested on the bed, his mouth open and his eyes shut. Drool had started pooling from his mouth as he panted open-mouthed into the sheets. With a slight change of angle, LaPoutine found he could force noises from the boy, high and musical and distressed, like a beached dolphin. After that, his thrusts only increased in intensity, until he thought he might snap Newt in half as drove himself harder and deeper into the young Atlantean. 


        The pirate felt himself getting ever nearer to his peak, and the rising torrent of arousal had him pulling out hurriedly in order to pull the limp Newt into his lap. Now facing him as he leaned against the headboard for support, LaPoutine kissed the youth’s damp brow before forcing his cock back into that sweet hole. Newt’s legs fell to either side of LaPoutine’s splayed thighs, his bottom cradled in the pirate’s rough hands. The position meant his upper body was leaning on the pirate furiously fucking him, his head resting heavily on the other’s shoulder, rocking along with the tempo of thrusts in a facsimile of mutual sex. 


        LaPoutine fucked upwards with abandon, chasing down his completion with single minded intent. The feeling of the boy, impaled on his cock even more deeply-seated than before, made his end draw nearer with each passing second. 


        One last push, as far in as he could go, and LaPoutine came with a strained shout. He was convinced that every last drop of cum he had be left inside the boy, and so left his member in its wonderful new home until it softened. He finally lifted Newt off of his cock with his good hand and stump under the boy’s arms, rather unsteady in his state of afterglow. He didn’t see the trickle of ejaculate that immediately left the young Atlantean’s hole to stain the sheets.


        Breathing heavily, he pulled the smaller form to his chest, relaxing against the headboard fully. Glancing down LaPoutine realized with some remorse that Newt had remained flaccid the entire time. The thought did stir a sense of regret in the pirate, if only because the sex had been so pleasurable for him. With a sigh he tucked Newt’s head under his, startling slightly when he heard a slight mumble. He pulled Newt back enough to see his face, and was startled to see that his eyes were open. They were hazy and unfocused though, and LaPoutine relaxed. 


        Newt eventually found his voice enough to sound confused and a bit upset, lifting his head with effort. 


        “LaPoutine...what…?” The words were strained from a surely sore throat. 


        “Shhhh. Just a bad dream, Captain.” 




        And after a hurried cleaning, careful redressing and placing him back into his own bed, that’s all it would be. A bad dream. Newt would wake the next morning with aches he couldn’t explain and a terribly sore throat, but that could all be easily brushed off. The unknown stains on his sheets, found much later, were harder to explain, and remained at the back of Newt’s mind with the feeling that he had forgotten something very important.