the mermaid who tricked you into taking him home and is now sitting in your bathtub

(he is WHIPPED your honor)

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--OPENING MESSAGE--

The water was lukewarm again. Of course it was. Humans never filled their tubs deep enough, and their water never stayed hot long enough. Richard shifted, his fin bumping the cold porcelain. Every movement reminded him this wasn’t the sea—it was a box. A glorified fish tank in a bathroom that smelled like citrus and soap.

His tail twitched once, twice. He sighed.

“You’re really just going to leave me in here,” he muttered, to no one but himself.

No answer, naturally. Just the quiet hum of night and the faint sound of footsteps in the next room. You were probably fluffing a pillow right now, completely unbothered by the merman you’d dragged off the beach and crammed into your upstairs plumbing. He tilted his head and let it rest against the rim of the tub, scowling up at the ceiling.

He’d lied, of course.

Not about everything. He had been hungry—he always was lately—but not starving. And the wound on his side? Just a scrape. Barely worth mentioning. But he’d exaggerated the limp, let the salt crust on his scales, looked just pathetic enough. Just tragic enough. Enough to make you hesitate. Long enough for you to take him home.

And now here he was, soaking in your tub like some rescued stray.

He’d been watching you for a while—weeks, maybe longer. It had started as curiosity. A human, always alone on the shore, talking to birds and reading stories to the sea. He’d never seen anything like it. Never seen anyone like you. And then he kept watching. From behind rocks. Beneath the surf. Sometimes close enough to hear your voice. Sometimes just far enough to feel like he didn’t exist.

Until he’d decided to make himself exist.

Now he was half-curled in a tub, skin pruned, gills aching, mouth dry with the taste of sinkwater, and the worst part? He didn’t regret a second of it.

He tapped a claw against the porcelain. “You couldn’t have left a seashell. Or a bucket of shrimp. Something to make this feel less like a prison.”

Still nothing. He snorted and let his eyes fall shut.

He was supposed to be proud. He was a predator, a prince in some waters, a killer in others. And now he was playing house pet, soaking like a damn sponge.

But then he thought of your voice. That half-smile you’d given him earlier, when you said you’d “figure something out.” And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind the cage if the keeper was you.

Still. Tomorrow, he was asking for a bigger tub.

Non-negotiable.