#sun's rising... they're still sleeping...

[magisoba]

dozing off...

[icewindandboringhorror]

It's silly how every year as summer approaches I'm like ''aghhh i must have some version of seasonal affective disorder, what's wrronggg with me I feel so badd :('' when really, if I think about it, everything just comes down to heat management. I have to sleep on the floor half the time because the bed is too hot even with no sheets on it. Must have fans constantly going in the background, which is a noise that I loathe, so I'm sensory overwhelmed at all times. The weird old window AC in a single room of the house is even louder than the fans and impossible to sleep when it's on, so it still gets hot at night with it off. Keep all windows blacked out for 6+ hours a day so no direct sun gets in. Need to check weather frequently to set up the series of 6 fans that move air throughout the house at the exact moment that the temperature outside is lower than the temperature inside. Can't use the oven during heatwaves because even the extra few degrees it adds makes a difference. Obviously it could be a lot worse (still thankful that this new apartment is at least not facing the direction of afternoon sun like my old one) but the constant low level background stress of micromanaging every aspect of the environment to keep from overheating, when applied to someone who's already chronically low energy/struggles with daily tasks + has health conditions that make them overly heat sensitive, would definitely be enough to decrease mood and cause a general Always On Edge type of feeling. It's not even a Disorder it's just me being annoyed for 3 -4 months straight, and I dread the summer so badly simply because I know I'm about to be annoyed for 3 - 4 months straight lmao.. like.. I diagnose you as 'needing a central AC system'. Literally that's it lol

[i-i-iv-v]

oh how I hate this weather

[kryptoclark]

mornings like these.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: you're trying to make scrambled eggs. clark doesn't really care. (he's trying to scramble your eggs instead)

wc: 3.8k

genre/tags: established relationship, boyfriend!clark, fluff, smut, morning sex, size kink, slight praise kink, oral (fem receiving), p in v sex, implied protection (reader on bc), creampie, soft sex, p w.o p, no use of y/n, as domestically sweet and smutty as it gets <3

the apartment is quiet, save for the soft sizzle of butter in the pan atop the stove and the occasional clink of a spatula against the skillet. outside, the sun is beginning to rise, spilling orange light through the sheer curtains, casting long gold streaks across the kitchen tile.

you're standing at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of clark's old metropolis u shirts and humming quietly as you cook.

the eggs are nearly done, evident by their yellow fluffiness and you reach up to grab plates from the overhead cabinet above your head and then you hear a sound:

the faint creak of the hallway floorboards.

he's up.

you don't turn around yet. you just smile to yourself, turning the burner off and sliding the last bit of scrambled eggs onto the second plate.

then, after a moment, you decide to speak. "you're staring."

clark's voice is still rough with sleep when he answers, low and thick with that familiar farm boy drawl.

"i'm allowed to admire my lovely girlfriend."

then you feel his arms wrapping around you from behind, warm and firm as his hands find purchase splayed across your waist. he presses against your back, nose brushing your shoulder, and sighs like this is his favorite place to be. like you are.

"morning," you murmur softly, your smile audible now.

"mornin'," he says, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles against your sides. "you always look good in my shirts," he adds lowly.

you lean back into him a little, slightly teasing. "you're only saying that because you enjoy the view."

"i always like the view," he corrects you, mumbling the words against your skin and his lips graze the base of your neck.

the words sit warm and heavy between you – sweeter than sugar and softer than the warm light basking his kitchen. you turn your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to brush his jaw.

"you always say the nicest things when you want something," you tease softly.

clark huffs a soft laugh, his breath fanning your skin. "and what if i do?"

his hands haven't moved from your waist, but now they're a little firmer like he's reminding you of his strength. as if you don't know how easy he could fold you over the counter if he wanted.

you smirk and shift slightly in his arms, grinding back just enough to feel the unmistakable shape of his cock, half hard and pressing into you.

"clark," you say, mock scolding. "i'm making breakfast."

"uh-huh," he hums, nosing along the curve of your neck, voice lowering. "but you started it."

"i said you were staring and now, you're the one all grabby."

his hands trail under the cotton fabric of his shirt, skimming your stomach and then up your ribs.

"you're wearing my shirt and no bra," he murmurs. "you're cooking and humming, looking like the reason i don't get out of bed on sundays."

you laugh, but it catches in your throat when his right hand trails down to pinch the soft flesh of your ass. "and in just panties under here. it's like you wanna kill me." he noses back up your neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "we can eat later," he says, dragging his fingers slowly back to your waist.

you're breathless already, trying to stay upright. "the eggs–"

"–will be fine," he finishes for you, turning you around gently in his arms.

and then he kisses you, soft lips meeting your for a connection that's slow, deep and filthy with intent all at once. his hands trail down to grip the backs of your thighs, squeezing the flesh there with a low hum.

you clutch at his bare shoulders, your fingers pressing against the hard contours of his shoulder muscles, his skin warm because of course he's always warm.

he lifts you like its nothing (because it is), hands slipping under your thighs to anchor you against him.

"clark," you breathe as he starts walking, already heading toward the bedroom. "the food's gonna get cold," you warn him softly. it's a half-protest because there's no real bite in your tone, evident by the lack of your body's resistance by the way your legs wrap around his hips for extra steadiness.

"that's why 've got a microwave," he murmurs lowly, eyes lidded slightly downward and glazed over. yeah, there's no getting clark out of this mood until you've exhausted yourselves.

clark carries you down the hall like he's done it a hundred times – granted, he has – with a quiet urgency, like he woke up this morning starving for you and now that you're in his arms, there's no sign of him letting go anytime soon.

might as well relent.

you're kissing him all the way to the bedroom, hands buried in his dark curls, mouth dragging along his jaw, and you don't need super-hearing to hear his pulse thudding hard against you. he barely manages to kick the door shut behind him before he's laying you back on the bed, cool sheets crumbling beneath your body as he hovers over you with a look that steals the breath from your lungs.

even in the soft glow of morning in his quiet apartment, there's a look of intensity in the deep blues of his eyes. one that reminds you that he's memorized every inch of you, but the hunger in them tells you he wants to do it again. slower. deeper. needier.

his hands are everywhere, first braced on either side of your hips, then smoothing up your waist, fingers skimming under his shirt, the delicate softness making your breath hitch.

the light bleeding through the curtains in his bedroom casts against his hovering frame above you, giving him a glowing aura on the right side of his body.

he takes his time taking your shift off, like he's unwrapping a precious gift, revealing your skin to the air and his intense gaze at the same time.

clark groans, quiet and low, like the sight of you takes something out of him, which it does, no matter how many times he's seen you before.

he palms gently up your thighs, his hands large and warm as they settle back on your hips. he leans down to kiss the center of your chest, between the valley of your breasts, his lips reverent and humming against you. you gasp as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the slopes of your breasts, one hand snaking upward to pinch at a stiffened peak. he silences a whimper with a hushed whisper of 'sorry,' against your smooth skin, despite continuing his ministrations, rolling the nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

"clark," you pant softly. you arch slightly, breathing shallow and heart pounding in your chest. "enough teasing."

he half-hums, half-chuckles, lashes fluttering against your breast as he presses a kiss there. your words make him grin – lazy and lopsided and far too smug for someone of his usual candor.

"but, baby," he muses, trailing his lips down the smooth skin of your belly, "that's the best part."

you whimper softly, lower body squirming against the sheets, searching for any form of friction.

he chuckles again, nodding at your neediness. "okay, okay," he murmurs, soft and low. his finger hook into the hem of your panties, teasingly flicking them against your hip once before pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside with a practiced flick.

your legs part for him instinctually, humming when his palms squeeze around the plush flesh of your thighs and pulls them further apart. he leans down pressing a kiss to the inner side of your knee. he peppers kisses up the side of your leg, meeting your inner thigh.

"so pretty," he murmurs, his lips going higher, then higher, until you're gasping, your finger tangled in the sheets.

you don't have to say anything. your hips shift restlessly and he hums in approval.

"'haven't even done anything yet," he says, voice low and reverent, almost smug. he has the full qualification to be, with the way you writhe and pant against the bed after he's done little to nothing.

"clark," you breathe again, tone bordering desperate.

he doesn't need to be told twice. his mouth descends upon you – warm, slow and torturously thorough. his tongue lazily flicks against your clit, lapping at the hardening bundle of nerves with just the right pressure that makes your eyes flutter shut and your back arch further off the bed.

your hands fly to his hair, tugging reflexively at the dark locks, and clark groans at the way you tug him closer to your core. he easily manhandles you, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, inhaling the scent of you while his tongue never wavers.

even now, with his mouth between your thighs and your body unraveling all from his doing, there's a special kind of care in the way clark touches you. he doesn't simply take from you, rushing to meet both of your ends. no, he draws it out. he touches you like he's memorizing every inch of you all over again.

clark is thoughtful.

he effortlessly swept you off your feet with his kansas farm boy charm on his first day working at the planet. and not because of grand gestures.

quite the contraire.

it's little things that clark does that made you fall in love with him.

like how he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. or how he carries an extra umbrella in his bag, just in case it rains and someone in the office forgot theirs. how he remembers your coffee order. how he'll fold your laundry if he stays over your place, not because you asked him to, but because he "had a little time while you were showering."

it's how he listens, really listens, like nothing in the world matters more than what you have to say.

it's the soft expression he holds when you meet his gaze, either at home or at the office.

it's the whispered words he reserves for only you to hear – sweet nothings, gentle praises, utmost compliments.

just like he's whispering right now against your core between languid laps that you can't even make out

"fuck," you gasp, legs trembling around his shoulders. your toes curl at the skillful precision of his tongue.

he pauses just long enough to murmur, "language," into your skin, then grins when he feels you glare down at him. (as if he doesn't swear like a sailor every time he's balls deep buried inside you.)

"i swear to god, clark–"

"blasphemy now?" he teases the inside of your leg again, gently kissing the juncture between your thigh and pelvis.

you shoot him a warning look but it's soon wiped off your face when his mouth returns to your core, this time swiping up your slit. his tongue gives a break to your puffy clit, circling the area under it, reaching your entrance, achingly fluttering.

he hums in satisfaction, dipping his tongue past the opening of your entrance, making your walls flutter.

you're already so close, and clark knows it. if he wasn't your boyfriend, it'd be embarrassing. he pulls away to meet your gaze with his heated one. the blues of his eyes are nearly nonexistent with the ways his pupils have dilated. "always so messy," he muses with a smug smile, bringing his fingers to swipe through the slick between your folds, spreading it around your twitching core.

clark is a giver.

so, despite having pulled away when you were oh, so close to an orgasm, it wasn't out of cruelty. it never is. it's always for something better.

and from the way he kneels up at the foot of bed, allowing you view to the large and hard outline visible behind his sweatpants, you have an idea what that is. the cotton clings to the outline of his cock, the fabric damp at the tip where precum has already soaked through.

his finger hooks into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down in a slow motion, making a show of it. tease, you think mentally and rolling your eyes with a smile. his heavy cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head slick and leaking with his arousal.

your mouth waters at the sight.

you've seen him like this several times, but it still knocks the breath out of you. you always remind him his cock is a good representation of his entire being. he's just so big, so achingly beautiful in a way that makes your center flutter at the sight.

clark meets your gaze, reads your expression and the way your hand twitches to reach for him and he shakes his head. "later," he rumbles, scooting closer to you on the bed, settling between your thighs. "need to be inside you," he adds.

you nod eagerly, panting as he lines himself, giving himself a few slow strokes and nudging the head of his cock at your entrance. "think i'll fit without prepping you with my fingers first?"

you're too needy to care, nodding anyway. "we'll make it fit," you murmur firmly.

clark laughs at your determination to take him without properly preparing your tight walls. the memory of your first time flashes in both your minds: how it took an hour and three toe-curling orgasms coaxed from his fingers before your pussy was able to take his cock.

safe to say, you believe you've conquered him since then.

you roll your hips purposefully against the engorged head of his cock, demeanor desperate. "clark," you whine softly.

"alright, alright," he hums with a nod, slowly pushing inside your welcoming walls with a soft hiss.

your walls stretch around him immediately, fluttering from the sudden pressure of his size. the head alone feels impossibly thick. already punching the air from his lungs despite how gentle he is.

"shit," you breathe, fingers fisting the sheets beside you as he slowly pushes in another inch.

clark groans above you, slack jawed as he watches the way your body tries to take him. "you're so tight, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth. "still... every time... so tight f'me."

your thighs shake around his hips, your whole body arching to meet him, desperate for more, even as your pussy clenches instinctively at the intrusion. "don't stop," you pant, voice breathless. "i can take it, i can-"

"i know you can," he cuts you off, murmuring the words and brushing his lips across your cheek as a gentle reward. "you're my good girl, right?"

your core clenches around him at his question and you nod frantically, nearly delirious with need as he pushes in deeper. the stretch burns in perfect way: so much, but not too much, just enough to make your mind muddled with fuzz.

slowly and steadily, he gives you another inch, and then another, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you steady to keep you from squirming too much.

"halfway there," he murmurs, but it's more to himself than it is to you. he watches, eyes glazed over and jaw open, as your pretty little body struggles to accommodate just half of his length. "you're taking me so well, sweetheart."

you whimper at the praise, arms winding around his back, clinging to him like a lifeline as your hips roll helplessly to attempt and meet his.

"more," you breath, voice broken and needy. "please, clark..."

his gaze darkens, pupils still swallowing up the blue. he leans down, resting his weight on one forearms beside your head while the other slides under your thigh, hooking your leg up around his waist for a better angle. "i know, baby. i know," he murmurs reverently. brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that's soft but hungry, his cock twitching inside you from the sheer intimacy of it all.

and then he pushes further.

you croon, mouthing falling open in a silent gasp as inch by inch, as he splits you open and stretches you to your limit, and then past it. your walls pulse around him, fluttering like your body can't decide whether to suck him in deeper or clamp down to keep him out because he's too much; too thick; too clark.

clark grunts softly, his voice soft husky at your hair. "i missed this," he murmurs, hips stilling so he can savor the way you're trembling beneath him. the ends of his curls, damp with sweat brush against your earlobe, tickling you. "missed the way you feel around me... like you were made for it," he muses. it's obvious he's drunk with sex, never so bluntly vocal about something so obscene.

you nod, feeling his forehead press to yours. "think i was," you pant, lashes fluttering as your lips brush against each others.

you weren't sure if fate travels across solar systems, but damn are you glad that earth was the planet he crash landed on.

your words do something to him. you can feel the effect rippling through every muscle in his body. his cock twitches deep inside you and his restraint falters.

he sinks deeper into you.

your mouth drops open with a strangled moan and clark swallows the sound with a hungry kiss. his tongue licks into your mouth as his cock continues to stretch your pussy. he's three-quarters in, then four-fifths, then–

"fuck," clark groans, voice raspier than ever. "that's it... that's my girl, taking all of me."

he bottoms out with a heavy press of his hips, the base of his cock flush against your soaked swollen folds. the hair above the base of his cock brushes against your clit, creating a delicious friction. you feel full in a way that should defy logic, as if he's reaching places inside you that no one has (and let's be real, no one else ever will).

and the best part?

it's not just sex. it's never just sex. not with clark.

he lifts his head, meeting your gaze, his lower lip trapped between his teeth because he's holding back oh, so much. "can i...can i move yet?" he asks, tone strained.

you smile at his unwavering consideration and chuckle through your nose, nodding. "mhm, 'm okay," you murmur softly.

his hips roll, slow and deliberate, easing out just enough for to you feel the loss, making you whimper, before he sinks back in with a deep needy groan.

your hands clutch at his back instinctively, fingertips pressing into the firm planes of muscles, anchoring you.

clark moves like he worships you – because he does.

each stroke of his is slow, reverent and full of maddening patient he always has, like he's determined to make you feel every inch of him. it's as if he wants to carve himself into your velvet walls (as if he hasn't already) in the quiet morning light.

"y'feel so good," you slur softly, voice featherlight. "always feels s'good."

"yeah?" he rasps, burying his face in the crook of your neck, gently nibbling on the damp skin. "you feel like heaven, sweetheart."

and you believe him. not just because of how he says it, but because of how he says everything. clark speaks with nothing but truth, softness, and, only with you, with an undercurrent of awe, like he's genuinely shocked that he gets to love you this way.

his pace builds, inch by inch, thrust by thrust, until you're gasping his name like a mantra. your bodies rock together in a practiced rhythm, slicked with sweat and tangled in warm sheets and sunlight. his name continues to spill from your lips from sheer instinct and without thought.

clark murmurs soft encouragements against your skin, his lips pressed to your cheek, down your jaw, down the slope of your neck, across your shoulder.

"you're doing so well for me, baby... so good..."

you're so full, so dizzy, so completely undone.

"clark, 'm about to... gonna..." you whine, feeling the pressure tighten in your lower belly.

he chuckles warmly, slipping his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing soft circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. "you gonna cum already, sweetheart?"

you nod, eyelashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open, your brain nearly mush at this point.

clark reels at your expression, knowing he's the only one to subject you to this state of mind and body.

"cum then, baby," he says, voice tight with balanced control as he continues the relentless rhythm, rocking your body into the mattress. "wanna feel you cum around my cock."

your orgasm hits fast, no warning, save for the high pitched cry of his name spilling from your lips. you're thankful you're over at his apartment instead of your own because you really can't afford another noise complaint from your neighbors. you claw at his shoulders, leaving indents for sure (that'll heal in less than ten minutes), and your thighs squeeze around his hips as you cum hard around his cock.

clark groans as you tighten around him, barely managing before he rasps, "i'm about to– inside– can i?"

you nod eagerly, body flushing with heat. he never fails to ask despite every constant reassurance from you that you're on birth control and he's always welcome to cum inside. that's just another thing that makes clark, clark.

he manages a few more thrusts before he follows you over the edge. his hips still as he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills into you with a strangled moan of your name.

the room goes quiet, with the exception of your mingled breathing and birds chirping outside his window.

he doesn't pull out right away – he never does. clark never rushes to move. he always just holds you, pressing kisses to your temple while carding his fingers through your hair. he pulls back enough, just to look at you, just to see your hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and stupid in love. he presses a kiss to your forehead, a million words sealed into the intimate gesture.

you feel his cock soften inside you as he stays buried in the warmth of your body as if it's where he belongs. he likes to think so, at least.

you hum, lazy and content, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, pulling him flush atop you, unworried about how he practically crushes you.

"the eggs are definitely cold," you murmur against the sweat-slick skin of his neck.

he pulls back – too worried about his weight on top of you, bracing his arms beside your head – and sports a grin, lazy and crooked. "worth it."

you snort, tracing your finger along the hard expanse of his chest. "you always say that."

"and i always mean it."

again, you weren't sure if fate traveled across solar systems, but somehow, someway, it sent clark kent straight to you.

.... currently feral. hope you enjoyed <3

[alice-everafter]

"... Have you awoken?"

Through the wisps and recesses of dreams, the deep drawl of a familiar voice pierces your mind. It's not especially loud, but it's at such a low register that it rings as clear as a church bell through you.

There is barely any light when you manage to peel back your heavy eyelids. But the bright, nearly neon green of your nightly visitor's irises is still more than apparent; it's just about all you can see. They're right above you. Vertically right over you. And rather close, now that you're thinking about it...

"... Am I... in your lap...?"

"Yes," he says it so simply, plainly. But it's with that familiar narrowing of his eyes. As if he's just discovered a funny joke only he can understand.

"Oh... oh!" It takes the second time around for the realization to really kick in, and suddenly you're very awake. You twist over, trying not to stare down at his pants where your head had just been lying, as you push back onto your heels. "So sorry, Hornton, I can't believe that I..."

You can see the remnants of your evening now that your eyes are adjusting. Two empty mugs on your coffee table, some plates that once held snacks, and your frequent evening visitor still sat on your couch, with posture as primly straight as ever.

"I... I fell asleep."

"You did.” He's way too amused by all this. Especially for someone who had to sit still for who knows how long with your head in his lap.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" You settle on asking, trying to keep the embarrassment out of your voice, squinting.

"You were sleeping." Again, simply put.

"... Well, yeah, but... I was sleeping on you."

"That is correct."

You're wondering if you're having two different conversations. Because as you keep trying to hammer in your point, his expression just keeps getting more and more amused. Like this joke of his is so funny he's having to physically restrain himself from laughing out loud.

“Just… ugh, whatever.” There was too much drowsiness sticking to your eyes for you to care anymore. You can cringe about this another time. “Thank you, then. For letting me sleep.”

He has nothing to say to that. And you’re too busy shoving the heels of your palms into your eyeballs to consider why that might be.

God, you were tired. You must’ve been asleep for a while. A quick glimpse out the windows shows it’s still fairly dark, so maybe it was the middle of the night. But it could also be early morning. A quick tap on your phone screen, where it sits next to your empty mug, tells you that it is, in fact, very early in the morning. The sun would be rising soon.

… There were classes today, and Hornton was still here.

“Oh god, don’t tell me you stayed up this whole time—?”

He's looking at you. But not in amusement like before. His face is perfectly lax, no indication for what he's thinking of. He looks focused though, and you peek over your shoulder just to see if there’s something you’re missing behind you that’s got him staring so harshly.

Trying to decipher his expression leads you to a reminder of how clean he looks. For lack of a better descriptor, he looks airbrushed. Which isn’t that dissimilar to how you’d describe people like Vil or Cater. But it’s just, somehow, he’s different. There is something in the glint of his eyes and paleness of his skin that is so perfect it’s looped all the way back around to being slightly uncanny. Where it’s clear Vil and Cater worked hard for their beauty, you’re hesitant to say the same for Malleus.

… You need more sleep. It’s too early to be waxing poetics about a man… being, entity, who likes how decrepit your house looks from the outside.

“You never went home, did you?” You try again, and this time his attention actually latches onto what you're saying. You can tell by the way his eyes flick up towards your face and his pupils readjust. Widening at the sides, then shivering back in, much like a cat’s. It’s sort of… cool? Freaky? Makes you want to get a laser pointer and see how blown out they could get.

“… Child of Man?”

Now you’re the one needing to recenter your attention. Because apparently you’re so gods damned out of it that you’ve started zoning out to the thought of playing with Hornton like he’s a house cat.

The day this being learns how to read minds, it’s over for you. Or maybe he already can, and your time is already up.

“Sorry! Uh, what, what were you saying?”

His lips curl, and it’s simultaneously terrifying and mesmerizing to see the smile take shape on his face.

“No,” he says. That amusement is back in his voice. Then he reaches over and pulls the collar of your sleep shirt back up over your shoulder. You're unsure of when it had even fallen to begin with. “I have not returned to my dorm yet. As I was here with you while you rested.”

Because you had used him as a pillow without his consent.

"I’m so sorry.” Your whole body heats up, mainly from shame.

“Apologies are unnecessary.” He brushes your concerns off without so much as a blink. “It was a worthwhile experience to watch you sleep.”

“… Pardon?” Did you hear that right?

“I rarely get to witness the habits of humans while they rest anymore, so to be able to regard yours was very intriguing.”

“… Right.”

Sometimes your visitor says the strangest things. But he wouldn’t be your nighttime guest without it.

“Is that a… Fae thing?” You ask, overwhelmingly curious now that it’s been brought to your attention.

You see his eyes widen, just the slightest. You assume that means he's confused, so you clarify.

“Like the, uh, interest. In watching people sleep. Do Fae not sleep like humans do?”

The resulting silence that follows is a bit nerve-racking. So much so, you're tempted to apologize for possibly being offensive until he starts to answer.

"You are correct, in a sense. Some Fae require minimal sleep, such as I. Additionally, I usually prefer to rest during the first rays of sunlight."

"Oh, so then school must be hard on you."

"Nothing is hard for me."

"Oh yes, how could I forget."

What a jerk.

"You are grinning."

"Oh," you were, funny that. "I guess I am. Feel free to ignore it."

"And if I don't wish to?"

Now he's also smiling with that damn grin of his. The one that his eyes follow, mimicking the curl of his lips, yet with not a wrinkle to show for it. It's the one that tells you he knows. He knows what you're smiling over. He knows that it's him, and he's proud of it.

"Then it's not like I can stop you." You shrug, accepting your defeat at the hands of this unreal entity you can't stop yourself from feeling fond of.

"No, you cannot." The bastard's smile grows, all too pleased. You can see the tips of viper-sharp fangs peaking over his bottom lip. You fear you're going crazy when, instead of unease, all you can conjure up is something resembling cuteness aggression.

When you were comparing him to a cat, it wasn't supposed to be serious; you try and berate your brain in admonishment, hoping it'll listen for once.

"So," you choose to change the subject, wishing to ignore how hot your skin still feels. "You'll be alright for classes today? I haven't completely ruined your school day, have I?"

"No, you couldn't. Even if you tried."

"Is that a compliment or a challenge?"

"Feel free to take it however you wish, Child of Man."

Is it possible to be sick of smiling? Cause you're considering it at this point. Or at least hoping that it will occur eventually. So you can stop feeling like this every time he calls you that stupid title he made, or grins all nefariously, or acts all high and mighty.

You feel itchy, not physically but from within. Something in you yearns to leap out from the very depths of your marrow. To be free from the cover you've put over it.

"Then, should we watch the sunrise?" Is what comes out of your mouth. "Since you bothered to stay for so long, why not make it longer?"

His expression falls, and for a second, you swear your heart stops. But then you're tugging on some shoes and a coat in your entryway, stepping out into the crisp morning air with him at your side.

You can't remember the last time you've done this, or if you've ever done this. You feel lost in your own yard before he steps into your sights with a gesture to take his hand. When you do, you blink and you're on your roof. He already has an arm hovering at your side to prevent any unfortunate accidents your surprise might cause.

"You know, you could always give me a warning first." You comment as he vigilantly watches you sit down. Like a parent waiting for their child to fall.

"My apologies." Call you biased, but you're finding it hard to believe he's really sorry.

"Whatever you say, Hornton."

In your peripherals, his head turns to look at you.

"... You still refer to me with that name."

Ah, you were wondering if he'd ever bring it up.

"I do," you nod, wringing your hands together. "Is that a problem?"

"No," he says. Then really considers the thought before shaking his head resolutely. "No, it does not. I just wonder why you do not call me by my real one."

"Well... I guess..." Your eyes are trained on the horizon, where the faint glow of the sun grows ever more apparent. Despite the cold of the morning, you feel warm beneath your collar. "I don't mean anything bad by it. I mean, you still call me 'Child of Man,' don't you?"

His eyes widen; you can catch it even out of the corner of your vision. "I do, does that bother you?"

"If it did, do you really think it would've gone on for this long?"

He doesn't respond, so you push on before that thing within you says too much.

"So, I guess, that I call you Hornton for the same reason you call me Child of Man."

You force yourself to ignore what hints of his expression you can maybe glean. It's both painful and soothing on your nerves.

Your hands are thoroughly chilled by the time the first flecks of sunlight break over the horizon. You watch raptly as it settles over the treetops, lowers down to the ground, and sweeps across the snow. It warms your frigid nose, and you sigh a breath of visible air.

Like a siren call you can't ignore, your head turns to see what type of expression Malleus holds in this very moment.

He's looking at you. Nothing sharp nor lax about it. It's a new expression you've hardly ever seen on him.

"What are you thinking about?" You ask before your treacherous mind can provide a word to describe what emotion is making him look at you in such a way.

He smiles, and it might be the softest thing you've ever seen him do. "You are vulnerable when you sleep, Child of Man. Frighteningly so."

[soltuneia]

— 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲?

mornings are exhausting. but they're sweeter with him.

✦ info: phainon wakes up at a ridiculously early hour and kisses you into waking up with him.

✦ warnings: mornings, ew. none, this is pure fluff (edit: except for the fact that he bites you once affectionately). au ambiguous, but in my head: modern au. (0.8k words)

✦ notes: he's so needy and he's so sneaky i love him i'm going to sob ugly tears i love him so much i'd like him to wake me up like this please please please- ahem. AHEM. who said that jsjsjsjjsj lmao i hope you enjoy :)

i. recent. ii. masterlist.

morning rises, soft and slow.

rays of light slowly start to seep in through the eastern windows, illuminating the tiled floor, pale curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze that finds its way in.

your blanket is cozy, your bed is soft, your alarm is yet to ring. the world outside is still, and it is peaceful.

almost.

“darling.” kiss. “my light.” kiss. “wake up.” kiss. “sweetheart, wake up.” kiss.

you stir with a grumble. “phainon?”

he chuckles, voice still deep with his usual morning rasp. “good morning, sleepyhead.” he says affectionately, words drawn out, as he kisses your cheek tenderly. “did you sleep well?”

you’d often compare phainon to the sun.

with the way he always looked at you with such warmth, and the way his smile shone brilliantly, it was hard not to. truly, you adored him with every inch of your being, and he lit up your life much like the light of the sun on your skin.

now, if only he didn’t rise with it.

why does the sun rise so very early, anyway?

“i’d sleep well if you’d let me sleep in a little longer, phainon,” you groan out, turning away from him so that your face stayed out of his reach. 

you’ll get your kisses later. but first, sleep.

he hums. “let me think about it,” he says as he settles behind you.  you feel him pull you closer and pause, like he’s deep in thought, and when he stills, you think you’ve won the battle.

well, good.

 it is far too early for such antics, in your opinion.  

but just as his warmth lures you back into the arms of sleep, your eyes fluttering shut, soothed by the pace of his breathing, you feel a sneaky kiss on the back of your neck.  “i thought about it.” he whispers, smiling against your skin. “sorry, darling, the answer's no.”

oh. oh, no.

he teasingly drags his lips down to where your neck meets your back, ghosting over like the brush of a butterfly's wings, leaving goosebumps in his wake. he lingers there for a minute, his breath tickling your sensitive skin, before he retraces his path to reach the base of your ear. he kisses there gently, once, twice, and then— he bites. 

gently, of course, but it still has your eyes flying wide open.

“phainon!” you gasp, electricity running down the length of your spine. you turn around to glare at him.

“bet you’re awake after that, aren’t you?” he murmurs into your ear. you whack him playfully on the shoulder.

his bright laughter in answer is infectious, and you can’t help but crack a smile begrudgingly.

“yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” you huff, moving to hide your face in his shoulder as he still shakes with laughter. “you always wake me up too early.”

“sorry, sorry.” he says in return, not sounding even the least bit apologetic, and you pull away to give him a look.

"you don't sound very sorry," you huff indignantly.

his lips form into the slightest of pouts and you swear to kephale above that you could see faint dog ears drooping in his fluffy white hair.

“we haven’t seen each other since last night.” he says, blue eyes never leaving your own. they're wide, and they blink innocently. “i missed you,” he finishes, his voice dropping to a small whisper as he looks away, and your heart melts at the sight of him.

well.

you can’t exactly argue with that, can you?

you sigh in defeat, sitting up. “alright, alright, you win.”

the effect is instant. 

his pout disappears and his whole face lights up, eyes sparkling with joy, a dimple peeking out as he grins brightly.

he pushes himself upright, and with all the enthusiasm of a puppy, he pulls you on top of him, both arms wrapped around your face, and kisses you over and over and over, from your lips to your nose to your eyelids and to your cheek until you’re giggling in his embrace.

“there we go. not so grumpy anymore, are we, darling?”’ he murmurs, pressing one final kiss to your nose. 

you hum, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. “i’m awake, that’s for sure.”

his grin never leaves his face, and he nudges your cheek with his nose. “have i ever told you that you have a beautiful laugh?”

“yes, a million times already,” you respond, smiling affectionately at him.

“well, then i’ll say it again. i love the way you laugh.”

“even when i sound like a hyena?”

“especially when you sound like a hyena.”

it is right then— cradled in his arms, watching him with a smile so dazzling, when the morning’s just begun and the whole day lies in wait for the two of you— that you find your answer. 

why does the sun rise so early? 

just so it can see you smile, of course.

(“so you’re saying i do sound like a hyena?”

“huh- what?! that is not what i meant and you know it.” he groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder.

“i’m just kidding.” you respond, running your hands through his soft, pale hair. “consider that payback for waking me up.” 

“would it help if i had breakfast ready next time?” his voice is muffled, but you can still make out the words.

“yes, yes it would.”)

✦ ending notes: first phainon drabble!! hehe this was a quicker piece but i thoroughly enjoyed every second of writing this (i know a very popular characterization is that he's needy WHICH I AGREE WITH but he's also excellent at executing a plan and setting it in motion ykwim? he contains multitudes jsjsjsj therefore, needy and sneaky)

✦ taglist: @maopll (taglist form is linked. send an ask to be removed!)

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Spooktober 2025

Every time you look into the mirror, your reflection is doing something slightly different… until it starts waving at you.

You hear whispering through your bedroom air vent. It's not the neighbors. It's nothing technical. It's not human.

There is suddenly a lake in the middle of nowhere and instead of asking where it came from, people jump in for a swim.

You find an old MP3 player at a thrift store. Every song describes a death that happens the next few days.

The people in the family photo on your wall keep changing and none of them are your relatives.

An abandoned TV in your attic turns itself on every night, showing footage of your house… from inside.

You wake up in the morning, but get confused because it's still dark. And the sun doesn't rise again.

You meet a man who claims he can bring someone back to life for a price. And that's all you ever wished for.

You find your childhood diary, but the entries aren't written by you. And they predict your future.

There are sounds coming from the basement. But there is no basement.

The fire in the fireplace suddenly starts to dance and turn into scenes from your life.

You walk into your house, but every door leads back to the same room. There seems to be no escape.

One night, a star disappears from the sky. The next day, people start vanishing.

You go camping and find a tree with hundreds of names carved into it including yours.

You're a rideshare driver. A passenger asks for a destination that doesn't exist… and leaves something behind after they suddenly vanish from the backseat.

A photo from your vacation shows a face staring through your hotel window. You were on the 9th floor.

A new door appears in your hallway. No one remembers building it and no one can open it.

Your partner sleep-talks, but one night, their voice changes and it starts speaking in a language you've never heard.

You buy an antique painting at a garage sale. Now you wake up each morning feeling watched.

A forest appears overnight where a neighborhood once stood. You swear you saw a house inside.

A child's doll begins writing in a notebook left beside it. The entries are chilling.

Your reflection always smiles before you do.

Your phone rings. The caller ID says it's you. After answering the call you hear yourself speaking, saying they're from the year you died.

A child asks you to walk her home. Her house is located inside the local cemetery.

You take a group photo at your birthday party. There's an extra person in every photo that no one remembers, but that interacts with everyone else in the photos.

You find torn pages from a lighthouse keeper's log describing creatures from the sea.

A package arrives with no return address. Inside is a video of you sleeping.

You move into a new town. Everyone seems nice and open, but stares at you blankly as soon as you're alone. As soon as someone else comes by, everything is back to normal.

A friend dares you to play a childhood game you forgot. When you play, something ancient answers.

Your grandfather's old clock begins chiming a 13th hour and something comes through.

You find an unfinished manuscript. As you read it, you realize it’s describing everything happening to you right now…

More: Spooktober/Halloween Prompt Lists

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[growth-opportunities]

"I can't... I can't make it stop!

"I just wanted to be a little bit bigger! A cup size, two at the most! I thought maybe being a C or a D would get those bratty bitches to stop making fun of me. Fuck, I don't know what went wrong! I followed the instructions on the growth cream to the letter. Maybe I got a little carried away when I first started seeing results, but I swear I didn't use that much extra!

"But now... fuck, they just won't stop growing! I've already passed a G cup and they're not showing any sign of slowing down! None of my bras even remotely fit and I'm afraid of buying another one because I know I'll just outgrow it in a few days and, at this size, bras aren't cheap!

"The worst part is how sensitive they are. I mean, just look at how stiff my nipples are under this tank top! I don't think they've gone soft in the last three days! Tight clothes put too much pressure on them, loose clothes brush against them, and even when I'm not wearing anything at all, just the feeling of air rushing over them is enough to make me outrageously horny! I can't sleep because even the blankets resting on top of my tits makes them impossible to ignore and I wind up teasing them and pinching them and groping myself until the sun rises! I swear my nipples are even more sensitive than my clit!

"I'm starting to worry that, when my growing boobs make me too horny to think, I'll do something stupid. I still have half a tube of the growth serum left... My boobs feel so big, so swollen, so fucking sensitive that I think I'm getting addicted to it. I'm starting to want more. I know I shouldn't and, while I have my wits about me, I can resist. But I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to..."