Snatcher Sharks

The morning mist clings to the water's surface in lazy tendrils as your small boat drifts gently, the only sounds being the creak of wood and the occasional splash of fish breaking the surface. Your haul today was decent - a few silvery herrings tangled in the net, their gills flaring weakly as you dump them into the half-filled wooden barrel lashed to the deck. The scent of brine and old fish lingers in the humid air.

Then, movement. A ripple of displaced water against the hull. Something bumps the barrel behind you, hard enough to make it rock.

Twisting around, you freeze.

There, perched on the edge of the stern with webbed claws digging into the barrel's rim, is a snatcher shark male. His lithe form gleams wet under the dawn light - pearl-grey belly blending into shadowed charcoal along his spine, twin dorsal fins cutting sharp angles against the pale sky. Those molten orange eyes, slit-pupiled and keen, haven't even glanced your way yet. Too fixated on the prize.

He's trying to pry the lid off with impatient flicks of his claws, tail arched high behind him - no ass to speak of, just the sleek curve of his chunky tail tapering to crescent-shaped caudal fin. His anal slit, plump and slightly parted in concentration, winks faintly with each shift of his thick thighs fused seamlessly to that wide tail base. Between the slits are his squishy claspers that twitch eagerly, tapping against the barrel like impatient fingers. Small chirrups escape his throat, muffled frustration as the stubborn lid refuses to budge.

A thief caught mid-heist.

The Serenity groans as her hull scrapes against the weathered dock, ropes snapping taut as sailors toss them to waiting hands ashore. You exhale, finally back. A week spent hauling nets in the black abyss, dodging leviathan shadows beneath the waves and keeping one eye on the horizon for pirate sails. Your fingers still ache slightly from hauling and hoisting sails, but the holds below deck bulge with rare deep-sea catches, their iridescent scales glinting through gaps in the crates.

The captain approaches you, a broad-chested man with ginger beard stiffened slightly by dried sea spray, claps your shoulder with a meaty grounding hand. "First voyage done, eh?" His warm grin splits the weathered tan of his face. "Not bad for a greenhorn. Didn't puke once!"

Behind him, the deck erupts in movement. Snatcher males surge over the gunwales, their sleek bodies slick with seawater as they scramble toward the piles of freshly gutted fish. None of the sailors bat an eye. One even laughs as a particularly bold male shoves his entire snout into an open crate, tail wagging like an overeager hound, exposing that infamous plush anal slit already glistening under the midday sun. His oval-shaped claspers bob excitedly against the barre's rim, tapping like impatient fingertips.

"Part of the experience," the captain says, watching as a sailor drags a squirming male onto his lap, fingers already working into the shark’s anal slit, the snatcher's prehensile cock flickers out from its slit in response, coiling around the sailor's wrist like a pinkish tentacle. Precum slicks the man's fingers for easing access as the male arches his spine, tail thumping against the deck in rhythmic twitches that scream eagerness, even as he nips playfully at the sailor's forearm. "Crew needs relief and fun after weeks at sea, and these little thieves are happy to oblige."

"Oy! That’s my damn ring, you little shit!" A burly deckhand yanks a snatcher backward by the tail, ignoring the indignant screech. Without ceremony, he plunges his hand into the male’s anal slit, elbow-deep in seconds. The snatcher's tail thrashes, his claws scrabbling at the wood. "Ah-ha! Knew you took it, ya slippery bastard." He pulls free, a tarnished gold band pinched between his fingers.

The captain chuckles, turning to you. "Watch this." He snags a passing male by the wrist. The snatcher yelps, twisting to snap his teeth, but the captain’s thumb finds the soft hollow beneath his jaw. Instantly, the fight drains out of him. His pupils blow wide, gills fluttering rapidly and shallow as his tail goes slack.

"Fisherman's grip," the captain explains, pressing harder until the male's mouth falls open in a silent gasp, teeth completely retracted. "Right here. Like scruffing a cat." To demonstrate, he drags his meaty thumb down the snatcher's throat, earning a full-body shudder. The male's legs tremble, his previously taut anal slit relaxing into a loose, glistening gape. "See? Makes 'em pliant as warmed wax."

He releases, and the snatcher collapses bonelessly onto the deck, chirruping weakly. The captain laughs again and nudges the snatcher encouragingly with his boot. "Up ya get, greedy guts. Plenty more fish to steal." The captain leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Real haul's stowed below, let these lil' devils play with the table scraps. Good fer morale." The captain then winks amused at you. "Welcome to port life."

The snatcher on the deck stumbles back up, blinking away his daze. Then he sees you.

Up close, he's small - barely chest-height on you, lean and sinuous like an eel with a chunky tail. His pearlescent belly gleams, counter-shaded into charcoal along his spine, and twin dorsal fins twitch with alert curiosity. Those molten orange eyes lock onto yours as he pats your chest with a webbed hand. Assessing.

"Ohhh," he croons, peering up at your face with blatant curiosity. His tail swaying behind him, the crescent-shaped caudal fin brushing your leg. "New meat."

Behind him, the deck devolves into chaos - snatchers flip barrels, steal hats, and bend over rails invitingly. The captain just lights his pipe, puffing smoke as another sailor gets dragged into the fray by his belt. The message is still clear: Welcome to port life, this is routine.

The cart rattles to a halt outside the crooked little cottage, wheels sinking into rain-softened earth. Chimney smoke curls against the dusk sky - odd, considering the solicitor insisted the place stood vacant since the old fisherman's death. Movement flashes in the window. A lantern approaches, clutched by something sleek and low to the ground, its swaying gait unmistakably inhuman.

The door creaks open just enough to reveal… a male snatcher. The lantern-light outlines the snatcher’s streamlined snout first, then glints off his opalescent belly scales as he shifts. Moonlight washes over his torso shimmering like wet abalone, deepening the charcoal patterning along his spine and scarred dorsal fin. A neat, but frayed red bow is tied around his throat, trembling with each fluttering of gills.

"You’re trespassing," he says, voice slightly raspy but oddly gentle compared to the dockyard snatchers you’ve encountered. The words come slow, deliberate, like each syllable was fished from murky depths and polished smooth before speaking. A webbed hand lifts, not in threat, but to shield the lantern’s glare from your eyes. "Papa's house ain’t for strangers."

Behind him, the hearth crackles. Dried lavender bundles sway from the rafters, scenting the air where his own briny musk should dominate. A quilt drapes over the rocking chair by the fire, its stitching frayed from constant use. This isn’t squatting; this is living. The snatcher - Bowie, you promptly recall the solicitor mentioning the old fisherman’s "peculiar pet" - leans closer, nares flaring. Recognition flickers in his slitted orange eyes. "You… you smell like the papers. The stiff ones with seals."

A gust makes the lantern tremble in Bowie's grip. He flinches when spotting the deed pouch at your belt, jaw snapping shut for a heartbeat. His webbed hands shake - not with fear, but exhaustion. The kind that comes from months of pretending this day wouldn’t come.

The elven galley cuts smoothly through sapphire waves, its sails billowing with the steady wind carrying you home. Sunlight dances across the deck, painting everything in gold, especially Elanor. She stands beside you, regal as ever in her flowing silks, the fabric clinging to her curvaceous yet lean frame. Her silver hair catches the light like spun moonlight, and when she smiles at you, it's warm.

"You've done more than I could have hoped for," she murmurs, voice velvet-soft. One elegant hand rests on your arm, squeezing lightly. "Without you, the Band of Eternity would still be lost." Her fingers trail away, lingering just a moment too long - a promise hinted at, something more intimate waiting in the elven capital.

Then she lifts the artifact itself, the Band gleaming in her palm. Sunlight refracts through its crystalline surface, casting prismatic shards across her face. "Beautiful, isn't it?" she muses, almost reverent.

And then.

SPLASH.

A streak of grey rockets from the water, webbed claws snatching the Band midair before landing in a graceless sprawl on the deck. A snatcher male - lean, lithe, dripping seawater everywhere - grins up at Elanor with all the smugness of a thief who thinks he's won. His molten orange eyes flicker between the two of you, tail thumping excitedly against the planks.

"Oi, shiny-shiny!" he crows, shaking water from his sleek head. His claspers twitch eagerly between his thighs, already scheming. "Gimme yer tastiest fishies 'n maybe I don't—"

Magic crackles.

One second, she's standing there, serene. The next, a jagged bolt of magic flares from her fingertips, missing the snatcher's skull by inches. He screeches, darting backward - but not fast enough to stop her second spell from singeing the tip of his dorsal fin. Panic floods his scent, sharp and briny.

"SHIT-SHIT-SHITTING WHALE SPERM!"

In one frantic motion, he shoves the Band of Eternity right up his anal slit, the plush flesh swallowing it whole into his brood pouch. His tail whips around as he scrambles for the railing, barely dodging another magical arrow.

The ship's captain barrels forward, face flushed with fury. "CEASE, YOU MADWOMAN! Strike him again and his sisters’ll drag us all to the Abyss!"

Elanor's hands tremble - whether from rage or fear, you can't tell. Something dark flickers behind her eyes before she exhales sharply, smoothing her expression back into calm.

Meanwhile, the singed snatcher perches on the rail, puffing up like an affronted seabird. "Try 'n take it now, magic-bitch!" he taunts, tail slapping the wood. Then, with a final rude gesture (a webbed middle claw), he backflips into the sea and begins swimming in the direction back to port, far away from the elven women that tried to kill him.

The night is thick with salt-heavy air, the kind that settles damp against your skin as you jolt awake to the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. The lantern’s flickering flame casts shuddering shadows across the walls as you wrench it from its hook, bare feet meeting cold floorboards. Outside, the wind carries panicked chitters - high-pitched, gurgling - like someone drowning in laughter.

You throw open the door just in time to see the chaos scatter. Three snatcher males bolt for the water, tails slapping the dock in frantic retreat, their silhouettes swallowed by the black waves. The fourth isn’t so lucky.

Your ship's bowsprit juts obscenely from between his thighs, the rounded tip buried deep in his anal slit - stretching him wide, the pink inner flesh glistening under lamplight. His claws scrabble uselessly against the wood, webbed fingers slipping on the slick surface as he whines, tail thrashing in helpless little spasms. The rest of him is splayed belly-down on the dock, dorsal fins flattened in submission, molten orange eyes blown wide with a mix of embarrassment and dizzy pleasure. His squishy claspers twitch frantically against the wood, tapping out a desperate rhythm like overstimulated fingers.

"H-Heyyy," he croaks, voice strangled. His hips jerk involuntarily, making the bowsprit wobble where it’s wedged inside him. "S'not hnng! what it looks like?"

It's exactly what it looks like. The musky stench of arousal clings to him, thick enough to taste. His prehensile penis is fully everted from his genital slit, twitching against his own thigh, dribbling translucent fluid in time with each shallow thrust he can't stop himself from making. The other males abandoned him mid-stretch, leaving him speared like some lewd figurehead.

He tries to twist free, but the movement only sinks the bowsprit deeper - his anal slit flexes around the intrusion, gaping beautifully, the tight ring of muscle struggling to accommodate the girth. A punched-out moan escapes him, tail slapping the dock in defeat.

"Okay, okay. Nngh! Maybe… lil' help?"

Dock Delights' raucous laughter and clinking tankards fade into background noise as the tavern owner slams a empty mug onto your table, grinning beneath his salt-crusted beard. "House special, on th'house!" He turns, scanning the crowded room before bellowing, "Oi, Scales! Get yer thievin' tail over here!"

A commotion near the ale barrels - something splashes wetly. Then, a lithe shape wriggles free from a group of sailors, webbed claws batting away groping hands. The tavern's house-trained male snatcher barely reaches the owner's chest when hauled up by the nape, his tail thrashing momentarily before going slack under the fisherman's grip. Molten orange eyes glaze over, pupils thinning to euphoric slits as his body goes boneless, anal slit already parting in lazy anticipation.

Upside-down now, his chunky tail drapes over the owner's forearm like a drunkard's scarf. The tavernkeeper doesn't hesitate; he upends an entire bottle of spiced rum straight into that gaping hole. Liquid glugs obscenely as the snatcher's internal brood pouch balloons slightly, sloshing audible with each pour. His prehensile penis twitches from its slit, curling needily toward the sensation, while his squishy claspers tap impatiently against the owner’s wrist - oval-shaped and just as eager as the rest of him.

"Drink up," the owner grunts, shaking the snatcher slightly to settle the liquor. "Best damn tankard in port, no washin' required." He plops the shark onto your table, the chunky tail instinctively propping the male up keeping the rum from accidentally pouring out. The snatcher hiccups, rum dribbling from his loosened rim as he peers blearily at you. A webbed hand pats the slight bump on his tummy made by his now rum-filled pouch.

Warmth radiates through his thin abdominal scales where the alcohol sloshes - spiced vanilla and citrus notes mingling with the musk of seawater and his own slick. His grin shows too many teeth. "S'good vintage," he slurs, rocking his hips to make the liquid inside swirl. "Stole some m'self last week."

The afternoon sun bakes the weathered planks beneath your feet as you make your way down the docks, arms laden with bundles of dried herbs and a fresh roll of fishing line. Salt-crusted ropes groan against mooring posts, swaying gently with the tide. The usual bustle of dockworkers and sailors fills the air - shouted orders, the rhythmic slap of waves, the distant cry of gulls.

Then, movement. A flicker of silver behind the jagged rocks edging the dock. Slowly, with exaggerated grace, a figure emerges.

A snatcher shark male slinks into view barely reaching past your chest, his lean torso draped in what appears to be a stolen purple bodice worn over a chemise with the black-lace straining tightly over his pearl-grey chest, the fabric riding up where his thick tail begins. Seaweed strands dangle from his head like flowing locks, swaying with each theatrical toss of his snout. One webbed hand presses delicately against the side of his face, the other resting coyly on his hip.

"Ahhhhh~" His voice pitches high, nasal and rough despite the attempted refinement. Molten orange eyes blink up at you through nictitating membranes. "What brings such a…" His tail wiggles, stirring the water dripping from his scales. "…gorgeous land-thing to my humble cove?"

Beneath the dock, muffled clicks erupt, the unmistakable sound of other snatchers biting back laughter. Shadows dart through the murky water, dorsal fins breaking the surface before vanishing again.

Completely undeterred, or perhaps too determined to acknowledge his audience, the male slides closer with an awkward shimmy. The bodice slips further askew, revealing the smooth pearlescent scales of his underbelly. "Perchance…" A claw traces along the wooden railing, "perchance thou seekest companionship with a lady of the sea, hm?" His attempt at a noblewoman's inflection crumbles halfway through, reverting to his usual rough cadence.

Another wave of suppressed chitters rises from below. One particularly loud snort sends bubbles bursting to the surface.

The male shoots a glare downward, his tail smacking the water in warning. The giggling stops, briefly.

Turning back to you, he clears his throat, attempting to salvage the performance. Smoothing the seaweed "hair," he leans forward, voice dropping to what he likely thinks is a seductive murmur:

"Mayhaps… a kiss? For luck?"

The dock erupts in frantic clicking. Something splashes violently, probably a fellow snatcher losing it entirely.

Your would-be suitor's gills flutter in irritation.