[doodlemancy]

hello fellow artists. google has fallen. pinterest/duckduckgo AI filters don't work. do not despair; here is a list i made of places to find reference images without having to sift through piles of worthless garbage. (for future editing convenience i am just linking my blog post on dreamwidth.)

✨ good places to find art reference that are not full of AI trash 🌈

[interact-if]

You can find all of the submissions for the Fantasy Interactive Fiction category down below!

(Not listed in any particular order—top games in each category coming soon)

Ongoing

A Thin Line Between Desires by @theostwistedtales

The Gray Ascendancy by @thegrayascendancy-if

The Sword of Rhivenia by @theswordofrhivenia 

The Marked by @peonyb

The Lost Bride by @thelostbride-if

The Midnight Bay @midnight-bay-if

A Tale of Crowns by @ataleofcrowns

Stygian Sun: Total Eclipse  @stygiansun-totaleclipse

Wayfarer by @idrellegames

Shepherds of Haven  by @shepherds-of-haven

Cantata by @fir-fireweed

When Twilight Strikes  by @evertidings

The Lonely Shore by @thelonelyshore-if

God-Cursed by  @wings-of-ink

The Bastard of Camelot by @llamagirl28

Crown of Exile by @ramonag-if

Misplaced by @calliopefiction

Wolfsbane by @wolfsbane-if

Pactbinder by @pactbinder-if (mentioned in action/adventure)  

The Nameless by @parkerlyn

Tales of Wocdes: The Silver Protector  by @tales-of-wocdes

Small Fires by @smallfires-if

The Exile (also mentioned in action/adventure) by @exilethegame

Speaker  by  @speakergame

Pro Patria Mori by @pro-patria-mori-if

Kindling  by @kindlingif

Island of Whispers  by @islandwhispers-if

Anything for the Crown  by @anything4thecrown-if

Guardian of Time by @guardian-of-time-if

Crown of Ashes and Flames by @coeluvr  

The Sovereign’s Ring  by @thesovereignsring-if

Garden of Bones  by @gardenofbones-if

The Pretenders Guild  by @thepretendersguild

The King’s Hound by @kal-down  

Golden Ashes* (Demo unavailable—currently being rewritten) by @goldenashes-if

Skin & Scales by @skinandscales-if 

Honor Amongst Thieves (also mentioned in action/adventure) by @leoneliterary

The Rot of Witchwood by @rotting-ink

Venturis by @venturis-if

Ashenmaw - Dragons of Marrowoods by @ashenmaw-if

The Well of The Divine by @well-of-divine-if

Chains of Destiny by @chains-of-destiny

RPG in Another World  (also mentioned in action/adventure) by @drowsyruigames

Burning Academia by @burning-academia-if

The Abyssal by @theabyssal

The Ballad of the Young Gods by  @childrenofcain-if

Softly, Opulent by @softlyopulent-if

The Eternal Library  by @leiatalon

Hyperion by @hyperion-if

God Syndicate by @god-syndicate-if

Forever Gold by @lsdoiphin

The Abyssal Song by @ri-writes-if

Bladeweaver by @bladeweaver-if

The Brightest Stars by @brighteststars-if

Summoners Return by @king-of-fae

The Bonewitch by @thebonewitch-if

The Iron King’s Heir by @ironkingsheir-if

Fellow Traveler (urban modern fantasy) by @robotvampire

Thicker Than  (modern supernatural) by @barbwritesstuff

Wolf Set Free (modern supernatural) by @wolfsetfree-if

Sanguine Sky (dark fantasy) by @sanguinesky-if

Bride of Shadows (dark fantasy) by @mortish-writes

Weeping Gods by @jcollinswrites

Completed

A Mage Reborn: Book One by @mage-parivir (sequel in the works)

Love the Guard, Be The King by @ligiawrites

The Night Market Book One by @night-market-if (sequel in the works)

Lovewood by @lovewoodvn

Arcadie: Second Born by @sofia-d-asb (sequel in the works)

The Second Sight: Dead Reckoning by @spoiledblogif (sequel in the works)

Choice of Rebels: Uprising (sequel in the works) by Joel Havenstone

The Wayhaven Chronicles (book 1-3 completed, book 4 is in the works) by @seraphinitegames

Their Majesties' Pleasure by @leiatalon

Ink and Intrigue by @leiatalon

Hearts in Hades: Divine Passion by Lidia Molina Whyte

NonPlatonic Forms by @alexis-royce

The Case of the Serialized Killer by @alexis-royce

Blood Moon (supernatural/modern supernatural) by @barbwritesstuff

Fields of Asphodel (sequel in the works) by @chrysanthemumgames

The compiling was done by a small team, so do bear with us if you spot any errors! You can DM us or leave a comment to let us know!

[greedysadistdaddi]

This blog is anti chatgpt and pro breeding kink without the pregnancy part

[shamebats]

[revcleo]

[hysterical-random-things]

So as my followers might be aware both my cats Oreo and Nugget had to be hospitalized on Saturday for acute liver toxicity. We aren't sure what caused it as they weren't exposed to any obvious toxins but to be safe we got rid of all their food and replaced it. Nugget is doing better and is now home however Oreo is still hospitalized. I love my babies and would do anything for them but i won't lie and say this wasn't a major financial hit,. My parents are helping, but the vet bill is going to top out over 10k, and we don't really have that money lying around.

So to make a long story short i'm opening up Emergency commissions as seen above. Bust sized icons with light shading and simple background. I might be a bit slow to work on them as i am still going back and forth from here and the vet hospital daily and am very stressed, but any help would be appreciated.

If you are interested in purchasing them you can here.

And of course if you have any money to spare and just want to share it I would be endlessly thankful.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

remember that when it comes to fanfics, two cakes is always better then one. the more the merrier!

[onixiage]

the circus darlings!!! molly and yasha 5ever

[chamiryokuroi]

MEXICO WIN!!! FUCK AI!!!

[lastoneout]

[mudwerks]

AI industry horrified to face largest copyright class action ever certified

Copyright class actions could financially ruin AI industry, trade groups say.

AI industry groups are urging an appeals court to block what they say is the largest copyright class action ever certified. They’ve warned that a single lawsuit raised by three authors over Anthropic’s AI training now threatens to “financially ruin” the entire AI industry if up to 7 million claimants end up joining the litigation and forcing a settlement.

well…darn

[flippyspoon]

like to charge reblog to cast financial ruin of the AI industry 🔮

[novella-november]

originally posted August 8th, 2025.

Authors have until March 30th, 2026 (That is just 9 days as of this reblog, which I am posting on March 21st, 2026) to file their claim against Anthropic to be reimbursed up to $3,000 per work found in the list.

What Authors Need to Know About the $1.5 Billion Anthropic Settlement

Updated February 18, 2026 IMPORTANT: The Claims Deadline Is March 30 Background  Bartz v. Anthropic is one of the major copyright lawsuits b

Please click the above link for all of the exact details of how to file a claim and to check for your works, and share this post as far and wide as you can before March 30th, 2026!

[shi1498912]

!!!SIGNAL BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOST!!!

[jumpscart]

A Slim Book, You Say?

[calware]

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

Where Does the Heart Lie, Act 1 Chapter 9:

Why So Cold…

That’ll have to do for now…

{Start}

{Prev

Next}

MasterPost}

This was a lovely chapter to color :) so quiet and dark… comfortable but cold…

Every like = one kiss i bestow upon their forehead

Every reblog = one additional tuck into bed.

Haha Just Kidding. I would’ve done all the kisses and bed tucks regardless. Cuz i wuv them uwu.

[luveline]

hi, i have a request for hotch if that's okay with you :)

when they're on the jet, yn is smiling a lot at her phone so the team starts to tease her because the think that she has a mysterious boyfriend. and she does, but he's sitting right next to her and he's also wondering who's making her smile like that since it's clearly not him

tysm!

Hotch is trying hard to award you your privacy, but your smile makes it difficult. You're actually squared away from him despite sitting in the seat beside him of your own free will, your phone to your chest, a huge smile curved across your cute mouth. 'Cute mouth', Hotch thinks to himself with derision. He's thoroughly whipped for you. It might not work out. 

You've been secretive and strange on your phone for an hour now. With nothing left to do but wait for the jet to touch down, you can watch whatever or text whenever you want. Hotch just wishes it wasn't so distracting. Who are you texting? He feels ill. 

"Who's that?" 

The dam finally breaks. As soon as Morgan asks, Emily pipes up, "Yeah, who is it?" as Rossi laughs and declares, "I know that look. Young Y/N's in love." 

You side eye Hotch. "Workplace harassment," you say. 

"Who is it?" Hotch asks. 

You gawp but laugh at his unprofessional questioning, pressing your phone screen tight to your chest. "Hotch, it's–" 

"Your not-so-secret boyfriend? Come on, we all know you have one," Morgan says. 

"I know you know, you're like sharks," you say, giving them all a great long look. 

For weeks now, you've glowed. This overzealous smiling and laughing is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Your nosy coworkers can't hold back their curiosity any longer. Hotch was stupid enough to think that your secretive dates and nights spent curled in on one another might be the reason behind your new hopped up sprightliness, but apparently not. 

"So you admit it!" Emily cheers. 

"Maybe. But it's not what's happening on my phone." 

"Well, what is it?" Spencer asks. 

They've leaned in on you, a circle of eager faces. Your sudden decision to admit you —maybe— have a boyfriend is as much as anyone's gotten out of you in weeks. If anyone could tease the truth from you, of course it's Hotch, and so the team looks to their leader pleadingly. 

He's not sure he wants to know. "They won't leave you alone otherwise," he says, hoping that his expression shows his leniency. Your secrets are your own if you want to keep them. 

You smile at him. Again, he thinks you have a cute mouth, and that he's biassed but you definitely smile sweeter at him than anyone else. You and Hotch know something the others don't, amusement like light behind your irises. "I'll show you," you say smugly, "and only you, Hotch." 

"Typical," Morgan murmurs, sitting back on the couch. 

Hotch clenches his sweaty palms beneath the table. "Alright." 

You lean in against his shoulder. Your phone turns on, and he's taking deep breaths as you click to your photo app, and then an album labelled with a simple, '<3'. 

It's photos of him. Most he knows you took, sitting across from you in dark restaurants or kneeling in your apartment putting together a new set of drawers. Your giggles begin in earnest as you swipe through them to a more recent photograph. You couldn't have taken it more than a week ago, when he'd stayed the night with you by accident, too tired to leave. His face is slack in sleep. He realises it's a video when you click a button and the sound of crinkling fabric plays from your speaker. In the video, you unbutton the tight collar of his shirt, stroking his neck briefly with a loving knuckle. The video moves down to frame his arm, his hand clinging to your other one like a sucker. 

Hotch looks up from the video and blinks at you. Your hand on his sleeping neck, the sound of your tired laughter —he can't not smile. "Oh. That's…"

"What did you show him?" Morgan asks, his voice coloured with both amusement and frustration. The team echo his question.

"I can't kiss and tell," you say, still tucked up by his side. 

"I think it's best if you don't, L/N," Hotch agrees. 

He'd lose all credibility. 

[luveline]

how about clark being clingy with his gf?

thank you for requesting ‎★ fem, 1k

“What are you gonna do today?” Clark asks. 

Not wanting to sound horrendously lazy and or like a giant loser, you tip your head back in the pillow and think. “Well, I guess there’s laundry to do. I need to wash my clothes for work, and you have a bunch of white socks that are collecting at the bottom of the basket, like a mountain. Then I could go get some groceries,” —Clark eats like he’s trying to gain weight but never does— “and maybe take your watch to get fixed, the jeweller’s is right next to the market. They could probably fix it before I finish getting groceries. And then, I don’t know. I could go to the gym? Or, at least do something.”

Clark makes a long groaning sound of disgust, though it’s fond, which is strange but evidence that you’re in love with him enough to be able to hear the difference. “You could do none of those things. I’ll do your laundry and my own. I’ll get the groceries, and fix my own watch, and you could stay here in bed where you deserve to be, resting.”

“You just asked me what I was gonna do today?” 

“I was hoping you’d say, ‘stay here in bed with my boyfriend so he can hold me, and lavish me with breakfast in bed.’”

“You couldn’t have interrupted me sooner?” you ask. You’d just spelled the whole day out. “Besides, it’s not your week. Laundry is my chore this week. You gotta do the dishes.”

“I will do both,” he says, like he’s trying to convince you. 

“Not fair.”

“You cleaned the bathroom yesterday when it was my turn, so it’s your fault I have to make things equal.”

“You left it in a mess,” you say. 

Clark uses his body to encourage you onto your side, your back to his chest, your legs a tangle as his arm slings over your shoulder, cuddling you with his face pressed to the back of your neck. “I’m sorry,” he says against your skin, “I wouldn’t have left it all night.” 

“I know.” 

“Sorry, honey.” He kisses you slowly, chastely, at the very nape of your neck. 

“It’s fine, I don’t care, it’s–” Obviously if he did it all the time it would be a problem, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t need you to explain that to him. Not that you’d even want to. “Clark, shut up about the bathroom.”

He tips himself over your further, more cuddling, warm as a blanket with a comforting weight to it as his arm curls around you and bunches you up, encouraging your weight further across the bed to accommodate him. “Okay,” he says, sounding very happy to be spoken to in such a way. “I’m doing laundry, and you’re watching TV. Good talk.”

You’d laugh, but you’re distracted by the smell of him on top of you. Clark relaxes so heartily that he’s basically pushing you off of the bed, now, draped over you. He’s squishing you. You stick your head out of his embrace and turn enough to force his eye. 

“Clark, baby,” you say, offering your softest look, “you’re squishing me.”

“Oh, gosh, sorry,” he says, shuffling back. 

You take the opportunity to turn in toward him, your leg going over his thigh, arm over his side. Clark grasps your hip as though you need help to get comfortable, unnecessary and achingly nice of him. Worse when you lift yourself up some to move your arm and he slides his own beneath you to take your weight. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

“There’s really nothing else I’d rather be doing,” Clark says, his eyes a stormier shade of blue than usual in the dim lighting of your curtained bedroom. The February sun tries its hardest to find you between the cracks, little stripes of gold breaking through to kiss across Clark’s pale chest and arms. 

You rub at his bicep, feeling the skin warmed beneath each sluggish ray of sun. 

“We can’t do nothing today,” you reproach softly. “If we don’t keep up this weekend, we won’t get any time to ourselves next weekend.” 

“I can keep up. You know I’m fast.”

“You can’t super speed your way through the laundry.”

“Baby,” he says, reaching to hold you by the neck, his thumb brushing along your jaw, “I promise that anything we would have done today, when we’re together, I will get done tomorrow. Okay? I just want it to be about us, just me and you. Just one day for us. Do you believe me?”

“That you’ll do everything?”

“Yeah.”

When Clark promises, he doesn’t tend to break them. You tilt your face down to chase his touch, letting him caress the plush of your lips with his thumb, the breadth of it, and finding you’d rather not speak and make him stop. You nod twice. 

“Yeah?” he asks, framing your face in his hand. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, “okay. Today’s for being with you.”

He beams and gathers you even tighter to his chest, twisting around until you’re lying right on top of him. 

“What the hell is going on?” you mumble. 

Clark kisses your cheek, your nose, and the corner of your eye before hooking his chin above your head. You press your own kiss to the mildly scratchy side of his neck. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his cadence so soft it borders inaudible, as though your minor annoyance at being moved around is the worst of all ailments. 

You’d feel sorry for him if you weren’t so in love with him. At least his affections can find a mirror in you, and your soft sorriness as you work your way up his chest to kiss his cheek. “Nothing, baby. ‘M just tired.”

[luveline]

clark request! maybe an insecure!reader branches out and buys cute underwear to try on for clark... can be fluffy Or smut! your choice my queen!!!!!!!!! 🫶🏻

thank you for requesting! ‎★ fem, 2.1k cw suggestive themes

The noise Clark makes when he sees you is a shriek, but that’s getting ahead of things. 

There are many wonderful aspects to having a boyfriend. Being doted on, kissed and hugged and cared for, it’s all worth the awkwardness of being known. But! That does not mean the awkwardness is no longer awkward. It’s borderline painful. 

It starts one night (or, another night, down the line, when Clark has already complimented your slight plain panties with little adornment) laying in bed beside him. You’re wondering if Clark would want to fuck you and if there is a less strange way to ask then how you’d proposed it the last time you wanted him with a whispered question. He’d very obviously been into it, but you’re not stupid to the world of sex, only shy —there are subtler methods of seduction that you and Clark can enjoy together. Clark himself can be terribly seductive, usually by turning a small kiss into a better one, or occasionally suggesting ways to warm you up that don’t involve clothes after showers. He’s always charming, and kind, and surprisingly dirty-mouthed in murmurs (though he never calls you anything worse than perfect, and he doesn’t cuss). You are gosh darn gorgeous in his lap. 

The spurring thought isn’t particularly sophisticated. Clark’s stretched out beside you with his shirt riding up and his sweatpants low on one hip and he looks sexy. That’s all it is. He’s hot, and he isn’t putting a ton of effort in, but you know that the underwear he’s wearing beneath his sweatpants are expensive and fit him well. He takes care to look good. 

You think about your white plain panties, and begin to debate how you can make him think like this about you. You know Clark finds you beautiful, if not for how often he tells you, then the simple basics of a relationship. 

Clark could have anyone and he chose you, so you’re not not beautiful in his eyes. But you probably aren’t sexy. And you realise that, despite the little trip of nerves at the idea, you’d like to be. Maybe you can present yourself to Clark in something nice for once to wind him up. 

Maybe you can pull this off.

You spend time with your heart in your mouth at Victoria’s Secret. Clark calls you while you’re there having just gotten out of work. He likes to know where you are, only to know, for mild peace of mind and the curiosity that comes with loving someone. It’s alright. You like knowing where he is, too. 

“Where are you?” he asks warmly.

“Did you call me earlier?”

“Yeah, I was thinking about you. It’s alright, I didn’t have anything important to say, I was just stealing a break.”

“Oh, okay, good. I’m at the mall. King’s Arcade. Just… clothes shopping.” 

“Great, can I come meet you?”

You squeeze the phone, turning away from the lingerie you’d been eyeing in a rush as though Clark will catch you immediately. “Sure,” you say, slightly breathless, “how far are you? I can come meet you at the front?”

“No, don’t worry about that, I’ll come find you, I’m like five minutes out. What store are you in?”

You turn back to the polka dot panties with the lettuce hem and the tiny black bow and its matching bra decisively. There’s a Bath and Body Works right next door. “By the candle shop,” you say, snagging the panties in your size. Baby steps. 

You pay for the panties and shove them with the receipt in your bag as Clark turns the corner. 

He squeezes your hand in hello. Asks if you’re thirsty and buys you a drink. Then you sort of follow one another around for a bit until Clark spies your lack of clothes and encourages you into a store with your style in the front window. 

Could he get any more perfect? (Yes! He pays for the two things you picked up, swiping his card before you can get yours out of your purse like he’d been waiting with it between his fingers.) You flush all over thinking he’s seen the panties in your rush to get your purse out and ruin his plans, which doesn’t help. 

“I’m sorry if I undermined your independence, but you have to let me pay for you sometimes. It’s more for me than it is for you,” he says, having noticed your displeasure, your joined hands swinging gently. 

“You didn’t undermine my independence, Clark.”

“Is that sass? Are you sassing me?”

You recognise his teasing as something that could spiral out of your control and try to duck away, but Clark pulls you right back in. 

“You’re being mean to me,” he says into your cheek. 

“You’re mean to me!”

“I’m not trying to be!”

Giggly and content, you make your way out of the mall, the short walk to his apartment becoming dawdlingly long. You’re tired as you shuck out of your shoes. Clark palms briefly at your back before throwing himself ahead. “I’ll make dinner,” he says.

So he does. You eat dinner with your heel pressed to the top of his foot, and share an ice cream for dessert from the same bowl with two spoons. 

You shower first. Clark kisses your cheek when you return to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, eager for his own, and leaves you with pajamas he’s laid out including a simple pair of pink panties and a soft bralette for sleeping. Just a suggestion, never expected, which is good. You swap the panties out for your new polka dot ones and get dressed, fix your hair, laid up at the top of the bed scrolling down your phone by the time Clark comes in dripping wet. He sits down on the end of the bed, taking the towel from around his shoulders to scrub at his curls. 

Even his back is rippled with muscle, the skin tight as he leans forwards. 

Okay. So. Your seduction was mainly panties-based and you’re not sure how to show Clark that they’re new without initiating. The point was that he’d see your new panties and the effort you’re making and start salivating in a more casual situation. You should’ve waited to get dressed until he was in the room, but it’s too late now. 

Clark tips backwards, his hair hanging in wet, dark coils behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“I had a funny feeling about you.” 

Or he’s using his super senses for personal gain. “I’m fine, just thinking.”

“Yeah?” he asks. 

You shuffle down the bed to be closer. “I had this idea…”

Clark spots your timidity a mile out. Usually he’d reach to comfort you, but perhaps there’s more in what you’re not saying, because he bites down a smile that’s surprisingly amorous. Maybe he’s just wires-crossed, what with his lack of pants. “What was your idea?” he asks quietly. 

What to tell him? You nibble the inside of your lip. 

“It’s okay, you can tell me,” he says. 

“It’s not working out how I imagined.”

Clark’s eyes go wide. “What’s not working out? Me and you?”

“No.” You smile at him, then shrug diffidently. “I was trying to be cute, I guess, but I didn’t–”

“Sweetheart, you are adorable,” Clark says, twisting so you can see the defined ridge of every abdominal muscle, better to see you, and better to look at him. 

Your mouth goes dry. All you can think of is how you want him to see your new panties, and instead you’ve trapped him in reassurances. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, grabbing your knee. “You don’t have to try to be cute, you’re already the cutest girl I know.” 

Well, cute was a cop out. Saying sexy out loud felt silly in the moment. This is the messiest of messes. 

You let your head hang, defeated. Morose. “Thank you, Clark.”

You are kissed and cuddled, left dampened by his wet hair. 

You aren’t brave enough to ask Clark to watch you strip, nor are you eager to stand in the middle of the room and do it. The panties feel soft but too warm all night, every shift a pull of elastic against your skin. You’re a little wet and a lot warm, wanting Clark but not knowing how to ask, and he’s so worried about your self esteem that he doesn’t try to kiss you long enough to let you respond and prompt any action. 

It gets to the point where you’re thinking a white lie is in order. You let your heart calm down, and then you get out of bed pretending that you’re gonna turn up his AC. “If that’s okay?”

Your asking helps trick poor Clark. “Obviously you can,” he says, frowning at you where you linger by the door. “You don’t have to ask stuff like that, baby, just go ahead and do it. This is your place too.”

It’s really not, but you like how he says it like he believes it, offering him a bright smile. You practically skip to his thermostat and mess with things, then shuffle back far more calmly, stopping again in the door. 

Clark lays against two plush pillows, sheets down, t-shirt ridden up to show his abs again, like he’s trying to drive you crazy. He turns his head against the pillow, brow nearly quizzical at your hesitation. 

“What?”

“It’s so hot, do you– am I weird if I strip down?” 

Clark sighs, pained again. “What did I just say? This is your place, as good as. Treat it like your own home.” 

You take your shirt off first, meandering toward the bed, then pause to shuck it on the bed. Clark picks it up and folds it, but you can see him slowing in your peripherals as you hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants and bring them down your thighs. You bend to grab them, but then you have nothing to hide behind, dropping them on the bed and climbing back where you’d been, legs up and knees pressed together. 

This is when Clark shrieks. 

It’s like– quite girly. You imagine he’d make a similar noise when winning the lottery. Multiple lotteries. 

“Baby, what are you wearing?” he asks. “Oh my gosh!” 

He sounds so, so happy, you are immediately hot from top to toe. “What?” you ask, failing to maintain even a semblance of calm. 

“Can I see?” he asks, gentling. “Please?”

You let your legs fall flat without rush nor reluctance. 

Clark peers down at you like this is deathly important. 

“They are so– you’re so sweet, look at those, you’re so pretty,” he breathes. “When did you get these? I’ve never seen them.”

“Uh. Today, actually.”

“Yeah?” Clark goes to touch you, then hesitates. “Can I?” he asks. 

“Of course you can, Clark,” you say, trying not to fall into whispers, “this is your place.”

He grasps the curve of your hip and the silky fabric of your new panties, pressing it down to see the front of you, the bump of your cunt hugged by softness, better displaying the polka dot pattern and the lettuce edged hemming that kisses your inner thighs and tummy. 

“I’d say something about your joke if there was enough blood left in my brain,” he says, then blanches, “I mean– darn, you’re so pretty, I’m being too much, I’m sorry.”

“I got them for you. Wore them for you. It’s okay if you like them.”

Clark Kent looks close to tears. 

“I love them,” he says, “you are the most beautiful thing, and this is–” He swallows. Shakes his head. Maybe Clark’s laying it on thick, but if he is, you like it. “This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. You really got them for me?”

You turn toward him slowly, letting your leg fall onto the other, and covering his hand with yours to press slowly to the apex of your thighs. “I got them for you,” you confirm. Your heart races, but your voice doesn’t tremble. You’ve wanted him to touch you for hours. “Something fun.”

Clark feels the warmth there under his fingers and closes his eyes, groaning quietly, right from the depths of his chest. “You’re gonna kill me,” he says. 

You move very gently against his hand. “Please don’t die right now.”

His eyes flutter open, pupils like dimes and a pretty pink flush spotting up his neck. “I almost don’t wanna take you out of them.”

“You could pull them to the side?” you whisper. “I mean– if that’s– you know, if that’s not weird.”

Clark pulls you in for a kiss before he can make any more agonised sounds, the rush of his deep sigh slipping into your mouth as he widens the kiss, his tongue a sudden heat.

[luveline]

i thought it would be quite cute if our mer girl met a dog or a kitty for the first time! i think she’d be hesitant at first but Steve would reassure her it’s okay and then she’d adore them so much !! Hope this is ok i just randomly thought of it, please don’t feel pressured to write it xx

beyond the sea au | fem, 1.1k

“This is Tews,” Dustin says. “Or Mews the II, depending on who you ask.”

You sniffle from your place buried under Steve’s blankets and his grandma’s lumpy, lovely quilt. It smells better than anything you’ve encountered in the human world thus far. 

Dustin has brought you a strange creature. It makes a cute sound when Dustin puts it down on the bed. It’s roughly the size of a flounder fry but covered in soft fuzz, and it slinks up the blankets toward you with its sniffing nose. 

“She is nice and nice,” Dustin continues, looking cuter than the animal with his cap pushed down over tight curls, in a sweatshirt that says Eureka! whatever that means. “So nice. She doesn’t bite or scratch, I swear. She likes when you pet her back.”

You know that ‘back’ is one of those dreaded two-definition words that make no sense. Your language also has words with multiple definitions, but they all make perfect sense. These are random. ‘Back’ means to go backwards or the flat plane of skin leading from neck to butt. When Steve says his ‘back’ hurts, he means the bones. 

You eye the new creature distrustfully. 

“What is it?” you ask, wrinkling your nose. 

“She’s a cat! They’re like tigers, but smaller.”

“Not know ‘tiger’.”

Dustin hums. “Yeah, I guess you don’t.” 

The cat comes up to you, over your tummy and onto your chest, sniffing, its whiskers bobbing as it worms up to your face and rubs a wet nose into your chin. 

You laugh without meaning to, senseless, a little dizzy from the cough medicine Steve’s been making you take twice a day while this ‘cold’ ravages your body. You’re literally dying and all Steve has to offer is this awful chemically syrup, nothing at all like the stuff he puts on pancakes. Well, that and heavy kisses. They make you feel much better. 

The cat purrs like a nurse shark and lays herself down at your neck, her golden fur shoved in your mouth unnecessarily. It tickles. You fight back a sneeze. 

“Dude,” Steve says. He has appeared from the stairway like a beautiful apparition, all tan skin and freckles ready to save your life. “Get the cat out of her face.”

“She’s sensing that she’s sick, Steve, she’s gonna cheer her up.”

“She’ll be happier without fleas.”

“Tews is clean!” 

Steve puts your promised mug of hot chocolate on the beside table and rests his hand, still warm, on your forehead. “Is she bothering you?” 

“Bother me?”

Steve scrunches his face up in annoyance. “Bother. Annoy. Make you mad.”

“Um, no. She is… soft.”

“She is.”

“She is eat me.”

“She’s not gonna bite you,” he says with a laugh, taking your hand from the blankets and curving it around. “Look, you pet her like this,” —he drags your hand down the cat's back, pulls it back up, drags it down again— “gentle, because cats get kind of sensitive.”

“Not eat me,” you whisper to the cat. 

She makes her noise again, far louder than before. 

“What sound?” you ask. 

“She’s meowing. It’s a ‘meow’. They do it when they’re happy, or if she wants something.”

You make your own meow. Dustin shrieks with laughter. “Dude, that’s so lifelike!” 

Steve pulls the cat into one of his arms with a care that makes him even hotter than he’d been before. He gets the other around you, helps you into a seated position, and places the cat in your lap. “Okay?” he asks, taking your hot chocolate from the bedside table to encourage into your hand. 

Tews rubs her face in your tummy and purrs as you attempt to pet her like Steve showed you. 

“Oh. She is nice,” you say approvingly. 

“Are you ready for your lesson now?” Dustin asks. “Today I think we should learn about radio waves.”

“Dude. English. You’re teaching her English.”

“Yeah, and she needs to know what stuff does so she can have the words in context, dude, it’s in Robin’s lesson plan.” 

Your English lesson about radio waves and communication is very confusing, but it probably doesn’t help that your head’s pounding, the cat keeps bumping your hand with her head when you stop stroking her fuzzy back, and Steve sits in because he’s worried you’re going to ‘overheat’, which means you’re too busy leaning your face in his arm and thinking about cuddling to really care how you pronounce ‘radiation’. 

“Steve?” you mumble, ignoring Dustin as he packs up the whiteboard pens into a case, and his attention-seeking cat where she noses your wrist. 

“What?”

“Have cat?”

“You like her?”

She’s good company, this little creature. “Soft.”

“Maybe some day. For now, we can just borrow Dustin’s.”

You pillow your head on his shoulder, letting your eyes flutter shut, wiped after all the English practice and sitting up. You desire very much to be in your sea without all these human ailments, but leaving Steve sounds about as fun as getting your tailfin trapped in a clam’s mouth. 

He rests his head atop yours. “Proud of you,” he says. 

You’d ask him what ‘proud’ meant if you weren’t distracted by the warm breath of the creature on your wrist, and then a horrible scagging sensation like whetstone. You jump hard. Steve shouts before you can register the pain at the back of your head. “Oh, ow!” you say, flinching away from the cat trying to eat you and Steve’s mean nose. 

“Sorry!” he says, groaning. “Jesus. Fuck. What was that, baby?” 

“Cat eat me try!” you say, watching Tews in fear as she curls herself into a ball at the end of the bed, away from your fuss. 

Dustin pokes his head up from his place on the floor. “She licked you, huh? That means she likes you.”

“Have ow mouth!” you protest.

“Her tongue is scratchy,” Dustin says. “It’s to help her stay clean.”

“She was eating you,” Steve says, rubbing at the bridge of his perfect nose, that has now gone a strange red. You haven’t said anything to make him blush yet. 

“Mean cat,” you say. “Scratch. Ow.”

Steve squints through his pain and takes your wrist to inspect for injury. “Oh, no,” he laments, rubbing at your pulse gently, apologetically. 

It is not so bad, actually, but Steve’s sympathy makes you a worse attention seeker than the cat. “Eugh,” you say. 

He pulls your wrist to his chest. Dustin rolls his eyes. 

[luveline]

what would happen if mer caught a cold? has she ever had the sniffles before? maybe she’s very reluctant to take her medicine and steve’s got to sweeten the deal for her 🐙

beyond the sea au | fem, 2.2k

Mermaids do not often experience human colds, apparently. 

“I’ve never had one,” Dariyay says, right at home on the couch with a bowl of crab sticks warm from the oven in her lap. “Weak body. Because she has not changed!”

“Dariyay, can you not?” Steve asks. 

It hasn’t taken long for your sister to make herself a fixture in the Harrington house. In fact, it’s been less than a week, but she’s spent it diligently getting acquainted with Steve’s hospitality, human-made seafood, and a certain metalhead nuisance. Her hair spills over the back of the couch’s armrest to kiss the floor next to Eddie’s thigh.

“I not want change now, Dari,” you whine, bunched up in the two-seater with a cold flannel held over your warm head. “Feel bad too much.” 

“If you feel bad enough, you only have to get in the pool and it’ll do it all by itself,” she says. 

At her side on the floor, his mouth pursed with thought, Eddie strums the strings of his acoustic guitar. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better, angel.” 

“Not feel better,” you say, searching for Steve’s eye over everyone else. “Tell them, Steve. Please. Not want.”

“If she doesn’t want to change yet, she doesn’t have to, and she’s right, she already feels shitty.” Steve pulls the dish towel off of his shoulder and ferries to you, leaning down to wipe the wetness from the side of your face where your wash cloth has dripped. “Not like the company’s helping,” he adds. 

“I’m playing relaxing stuff,” Eddie says. 

“You’re sniffing around,” Steve says. 

Eddie laughs, then coughs. “Hey, I resent that! If these beautiful women require my musical talents, who am I to deprive them?”

“Play the moon,” you demand. 

Eddie begins a plucking rendition of The Whole of the Moon for the tenth time today. He’s wearing his more impressive garb fit for when he had reason to want to look smart, a ragged jacket and a denim vest overtop (a reimagined homage to his original battle vest), jeans with rips that are purposeful rather than gaping, and his brightest whitest sneakers. Steve is relieved that Eddie hadn’t put so much effort in when it was you alone taking refuge in the house; Eddie had the decorum consciously or otherwise to mind his manners when it came to you, considering Steve was obviously, and irreversibly dialled into you and whatever being yours would entail. 

You sink deeper into yourself as Eddie plays. Your brow is screwed up from what might be your first ever headache, but your lips are twitchy, smiling despite the pain. Steve knew asking Eddie to come cheer you up would work, because you haven’t laughed all day and you love music more than his shit jokes. He would’ve preferred to have managed it alone, but Eddie would’ve come snooping sooner or later. He’s been pretty obvious about how cool he finds the actual real-life mermaids having doubled their numbers. Steve would find it pretty cool if he could forget his fear —how amazing it is that there’s more to the world than just humans and the Upside Down’s freakshow of evil. How he can’t enjoy the thought, because your homecoming has been on his mind since the moment Dariyay wrangled you out of the mall. 

Your symptoms are all signs of a cold. Steve looked it up. A cold does not usually get worse than a runny nose and a headache. He’s sweat himself awake twice since you came down with it worried he’d have to take you to the hospital and that they’d find something they couldn’t explain. It’s a nightmare. He can see you strapped to a metal table having skin scraped from the inside of your mouth, blood drawn from a tender crook. 

He theorises that it’s actually an easy cold, but you don’t know how to cope, never having been anything except healthy. 

This isn’t an injury, it’s just annoying. Being unable to breathe from your nose freaked you out, and teaching you to blow it had been reminiscent of Robin’s little cousin. 

“I want the one with the Start Me Up,” Dariyay says, taking one of Eddie’s dark curls between her fingertips and twisting. “Sing again.”

“That was for a private audience,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. 

“Do it, Eddie Munson.”

“As you wish.”

You aren’t as pleased with The Rolling Stones or Eddie’s wild singing. Your eyes go pleading, arms held out, and Steve gets the memo. His hand slides behind your back and he drags you into a sitting position, where you stand, slumping into his side. 

“Gonna take her up to bed for a bit,” Steve tells the room. 

“Feel better, seababy,” Eddie says, offering a genuine, genial smile. 

“Sing, Eddie,” Darius says, though she does deign to lift her head from the cushions and give you a look. Steve only has Dustin, but he recognises his own dispassionate defeat in her eyes as she adds, “Sleep, if you can. It won’t last forever. The first cold is always the worst.”

The sounds of plinking guitar fade as Steve helps you up the stairs. You’re in the hump of if, with phlegmy coughs and snot and fatigue to the bone, but it isn’t so bad, this cold. It’ll be over soon. 

“You’ll be better tomorrow,” Steve says, nudging the ajar bedroom door open to lead you to your usual spot on the left side of the bed, closest to the window and furthest from the landing. “I promise. Colds don’t last.”

“Head hurts,” you say, letting Steve mountain the blankets back as you sit in the sheets.

Your pajamas are damp with sweat. Steve changes his mind about tucking you in and makes for the dresser for your clean clothes. He likes, very much, opening the top drawer and seeing your things smushed in with his, smelling of his laundry detergent, things he picked out for you and paid for. The smallest shells on the tie of his bracelet brush the wood of the dresser as he grabs the first pajamas he sees, your softer ones, leaving the cutesy babydoll alone at the bottom of the drawer. He closes it quickly. 

“Come on, let’s get you changed. Yeah? You sweat through your shirt.” 

You slouch back into the pillows. “Dariyay say… tell me… Steve and humans not–” You gesture at your damp shirt. “Sorry, not know how to say.”

“It’s okay. When has it mattered before? It doesn’t– not bother me if you don’t know, right? Say it how you can and I will try to understand what you know.”

“Not help clothes and– help a lot. You help me lots, and Dariyay says that… this not okay.”

“Is that what she said, ‘okay’?” 

“No. She said different word.”

Dariyay knows English, and she knows Mer, where nobody who’s tried to teach you English here had known both. Your connective words are growing in like teeth. Dariyay corrects you constantly, which is annoying for you but especially helpful when it comes to the words you were struggling with most, ‘and’ and ‘to’ and ‘the’. Not perfect. Doesn’t need to be. 

“Did she say it wasn’t normal? Like, it’s not how humans do it all of the time.”

“Yes.” 

“Well, that’s not true. I mean, when we didn’t know each other, when we were strangers and you were first in the pool, sure, it wouldn’t have been normal for me to help you get changed or to make you dinner, but it was because you needed help. Does that make sense? You needed help. I looked after you because you couldn’t look after yourself. And now we know each other, it’s normal.” He taps you under the chin. “Can I help you get changed?”

“I need help.”

“Yeah, a little. ‘Cos you’re sick. Tired, head hurts, that’s a good time to have help, but I would help you if you were not tired either.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Steve begins dragging your shirt up your back gently. “I care about you.”

The shirt comes off of your head. Steve takes his hand and puts it at the top of your breast, just over your heart. “Inside of… love,” he says quietly. “You told Hopper I’m your boyfriend, right? And Dariyay.”

“Yes, my boyfriend. My boy, look after me. Courting.”

Funny word. Steve doesn’t know its definition. It’s not a basketball term. 

“Look after you, exactly. Plus, I like helping.”

It’s honestly one of his favourite parts about being a boyfriend. He hasn’t let himself think on it seriously since you said it —it’s why he took you to the mall, because if he wants to be your boyfriend you deserve the dates that come before that— but he supposes that he is the equivalent of a boyfriend to you, so. 

He grabs your face in both hands, the shock of joy at the idea of being your boyfriend like a current through each capillary to the very tips of his fingers, nevermind the pajama top screwed up in one hand. “I love helping you,” he says, grinning. 

“Nice smile.”

“Yeah?” Steve ducks down and presses it into your mouth. “Nice everything, honey. You’re perfect.”

“Perfect,” you say, laughing softly as he trails kisses away from your lips to the lobe of your ear. 

“This is okay, yeah?”

“What okay? Kiss? Yes. You know I– I like kiss a lot, you give me.” 

“Yeah?” He pulls away, catching the sweetness in your tired eyes like a shock of sugar on the tongue. 

Steve gets you into your new shirt. Drags your pants down and doesn’t blush as much as he could when the band of your panties comes with it. His fingers don’t falter as he slips it back up to just below your hips, or when he has to bring your new pants up against them. He shouldn’t have picked cute panties, it was a mistake, these baby pink ones with the champagne polka dots kill him every time. Not that granny panties could’ve deterred the stirring he feels in his stomach and decidedly lower places when he catches even a millisecond view of the soft valley between your legs. 

You hold your own wants. Just last night he’d offered you some kisses that guaranteed he’d catch your cold, open-mouthed with wet heat, your hand pressed to his stomach until it had basically heaved into your touch. He’d been hard enough that every movement felt stiff with it, sensitive, but he had not been awake enough to know what to do about it. After your hand had wandered down and stopped just shy of uncharted territory, you’d caught his eye with a smile, like you’d known what he wanted, and you’d kissed under his ear, murmuring into the shell of it, “Warm skin, baby. So warm.”

See, maybe you hadn’t needed these extra words, because that ‘so’? Steve’s never stripped himself like that in the shower before. It was borderline painful. 

All the while you’d snoozed and snored in his bed. Poor congested angel. Evil girl. 

“You gonna have more of the medicine?” Steve asks, perched on the edge of the bed with his hands on your back, thumbs in your soft front. Your tired chest heaves all sluggishly and makes him sad. 

“I not like it.”

“You don’t like it. I know, that decongestant is pretty sour, but it’ll help you sleep.”

“Don’t want it,” you say. 

“Please? For me?”

You like this phrase. He can see the cogs turning, like you know where you have him. And you do have him. Palm of your hand, wrapped around your pinky finger, right where you want him. 

“What I get?” you ask.

“What do you get?” he murmurs back, thinking that two can play at this game. He has far more practice. His voice sinks like velvet and his thumb strokes a quarter circle into your shirt, pushing it up, letting the pad of it stroke your skin. “What do you want, beautiful?” he asks slowly, plain demure. “What can I give you?”

You laugh, ‘cos you know him well. It’s a weak thing, half-cough, and Steve knows he’ll sweeten any deal if it gets you to drink that spoonful of bitter char. 

“You can hold me?” you ask, not shy but not fanciful, either, a real suggestion. Like you’d be okay with him saying no, even though you know he won’t. “Hold me, rub my head? Please. Feel better when you do.”

So Steve mixes you some decongestant into a glass of cranberry juice and watches you drink it. Climbs into bed with you and gathers you in his arms, on his chest, your face warm and every contiguity between you both already beading with sweat. 

He doesn’t know how much longer you’ll be sick for, or when you’ll next need to change. Doesn’t know what you were running from or when you’ll tell him why. 

What he does know is that your face lies like it was shaped for the slight curve of his pec, and that your eyelashes tickle when you blink. He knows that you’re tired, and he’s a safe place for you to land. 

“How’s that?” he asks, rubbing your forehead with his two fingers.

You’re already asleep, but he’d known that, too. Your only answer is a wheezy snore.