absolutely diabolical that a fic will have the most beautiful summary ever and have you think that you're going to read some really good fluff or angst and the first content warning is anal fisting
I absolutely adore how normal Clark's parents looked so normal. I realize the ideal of them is a strong farmer and his wife and that might be a beautiful older woman and her sturdy handsome husband. Nothing wrong with that. But Martha and Jonathan Kent in this movie were the kind of older couple I'd see at the grocery store in my own small-town. The kind of people at the community hall and auction grounds picking up hay bales for the cattle.
They were warm and just so normal it almost surprises you. They also don't resemble Clark at all which I think is important in driving home the fact that they aren't his biological parents. He stands out amongst them it's so clear he's different and special even. And my god do they love him.
The way they call for him and sit on a rusty bench outside the creaky screen door. That feels like home to me having grown up on the prairies. How authentic they feel only grounds Clark even more. It feels less like a dream or idea of a perfect farm family and is more two people who tried their best and will bake apple pie with calloused hands full of love
ominis: put a finger down if you were nice to a girl to use them for your own gain then played yourself, caught feelings, and is now horrendously obsessed with them that you got sick because they chose Amit Thakkar for one charms project
sebastian, on his last finger: i don't like this game
summary: you join harry in bed for cuddles, and whilst the boy is ready to sleep, you let him know it's barely dinner time.
When dusk rolls by and the last hues of the orange sky disappear, a silent night settles upon the castle, extinguishing any bustling activity of the swarming students. People retreat into their common rooms or gather around the courtyard, quiet discussions stirring the peace finally brought to Hogwarts.
You don’t entertain the idea of joining your friends for their late-night activities, tip toeing across dark hallways that could blind you from even the brightest light. Instead, you stroll along the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor common room, the lustful red of its patriotic decor drowning out the shine of the jewellery displayed around your neck, curling around your ears.
The cold metal of a doorknob dichotomises the warmth radiating from your skin, chills on your arm standing in protest at the sudden opposition. Luckily, your touch soon slips from the handle, and returns to the safety of your jumper, sleeves too long for your smaller figure. Dark silk curtains obstruct your vision from the final location you aim to reach, fingers itching to reach out and pull them aside before you have even met them.
They’re calling to you. Or rather, the person who you know lays behind them does, a siren’s song alluring you towards them to grasp you in their arms and bring you to your demise: sleep. Slipping between the curtains, you inhale deeply, the quiet song of your boyfriend’s steady breath welcoming you into the dangerous comfort of his bed.
He is asleep, pillow damp as his wet hair seeps through the thin fabric of its soft case. Carefully, you drape yourself onto the mattress next to him, staring at the ceiling of the dark dorm, imitating the night’s constellated sky. Beside you, Harry’s body moves, chasing the warmth you radiate, body shifting to snuggle his head into the fold of your neck, arms enveloping your body. A breath hitches in your throat as droplets of water tickle your neck, Harry’s essence filling your nostrils with a familiar scent.
A low groan awakens you from your thoughts, eyes flickering towards Harry, whose eyes are fluttering open. In his withering consciousness, his arms tighten around your body, battling with the mattress so a hand can slip under your back, curling to rest on your hip. A pull towards him brings your body closer to his, a smile forming on Harry’s face that has the room brightening despite the opaque darkness flooding it.
When he speaks, his voice is deep with sleepiness, though his words are loving. “Hey lovey.” You blink slowly, lips tugging upwards as you laugh quietly, the fondness in your voice unmistakable. “That’s a new one.” You whisper, shifting to your side to brush Harry’s hair away from his face. Luckily for him, the blissful absence of light in the dorm hides his shyness away, defined by a bloom of pink across his cheek.
Harry hadn’t meant to call you lovey, but an abundance of memories from his childhood formed by his parents’s interactions had let it slip up in his sleepy state. He has taken to his taken to his father’s liking of the pet name. Hopefully, you’d like being called it, just as his mother did.
“Sorry.” He apologises, a sheepish smile on his face. Leaning in until your lips swept against his cheek, you murmur “Don’t be. I like it.” before pressing a loving kiss to his skin. “Is it time for bed?” Harry asks, digging his face into the pillow in a poor attempt to hide the happy humiliation from his face, a giddy smile adorning his lips.
Found myself doing this is a boring class, thought it would be a cool fic idea:
YN writes her crush's initials on her wrist's pulse point and he finds out.
Harry/fem!reader
Ink and Impulse ♡ | H.Potter ★
"Look, I didn’t mean to fall for the girl who writes initials on her wrist like she’s living in a teenage diary entry… but then I found out they were my initials, and well — what was I supposed to do? Not tease her relentlessly and then fall hopelessly in love? Yeah, right."
pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader
summary : Writing your crush's initials on your wrist is harmless… unless your crush happens to be Harry Potter, who’s absolutely insufferable once he finds out.
warnings : Light teasing and playful embarrassment, Secondhand embarrassment (Harry is a menace, you've been warned), Excessive flirting and wrist kissing, Mild language, Shameless romantic fluff, Ron being utterly clueless, Hermione being 100% done with everyone, Boyfriend Harry with zero chill. Please let me know if I missed any.
author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.
della's note : This was such a cute idea!!! Thanks for requesting lovie!
word count : 0.7k
navigation <3
banners : @/roseschoices and @/cafekitsune
It started as a stupid impulse. You were bored in History of Magic — and Merlin, no one should be blamed for what they do while Binns drones on about goblin uprisings. So you did what any mildly lovesick teenage girl with a quill and a wrist would do.
You wrote his initials.
Small. Delicate. Right over the soft thrum of your pulse point.
H.J.P.
And then promptly forgot about it. Sort of.
Well, not really.
You tried to forget about it, but it was hard when every glance at your wrist made your heart do a stupid little jump, and when every accidental brush of Harry’s hand made the ink feel like it was burning.
And of course, life wasn’t satisfied with letting you pine in peace.
No, because Hermione noticed first.
“Did you write something on your wrist?” she asked, peering across the breakfast table.
You yanked your sleeve down so fast it was like you’d been caught with contraband. “Nope.”
“Definitely saw a letter,” Ron muttered, biting into his toast. “A J or a P or something. Is it... a crush?”
“I—no!” you choked, already planning your dramatic escape. “It’s just notes. For class. Revision strategy.”
“Right,” Hermione said, too knowingly. “Because when I revise, I always write my O.W.L. material directly over my arteries.”
Before you could swat her with a spoon, a voice drawled behind you—
“Oh? What’s this about arteries?”
Your soul briefly left your body.
Harry Potter—your Harry Potter, the one with the mess of dark hair and eyes that always softened when he looked at you like you were made of something more than bone and breath—plopped himself down next to you with a crooked grin.
“Apparently,” Hermione said sweetly, “someone’s been doodling on her pulse point.”
“Oh?” he asked again, this time turning directly to you. “What were you doodling?”
You swore his voice dropped an octave.
“Nothing,” you said too quickly.
“Mm.” His eyes drifted to your wrist, half-covered by your sleeve. “So if I just... had a peek—”
You slammed your hand under the table.
“Harry James Potter, I swear on Merlin’s left sock—”
“Is it... my name?” he asked, and smirked.
That was it. That was the moment you realized you were doomed.
Hermione audibly gasped. Ron dropped his toast. Hedwig, wherever she was in the castle, probably looked up with a sense of psychic foreboding.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered. “Shut up.”
“Oh, this is brilliant,” Harry laughed, practically bouncing in his seat. “You like me. You wrote my name on your skin.”
“Initials!” you hissed. “And I was bored!”
“You wrote my initials on your pulse point, sweetheart,” he said, absolutely reveling in your horror. “That’s, like, sixteen levels of emotionally unhinged. Are you planning our wedding, too?”
“I was bored!”
“I think I feel faint,” he said, placing a dramatic hand on his chest. “This is the best day of my life.”
You groaned and faceplanted into your arms, wishing for a time-turner so you could slap yourself three hours earlier.
And that should’ve been the end of it.
But no.
Because Harry Potter decided to become a menace.
“Hey,” he whispered in Charms, pulling your sleeve up. “Just checking if my name’s still there. Would be tragic if you moved on.”
“Hey,” he said again at dinner, resting his chin on your shoulder, “thinking about getting ‘(Y/N)’ tattooed. Right over the vein. Want to match?”
And the worst part?
He actually did it.
One evening in the common room, when everyone else had filtered out and the fire was flickering low, he sat beside you with a quiet smile, reached for your hand, and pressed a gentle kiss to your wrist. Right where the ink had faded.
Then, slowly, he unbuttoned his sleeve, turned his arm over, and showed you.
Your name. Right over his pulse point. Written in messy, inky letters.
“I figured,” he murmured, eyes on you instead of the ink, “if you’re going to walk around with my initials like that... I ought to return the favor.”
Your breath hitched.
“You’re horrible,” you whispered, but you couldn’t stop smiling.
Harry looked utterly pleased with himself.
“I know,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “But I’m your horrible, yeah?”
You rolled your eyes, cupped his cheek, and kissed him.
Somewhere in the corner, Hermione muttered to Ron, “Finally.”
Ron just said, “Took him writing on his own arm, huh?”
