( continues...) top of her head to the tips of her tailfins-

Emma let out a muffled yell as what she was feeling sank in. She yanked loose from Regina's hand and stared down at herself. What what what! There was a weird ordinariness to it; the smooth skin of her stomach just gave way to a sparkling column of scales. Instead of legs, she could feel a single length of muscle tapering down; the sense of the water flowing over her fins told her there was a weak current pushing on her, and she instinctively flexed her tail ( My tail!) to hold herself against it. "Regina, what the- "

Belatedly, it occurred to her she was shouting, and breathing, underwater. She floated for a second, managing not to clap a clearly unnecessary hand over her mouth, and took a slow, experimental breath. The water flowed smoothly down her windpipe(?) and then out again. She took a second breath, then turned back to Regina and felt her jaw actually drop.

She'd been expecting to see the other woman in mermaid drag; instead she was wearing a strapless black gown, out of which emerged not legs or a tail but a set of long, muscular tentacles. Emma stared, not quite believing what she was seeing. Not that she didn't recognize it; one thing you could always count on finding in a foster home was a stack of Disney movies to try and keep the kids quiet. "...Ursula?"

"No, Regina." She scowled. "Didn't your mother tell you about this?"

"Must...have slipped her mind." Emma stared, then focused past her at Jan, who was now a red-tailed merman, all his clothes gone except his sword and belt. He was staring down at himself, apparently still stunned. Yeah, I know the- waitaminute. She glanced down at herself. Huh. Seashell bra. Figures. "Didn't you get impaled by a ship?"

"No." Regina rolled her eyes. "Are we really going to have this conversation? Shall I go over the real reasons I wanted your mother dead?"

"No thanks." Emma scowled, and looked past her. "Jan, you okay?"

He blinked. "I...think so? Oh...can we do anything for..." he looked up and trailed off.

Emma followed his gaze, and realized the ship had vanished. The surface above them showed only flashes of lightning-lit sky.

"Carried off by the surface currents already." Regina sounded thoughtful. "But the wind was driving them south towards shore, if we head that way we may be able to help the survivors."

Emma gave her a puzzled look. "Sounds good to me."

"Let's get moving, then." Regina headed off, swimming with strong strokes of her tentacles. "This is King Triton's territory, and I'm technically still under sentence of death."

"What for?" Jan asked, startled.

"Impersonating a sea goddess."

TBC

I'm going to ask directly for feedback on this one:

First, as the content note shows, this chapter deals, if obliquely, with a somewhat sensitive subject; Any comments on how I handled it would be appreciated.

Second, I keep thinking I should end the chapter with them jumping into the ocean as a cliffhanger. Any opinions on if that would work better?

Thanks, guys.

chrismg, you have done a fine job of managing a sensitive topic without getting drenched in it. It rang true to this survivor without being dreadfully triggery. (Someone of a different temperment, at a different point in their journey to wholeness might have a different feeling, particularly if unwarned. So yes, I do think the warning is valuable, but also yes I do not think you will be engaging your readers in boatloads of unnecessary pain.) About where your chapter should be divided up, well, it feels fine as is - but once the whole thing is complete, you may well wish to rearrange things for pacing or what-have-you. That could well be a weakness of the practice of posting whatever chunk the author has written at any given time as a chapter in places like FFN. Going back with a fine editor's eye just has so little chance to happen. And it futzes with notifications to readers.

I wish there was an easy way to tell where traffic on AO3 comes from. One of the single-chapter stories I have posted there has five times the number of hits of my next most popular fic, which has seventeen chapters. It's not my best piece and it isn't the smuttiest thing I've ever written. Simply Googling for fic recs mentioning it isn't coming up with anything. And really, the difference in number of hits is vastly out of line with any rec I've had on any other story. Mysterious.

Heaven help me, I think I'm writing another Mentalist fic.

I wrote my first slash ever. It's Dragon Age Inquisition, Dorian/Iron Bull, and I'm inordinately pleased with myself for having written it.

Err, remember that "Life On Mars"/Blue Beetle crossover fic I was writing last year? I, uhm, seem to have started that back up again, picking up where we left off:

Heaven's In Here: Part Eight: A thousand words

“That can’t be him,” said Etta, shoving me aside to look closer at the photo. “Look at the caption. It says 1973.”

She stepped back again, as though trying to get a different perspective on it.

“Maybe it’s his dad or something?” she said, hopefully.

I guess I’d seen more impossible things than PC Henrietta Bishop, because I wasn’t convinced. Besides, the idea that DCI Gene Hunt might be 20 or so years older than he appeared wasn’t even the weirdest thing to happen that day.

“There’s names on the plaque,” I said, wiping the dust off with my finger. “PC Christopher Skelton, DC Ray Carling, WPC Annie Cartwright, DCI Gene Hunt and DI Sam Tyler.” For some reason, my eyes were drawn to Tyler. There was something about him, something almost familiar.

Etta was fascinated now, looking over the wall of photos for another glimpse of Hunt. She found one.

“Look at this,” she said. “The date’s 1982, and he’s still labeled a DCI. Has he been a DCI for more than 20 years? That’s … a little weird.”

I looked at the photo. The color quality and hair both screamed “'80s” so loudly Flock of Seagulls may as well be playing behind them.

“Hey,” I said. “The other photo’s labeled ‘Manchester,’ and this one’s labeled ‘London.’ Did he transfer?”

Eta nodded.

“I think I heard that once,” she said. “He’s definitely from somewhere up that way.”

“OK,” I said. “Then why are Skelton and Carling in this picture, too? Is that normal?”

“No,” replied Etta. “It isn’t. And they look the exact same. My God, these photos have been here the whole time I have, and I’ve never noticed them.”

She wiped the dust of the tiny plaque at the photo’s base.

“WPC Sharon Granger,” she said, reading the plate, “and DI Alex Drake. That name’s kind of familiar, actually. I think she was a big deal about a decade ago.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“She moved on,” said a snarling voice behind us. We turned, and Hunt was behind us, annoyance written all over his face. “Eventually, everyone moves on. Except me. And you lot’ll be moving on a lot faster if you keep poking your noses in other people’s business.

“But the photos,” saud Etta, “they …”

“Old friends,” said Hunt, dismissively. “Good coppers, every one of them.”

He turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Etta and I dumbfounded behind him.

I started to speak, but Etta interrupted.

“You know, DI Kord,” she said. “I think our shift is about over. Fancy a pint?”

Dear God, did I ever.

For those who enjoy exploration of class, sex, and gender roles, Hostage. RPS, A/B/O, mpreg. Heed the warnings on the post.

For any Buffista in a mood to write something cracktastic - I'd love to read a "Dr. Strange and Mr. Norell" crossover.

So, I understand that sometimes a writer is writing in a characters pov or voice, but I'm shocked to come across this and realize it was most likely a woman/girl writing it (and more shockingly, that I don't remember it pinging me when I first read the story years ago), when goes like this:

Something that wouldn't sound like Dean was a step away from getting a vagina transplant, or like one of those girlyass CW shows.

And I know it's probably in-character, and is an attitude canon to the source material. But it has been burning me lately to see this in fic, especially fic that has a special place in my heart from five and ten years ago. I've been given permission to still enjoy Blurred Lines, but it still feels like slap in the face when I'm rereading old favorites.