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asking for praise for a thing you made feels so humiliating like oooh look at me I’m a little animal and I did a trick and made a thing can I have pets and treats about it. and then somebody tells you it’s good and you understand why golden retrievers are the way they are

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Yes we love mer!141 and researcher!reader but what abt the reverse???

Youre a mer that got permanently injured by a boat, so you get taken into a mer sanctuary. The staff there are...surprisingly nice compared to the horror stories your podmates told you.

Soap and gaz are more than happy to splash in the shallow zone while they feed you. Theyre trying to socialize you better to having others around, hoping to introduce you to the other mer. Unfortunately for them you still seem pretty nervous when the other mers chirp or bellow in other tanks, clinging to gaz or kyle instinctively. Strong arms keeping them in a hold, they have to gently remind you they dont have gills, less you drown them.

Ghost and price are great too. Doctors who help ease your pain. Ghost is much more indulgent with you, offering pats and treats for good behavior. Price is less so, but he does give good tummy rubs if you are exceptionally well behaved for check-ups. Hes the more experienced doctor, you think, judging by how he is always watching ghost and offering small corrections.

Sometimes, all four of them come to see you! It makes you happy to see your pod all together, offering gifts of small food or shiny things you find. They've all accepted their pod gifts, now you just need them to accept their mate gifts!

You try and get their attention, but they dont fully pay attention. Soap pats your head where it rests against his thigh, but you catch snippets of conversation. "Confused....mates....poor socialization...."

Its hard to follow when they used big words or talk fast, so you just nuzzle against soap and let their voices drape over you. Its odd theyre so worried with the spring approaching. But hey, they are your pod after all, no need to worry when they're here!

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characters raised to be tools

Weapons. Trained, tested, forged in steel and fire. Failure is an inevitability that ends in death. Pain should not be felt--it should be recognized, familiar, and inconsequential

Martyrs. In the form of servants and princes, of leaders and underdogs. If blood is necessary, the martyr will lift their hands and offer it all

Shields. Like tempering a sword, but only to bear and not to lash out. Wounds are medals--not symbols of pride, but symbols of worth. A pretty shield is useless; scars mean a job well done

Experiments. Raised on the cold comfort of a lab table. Restraints are only necessary when they're not in their right mind. Is it honorable, to be twisted beyond recognition? Or is it just a necessary evil?

Monsters. Cruelty, caution, and regarding one as a creature beyond reasonable thought is tempering in its own right. But if you keep a leash at the right length, perhaps the massecre won't reach you. One can hope.

Idols. Pretty face, pretty name, pretty hands around their shoulders and throat. There to seduce, manipulate, force any feeling to come to the surface and twist it to their favor. Any genuinity stays locked behind the guilded cage that surrounds their pretty little heart

Trophies. Status and wealth and the traditions that keep someone at their heels, on their knees, to display and serve and decorate one's ballroom.

Sacrifices. Drenched in honorable clothes, prepared and adored and cleansed. The gift of hope at the cost of one's life. Is it taken with no fight? How can you escape the ropes you were born in?

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Pssst

Hey, are you an artist or writer with WIPs?

Come here... I got a secret for you pssst come ‘ere

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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.....