#folks this is not about shipping wars

[writing-for-life]

Ok, I’m not going to get involved in a certain thread because I don’t want any drama and the line of argumentation leans too much to one side already (the views of the vocal majority in this fandom) for it to make much sense to contribute, but I had a few thoughts today:

In a fandom where people write AUs full of cows and merpeople and other shenanigans that have nothing to do with canon (or the actual characters, to be frank), they can’t do that for Calliope (or any other female character, for that matter)?

She doesn’t get to play in the sandbox?

We don’t have the imagination to turn her into one of the two dolls that kiss?

We have to keep her in character while everyone else can be turned into… whatever person (certainly neither the one of the comics nor the show)?

We constantly have to remember her strife and trauma and can’t invent (!, that’s what writing is about!) a different or new side to her? Or a better future? One in which she gets to be happy?

Or we can’t turn her into someone she canonically isn’t?

While all of this always, always works for Dream? Or the hairy guy?

And speaking of said guy: Do we have any reason to think Dream would treat him better than Nada? We’re automatically assuming he’d do the same thing to Calliope, but not to him? Or: Why do we assume he would do what he did to Nada to any other love interest, because canonically, there’s no evidence for that (we wrote about this on here before)? So no, that line of argument just doesn’t fly in my view.

If Calliope and Dream have chemistry and people are able to acknowledge it (which most do), that on its own is enough to ship them. The chemistry argument works with every M/M ship. Why doesn’t it work with her?

Oh, she is allowed in gen fics (and I am a fan of those btw, but that’s past the point), or as a character with very little agency, or any personal or sexual desires. Even better if she serves the ship. That’s okay of course, I forgot. Reminds me of most of the women of the Sandman—I wonder why.

I just wish people would give the honest reason without going through all the mental gymnastics of why Dreamuse is not an interesting (or even bad or problematic) ship, and the other one is the best invention since sliced bread:

They want to see/imagine two guys together.

There, I said it, it wasn’t hard. It’s really as simple as that in fandom, it’s a predictable fantasy, and it’s the same in every fandom. The Sandman isn’t any different.

M/F ships are frowned upon because they’re “heteronormative”, and yet, (mostly) women proceed to project (mostly) heteronormative relationship dynamics on two guys of which they fancy at least one and use the other to project themselves on. Sometimes, they fancy both of them and get more of what they have the hots for. Good for them, there’s nothing wrong with it. We have oodles of research by now why some women prefer M/M porn; it’s not earth-shattering, groundbreaking or “queer-positive” (it sometimes fetishises homosexuality though, but that’s a different topic). It’s been like that since at least the times of Spirk, and probably longer. It’s actually a fairly (dare I utter the word on here?) straight female sexual fantasy. The queer-positivity everyone is so enamoured with is more than, and not singularly limited to, shipping M/M—as a bisexual woman, I personally can’t identify with that line of thinking at all, but other people’s mileage might vary…

If people are into smutty/explicit fanfic , that’s just how it works: Some women project on a female body while imagining to get railed by a guy, others prefer to imagine two guys because they fancy men. Again: Nothing wrong with it, but it’s also not as deep as people often pretend it is.

Yes, I wrote about that one before as well. That’s why I can do it again—“once your reputation is ruined” and all that 🤣

It’s ok to be horny for two guys without turning it into a brain-contorting statement every time.

It’s also okay to reflect on the wider implications of completely erasing women from EVERY fandom, especially if you identify as one.

Edited on May 27 since it’s obviously necessary:

If people’s main takeaway from this post is that it’s about criticising fetishising homosexuality, they clearly have a reading comprehension problem and should read it again. “Sometimes” doesn’t mean “always”, plus it wasn’t even a main point. I even said that fancying m/m is a fairly middle-of-the-road-fantasy, and that there’s nothing wrong with it. The internalised misogyny that shows in people who think they are “saving women from men” by completely erasing them from the narrative and only centering men is a different topic, but these two things aren’t the same.

If people’s main response to this post is, “Then write your own stuff,” they also have a reading comprehension problem and did not get at all what this is about. It’s also the slightly old getting standard response to anything that invites critical thinking, but that one isn’t all that surprising anymore. The assumption people aren’t writing their own stuff is also a bit… silly? But I imagine that misconception is down to the fact that those people never check any tags beyond one or two, and certainly never any that involve female characters. [And to say it quite frankly: That some people wrote verbatim, “If you want Dream and Calliope to fuck so badly, write it yourself,” just shows me that they’re incapable of viewing anything but through a sex/smut lens. Good for you, kids, your world sounds so exciting *slow clap*. But maybe don’t project your thirst on everyone else.]

Some people in the OP this was about even made good points, and I didn’t criticise any of those because they are true.

This post is about the double standards people apply when they say why one ship (m/m) is more successful than the other (m/f):

Trauma? Never a problem when it’s Dream.

Relationship that somehow “shouldn’t work”? Never a problem in tropes like enemies to lovers and many others that are totally used for thee ship. Or with two people (read: men) they really want to see together.

Bending a character beyond recognition or giving them a totally different backstory, because that would solve the “relationship has run its course”-issue? Never a problem with the two guys who can be anything from a cow to a mafia boss. But the women? Nope, we have to remember their trauma and strife, keep them exactly as in the source material and protect their sacredness by completely ignoring them.

Still don’t get that this is not about a ship per se but the erasure of all women from stories bar being cheerleaders for thee m/m ship in some way? Okay, then that one’s really beyond anything I can explain, although I think some people just like to consciously misrepresent stuff or really don’t do anything but skim-read. That’s not on me I guess…

[brynnmclean]

Honestly, my kingdom for the fourth wall to be back in place between fandom and show cast/crew/runners. I still have mixed feelings about that post I made being sent to a cast member, folks. Glad it was a positive posts, but damn! Let us all keep our separate spaces, perhaps?

[poisonousquinzel]

little me, we made it.

it took like 15 years, but we made it

[meldy-arts]

Sabezra fans, gentle reminder. There's nothing wrong with still shipping them.

Rebels started with Sabine seeing Ezra as nothing but a kid, eventually leaning toward a brother. We still shipped them.

Sabine and Ketsu called each other sisters - People still shipped them.

They're not blood-related. It was ONE line spoken by Ezra to Sabine, who he KNEW didn't like him back. Possibly just to make her feel better.

We all knew full well he had a massive crush...

My personal hope is we're going to see Ezra and Sabine have a kind of role swap. Sabine is the one pining for Ezra while Ezra is the dense idiot who can't catch on.

The way Sabine acted in these two episodes was full of subtle hints that there's something more going on underneath...

But either way. If Dave wants to go the route of Sabine and Ezra having a more best friends/siblings dynamic then sure. Idm, but I'm not going to stop shipping them.

[cmbdragon98]

Oh nooo... wlw are kinda eyerolling and sighing that a show got wrongfully marketed as "queerest Star Wars ever" and is now just, essentially, R/ylo 2.0... After a Lot of really potentially interesting women have been ganked over and over again, within the show.

And now a number of us wlw are a lil tongue and cheek about how we saw the objectification and hyper-sexualization going on with Yord within fandom, only for it to now morph over to Qimir... Oh, bro, what are we gonna Do?

[armoralor]

people obsessed with cishet ships: You see this character that's a man? Well, every woman around him is secretly in love with him. Each and every one want to settle down with him, buy a house, and raise a nuclear family.

normal fandom enjoyers: Sure, I guess. But maybe some of them are just friends? Like, platonic non-romantic companionship? Not all of those women seem to be interested in that kind of thing. Plus, what if some of those women are queer and trans; surly not all of them want to marry and have kids either.

people obsessed with cishet ships: Why do you hate women!?? Why do you hate mothers? You're such a misogynist for saying women can't be soft and motherly. Why does every women have to be a lesbian???? Why are you pushing an agenda? I'm going to throw up, this is so gross. You pointing this out is bullying!!!! And YOU'RE transphobic for wanting a character to be a lesbian. People who like shipping straight characters need to come together in SOLIDARITY because of these MEAN gays.

[rainswings]

Skizz lovers you're all so sexy and cool and right but his comment section is small enough reading through is feasible let's not have a conversation about r34 in there where it'd be a him problem. Please have it here and tag me instead

[k1rameki]

mwah

bombard this man w kisses aplenty

[chiefnooniensingh]

idk I think everybody would have a much better time in the fandom if they just ignored the haters and bitter people

[beastsovrevelation]

It's not funny. NOT funny.

Ever since I wrote this rant, I've been growing more and more obsessed with the Fem!Crowley x Michael pairing. It went from I like the concept to the ship has consumed my very being.

Hell, the ideas I burn with. The headcanons. The smut... Oh, the smut.

This is probably such a random pairing in the Good Omens universe. I don't care, I'm obsessed. But, I guess that's why I feel the need to actually portray their relationship developing in some way, before I do anything else (procastrinate by writing random oneshots).

The issue? I have one story, yes. But, instead of working on the plot leading to it, I crave the scenes of them already on fire for each other.

Especially the scene where Crowley's anxious she'll get killed, and Michael sternly (while lovingly clasping her hands) assures her no one's killing her.

Ladies...

What are you doing to me, huh?

(Don't mind me with the faceclaim from Constantine again, it's just the closest thing to my vision of fem!Crowley... What I'm doing with Michael first in my head is fixing the fashion. I'm putting her in a General-appropriate outfit, and hairstyle. Think Roman armour. Or, something white with golden epaulettes. Seriously, what have they done to you, o Most Glorious Prince.)

[icharchivist]

also sorry for insisting on the "do you BELIEVE people say the girls don't like each other" but every single time twitter understands i like ffvii it starts pushing LTD (Love Triangle Debate) content on my fucking TL and i swear to god i want to shred somethings sometimes.

Like yesterday it threw my way a video of Yuffie doing a silly dance, and Aerith following and trying to do like her, while Tifa walks off from the angle of the camera so you don't really see what she does, and the person posted it with a caption "omg Aerith you're so fucking embarassing, you're 21, act like it, no wonder our amazing Tifa had to walk out as she's the only mature person in here" and i started the day angry because are you out of your fucking mind.

Like why are you attacking Aerith on being silly omg, first of all there's no age cut off for that, second, she was definitely sharing something with Yuffie there, third of all, what the fuck is your problem. I'm sure people don't complain when Zack is being silly instead despite him being older than Aerith huh!!

And the dig on "even Tifa is embarassed" to show that TIFA instead is being the cool one and it's??? Tifa does all sort of silly things all the time, she's more on the shy side, but even so, you don't even see her in the video??? and even if it was because she was embarassed SHE WAS LOOKING AT YUFFIE NOT AERITH? And also being embarrassed by someone's behavior isn't a proof of them having a moral highground either.

Like it's mindboggling to me, those girls appreciate each other's presence, they've always been close friends, but people have rotten their mind to such a level into pitying the girls against one another for a fucking love triangle they just want every single moment to show their supperiority in some way.

like it's fucking pathetic, LTD folks have been singing the same tune for over twenty years, can it STOP now.

[transingthoseformers]

So... so many mecha are going to be pissed about Silverlight's existence and how it ended the war. That something so... domestic ended it.

[armoralor]

my favourite irony of the current shipping discussion is the folks who allege WolfWren enjoyers sent “threats” to people who enjoy cishet ships (I have asked for ANY examples or usernames of anyone doing this multiple times), have also been calling for Filoni to suffer & die if he doesn’t make their ship canon. but don’t forget, it’s definitely the sapphics and queers who like WolfWren that are the problem

[fandom]

Top 23 of 2023

Have you been aching to get your hot little hands on 52 weeks of data around original posts, likes, reblogs, and searches, all weighted and ranked and tied up into categories with a nice little bow on top? Well, today’s your day! It should come as no surprise that Artists on Tumblr reign supreme: from stunning traditional art, jaw-dropping digital art, fanart, sculptures, textile art—you name it, basically—this year’s list shows that Tumblr truly is the home for art and artists. Thank you, Artists on Tumblr, for enriching our dashboards day after day. 

Rounding out the top three, we have two iconic shows: Good Omens is live-action, and The Owl House is animated, but both have a heck of a love story at their core. The second season of Good Omens blessed us with not one but two ineffably exquisite ships, while the final season of The Owl House broke and then healed fans’ hearts in equal measure. Thanks, @danaterrace! Actually, come to think of it, the Good Omens finale kinda did the same in reverse. Thanks to you, too, @neil-gaiman! We can’t wait for season 3. 

Speaking of heartbreak and healing, Our Flag Means Death’s second season offered both in droves. The entire cast gave stellar performances, and fans couldn’t have been happier to see the kinds of representation the show displayed. Last year’s #1 topic, Stranger Things, may have dropped a bit, but trust us, you wouldn’t know it from the amount of meta, fanart, and fics in the tag. And did you hear about the live-action adaptations of both The Last of Us and One Piece? They were a preeeetty big deal this year, too. Check ‘em out if you haven’t yet (lol, of course you have). And we’d be remiss not to mention the hugely dedicated fans, fanartists, and fic writers devoting their time to all things Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Y’all deserve a little pizza, as a treat.

2023 was also a year for blockbuster movies, which of course hasn’t escaped anybody’s notice here on Tumblr. Barbie smashed box offices worldwide and left us reeling with every re-watch. How can one describe Greta Gerwig’s pink-filled opus? It certainly is one of the movies of all time. Meanwhile, with its incredible animation and soundtrack, Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse introduced us to a whole new multiverse of Spider-People, opening the portal to a veritable flood of incredible OCs. And then, of course, we got a fresh perspective on an old classic when cinephiles introduced Martin Scorscese’s cinematic masterpiece, Goncharov (1973), to a new generation of film aficionados who resoundingly agree that it is, in fact, the greatest mafia movie ever made. We’re so glad this underrated film finally got the acclaim it has long deserved.

In the realms of gaming and tech, the long-anticipated Baldur’s Gate 3 has basically become everyone’s new favorite D&D/dating sim combination. Of course, the Pokémon franchise, games, shows, and Hatsune Miku collabs remain perennial favorites. Elon Musk’s purchase of Twitter, sorry, we mean of course X, made waves across the internet. Similarly, the Reddit blackout drove Redditors to new venues, and Tumblr users welcomed the folks from r/196 with open arms—we’re huge fans of your memes, y’all, and you fit right in. Welcome, we’re glad you enjoy the chaos. Here’s a fun fact: if we included post metadata in Year in Review rankings, #polls, introduced in January of 2023, would have been the #5 topic on Tumblr this year. Phenomenal. 

And, oh right. Taylor Swift had kind of a big year, what with the albums, the epic global tour, and the movie and stuff. Fantastic work, @taylorswift, the Swifties on Tumblr thank you for everything.

This is Tumblr’s Year in Review.

Artists on Tumblr

Good Omens

The Owl House

Barbie

Pokémon

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

Critical Role

Goncharov

Taylor Swift

Genshin Impact

Stranger Things

The Last of Us

Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Elon Musk

196

Star Wars

Our Flag Means Death

Crowley | Good Omens

LGBTQ

Cottagecore

Baldur's Gate 3

One Piece

Aziraphale | Good Omens

[redbayly]

Zutara Shipping is Canon

Let me explain myself.

I was enjoying an afternoon walk (as I mercifully live in a decent area to go for walks to clear my head) and I started thinking about the Ember Island Players episode when it struck me.

Shipping Zutara is canon.

Now, don't get me wrong, this isn't about if Zutara itself is canon or not (it's totally canon and I will die on my hill of willful self-delusion), but about shipping it.

I'm sure most Zutara shippers still get a little thrill whenever we rewatch the show and our majestic bounty-hunter June, captain of the Zutara ship, calls Katara Zuko's girlfriend.

But, as I said, this is about Ember Island Players.

It never truly occurred to me before that, in canon, Zutara shipping is just a thing. Like, an actual, accepted aspect of the world.

When Puon-Tim wrote "The Boy in the Iceberg," he just outright included a Zutara subplot. And as annoyingly melodramatic as it was, it was still there. He even went out of his way to discredit the idea of Katara and Aang being together. And, even though the play is Fire Nation propaganda (which has since confused me since the wiki says that Puon-Tim is from the Earth Kingdom; though that feels like a retcon), it doesn't seem to show a Zutara romance in a negative way.

And it could've gone in that direction. As propaganda, it would have been only too easy to portray Katara as an evil seductress who corrupted Prince Zuko and convinced him to betray his country. But it doesn't. The Zutara scene is embarrassingly saccharine and schmaltzy, but it's not shown as being bad - except for the episode trying to frame it that way because it hurts Aang's feelings.

And, because of how popular the play seems to be, we can reasonably assume that there were audience members who left the theater as die-hard Zutara fans. Even if they were cheering for Zuko's death - because, y'know, Fire Nation - there weren't any boos at the Zutara scene. Like, some of those folks who cheered Zuko's death also probably regarded Zutara as a tragic love story. There were probably even a few who quietly whispered to each other that they hoped Prince Zuko would run off with Katara and have a happy ending instead of fighting for the throne and dying, as shown in the play.

And with how the war actually ended, Zutara shipping probably only got more popular as Zuko started reforming stuff and being an actually stable ruler as opposed to his psycho dad and sister.

So, with this in mind, Puon-Tim is the ultimate Zutara shipper. Zutara shipping is canon.

I don't really know what else to say.

Any thoughts?

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, abduction, violence, intense gore, death, swords & firearms, angst, hurt/comfort, nakedness, etc.

A/N: Guys, whatever you do, don't imagine Price in a white tunic holding Mermaid you in one arm and weilding a sword in the other. I'm frothing at the mouth.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You sit on your black rocks once more, the darkening sky warning of an oncoming storm that you can feel seeping into your bones. In your loose grip, you fiddle with John’s necklace. 

He’d given it to you only recently as a gift, seeing as you enjoyed the shininess of it so much, and you’d taken great pleasure in keeping it around your neck. Out of all of your treasures and trinkets, somehow these measly metal discs had become your favorite. The necklace is smooth under your caress, and you look down at it adoringly, eyes soft and lips curved with delicate affection. 

The cove, as always, was quiet above the call of seagulls and the lapping of waves; the whispering ripples from your tail as it sways under the water. You had gotten content with this—the silence. Because you knew it would be filled by the low gravel of an accented voice soon enough; would be swept away by the chuckles you could wring from beard-hidden lips. 

John was something to look forward to, and you loved the way he looked at you. 

Water hits the top of your head. 

Blinking out of your honeyed thoughts you look up to the crying sky as small slaps of droplets slide across your cheeks. Lashes flinch at every motion, and you glance back to the empty cove before lowering the necklace to your scaled lap. 

Confusion slithers in like an eel to your heart as your eyes slide over the growing waves. The yawning mouth of the entrance sits abandoned of any small fishing ship. 

For three, beautiful, sand-covered, months, John had never missed a day to come and see you. Rain or Sun.

A prick of a sharp fish's spine enters your brain. The rain comes down now in sheets. Lightning and thunder fight, and if you look close enough, the remnants of ancient lightning birds battle overhead with a flurry of black wings and their insatiable need for blood. Yet, still, your eyes stay frozen on the cove entrance as the water rises and rises. 

With a thinning of your lips and the violent pushing from the torrent as it swallows your rocks, you clench your hands over John’s necklace and push off your perch with a shove of your palms. 

Water encompasses you, scales dull, and fins limp as the general calmness from the encompassing water holds you in a constant sway. Your brows furrow.

Why wasn’t he here? You ask yourself, sinking among the seaweed and the schools of quick fish. Concern mingles with hurt. Do…do you think he’s alright? 

Human ways were still confusing to you, even if John had been helping you understand them and giving little clam-shells of information. But they seemed…like violent folk. Angry and selfish, from what John had said about their wars and squabbles. The thought of your fisherman potentially being in danger on land was terrifying to you. 

There wouldn’t be anything you could do if that happened.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of his necklace as you stare at the surface, back lightly hitting the bottom of the cove with a puff of sand. Crabs scatter as your tail twitches, your lungs sighing in their own special way. 

John can take care of himself, you reason. He’s just a little late is all. 

John’s never late. Your face creases, but you stuff the thought down, twisting on your side and bridging the piece of jewelry to your lip—kissing it once as sand digs into your skin. Holding the fisherman's property to your pounding heart, you close your eyes and wait as any lonely and loyal Merwoman would; tail held in close and the reverberations of a rabid downpour above you.

—

You wake up to the darkness of night. Blinking, you sigh to yourself and move a slow hand to rub at your eyes. After a moment of fatigued confusion as to why you weren’t in your cave, you realized why you had been out here in the first place.

John. 

Arms pushing you up, your mind fights to wake itself, laced with algae and fatigue. How long have you been asleep? Has the storm stopped? Surely you hadn’t slept the entire day away. You pull the fisherman's necklace over your head as you stare at the sand below you. No fish were slipping past besides one that brushes your tail, which you found odd, but didn’t think much of it. 

Shaking your head, you feel sluggish and put the necklace back on with a huff. You worry what John will think of you perhaps missing his late visit and smile slightly in humor. 

The fish brushes your tail again. 

Scales shimmering, you turn with an annoyed pull to your lips, fins scraping something hard and rough even as it’s saturated by the water of your cove. When you spot it, not only the rope but the shadow of the large hunting ship above you, your body drains of any life that had once lived in your lungs. It wasn’t nighttime. 

Eyes widening at the loop that was parading around your tail, you don’t have time to move before it tightens with a force that leaves your mouth opening in a bubbled scream; ruthlessly jerking your body along the seafloor. 

Desperately, your hands rip along the rocks and weeds of the bottom of the cove, getting torn and shredded in their soft nature as easily as paper. Your body smacks into every little object with a rattling to your bones that makes you sob. Red saturates the water as you’re manhandled in long and steady intervals back and up. 

No amount of rampaging your tail does can break the rope, and with a last-ditch effort as the sandy floor gets farther and farther away, you twist around and tear at the woven cord with sharp nails. Adrenaline pumps, pupils tiny and panicked. 

No! No, not like this! You can imagine the pain of it now—the hooks and the ripping of scales from your supple flesh. Even now the tiny ones under the dig of the vice are peeling away in long strings of red to disappear behind you as you’re thrust upward. They’re delicate, don’t these monsters understand? They’re beautiful and treasured and they’re destroying them!

You scream in pain at the pulling of your spine; a large creaking in your muscles. 

But as you gain a small sense of feral hope when the rope begins to fray from your grip, the iron net squashes any belief of surviving. 

It slams into you as John would cast his own for his prey—but this one is larger and full of cruel, curved, spikes. Is this what your parents endured? What the harpies had meant? The iron sinks far quicker than rope, and it traps you in a dome of hell before you can mutilate yourself out of the maw.

Oh, Gods, it was going to peel your skin away.

True fear pounded in your breast, and with a cry of John’s name from under the water, you watched with horror as the net descended onto you and your bloody wounds.

They drag you above waves and the first thing you do is thrash and wail so loud the seagulls shriek in surprise. There’s crimson staining the waters sloshing at you with combative ease, the violent storm from before now a light slapping at add to your fear. In the wake of open air, the curved spikes dig into your flesh as easily as a unicorn’s horn can penetrate a wyvern’s armor. Skin everywhere is assaulted and peeled to a tautness of bodily torture. 

Oh, and your precious tail. 

It hurt so badly, like nothing you had ever experienced before. 

“John!” You scream as your body strikes the side of the large ship, voice cutting out and leaving a bawling yell behind. Your form was being pulled by steady hoists and barked orders. 

All around you can hear laughing—joking. Loud exclamations of approval. 

You’re sure they’ve dislocated your tail right at the joint, how could they not have? The ream of their strong arms and ruthless greed. Oh, your tail, your precious, beautiful tail.

Long streams of salty tears fly down your dripping face; arms pushing the spikes away from your neck and face with futile action. The net and rope were your earthly graves. 

They slam you to the deck like a fish. 

Jerking and slapping around, your arms hit the wood with a bird-paced heart. The iron rattles and keeps you down like a weight. 

Brokenly gasping through loud cries, the sudden jeering faces from all around leave your fear all-consuming. 

They were ugly—broken teeth and sun-destroyed skin. Eyes that bugged and scars that could be from either a sword or a Strix’s claws. More than likely it was from meager squabbles with crewmates. But you balk back nonetheless, terrified and bleeding profusely. 

They were going to rip you to pieces. 

Inside your chest, your lungs are rising and falling quickly, and the hands that glide along your form make you want to burn your skin off. They grip at you, yanking you around as your hair gets caught in the gaps between the iron. With nail and tooth your bite and claw, but how many were there? Ten? Twenty? 

There’s uproar and more jokes as you fight back; body lifted and spikes torn out of skin as you arch your back and howl in agony. Their hands are not John’s. They don’t caress your smooth skin with reverence or holiness—this is cruelty. This is a sadistic pleasure. 

“Isn’t it our lucky day, Lads?!” A high and grating voice bellows out, and finally free of the net, all you can do is cry and flip your tail uselessly along the polished wood as they throw you down. Your vision blacks and slowly comes back—hair matted and skin slick with more than water.

It hurts to breathe too much. Whimpering, your cheek presses itself into the deck as footsteps take someone closer.

“Holy God, would ya look at that down there, eh? A true maiden of the sea,” A thunderous belt of achievement from everyone leaves you flinching, eyes tight shut to try and focus on anything but the excruciating way your skin throbs and gushes blood. “Though we’d have gotten all of them by now!” 

Haggard laughs and rotted smiles. 

A hand snaps to wrench your face upward, and you yowl and grasp at your head as your delicate strands go tight.

“Now who’s the little beauty we have here?” Whoever this man was, he had no standing on John. On your Fisherman. 

Loose skin and an age-rotted tunic, a belt at his waist holding a scabbard with a gold sword and twin pistols. He had only one eye—brown as a pile of mud—with a black eyepatch over the other. 

Your fluttering lashes took in a cracked-lipped grin of approval; whether at your battered appearance or the nature of your species, you knew not. But you didn’t like the way he was glancing at your tail as if it was made of gold one bit.

“Lords above, did ya have to be so brash, Lads?” Spittle slaps your face and you fight again with the hands in your locks to get away. The man’s hold jerks your face back and forth until you stop with bile building in your throat. “Wrecked her silky skin, you did!”

Being thrown back, your skull slams the deck before you hurl your guts in a sputtering of air and crimson. Many laugh and kick at your already broken scales. You grit your teeth and refuse to cry out.

“Get ‘er tied up and in the Hold for storage. If the scales are good enough, we’ll peel ‘em tomorrow.”

“Peel?!” Your face whips into a twisted glare, and pain leads to fast anger; wrath, even. The men grow gradually silent at your outburst and the leader comes to a slow stop—his back to you. “How dare you?” You gasp out, hands pushing your body slightly backward until the agony makes you stop with a lip-bitten whine. “How dare you do this to me? What have I done to you and your men? You’re nothing but senseless cowards who shy at something that lives its life differently! Am I only a pile of coin for you?!”

Your blood runs over the deck and seeps into the grain. Staining it with your memory and presence like a ghost that’s not yet dead. Loose scales shimmer and drip red. They were damaged and dull—your flesh was mangled. 

The leader turns back and smirks with blackened teeth. “More than a pile, Little Dearie. Far more. And if those hooks had been kinder, the King would have loved a beauty like you in his collection.” A look is slid down your body with a knowing chuckle.

He stalks off and you peel back your lips to say more, but a stained rag is shoved into your mouth instead, shutting up your rageful screeches and any hope of a peep of potent song despite not knowing these devils’ names.

By the time they chuck you in the Hold, body bouncing along the wood, and shut the hatch with a reverberation of wood, you had managed to rip someone’s ear clean off and break another’s arm; but there was only so much you could do. They had bound your hands behind you with a blow to your spine.

Curled up and longing for the sea, for John, you hold the only thing you have left. 

Silver discs on a chain, the metal smooth and the only thing now shining. You feel it hit your breastbone and sob as the headache of blood loss begins to set in. Laughter echoes from above your dark prison.

—

John saw the blood in the water before he saw the scales being pushed back and forth on the beach. Caught in that gentle push and pull now that the storm had ceased beyond a light drizzle—bright and reflecting the misty sun; far more vibrant than a fish or a sea serpent. But the blood. 

Christ, there was blood in the water. 

Blue eyes stare blankly at the sea-foam at the shoreline, red and bubbling, John’s pupils small and the lashes held back even as a salty breeze hits them with a burn. At his sides, his hands slowly close into fists. 

Jumping off the side of his ship, the man lands in thigh-deep water, gritting his teeth before he shoves his way to the sand and black rocks of land. He doesn’t know what drives his actions, or why he’s doing this, but with quick hands, he snatches up what scales he can find and keeps them in his palm; mind on fire. 

Anyone could see the fury in John’s gaze—a growing hatred for what was just beyond sight. When he has all he’s able to carry, he wades back through the water and gets himself back atop his boat easily with one hand. 

Walking quickly and soaked, he pushes aside a small cloth atop a barrel; seeing a gold box hidden under it. He opens it deftly, and while he puts the damaged and torn scales inside, John glances at the expensive and elegant twin cuff bracelets that sit in blue velvet. 

When he had been away buying them for you, he should have already been here. Wasted time.

I left her here alone. Knowing what could happen if I did. A growl bounces under his beard, face going red with anger. The two of you had quickly become enraptured with each other—drunk off flesh and touch like non-sentient animals. 

And something had taken place while he was away. You were gone, the fisherman knew. The water wasn’t as clear, the fish were terrified, and the blood alone proved this—the scales. This wasn’t an accident.

And it had something to do with that ship he’d seen on the horizon with his narrowed eyes not minutes prior. The Captain was slowly re-taking over the man.

“Fuck!” John curses, teeth bared as he spins and readies his sails. With violent pulls at the ropes, letting the mainsail shift down in a flurry of white sheets, he turns the vessel around in no time at all. It was as if Poseidon himself was pushing the ship forward to that small dot on the ocean line, far, far away. 

Deadly purpose bled into his heart, and the early afternoon sun forced him onward with hellfire following at his heels. He re-wraps his gift in the meantime, only taking a single scale from inside and putting it in a small pouch on his belt before walking to another barrel and pausing. This one was older, more sun-bleached. 

John deserted the service years ago, but not long enough to forget how the world of men can be. With a grunt on his thinned lips, the brunette rips the top off and grasps inside. 

With an experienced hand out came a sheathed Cutlass, the leather of the handle worn and indented to his very grip. It found a place on his belt, and John wasted no time in making the Flintlock pistol follow. 

A fisherman he may be, but in his blood John would always be a killer. He knew how to fight dirty and fight well—carve skin and not flinch at the sparks of gunpowder. There was no hesitation as to what he would do to get you back. 

In his chest, there was a weight of rage and concern as he glared at the far-off Hunter’s ship.

“What the hell have you done to her?” He growls, beard back and eyes narrowed. His hands clenched and unclenched with loathing. 

John’s thoughts go to the horror stories he’d heard about Merfolk and them getting caught in the open ocean, when he’d found you he had been surprised. He felt his heart beat faster when you were around, his blood would spike with love and affection. 

It was strange, unheard of, but he can’t stop it now that it’s happened. 

No one touched you with their cruel hands and lived. 

John didn’t like it, but he hung far enough away from the Hunter’s ship so that the cover of night hid him. Dark stars hung at his head, tunic blowing in the chilled breeze when the waves took him close enough—all was silent. Asleep. 

Lantern light slid along the waves, and with deft fingers, John anchored his ship with measured efficiency a small distance away. Looking over the side, the fisherman grunts under his breath and sets his shoulders. Without a single glance in hesitation, he slips silently off the deck into the water. 

Immediately, John kicks his legs and resurfaces with a puff from his nostrils, whipping his head to the side to dispel water. Making no sound, the man swims the distance between vessels, hearing the creak of the still and bulky form of the Hunter’s ship ten times his own sitting above him. 

“Fuckin’ bastards,” he grumbles to himself and thinks of your condition intensely. His heart hammers even in the clutches of the frigid waters. But beyond the insult, no other words needed to be spoken—the prior Captain was a man of action.

Violent Action.

John wades to the side of the wooden structure, the waves threatening to smash him tight into the hull and skin him against the barnacles, but he braces himself and grabs ahold of the knife at his belt, next to his cutlass. In his stupor to get to you quickly, he’d forgotten that his Flintlock would be completely useless now that it had been submerged in water. 

Grunting and trying to remain as quiet as possible, the man sets his blade into the side of the ship into the thin slits available. In his free hand, he takes up his cutlass and does the same. In a feat of impressive upper-body strength that leaves his muscles bunching and tensing—veins visible from the side of his neck—John huffs breaths as he climbs the ship one panel at a time. 

He groans and sends the blades back in at opposite intervals, the firm thunk-plunk, thunk-plunk, bouncing off the dark air as the moon shines bright. But no one awakens.

The Fisherman pulls himself up the side of the ship and swiftly ducts behind a pile of large crates on deck to gather himself, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” he mutters, “hold on just a little longer.” Duel wielding both weapons, narrowed eyes look across the open area—the stain of blood all along the wood. Glimmering in the low light catches John’s fiery gaze. 

Scales. Your scales. Littering the deck and scattered all over. 

If possible, the man becomes even more enraged, knuckles going white over his blades. The man stationed on deck was asleep across the way; leaning back and snoring. John locks eyes on him and hides back a vicious smirk. Quickly sneaking over and staying near the edge of the lantern’s lights, the ragged-looking man awakens to a blade at the base of his throat and a voice in his ear.

“The woman,” John speaks slowly and deeply, accent rolling out. The watchman tenses in his grip, but John grits his teeth and grits out, “Where the fuck is she?” 

“W-woman?” Usually, the brunette could paint himself a patient man, like a flag fluttering in a breeze waiting for the next bout of heavy winds without care or concern. But this was different. 

By God, if these pathetic fortune-seekers had hurt you even in the slightest bit…

John presses the blade harder to the man’s throat, thighs shifting in agitation, glaring at the far-off water beyond this stranger’s shoulder.

“The woman.” Blood falls down the blade edge, crimson. A tiny whimper. “The one that you stole away like an fucking animal.” 

“The fish?” The tone was incredulous but with a snarl the voice continues, whispering pitifully out in fear over the night’s silence. “She’s in the Hold! I swear it, Sir, on God’s green earth I do—”

John slits the man’s throat and takes his leave before the body drops, blood spraying into the air with a garbled cry.

—

You don’t sleep so much as you fall unconscious from the lack of blood. Inside your head, your brain is fuzzy and light—everything swirling like a jewel’s many faces reflected onto a wall. The rocking of the Hunter’s ship, while something you should be used and accustomed to, made you sick at times until only the watery bile that fell from your lips hit the wood. 

At some point, you’d given into the call of nothingness at the lack of seawater and the violent shivering of your shoulders. Your tail had gone completely numb. 

Everyone knew that Merfolk needed the sea to survive—you couldn’t live without feeling its loose arms around you for long periods, pulling you in and filling your airways. 

This was torture. 

But whoever was ripping up cloth at your limp side was muttering you back into the darkness of the Hold. 

“I’m right ‘ere, c’mon, Love. Open your bloody eyes.” Hands pressed to your face, tilting it and hissing before a thumb slid along the swollen skin of a cut. “I’ll rip them to pieces…mark my word. They’ll not live through this.” 

It sounded like…

Gripping at your binds and gag, both items slipped away right before the larger cuts on your body were suddenly packed with strips of rough material. Occasional whispers of words and curses wafted out. 

“...J-John?” Your voice is rough, shattered, but at the same time you manage to force open an eye. 

Tight blue eyes meet yours immediately, and his voice softens to a painful degree as he addresses you. “That’s it, atta girl. Just keep focusing on my voice, then, yeah? Come back to me, Sweetheart.” 

Tears well your ducts, lips quivering. 

John was curled over you and had ripped up the bottom of his tunic to make strips of bandages to try and stop the bleeding. He came for you, gruff voice and large frame, all.

“How are you—” Your voice breaks into body-shaking coughs, but that doesn't deter the man. He carefully puts a hand forward and tilts you into his arms; head resting on his chest. Your ears twitch to the sound of his heartbeat, loud and fast. You cling to it like a lifeline as those calluses graze your skin once more.

How was he here? 

“What have they fucking done?” John’s voice is dark and volatile, his hand stroking your matted hair. “What did they do?” 

He’s not so much asking you as he’s asking himself. You breathe in a wheeze, not noticing the crimson staining John’s clothes—none of it his or yours in the slightest. The other men on the ship weren’t the Fisherman’s priority, only you; always you. But whoever had been in his path had met the unfortunate end of being on the opposite side of his blade. 

When he’d found you like this….it was like his entire chest had fallen still. His eyes wide with horror and fear. 

John had never felt something that visceral before, except when you hadn’t been in your cove. 

“Oh, my Beauty.” Chapped lips press to your forehead, breathing you in as arms curl around you. “Let me bring you home.” 

You shake and cry silently into his neck, weak hands coming to grasp at his neck. 

“They’re going to take my tail.” 

“No,” John’s answer is immediate and firm, pulling you closer until you might slip into his skin. “No, they’re not doing a damn thing to you. I promise, Love, not a single person will ever touch you again, you hear?” 

You burrow into his neck, this fisherman’s flesh soft under your force. Hands keep you to him, and with another kiss on your cheek, they tighten and gently move you into the clutch of his arm. 

John looks down at you with great distress, eyes flickering over every sign of abuse and hurt. The men whose throats he’d slit in their sleep deserved to be awake and see the blade descending for their neck, he thought. 

“I’m going to lift you, Sweetheart, eh?” He grunts to push aside the hatred in his tone, not wanting to scare you. He gazes around the Hold and at the low ceiling—the insistent rocking from the waves just outside. 

You suck down greedy breaths and nod slightly, shaking in his arms. John’s eyes crease in sorrow but has no option but to continue; the both of you can’t be here when the remaining men wake or discover the bodies. 

Your Fisherman frowns but does what he’s able to both quickly and effectively lift you, your tail hanging limp and dripping blood from the fins. When you tense and whine, John shushes you quietly.

“Hush, now, it’s alright. It’ll all be over soon, I’ve got you. I’m taking you back home if it’s the last thing I damn-well do.” Your teeth grit with held-back pain, every movement was agony and to think made it worse. 

Home? Home wasn’t safe anymore. Like taking a knife to the heart, the thought makes the torment all the worse. 

John holds you in one arm, head under his ear and rubbing against his beard as his muscles strain to keep you right to him with his torn tunic and blood-freckled skin. In his free hand, he wields his Cutlass and exits the Hold slowly, eyes surveying the scene. 

The scores of bodies were only a fraction of the men of this ship—only one side of the crew’s quarters that ascended up to the deck. John knew the anatomy of a ship well, certainly one like this. 

His only question was why such an unsavory bunch was living on a King issued hunting vessel in perfect condition. Was the bastard hiring pirates for his extermination game?

“If I ever get my hands on him…” John shuts himself up as someone groans in their sleep from the far wall. 

He glares in the general direction and puts his body between yours and the straight direction that he walks—sword parallel to the ground and knife at his belt as a backup. Ready and wound for a fight. 

“You..you came for me?” You ask softly as John carries on, your blood leaving a crimson trail behind the two of you; your mind is loose to all except the way your Fisherman’s thumbs run circles in your rent scales, fingers gripping under your tail joint which aches and hurts. His bicep is curled at the small of your back. 

John carries you like you weigh nothing.

“‘Course,” the brunette's eyes slide to yours, true honesty and firmness behind his words. You flutter your lashes at the fatigue in your body and his feet speed up, speaking into your scalp and nuzzling his beard into you. “No one messes with my girl.” 

“I’m not a…girl, John,” you remind, softly.

The smirk on your head gives you strength, fear steadily draining like contaminated liquid.

“No,” he whispers, “no, not quite. You’re something far more lovely, aren’t you?”

Your heart swells, tears dripping down your cheeks once more before lips slide them away with brushes of a kiss. He carries you up the stairs quickly, sword at the ready. 

Lantern light makes you squint, hands tightening around John’s neck. 

He hums to you, a small melody that you can latch onto to help focus—it keeps your mind working as everything else falls away. John’s warm flesh and his lungs, the sound of his pulse. 

He came for you. No man would do that besides him—no specimen of any species. No one except John. 

Your Fisherman. 

You’re halfway to freedom, feeling the sea air on your flesh and longing for the depths of untouchable waves. You peek from John’s neck and blink delicately, what little scales still intact shimmering, and fins aching for water. 

“John,” he begins to pick up his pace, but still glances in attentive question. “I need to be in the water. I can’t go long without it.” You already felt a bit stronger by just being by the open sea. The man nods and you smile deeply, face twisted. You kiss his cheek deeply. “You have my thanks, Fisherman.” 

His tight expression gradually loosens with care and love. “Doubted me, then?”

“Perhaps only a little,” he kisses your lips, cheeky smiles peeling his beard. 

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eh?” The man’s face is lit by lanterns, stars like a crown above his head that illuminate the small scars and the sheen of sweat like a portrait of a good man. 

Perhaps humans were truly more magical than you had been taught to believe, for no mortal man would do this for anybody. 

In the midst of him carrying you over to the edge of the ship, he’s only three feet from the drop when the familiar sound of a Flintlock hammer being clicked back hits his ears. You feel John lock up, and your eyebrows crease in confusion; not common to the model of metal and wood. 

Looking over his shoulder, you strangle down a raspy gasp.

“John—”

“I know, Love.” He whispers, turning slowly with his sword at his hip. The stranger with the eyepatch has his weapon leveled with the brunette’s chest. “Easy, let me handle it. Keep focusing on me.”

“A thief in the night!” The leader calls, and alarm from below deck start to rise in question at the noise. John grits his teeth and his stance widens. “Thought to make off with my prize, did ya? I’ve not seen you before on this ship.”

“Hell,” John grits out, loudly now that he’s caught. You burrow deeper into him and he shields you, voice hot with rage. “Save me the fuckin’ monologue. She isn’t yours—to own or bloody take.” 

As he speaks he points his cutlass in the leader’s general direction, holding it aloft with a strong and pale arm. The leader smirks, and soon the pound of rushing feet enter the deck—men holding weapons and clubs. You make a noise of tension and John tries to shift you farther into his grip even more. 

Your tail hangs and brushes the deck, gaining some feeling back to it gradually. 

The leader laughs. “What that creature is, Mate, is enough gold for a whole moon’s time in rum and pleasure.” His single eye falls on you as the crew gets closer, crowding in and yelling. 

John shuffles back and snarls like a boar, pointing his sword’s tip from one chest to another. 

“Keep your bastard eye off of ‘er, you prick. Find your score elsewhere. She’s coming with me.” So sure he sounds that you yourself believe it. Your chest swims with pride.  

The crew closes in, but jumping at this stage was dangerous. The ones with firearms could aim in the water before you both could get away and John didn’t know if you could swim still. Your fins were torn and tail flinching with damaged nerves.

Eyepatch barks a vile laugh, “...I think he loves the beast!” John’s body winds even farther and your eyes slip to the side of his red face. He grunts stiffly, hair damp. Everyone follows in their amusement, mocking the two of you. “I knew that necklace around her neck meant something.” Your body stills and you glance down at John’s gifted silver. Blue eyes flash to the same, but as if suddenly realizing the nakedness of your top surrounded by such brutes, your Fisherman pushes on the back of your spine to shove your chest into his own with a panicked look. You grunt in surprise, but let him. “No greedy Mermaid would bother with a trinket like that! A piece of rubbish metal. It means something to her—and I’ll bet that something is you, Thief.” 

Me, greedy? Your eyes narrowed into slits. If you knew his name, you’d sing his death song in an instant. Your Fisherman’s face goes stiff, knowing the predicament the two of you were in. There was no way he was giving you up. 

But himself…

Tiny lids narrow on the arrogant leader.

“Do you trust me?” John whispers to you, suddenly, as all sides were surrounded and the water just as dangerous as the deck. 

Face creasing, you say, confused and worried, “Of course.” 

“...Then forgive me.” 

He throws you from the side of the deck, and whirs to run his blade through the nearest man. 

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