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I promise I'm not dead lol

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create just to create!!! no expectations! be free!

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Hi love, I’d probably wear a dressy top, jeans, and high heels. My rizz is staring at Soap a hot guy and looking away if he catches me. 😅

(these requests are now closed, btw, ty <3)

wearing jeans that fit juuuust right with those heels. Soap clocks you the second you walk in. he's fully aware of your stare--he's just letting you stew. it's nice of you to give him a little ego boost. and a little something to chase after later. 

he angles himself just so, just to give you a good view of how tight his sleeves fit around his biceps. damn near preens when he sees your gaze drop to the taut v of his henley. 

you really think he doesn't see you. you don't even look at the mirrored wall behind the bar, which gives him prime viewing of your inner struggle, staring at him like that. you lick your lips and he decides maybe it's time to make contact. 

you look away and (not) stealthily let your gaze wander back to him a minute later-- oh, shit, he's looking right at you. he holds your gaze without breaking his conversation with the scary guy next to him.

"LT, you ever get the feelin' you're being watched?" said loudly enough for you to hear. 

oh, god, you could die. 

Ghost glances at you, snorts, and tells Soap to shut the fuck up.

Soap steps away, purposefully brushes past you. "accidentally" knocks over your half-empty IPA. 

he turns to you with that fox smirk. "shite--your drink. let me buy the next one, aye? no' every day a bird like you eyes up the goods."

caught dead. no survivors. what are you supposed to say to that? you don't. you stutter. 

Soap grins. "nae harm done." he leans in a little, voice dipping. "better view from close up."

up to you whether you abandon that drink or not, whether you let him put his hand on your back and steer you out. he says he'll make you another drink at his place anyway. he's curious to see if you'll keep those heels on after everything else comes off. <3

more Soap / masterlist

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So I'm responding to your ask prompt about my going out attire + how if rizz a cod man, and I just have to know who I'd bag.

I typically wear something between bimbocore, or something that your childhood friend's older mean cigarette sister would wear in the early 2000s.

I'd probably rizz them up by being bashful at first, all doe eyes and shy smiles. Eventually I would get some courage though, and I would be ultra sweet while dropping some jokes (I'm literally a comedian) and some innuendos.

(these requests are now closed, btw, ty <3)

UM (♥ω♥ ) cropped baby tees, denim minis, choker chains?? that's Soap-bait. you look like the girls who ignored him in high school. he can't resist. 

he sees you across the bar with your whole lower-lip-nibbling, faux-innocent, "teehee i'm just a girl" act. you paw through your bag with all the cute dangly charms and pretend not to notice him. he pretends not to notice you noticing him. the long game. 

when you finally slip up and make eye contact (and damn are his eyes blue) it's all you can do to rip your gaze away, whisper something in your friend's ear--hand cupped to hide your lips--and laugh like you're so unbothered about sharing a little joke about the guy across the bar.

please, Soap knows better. that gets his blood up and going in a good way. 

you can only ignore him for so long. in fact, you just happen to walk by his table on your way to check out the pool cues. 

he kicks the stool out next to him--slung back, a boot up on the seat like he owns the place--just enough to block your way. 

"do i look funny, hen? got somethin' on my face?" he asks you with a loose, wide smirk. 

you go wide-eyed, blink slow, and tilt your head like a confused cherub. so sincere he almost frowns.

"thought ya liked jokes."

"i do," you answer. "but i like them better when they're on you."

the doe-eyed smile you flash him at your own punchline does half the work. he folds inward and laughs.

"c'mere, then, i'll buy the next round if you keep makin' a fool outta me." 

you know way too many pickup lines. all awful. yet they seem to work dangerously well with how quick he sneaks his hand around the back of your chair. 

suffice to say the next day he has several pictures of you with and without your club fit on. y'know, for the group chat <3

more Soap / masterlist

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80 / 1.5k / follow-up to Gaz betting you at poker night with the 141

...

The game goes on. Obviously, it's not long until the chip is forgotten and you’re passed around lap to lap like a party favor between rounds. Each of the men is eager to get their hands on you in whatever capacity they can, whether it’s running a knuckle down your spine or squeezing your bare thighs.

You start off sitting in Ghost’s lap, perched on his thigh. Then Soap, who plays one-handed, the other sliding down your back over the silky, sheer fabric.

They all give you sips of their drinks. Your head grows fuzzy. Too much liquor, too few clothes, too many hands on you. It's more work than you expected, being the grand prize.

Gaz takes you and sets you on his lap, hands on your waist, fingers tracing your hips. He leans in. “You enjoying this?”

"Um..."

Gaz tweaks your nipple—hard. "Try again." No one bats an eye. They know what he's like when he's got you.

Ghost smirks. "Thought you liked sharing, Gaz?"

Gaz squeezes your thigh—another warning. "Oh, I do. But she's still mine while she's in my lap." His dark eyes fix on you. "Answer me, love."

Soap laughs. "Fuckin' embarrassing, turning into putty on him like that."

You hide your face from the others. The shame feels good. You tuck into Gaz's chest and press a placating kiss under his jaw. "I'm enjoying it if you are."

Gaz hums, pleased, and runs a hand through your hair. "Good girl." He tilts your head up and outward. "But don't hide. They like seeing you like this."

"Pathetic, you mean," Ghost says, but there's heat in his voice.

Soap grins. "Aye, but it's cute."

Gaz squeezes your waist. "Now, be good and sit pretty. Let 'em look."

You nod and sit up straighter. Shoulders back. Tits up.

Price chuckles. "You’ve got her trained well, Gaz."

Ghost doesn’t let his gaze linger too long on the way your chest rises with each breath. "Could use less talking, more playing."

Soap leans in. "Or we could skip the game altogether. What d’you think, pet?"

Gaz smirks and pulls you back against him. "I think she’s mine for this round." His hand slides down the curve of your ass. "Which means she does what I ask. Isn’t that right?"

"Yes, sir."

Gaz’s grin is all teeth. "Fuckin’ right." He gives your ass a sharp smack that makes you jolt. "Now, be a good girl and fetch me a drink."

You scramble to your feet and high-tail it to the kitchen to grab another bottle.

The second you're out of sight, Soap whistles low. "Fuckin' hell, mate. You've got her wrapped around your finger."

Gaz leans back to watch your ass disappear through the doorway. "Like she's not the same for you lot."

Price chuckles and takes a drag of his cigar. "Difference is she wants to be good for you."

Ghost exhales a plume of smoke. "Wanting ain't the same as needing," he rumbles. "And that one" —he jerks his chin toward the kitchen— "needs it like air."

You breeze back in to take your seat in Gaz's lap again, but before you can, another pair of rough hands snatch you. Soap. The black chip sits in his pile now.

"My turn, aye?" His hands are already roaming, squeezing your thighs, tracing the lace at your hips.

"Yours for the round, Soap, isn't she? That mean she does what you ask?" Price asks.

You shift in Soap's lap to consider this yourself. Gaz did say. You glance at him.

Gaz meets your gaze. He lazily flicks his fingers—go on. Permission given.

Soap’s grin turns wolfish. "Aye, and I've got plans. First—get those pretty hands busy. I'm parched." He nods toward his abandoned drink on the table and the new, cold one in your hand.

You give Gaz another questioning look, but he doesn't seem bothered. Slowly, you open the bottle and lean the tip toward Soap's lips.

Soap doesn’t take it. Instead, he tilts his head like you’re not in on the joke he’s telling. "Nah, love. You first." His thumb presses against your bottom lip. "Show me how it’s done."

You feel their eyes on you—your lips, your throat—as you swallow a mouthful of beer. Price's gaze returns to his cards first. He doesn't miss the way Ghost's hungry eyes on you distracts him to the point that he tilts his cards up to the ceiling—all but exposed—or the way Gaz is too busy smirking at the others' salivating over you to curb the adrenaline rush that leads him to push an extra green chip stack into the center of the table. Price exhales a slow stream of cigar smoke. That's a bold fucking bet for a man with a pair of twos.

Soap, meanwhile, is too busy murmuring in your ear—"Good girl, swallow it all"—to care about who’s betting poorly this round.

Price smirks. Too easy. He slides another chip into the pile. "Call."

The round plays out exactly as he planned: Ghost folds with a grunt, Gaz loses half his stack, and Soap—distracted by the way you’re squirming in his lap—doesn’t even realize he’s been bluffed until Price flips his cards.

"Bloody hell," Soap mutters.

The game continues like this. Another round, another distraction. Ghost loses track of his hand when you shift and the lace slips lower. Soap overbets trying to impress you. Gaz gets reckless, too busy enjoying the show.

Price is careful not to win the rounds where your chip is in the pile. He wants the boys to divert focus from his hand—not salivate over it. When he does accidentally win you into his lap, he's careful to keep his hands above the table and his thoughts innocent. Or concealed, at least. He keeps his expression neutral as he tugs you into his lap—loosely, casually, like he’s barely interested. His fingers drum absentmindedly against your hip while he surveys the table.

Gaz lifts a brow. "Gonna make her fetch you a drink too, Cap?"

"Nah. Think she’s earned a break." His thumb brushes your side, feather-light—nothing like the others’ greedy grips. Then the smug bastard adds, "‘Specially when I’m winning her back off you lot soon enough."

Ghost scoffs. "That a challenge?"

Price just smirks and deals the next hand.

Meanwhile, you’re still perched in his lap—warm, dizzy, and very aware he’s the only one not pawing at you yet.

You frown. Does he not like what you're wearing? You look down at yourself. The fabric and lace are certainly messier than when the game first started—maybe he doesn't like that. You straighten yourself out and smooth your hands through your hair to tame it.

Price’s mustache twitches with a suppressed smirk. "Easy, girl." He reaches over and adjusts the slipped strap of your lingerie. Purely practical. He ashes his cigar by your other side. "Leave it."

You can’t tell if he’s being kind or indifferent. Either way, his attention is back on the cards, not you. You feel like you're about to combust.

Gaz snorts, but there's a bite to it, like he's a little offended on your behalf. That just makes you want Price's attention even harder. You want Gaz to be pleased.

Price senses the way Gaz’s reaction riles you up. "She’s intact," he says. "Mind your cards."

Soap leans back. "Intact for now. Whose turn is it to undress her, anyway?"

"Yours, last I checked. Unless you’re folding."

Soap’s grin widens. "Not a fuckin’ chance." He's too busy staring at the way Price’s broad palm spans your leg to notice his own cards are shit. "Raise," he blurts, shoving chips forward.

Ghost snorts. "Cocksure idiot." He folds again, arms crossed.

More time passes. Price calls. Soap folds with a groan. Ghost, silent as ever, matches the bet.

Price flips his cards. Full house.

"Bastard," Ghost grunts, tossing his cards down.

Gaz curses under his breath.

Price leans back, victory in the tilt of his cigar. "Care to pay up, gentlemen?"

They toss their lost chips toward the center of the table. You start to move off Price’s lap, assuming he’ll let you up without a fight—but his arm snakes around your waist to hold you in place.

"Where d’you think you’re going?" he rumbles. "I won this round fair and square."

Soap snorts. "Then do something with her, Cap, or pass her on."

Price’s fingers flex against your hip. "Patience, Sergeant." His free hand taps the table. "Deal."

The next hand starts with you still anchored to him. His touch is light, controlled. Like he’s holding a weapon instead of a woman. When Ghost wins you four rounds later, Price releases you without protest.

As you settle in, though, Soap squints. "Wait, how many chips you got—?"

Ghost cuts him off, voice dark with realization. "Enough to win the game twice over."

Price exhales smoke. "Smart lad."

...

more Soap / more Price / more Gaz / more Ghost / more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist

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Ok I just wanted to come here and say I'm obsessed with your mer fics especially the one with mer gas and mer soap with a human reader but I was wondering something so technically reader did have sex with them so would there be any chance that she could get pregnant from one of the two mers or would that not be possible as they are two different species? Anyways I hope you had a great holiday

thank you!!

i think they would keep trying. whether or not it's technically possible. never say never, you know? always keep trying!! follow your dreams!!!!

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Just read your medic!reader x ghost two parter and wow wow wow!!! It felt so palpably intimate and more grounded than a lot of other smut I’ve read, which was so refreshing. I really like the ups and downs you describe in the experience, that it isn’t 100% euphoric perfection right out of the gate. Seeing the dynamic evolve between the characters, working towards pleasure together, made the climax all the more satisfying. Ghost’s biting self control was sooooo hot. You’re one of my favorite writers on here, your catalogue has so much variety and you pull all of it off so well. Keep up the spectacular work!

I'm so glad you pointed this out, thank you for you! the coworkers with benefits ghost/medic!reader two-parter is close to my heart exactly because of that c:

the idea of a man who will put in the work... who will brave the hand cramps and forgive the anxious nerves and embrace the learning experience the first time it takes getting you off... that's a man I wanna climb allll over ;)

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Do the task force genuinely care about free use medic reader or do they just use her for sex? Genuine question! I just found your account so i’m kinda stalking all your posts lol, love your writing!

thank you!!

it's complicated :)

...

79 / 1.1k / more free use medic reader

You strip off your heavy equipment—medical supply packs, a comm radio, extra ammo for the boys—and stretch your tired body with a groan. Tough mission. Holed up in an old laboratory for hours until extraction arrives. You know what that means.

You sit down on a dented countertop, spread your legs, and loosen your collar. “Who’s first?”

Soap, Gaz, and Ghost exchange glances. They’ve stripped off their visored helmets, but they’re still otherwise armored in urban camouflage. Soap steps forward to crowd you in anyway. Sweat and oil are smeared across his grin.

“Don’t know how you do it, love,” Ghost says. He wedges the knuckles of one broad hand into his lower back like he’s trying to pop something back into place. A click echoes from his spine and he muffles a groan. “Tough mission. Might be too tired.” That’s a lie.

Soap seems to think so, too. He grabs your legs under each knee and pulls you to rest on the edge of the table. “Mission’s only tough if I don’t get my dick wet.”

Gaz lets out a dismissive huff and looks at Ghost. “Want to take a look around the lab while MacTavish drools all over himself?”

Ghost grunts noncommittally, flipping a serrated knife and catching the tip in his fingers as he scans the room and sees a camera in one corner.

You ignore Gaz. You know jealousy when you hear it, and he tries to play his off by being a snarky ass. It’s even more pronounced when Price isn’t around to keep everyone accountable—like right now. It’s risky to offer your body up when the boys are wired with adrenaline and the Captain’s busy with other things. But you take your job seriously.

“Well, then.” You loosen the straps on Soap’s pack harness until he lets it fall off his shoulders and thump to the floor behind his bootheels. “That’s what you pay me for—keeping morale high.”

Soap’s grin widens. His gloved palm rests on the metal countertop next to your hip. “Aye, but your morale’s my fuckin’ specialty.”

Ghost’s gaze slides to you as you and Soap begin stripping you of your fatigues. Soap doesn’t bother waiting until you’re meaningfully exposed—as soon as he sees your bare shoulder, he stoops down to maul at the skin there like a rottweiler with the mind of an overeager high school boy. You’re left to work around his roaming hands and mouth to work yourself free of your clothes. His distraction, as always, makes your job more difficult.

Gaz watches shamelessly, and Ghost rubs his chin as he observes. “Someone oughta check the security feeds, make sure nobody’s watchin’.” Nobody moves to check jack shit.

You manage to unbutton your coat and wrest one arm free. When you shift, though, a sudden pain makes you hiss. You slip your fingers into the thin fabric of your undershirt and up to your ribs. They come out wet with blood. “Ah, fuck.”

Soap’s grin dies. His hand shoots out and grips your wrist, shoving the bloodied fingers back to your ribs to staunch the flow. “The fuck you think you’re doing, bleedin’ without permission?” His voice is a growl, but the way he fumbles for the supply pouches on his belt betrays him.

Gaz—who happens to function as a secondary medic if something happens to you—is there instantly. He pulls Soap’s shoulder hard, forcing him back a step, and peels your undershirt back with a steady hand. He prods the wound. His gloves smear red. “That’s no good,” he mutters. His thumb brushes over unbroken skin beside the gash. “All this pretty skin wasted if you croak before we get our share.”

“Quit eye-fucking the injury and stitch her up,” Ghost says.

Your breath hitches when Gaz’s fingers linger too low. Soap’s jaw locks. “Nobody’s allowed to croak this close to mission’s end, Garrick. Either get your ass in gear to stop the bleedin’ or I fry the hole shut myself.”

“Boys, please, one at a time.” You try to huff a laugh, but it comes out as a pained groan. Never one at a time with them. Your vision flickers. If you weren’t seated, you're sure your legs would be giving out right about now.

Gaz slots his still-armored knee between your legs, steadies your drifting frame with one hand, and tears an injector pack open with his teeth.

“Hold still.”

The needle jams into your thigh. Stims, maybe amphetamines. Hard to focus when he’s already rucking up your bloodied tank top to fully expose the torn flesh below.

The clicking shake of an antiseptic spray bottle makes you tense a half-second before he sprays the godawful mist all over your wound. Your body pulls back blindly to escape the burn, but with Gaz’s grip keeping you in place, your back hits the table and then arches up. A choked scream pushes up your throat. Ghost clamps his hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

He leans in. “You’ll bring every tango in a klick radius down on us. Shut. It.”

He knows better than any of them how much that spray burns on an open wound.

Without looking away from you, he issues a firm order to Gaz in his lieutenant voice. “Pack the wound.”

“Rog’.”

Gaz takes gauze from your pack and shoves it against and into the gash. You let out another cry against Ghost’s hand, which clamps down tighter around your mouth until your breath runs out and turns the scream into a rasp. Then he keeps it there still until you go limp.

Numbness from the injection—fuck yes, painkillers—finally flood out the adrenaline in your blood. Your vision shutters again. “God, that’s good.”

Ghost’s gaze flicks down to the way your chest heaves under your torn tank top. “Ain’t cut out for field work. I keep saying it.”

Soap shoulders his way back between your legs. He spreads them wider and leans over your limp, blissed-out body on the table. He weaves his fingers through your hair, tugs your head back, taps your cheek until your eyes refocus on him. “Wakey wakey, sunshine,” he murmurs, eyes already traveling back down your body. “You’ve still got a job to do, and you don’t get to nap till we’re done.”

...

more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / more free use medic / masterlist

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june goal! write/edit/attempt to lock in for 30 minutes a day (o^-’)b

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78 / 1.7k / part 2 of remora!reader surviving orca!König's tank for mermay 🦈

...

“Alex? Alex!” Your hands press up against the glass. But Alex—the diver you trusted, the one who you thought was your friend, turns away from you. "Please..."

König watches the commotion from a distance. His hand—palm wide enough to fully engulf a human's skull—flexes in annoyance. Your desperate wailing disrupts the fragile hierarchy of the tank. He tolerates it for exactly fourteen seconds before surging forward with a speed like he isn’t the biggest thing in the tank.

His shadow swallows your smaller form against the glass. The next thing you know, he's snatched your thrashing wrists above your head with one hand and pressed you against the tank's barrier with the other.

"Quiet."

The barked command makes the glass behind your head ring. Net-like fabric floats around his head as he stares you down with eerie stillness. His tail coils beneath you and his body is taut—ready to shake sense into you the old-fashioned way if you wiggle.

Remoras are clingy by nature, feeding off scraps from proper predators. Weakness incarnate. Yet something in your wide-eyed stare pricks at recollections of his own helplessness years ago. He dismisses this immediately.

"Improve your posture before Horangi circles back," he mutters, jerking your wrists higher. "He chews on twitchy things. Understand?"

You stare at him, utterly still. You can't quite make out what he's saying over the roar of blood in your ears. Still, you're careful to keep your tail from brushing his as you hang limply from his grip. You shouldn’t touch an angry orca without begging permission.

König’s pointer finger hooks under your jaw to force your chin up. "Begging makes you smaller." The last word comes out punctuated by a mean poke of his pinky finger’s claw against your neck. "Do you hear me? If you value your pretty throat, stop bleating like seal bait."

You blink up at him, pupils still huge. You swallow and try to choose your next words carefully. What comes out, however, is, "You think it's pretty?"

A beat passes—long enough for Horangi’s silhouette to glide past the tank's far not-coral formation.

König’s exhale bubbles out in a low, irritated tsch that flutters the netting in front of his lips. He pushes your jaw to the side to make you break eye contact. He has half a mind to make you expose your neck, too. Your tiny remora brain must not have parsed his words correctly. "I meant the tendons. Weak spots. Delicate." He makes his voice arrogant and attached. "In that sense, yes."

"Oh." Tendons. You have pretty tendons, then. Your fingertips—still hostage above your head—tap unthinkingly against the side of his fingers. You tilt your neck, opening it to him even more, despite his claws floating around it. "Do you like weak spots? I have a lot."

König’s head tilts. His grip on your jaw shifts—pressing your head back until your entire throat bows taut under his claws. One casual flick, and he could open it up like the human divers unzip their suits. His inky tail presses in to hem you in from below. Not that you're trying to escape.

"You mistake patience for interest," he growls, though his thumb makes another lazy pass over your throbbing pulse. "The question is whether your many weak spots make you worth the effort of keeping alive."

"It wouldn't be. Except..." You let your eyes wander down his body. Then you look away. "Well... No, it's nothing."

"Spit it out."

You wriggle in his grip again and shoot him a coquettish look. "For a mer as big and strong as you, it would be easy to keep me alive. I bet no one ever picks a fight with an orca."

A chuckle rumbles up from his chest. You think you've got him right where you want him until the sound becomes a growl that reverberates through your skull where he's still pinning it to the glass.

"Cringing flattery." He releases your wrists just to splay his hand over your ribcage. The span of his palm covers your torso. "But that's right, foolish schmarotzer. Every fight ever picked with me ends with the problem sinking to the seabed in pieces. Fighting is easy. Easy is tiresome."

He pulls you away from the tank wall and pushes you suddenly downward. After a long descent, your back hits the shallowly-sanded tank floor hard enough to dredge up a bloom of silt. You let out an uncomfortable uff. His palm splays wide against your sternum—not crushing, but containing. Two clawtips press divots into the skin above your heart. "I tire of flattery. Your lines are stink up my tank. Mold your clever mouth around something else."

"What else is there?"

König's answering exhale is a stream of bubbles that pop fizz against your face. The claws at your sternum drag downward, ginger enough to etch thin white lines that bloom pink. “Your tongue is as dull as your teeth. Better to use it for scraping barnacles off my scales. Or" —his thumb presses hard into the hollow under your chin— “begging. But you are much worse at that.” The pressure relents only for his claws to flex around your throat.

A shark’s silhouette passes overhead—Horangi’s lithe form pausing to observe the disturbance before gliding onward. König’s gaze flicks up, tracking him.

You watch him watch Horangi. Begging—for what? Food? Shelter? No, it's not that, you realize, seeing Horangi's brief smirk and feeling König's grip tighten in response. He wants your fear; your unquestioning respect. He wants you something easy under his thumb to beg for his mercy.

Your reaction is instinctive and immediate. You try not to seem as eager to please as you actually are, but you can't help the way your pupils dilate at having found a niche. "Please," you mewl. You clutch his wrist—the one connected to the hand still wrapped around your throat and chest—with eager hands. "Please release me. Throw me to the shark instead; he’ll be kinder." You make sure to say this loudly enough to reach Horangi's ears.

König’s head snaps back toward you, hood whipping through the water. The whites of his eyes flash briefly before narrowing to glacial slits. When Horangi draws closer, nostrils flaring at the metallic tang of adrenaline, König lashes out at him a territorial swipe of his claws. Horangi darts back, but his interest is clearly piqued.

König hauls you upright by the throat and shoulders. “Dummes biest,” he hisses. “You think you can gift yourself to the sharks? Your life is mine. I decide when you become chum.”

To emphasize this, he drags you toward the coral outcropping where Horangi has settled to watch as he sharpens a stolen diver’s knife against a rock. Horangi’s grin widens.

König stops just shy of Horangi’s reach. He thrusts you forward like a fisherman presenting live bait.

“Here.” His voice drops to a taunting purr. “Beg him for death, if you’re so eager.”

You stare at Horangi. You open your mouth but can’t form the words.

Horangi’s golden eyes gleam. He leans in. “Oh? Brave little scavenger—”

König yanks you back against his chest before the shark’s claw can graze your cheek. A low, resonant click rolls through his chest—an orca’s warning—as Horangi retreats with a scoff. “Not brave. Stupid.” He forces your head to crane up at him. “But stupidity is fixable. You want to be shark food? Earn it. Kneel first. Then maybe I’ll let Horangi take a finger. A fin.” His thumb traces your lower lip. “Your impudent tongue.”

You positively squirm as he holds you there and takes inventory of your weak points. You've never been objectified quite like this before. It's thrilling.

You’re rewarded with a sharp jerk of his claws. He bends you, forcing your spine to arch against the solid plane of his chest. You're meant to pick scraps from his kills, but here you writhe as if starved for a different purpose. "You vibrate like a shrimp in a net," he mutters. His big hands drag your smaller frame flush against the lethal curve of his pectoral fins. The scarred edges bite faintly into your hips. He could sand your scaled skin to pulp with a single thrash.

Horangi keeps watching. He scrapes the knife’s blade idly over the pad of his thumb. Then König notices you noticing Horangi noticing you. “Eyes forward,” he snaps at the tiger shark with a low, clicking sound in his chest. “This one is not your chew toy.”

“Fine, fine,” Horangi replies. He stretches and retreats with a curious flick of his tail.

König’s attention returns to you. You’re still not trying to escape. You must enjoy being manhandled. Stupid little putzerfisch. “You lick the hand that throttles you. Pathetic. But…” He drags a clawtip up your neck to tap your bottom lip. “Convenient.”

You resist the urge to catch it in your mouth and suck on it. "Convenient is good?"

"Convenient is tolerable." His finger pushes past your teeth before you can react, the blunt tip pressing down on your tongue. Saliva clouds the water as he drags the claw along the sensitive muscle. "Good would imply you have use beyond this."

You nod obediently. Or you try, but the weight of König's finger makes it difficult. "’M utheleth," you agree around his claw.

He pulls it out with a wet pop. "Useless and honest. A rare combination."

He releases you abruptly, sending you drifting backward in the current. Before you can right yourself, his palm slams against the sand beside your head, caging you beneath the shadow of his dorsal fin. The black-and-white patterning of his tail seems to warp in the murky water.

"You will make yourself less useless starting tomorrow." His claws pluck a stray seashell from the sand and flick it disdainfully toward the tank's filtration system. "Clean this cesspit. Remove debris. Scrape algae from the glass. If I see a single parasite on Nikto’s scales, I will peel yours off and feed them to you." His gaze follows Horangi, who’s now circling the tank’s upper levels with roiling boredom. "And when the sharks demand entertainment," he adds, leaning down until his mask brushes your temple, "you will not volunteer your tongue. It belongs to me."

With that, he shoves off the sand and surges upward, his tailfin disappearing in a cloud of silt.

...

part 1 / [part 2] / part 3

more mer au / more KorTac / masterlist

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Would you maybe.. consider something with remora!mer x könig? (could be au from 141 since the boys would probably not be up for sharing her with him) but I love the idea of dopey remora!mer with massive shark könig T^T

-sleepyanon

yes, more shark!cod au for mermay (◔◡◔) more situations!!

maybe this is an au where remora reader never met shark!Price, and was therefore unprotected upon encountering the mer poachers.

...

77 / 1.2k

König’s eyes sweep over the humans crowding near the top edge of his dismal tank. The odd behavior disrupts his restless circling. Then they draw back. A new mer, suspended in a harness from above, lowers toward the tank. The humans—mer poachers—watch as callously as always.

The harness releases. You hit the water with a splash.

Instantly, you dart down into the depths of the tank and squeeze into the smallest space you can find. That's where you hide.

König barely glances at the commotion, much less does he bother chasing after you. What would be the point? Whoever you are, you're small, skittish—nothing more than a bottom-feeder. If you want to cower in the rocks, fine. He has no interest in weaklings who can’t face the open water.

Instead, he turns his attention up to the humans at the mouth of the tank. His fingers flex, claws itching to tear into something. But for now, he waits.

…

You press yourself into the deepest hollow you can manage, deep inside the tank's strange reef. It’s a reef that doesn't bloom with coral. Instead, it's angular, stone-dingey, and yellowed with algae. But you're too nervous to clean.

You huddle in the small cave until the muffled human voices fade. Why did they bring you here? What do they want? No matter how you tried to ask them and plead with them to let you go, they ignored you. You wrap your arms around yourself, curl up against the reef wall, and stare at the tag on your tail. The humans pierced it through one of your lower ventral fins. It hurts.

You grab it and turn it over, trying to be ginger with the way it tugs your fin, but you can't read the strange symbols. Staring at it makes you feel hopeless. Instead, you creep to the opening of the cave and peek out at the other mer circling the tank. They have tags like yours. Your gills fan with a sigh of relief. At least it's not just you.

König notices the movement from the corner of his eye—a flicker of motion near the reef. He doesn’t turn his head, but his posture shifts slightly, tail flicking in irritation. Pathetic. Hiding won’t save you. The humans don’t care about fear. If you're weak enough to show it, you deserve what you'll get.

His own tag—a crude metal clip punched through the thick muscle of his dorsal fin—itches, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

You avert your eyes until he passes overhead and away from you. Your spine prickles.

For the next two days, you don't venture more than a tail's length away from your safe spot. You stay low, you keep your mouth closed, and you avoid eye contact. You make sure the other mer can see you. You make sure you don't look like a threat.

On the third day, the humans toss chum into the water. Pink and visceral, it balloons across the surface and drifts straight down. The reaction of the other mer is immediate and brutal.

A snarl tears from König’s throat as the water clouds with blood and frenzy. His massive tail propels him upward in a single, violent thrust, shoulder-checking a shark mer. The shark, Nikto, snarls but doesn’t press the issue. Smart. König’s claws are already buried in the best cut of meat, tearing it free with a wet rip.

You watch the display with bright eyes from the reef below. The water churns with aggression. Tails lash; gills flare. Only fish bones and disembodied fin scraps make it past the frenzy. You spy one fin with a mouthful of meat still attached and creep closer, sliding along the tank floor on your belly.

A shadow passes over you. You flatten yourself to the ground and try to look as non-threatening as a piece of stray kelp.

König’s shadow looms over you, his massive frame blocking what little artificial light filters through the murky water. He doesn’t even glaring at you—just glides over you with a flick of his tail, in pursuit of a half-flank of whitefish several feet above your head. Even that small movement produces a current that knocks you back a few feet. His disdain is palpable.

The scrap of meat you’d been reaching for drifts just out of reach. Satisfied with his own chase, he doesn’t bother stealing it. Let the bottom-feeders fight over the dregs. He catches the disembodied whitefish flank and swims toward back up into the fray.

Once he’s gone, you twist and drag your fingertips along the bottom of the tank in a clumsy attempt to right yourself. The scrap of meat-and-fin spins along in König's wake. The current pulls it upward; it drifts atop the reef structure. You kick your tail and swim closer just to see it disappear into the crack of two huge stones.

…

König could heave those concrete slabs out of the way if he wanted to. But why would he?

He settles against a ledge near the top of the tank, arms crossed, tail lazily swaying to keep him suspended. His gaze flicks to the other mer. Nikto lurks near the surface. Horangi circles like a restless predator—then swims toward the reef.

You sense Horangi coming and still your movements, settling against the slabs a few feet away from where the meat disappeared.

Horangi’s striped tail cuts through the water. Then his clawed hand darts out—not toward you, but toward the crack in the slabs. He snakes his fingers into the gap. Despite his grit, he can't fit enough of his hand into the space to reach the food; after a long moment of maneuvering and shifting and shimmying his arm this way and that, he gives up and jerks away with a deep curse.

You keep your eyes trained carefully, demurely downward, but he hardly seems to care you're there.

Perfect.

Once he's gone, you move yourself over to your target and slip your deep into the crevice. It takes no time at all for you to find the morsel. When you retrieve it, however, you don't eat it. Instead, you swim quietly to the side of the tank, near the ledge where König sits. Without looking, you shuck the morsel of meat from its host fin, clean it in your specialized palms, and place both pieces on the ledge just out of König's reach: an offering.

Then you turn and swim dutifully back down to your reef cave. Your stomach growls.

König’s gaze snaps to the offering the moment you retreat. His fingers twitch. A beat passes. Then he drags his claws over it and picks it up. He doesn’t eat it immediately—just turns it over in his claws, inspecting it. It’s clean; it's prepared. Not hastily snatched and carelessly half-scavenged like the scraps the others fight over. He slips the meat underneath his hood and into his mouth. The fin he flicks aside—useless to him. But it would be a rather savory morsel to you. The gesture isn’t lost on him.

His eyes track your retreating form, lingering on the way you tuck yourself back into the rocks.

Maybe you’re not worthless.

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3

more mer au / more KorTac / masterlist

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

still ruminating on remora!reader scavenging cloth/metal/bones/etc. to craft elaborate jewelry.....

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Hear me out illegal mer hunters get remora reader

76 / 1k / shark!141 and remora mer!reader encountering shifty humans

...

Boats. The undersides of two little human yacht-boats overhead. That's strange. They're not allowed on the reef.

Your curious nature takes you close enough to brush the metal hull with your fingers. So smooth and it thrums.

"Oi—!" Gaz’s voice cuts through the water like a whip. He barrels into you and yanks you back hard enough to jostle your bones. His arm, looped around your midsection, is iron. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He drags you away from the surface so abruptly it makes you dizzy. You kick your tail in protest, but don't really fight his grip. You're used to being manhandled. "What? Why?"

"Those aren't fishing boats. Look at the nets." He jerks his chin upward, where the dark shapes of weighted, reinforced nets trail beneath the hulls.

Below him, Ghost’s shadow peels away from the reef shelf like a wraith. "Poachers." Illegal ones at that, given the posted sanctuary markers around their territory.

You shift in Gaz's grip, trying to keep the boats in your line of sight. "What does that mean?"

"It means if they spot you drifting up to gawk like some gull, you’ll wake up in a tank."

You sense it's not a good time to ask what a tank is.

Soap circles the boats with predatory interest. "Bet I could tip one. They're just humans once they hit the water.”

"Humans with spearguns," Gaz mutters, finally loosening his grip. "And tranqs."

You wriggle free and push yourself over Gaz's bicep. But, sensing the trepidation roiling through the waves, you keep your distance from the hull. You don't understand why they’re treating these humans like predators instead of just leaving them alone.

Above, the boats shift. Something hits the surface with a quiet plink--shark bait. The cloud of chum unfurls in the water like a huge jellyfish. You look past it and try to peer up at the humans. "What do they want?"

"Trophies,” Ghost growls.

Price returns from patrol to see the four of you assessing the boats.

"The nets are electric. Standard issue for mer dealers now. Contact hurts like a bitch." His sharp gaze lands on you. "Worse for small fish."

One of the poachers peers over the side, scanning the water.

Soap bares his teeth. "I say we scare ‘em off."

You wring your hands. "But don’t they have spears? They'll hurt you!"

"So we hurt them first," Soap says, rolling his shoulders forward as he prowls toward the boats.

Gaz grabs his fin and yanks him back mid-stroke. "Like hell. You keen on getting gutted?"

Price watches the boats with narrowed eyes. "They'll tire of waiting."

Ghost cracks his knuckles. "Hate waiting."

You dart in front of them, trying to break up the growing tension with what feels like good, diplomatic sense. "Let's just wait for them to go away," you tell them. "Attacking will just bring more humans swimming. Aren’t you always saying that?" Your hands land on Price's chest in what you hope is a soothing gesture.

Price exhales a stream of bubbles through his nose, but doesn’t push you off. "Maybe so. But we ought not let threats linger. Let's make sure they know they're not welcome."

Soap grins. "I’ll be subtle."

Gaz snorts. "You’ve never been subtle a day in your life."

Price moves your hand to his shoulder. "Stay close."

You take the hint and latch your palm suckers onto Price's broad back. You huddle close as he rises toward the hull. You don't know what he plans to do, but it won't be as nice as you’d hoped.

Price slams his palm against the bottom of the seacraft hard enough to rattle it. He digs his fingers into the metal until it divots, then drags his claws down the hull. It creates an ugly, tearing squeal.

From the deck: "Holy shit--that's a big one."

Soap’s tail lashes the water near the second boat hard enough to send spray over the gunwale. Someone shouts.

"Jesus, there's more!"

Ghost prowls beneath. One of the poachers leans too far over the edge. Then Gaz smashes his tail into the other side of the boat and sends it careening into a wild tilt. The poacher reels and falls, breaking the surface.

He doesn't go far. The fall is hardly deep enough to wet his hair--until Ghost yanks him under.

The man flails. Bubbles erupt from his mouth as Ghost drags him deeper. The other humans panic and shout. In the chaos, one fires a speargun down into the water. The bolt misses Price's shoulder--and yours--by inches.

You cling tighter as Price peels away. The others follow. Behind you, Ghost releases the sputtering human to let him flounder back to the surface. You pause, letting go of Price for a breathless second. You watch until the poacher breaks the surface once more. You relax and let out a breath.

Soap grabs you easily as he passes, pulling you away before you can scrutinize the gasping poacher any longer. "Nae time to stare, wee fish.”

Gaz keeps pace at your other side. His eyes scan for lingering threats.

Ghost lingers behind you all, watching the boats retreat with palpable irritation. "Should've kept one."

Once the four of them finally come to a stop, you try to shake yourself free from Soap's grasp. No luck. "Will they stay away?"

Price watches the boats flee toward the horizon. "If they're smart." His calloused palm lands on top of your head--more warning than comfort.

Soap squeezes your waist. "You'd best stay close from now on. Unless ye want one of the bastards to stuff you."

"You stuff me all the time. It's not so bad."

"Aye, but I don’t sell ye to collectors after."

Ghost’s voice is dry. "Could."

Price pinches the bridge of his nose. "Enough."

You huff. There's relief in it, though. You're glad the humans are gone. And Price is right--who would be stupid enough to come back to a shark reef when they're not wanted there?

Soap flicks your earfin. "Next time, don’t go pokin’ at strange boats like an overcurious guppy."

Gaz smirks. "Or do. Gives us an excuse to bite someone."

Price exhales, long-suffering, and swims off to patrol the perimeter again.

...

more mer au / masterlist

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Sorry if I’ve missed your rules or do’s/dont’s page, I didn’t see one, so if this is something you don’t write, I apologize!

But, I was just thinking about what a male remora might be like compared to the female reader. I think they would be very similar in their submissive nature and general role within in ecosystem. He would still clean and help the shark 141 in exchange for protection and care just as much as a female remora would.

But, our remora reader also helps the mers with any sexual needs. I think a male remora would do so too, because it’s part of the job, right? Homosexuality is seen in many animals across the board, and, besides, all of the mers are part human. I was just wondering what you think about this. I do believe he would still be the submissive parter during sex. I don’t feel like he would be topping any of the 141 😅. But, very little is known about remora reproduction… so do you think he would have 2 penises like the sharks do? Or something else? Obviously, gay human men can participate in penetrative sex with anal, so do you think the shark mers and a male remora could do that too? Or just frotting?

Besides the sex, though, I also wanted to know what you think about a male and female would differ. Maybe he has a different appearance or jewelry preference or opinion on the sharks. In a lot of animals there is a distinct difference in appearance and behavior between a male and female from the same species. So… if you’re not into writing gay sex, I’d enjoy it just as much to hear your thoughts on the SFW differences between a male and female remora mer ☺️ Anything is great, really, because I know this is kind of a strange ask. If you do respond, thank you for reading this whole thing!!! I really love your work, especially the shark mer au. They’re amazing, and so are you! I hope you have a good rest of your week 💗💗💗

boss, your brain!!

1) YES, the shark boys get down with all kinds. male!remora is especially grabbable in new and interesting ways. penetrating and frotting and what have you--both at once? both at once.

2) but like, of course remora reader would collect all kinds of things! fish bones. shells. rocks. human stuff too--tools, plastics, nets, the odd trinket filched from a diver. anything that goes overboard. some humans leave strange gifts. remora reader is prone to scavenging to forage for food, yes, and whomst among us is immune to keeping a shiny bauble or two? 

the catch is he does it in secret, maybe hiding his stash because he survives by taking up as little space as possible--being unnoticeable in most contexts and helpful and unimposing in all others. so...

he hides his stash at first. when one of the shark boys inevitably finds it, remora reader meekly offers a little necklace as a bribe. once the secret is out, maybe he idly ties a little pearlescent clamshell to Ghost's lionfish spine knife, or maybe he begins to wear a plastic-bead-adorned comb in his hair.

this attracts a little too much interest, surely. sharks are just as interested in such shiny things. they want to know where he got it--he made it? interesting. they'd never ask for one; too proud; but they act awfully smug about getting those little handmade gifts when he presents them.

(also male remoras tend to be smaller than females. please think about how mermaid!remora reader could actually physically bully merman!remora reader by virtue of her size. and she would... as long as no one sees.......)

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

thinking about how Price expects remora to stick with their routine and will push them along if they laze about but it just made me think of his reaction if remora is genuinely ill or injured or something??? surely he’s not going to force his precious remora to work when they’re poorly…

75 / part 3 of shark!141 after remora reader gets attacked

...

Somehow, Ghost cornering you and cleaning your infected wounds seems to have made your body finally register its own exhaustion. As soon as you start to rest, you crash. You sleep far too long in your shallow reef cave. Your daily chores--waking and tending to Price in the mornings, pleasing and indulging him and the others--go undone. All you can do is curl up and sleep as your body and mind heal themselves.

Still, you try to shake yourself awake a few short mornings later to meet Price before his patrol. You know he has a low tolerance for laziness. He expects even you to rise above your weaker nature.

You hover just inside the mouth of his cave and muffle a weak cough. "Good morning, sir?"

Price’s cave is dim. The silhouette of his massive frame shifts in the shadows. He doesn’t answer right away--just stares at you from where he’s half-propped against the cave wall, watching the way your tail fin flutters with the effort of keeping yourself upright.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with morning weariness. “Come here."

Yes, good. You can work with that. You dart to him--a little wobbly, but still--and lay your small hands on his shoulder to begin grooming his skin and hair. Price is perceptive, but no shark has good eyesight. And you're practiced in the art of hiding your own injuries. Your survival around bigger fish has always depended upon feigning smallness and sweetness. You draw your hands up the back of his neck and into his hair in a gesture you know he likes--and you feel him relax. Relieved, you keep massaging his scalp and plucking algae and debris free.

Price exhales through his gills. The tension in his shoulders eases under your touch.

His hand rises. Calloused fingers brush your wrist. Not to stop you--just to note the way your pulse flutters against his grip. Too fast; too warm. He presses his thumb into the delicate bones of your wrist. "Where have you been?"

You don't fight his grip. His larger, rougher palm comforts you. And you don't want to rouse his suspicion. He has better things to do than bother with your silly needs. "Sleeping in, sir," you tell him. You hover near his ear and speak quietly. Sweetly. "Lazy of me, isn't it?"

"Lazy," he repeats, voice flat. His thumb drags along the underside of your jaw and tilts your face toward the faint light filtering into the cave. His eyes narrow at the way your gills flutter unevenly.

A low hum vibrates through his chest. He doesn’t call you out--just shifts his grip to the back of your neck and pulls you down against his chest. "Sleep, then." The hand smoothing down your spine is firm. His tone more than suggests you have no choice, to say nothing of the way he curls his tail around yours to anchor you in place. "You’re no use to me like this."

...

part 1 / part 2 / [part 3]

more mer au / more price / masterlist

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

i hurt my own feelings by imagining how shark mer ghost's insomnia might get worse if remora mer reader got attacked/hurt by a predator while he was sleeping somewhere else

74 / part 2 of shark!141 after remora reader gets attacked

...

Ghost’s grip anchors you in place. His rough palm spans nearly across your back and reignites the sting of half-healed wounds. For a moment, to your sleep-deprived, terror-stricken, paranoid prey brain, he’s not Ghost—just a much larger mer with you trapped in his grip.

You twist, but it accomplishes nothing besides grinding your cheek further into the cold, cave-white sand floor.

"Stop squirming," he snarls. The command lacks its usual bite. The sand swirls around you both, stirred by the agitated flick of his tail. His grip tightens as you struggle. "You think I'm the one you need to fear? Look at you—panicking over shadows. You're damn lucky it's me and not some actual threat."

Your heart hammers in your chest. The first time you pluck up the courage to venture out into the water since the encounter with the barracuda mer--driven by hunger--and here's what it gets you.

"Breathe," Ghost orders. "Before you pass out and make this even more of a mess."

You go limp. "Are you gonna kill me?"

Ghost exhales sharply through his gills. "Shut up," he mutters. "If I wanted you dead, I'd be picking you out of my teeth." His thumb presses into the knotted muscle of your lower back, right where the deepest claw marks still ache. You skipped the fucking patrols. Skipped letting anyone check those wounds while you fussed over everyone else. That's what gets you killed. Ghost focuses on the most inflamed gash near your shoulder blade. Sand packed in the wound. Smell of rot starting to set in. A growl vibrates through his chest. Apparently you'd let it fester over accepting help.

Ghost dips his head and sinks his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder--not breaking skin, but applying enough pressure to freeze you in place. His tongue swipes harshly across the infected lacerations. Saltwater and enzymes sting through the detritus. He's... cleaning you. Roughly. Your fingers flutter and thread into wet sand. The dual sensation of pain and the unexpected intimacy send conflicting dizziness up your spine. This isn't right. You should be the one cleaning him.

The pressure of his jaw keeps you from jerking away. His free hand pins your wrist to the sand when your fingers twitch toward his ribs. Like you could ever push him off. You're hyperaware of his strong prey drive and your own instincts to freeze. You don't dare to even squirm. Still, his teeth press harder in a silent warning.

His tongue drags over the inflamed tissue again, methodical despite the violence of the gesture. The scrape of his rough tongue against your wounds burns—not just from the salt, but from the sheer wrongness of it. A shark mer shouldn’t be debriding a remora’s injuries. Shouldn’t be this close or handling you this way without intent to maim or breed. His teeth graze the edge of a half-scabbed gash, testing the give of the tissue. One sharp jerk of his head could tear it open. Instead, his tongue laps another stripe over the wound, slower this time.

Finally, the scrape of his teeth retreats to the safer press of his lips—still firm, still controlling, but no longer threatening to break skin. His grip on your wrist eases.

A shudder works through you. Not fear. Not quite.

He doesn’t lift his head until the marks are flush and pink with fresh irritation instead of festering neglect.

"Stay still."

Sand resettles around you as he reaches for a clump of nearby kelp and rips it free. His movements are efficient as he presses the kelp’s gel against the wounds to seal them.

So that's why he chased you into the cove at the edge of the kelp forest. You hadn't even noticed you were being corralled. You do your best to keep still and prone in the sand despite the overwhelming urge to peer at him over your shoulder. You focus on the sting of his rough healing instead.

Even when curiosity wins out, he doesn’t let you look. One broad hand presses between your shoulder blades to keep you down. The other works the kelp into the wounds with a clinical sort of brutality—no gentleness, just efficiency.

The kelp’s cool gel seeps into the inflamed tissue, to soothe the burn of his rough cleaning.

His voice is a low rumble against your spine. “You don’t get to hide in the reef and rot.” The words are harsh, but the way his other hand shifts to cradle the side of your neck—keeping your face from grinding into the sand—isn't.

He doesn’t elaborate, either. Just drags you upright by the scruff of your neck and shoves you toward the open water. “Swim. Before I decide you’re not worth the trouble.”

...

part 1 / [part 2] / part 3

more mer au / more Ghost / masterlist

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Hear me out, HEAR ME OUT:

Ok so imagine Mer!Au right, what if Mer!Reader gets injured by some intruder and manages to scurry away and hide, but in the process of escaping leaves behind a cloud of blood and scales,,,how would mer!141 react to what could be interpreted as their untimely demise?

(Also, just wanna say, love your work its wonderful and keeps the serotonin pumping <<<3)

took liberties :)

73 / remora reader and shark!141

...

You dart into the reef to hide, tail flashing silver behind you. You're not taking chances again yet.

Soap pivots and locks his gaze on your hiding spot instinctively. Before he can chase after you, Ghost speaks up.

"Quit terrorizing the cleaner fish."

Soap snorts. His body relaxes, but two beats of his long tail carry him down to the reef anyway. He's never been able to resist his overactive prey drive. "Wasn't me." He circles, fingers brushing multicolor spines and blooms as if testing for weaknesses. "Thought we agreed no games before breakfast."

"I'm not playing," you mumble.

Soap finds your hiding spot. He braces his forearms against the reef above your head. His shadow engulfs you completely, cool and safe. "Aye? Your wee tail's still twitchin' like bait."

Embarrassment prickles across your skin. You look away from him and smoothe your palms down your tail, cleaning your scales nervously. "Never mind."

Soap tilts his head. He winds his arm around the sharp edges of broken fan coral to skim the curve of your tail with his knuckle. You settle his larger hand in yours and pick at the grit under his claws in silence. Soap's turns his hand palm-up so you can fuss with it properly. His knuckles are split from sparring with Ghost, and his forearm bears faint bite marks from that same rogue barracuda mer who picked a fight. "C'mon. Out you pop. I won't tell Price you're still jumpin' at shadows if you clean my teeth."

You startle. Price? "Is he mad?"

Soap smirks and flexes his fingers in your stilled hands. "Nah. Just grumpin' that some arsepiece’s scarin' off his favorite wee perch." His teeth flash in the dappled light. "Unless you'd rather he hear how you've been hidin' scraps from him again."

"I have not!"

Soap leans in. His broad shoulders completely block the light filtering through the coral. The faint scar on his cheek creases with his smirk. " Then why's there two cuttlebones and a clamshell picked clean under that brain coral?"

An irate twitch prickles down your spine and makes your dorsal fins stand up. He knows for a fact that you never ever steal food. You just like to collect the trinkets sometimes. You're saving those bones for something specific.

"That's what I thought. Come, come, out ye get."

You let him use your grip on his hand to pull you out of your hiding spot. He could never wedge his way inside, thanks to the sharp stone and broken coral around it. Your much smaller body glides through easily. The coral ghosts past your scales but leaves red nicks on his bicep. He doesn't seem to notice.

You curl into his chest and cling there as he settles onto the sand beside Ghost.

Ghost doesn’t lift his head from where it’s pillowed on his scarred forearms, but you feel his eyes. Sunlight catches the jagged edge of his fin, freshly torn from the same skirmish. His tail flicks once as you settle against Soap’s chest. “Quit dragging her out into the open. You'll just make her more skittish.”

Soap’s chest vibrates with a laugh that curls your fins. “Nah, she likes havin’ someone bigger to cling on. You’re just jealous it’s not you.”

Ghost glares at Soap. Then the weight of his gaze drops squarely onto you. The more you pretend to busy yourself with cleaning Soap's scratched arm, the longer it leaves Ghost to stare in silence at the puckered red lines down your back and remember how they billowed with fresh blood.

He's been quick to anger since that fight. You're sure he blames you for inciting the whole thing.

"Just as well the bastard took a chunk out of you," he mutters. "If that's how you learn to keep away from threats you can't suck up to."

You tense. Soap’s fingers tighten around your waist. "Leave off." He tilts his wrist to brush one of your knuckles with his thumb. It's a patient gesture from a beast like Soap toward a nervous bottom feeder like you. "Don't know how you've still got so much sand in your gills. It's been days since that fight. The rest of us might as well have forgotten it already."

Ghost doesn't answer. His gaze drags again over the half-healed claw marks striping almost to your shoulders. His stare lingers too long on the deepest one—the one that nearly snagged your spine when he'd been too slow to intercept the barracuda's strike. You've not cleaned them as well as you should. He has half a mind to yank you sideways from Soap’s grip and make you take care of yourself better. Stupid little good-for-nothing.

You wait in the crook of Soap's arm until he and Ghost settle into silence again. Then you shift yourself up to Soap's shoulder and begin busying yourself with cleaning his teeth. You keep your gaze trained down on your work.

Soap tips his head back and slackens his jaw to give you better access. His incisors glint in the filtered sunlight. The metallic tang of old blood clings to his molars. You work methodically, plucking shreds of kelp and bone fragments from between his teeth with your smaller fingers and ignoring the way his throat bobs when your thumb grazes the corner of his lips. You feel him begin to shift in playful arousal under you.

Ghost’s tail flicks again. Closer this time. “Fuck’s sake.”

Soap’s throat rumbles with a laugh before you can react. “Bet she’d fix you up just as nice if you stopped glowerin’ long enough to ask. I swear you’re just sore ‘cause nobody’s offered to clean your fangs or your cock since the last time Gaz and I—”

“Finish that sentence,” he growls, “and I’ll tear out your spine for a toothpick.”

"Clean him next, then," Soap tells you mildly. "Teeth and everything else. Good n' proper." He shoots Ghost a cheeky look. "She’ll fix ye up right if ye just ask, see? Then again, maybe ye’ve forgotten how to ask for anythin’ that isn’t a knife to the ribs.”

You nick your knuckle on Soap’s tooth. A bead of blood wells up, swirling crimson in the water between you. Soap’s nostrils flare—a shark catching scent. He laps the cut with a rough swipe of his tongue before you can pull away.

Ghost’s tail slams into the sand. The force of it sends a shockwave through the water that scatters a nearby school of damselfish. He’s between you and Soap before you can blink. One rough hand grabs your tail to pull you backward off Soap’s chest. His grip is mean, but the way he angles his body between you and Soap’s nipping teeth is protective. He clamps his other hand around Soap’s throat and shoves him flat against the sand. “Don’t play with her like food.” Then he turns on you. “You’re a liability.”

You nod and lower your gaze.

It only seems to piss him off more. “Stop flinching. You’re acting like bleeding chum in open water. Do you want another mer to take a bite out of you?”

Soap shoves Ghost away. "Pick on someone higher up the food chain, ya fuckin’ weapon.”

“No.” Ghost’s gaze snaps back to you. The predatory stillness in him is worse than Soap’s chaos. “She’ll keep being jumpy until she fixes herself up.”

Soap’s grin sharpens like he’s enjoying toying with Ghost—distracting him on your behalf. "Aye, there's his old soft spot. Makes a right pretty nurse, eh?”

Soap grins when Ghost lunges at him—but you scrambling to get clear of their tussle is what actually stops both short. Ghost freezes, watching you retreat toward the reef again with a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

Soap blinks. Then groans. “Christ, Simon. You’ll never get her to trust you if you keep snapping like a—”

Ghost silences him with a rough shove before swimming off toward the deeper trenches.

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3

more mer au / more Soap / more Ghost / masterlist