i love you 3000

[x] requested by anon // request here!

request: hermione granger + 56 ‘someone accepting the bad parts of you without judging’ (based off this post)

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“It’s me.” The girl on the other side of the door says before clarifying, “Hermione.”

“Shit – you’re early.” You say, mostly to yourself, as you hesitate before opening the door fully. It had been a rough night for reasons you were too tired to go into. It had left you feeling exhausted, forgetting that Hermione was supposed to come over.

Here she was, standing in the doorway of your home, expectant, then wide-eyed. She has a bag thrown over her shoulder, curls falling over her large jumper, and she’s so perfect and you’re just…not. You turn your face away, stepping aside to let her into the house. She closes the door behind her as you move into the lounge, into the kitchen, throwing things into piles.

“Sorry about the mess, ‘Mione!” You force a cheerful tone, avoiding her gaze, shoving rubbish into the bin. “Look at this, I’ve got a house guest over and you have to watch me pack up my rubbish. God, I’ve got terrible manners. I’m so-”

[x] requested by anon // request here!

TW ALCOHOL

request: minho + 10 ‘the taste of vodka at the back of your throat’ (based off this post)

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“Oh, shit, that’s bloody disgusting.” You say, in between splutters. The alcohol is burning at the back of your throat, rich and smooth. You swallow roughly, turning your gaze to Minho, who is laughing beside you. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He muffles his laughter, hands on his face. “It’s just bloody disgusting that you pick up Newt’s sayings. I think the alcohol brings it out.”

You nudge – or, rather, shove – him with your elbow, digging it into his side and he swats your hand away, protesting. You can’t help the grin that breaks out on your face, taking another swig of the bottle. Again, you screw your face up but you don’t splutter this time, just wipe the back of your hand across your lips.

Minho watches your face quietly as you speak, “It tastes…familiar.” You begin, looking to him. Maybe, it’s the alcohol but all he can think about is kissing you. You continue, “I’ve had it, in the past.”

“Maybe we’ve done this before.” Minho says, his voice softer than he had intended. “Maybe, it’s our unspoken tradition.”

[x] requested by anon // request here!

TW ALCOHOL

request: wynonna earp + 10 ‘the taste of vodka at the back of your throat’ (based off this post)

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“Wynonna,” You sung her name, confusion in your voice. You didn’t know where she had disappeared to; it had been some time since you had seen her, so you had decided to pull yourself up from the sofa and investigate. “Wynonna,” You call again, rounding the corner of the hallway, before shrieking, dissolving into laughter. “Jesus Christ, you scared me!”

Wynonna, leaning drunkenly up against the frame of the bathroom door, grins wickedly. She flicks the bathroom lights off and drawls, “You scare too easily, baby.” At your face, she holds up her hands in surrender, laughing, “It’s just – I find it funny that you can face demons and you can face death countless times but you can’t – you flinch at the slightest of jumpscares.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” You whine, leaning against the hallway wall, sliding down to sit on the ground. Wynonna joins you, legs stretching out to rest her feet on the opposite wall, and reveals a half-empty bottle of Vodka. You snort, “You had that with you in the bathroom?”

“It’s my baby. It goes everywhere I go.” Wynnona says, unscrewing the lid. “Want some?”

[x] requested by anon // request here!

request: rosa diaz + 19 ‘satin in candlelight’ (based off this post)

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You’re so nervous. Sure, it’s one thing seeing Rosa Diaz in her police uniform on shift but it’s a whole other thing to see her on a dinner date. You don’t know how had worked up the courage to ask her out. This had led to that and you had somehow ended up here, hands clasped in your lap, soft against the satin of your dress. The restaurant was nice – Rosa had picked it. The tables were nicely set and the candles were laid out across the dining and the glasses were..

Your breath catches. That’s Rosa Diaz, approaching, gaze jumping from one table to the next before landing on yours, meeting your eyes. She lightens visibly, exhaling. She, herself, hadn’t been sure you would actually show up to your date. She had debated not coming. She had stood in front of her bathroom mirror and wrung her hands as she thought about what to wear, how she should look for your first date. It brought her to the realisation that she might actually care for you, in a deeper way than she had originally thought. Rosa didn’t have many things that made her nervous in this life but you had somehow settled butterflies in her stomach. They lifted as you stood from your table, a genuine smile on your lips.

“Rosa,” You say, almost like a confirmation.

She nods, a strand of dark hair falling into her face. Impatient, she reaches up to move it out of the way at the same time you reach forward to tuck it behind her ear. Your hands touch and you flush, dropping your hand.

“Anything interesting on the menu?” Rosa tilts her head as you take your seats, starting to talk about the meals at the restaurant.

[x] requested by anon // request here!

request: tony stark + 43 ‘your favourite song on repeat for the hundredth time’ (based off this post)

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Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of your favourite song booms through the room, for what seems like the hundredth time. You throw a grin at your brother across the lab, who pushes off his makeshift desk, spinning in his chair, his hands drumming a beat in the air. This makes you smile even more. It were these scenes, these moments that made you happy, because Tony was happy. You could see it in the ease of his smile, the way he was unconsciously tapping a beat, that light in his eyes.

Tony tossed a screwdriver to you, moving his own screwdriver’s coloured end to just in front of his mouth. A few more beats and…

request: annabeth chase + 35 ‘blowing a raspberry against someone’s skin’ (based off this post)

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It was sometime around noon and you were both still in bed.

It was a hot, humid Manhattan day, and all the sheets had been kicked off in the middle of the night. After a restless night, the heat had made you feel drowsy and tired. You had grabbed breakfast reluctantly and returned to bed, Annabeth frowning as you had rolled onto the bed with your food still balanced in your hands.

“You’re going to get crumbs everywhere.” She had commented, sitting cross-legged in her lightest pyjamas, pillow in her lap.

“I think you mean,” You tried, “We’re going to get crumbs everywhere.”

Now, you were lying in bed, fan circling above you, windows pulled open with a slight breeze sweeping through your bedroom. Annabeth was lying beside you, an arm behind her head. She looks disapproving.

“We did get crumbs everywhere.”

“Nah.”

“Are you really going to argue that point?”

“There are,” You roll your head to the side, to look at her. “No crumbs.”

“You can literally see-” Annabeth breaks off with a squeal, as you had fully rolled over, propping yourself up on your elbows and pressing your mouth to her arm, blowing a raspberry in a moment. You look up at her with a grin, leaning forward to blow another raspberry, this time on her stomach. It makes her laugh, squirming away, pushing your head away, wracked with giggles.

request: annabeth chase + 22 ‘neon lights at 1:30am’ (based off this post)

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Your breath swirls before you, curling into the night, head tipped back. You dig your hands deeper into your pockets and shift weight from your right foot to your left. The street is quiet, flickering under the glamoured shop’s neon sign behind you. You can hear the quiet rev of a car engine from a few streets over, possibly the only other person out at one thirty on a Tuesday morning. Aside from you and,

“Annabeth.” Her name falls from your lips as you look over your shoulder, past the shattered windowfront of the store. The whole scene looks ghostly – the blinking neon sign above the windows, the broken glass crunching at your feet as you turn, the darkness enveloping the shop. “Annabeth, everything okay?”

She appears from the blackness, phone flashlight in one hand, illuminating her figure. In the other hand, she holds her celestial bronze dagger lightly. In her cool grey eyes, she holds disappointment but her tone is breezy. “Nothing.” She steps through the open windowfront, carefully swivelling, and her boots crunch in the glass. “It’s been swept already. It’s clean.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You match her tone, even allowing a small sense of humour into your voice as you tilt your head. “We’ll find something. We always do.”

[x] requested by @myriadimagines // request here!

request: thomas (tmr) + 37 ‘the tender ache when you press against bruises’ (based off this post)

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“It was a reckless thing to do and, frankly, Greenie,” You’re not looking at him as you talk, focused on the small movement of unscrewing the lid of the bottle, saying, “I’m surprised you’re not dead. But, you’ve got courage. That, or stupidity.”

Thomas, leaning against the doorway of the Homestead, his arms crossed, gives a little snort. At your quick assessing look, he just shrugs and explains, “You followed me into the Maze the second time. That means we’re both either courageous or stupid.”

You roll your eyes and place the lid beside you, squeezing the bottle of salve, the contents cold on your fingers. “Look,” You say, “I’m curious about,” Pausing, you turn your wrist slightly and apply the salve onto your skin, the area bruised already, “the Maze now. What we found in that Griever? That’s something. That’s new.”

You had almost said, “I’m curious about you.” It seemed too vulnerable.

Thomas hums in response, thoughts obviously on the device you had found in the Maze earlier that day. Unknown to you, he was also thinking about the supposed dead Griever stirring and lashing out, remembered the way you had caught the force of the blow. You had brushed off the worries from the others but Thomas had followed you to the Homestead. He just wanted to make sure you were okay.

[x] requested by anon // request here!

request: tony stark + 46 ‘the waver in a person’s voice when they’re stressed’ (based off this post)

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“Tony?” There’s a strange echo down the staircase when you call his name and you shiver, even though you’re dressed in warm pyjamas and have a blanket around your shoulders. You descend the stairs, trudging down, still-wiping sleep from the corner of your eye. Jarvis recognises you quietly, the sliding door at the bottom of the staircase sliding open with a hiss.

He’s there. Perched on the edge of his seat, fingers sliding along the interface keyboard. There is indecipherable articles and writing and headlines, intangible red line connecting each, hanging in the air, and Tony is pouring over each of them.

“Tony,” You say, gently. “Come to bed.”

“I have…” Tony begins before realising that he doesn’t know what he’s even achieving, starting again. “I have stuff to do. There’s always stuff to do.”

“You can do this in the morning. Just tonight – come to bed, alright?”

“I can’t.” He finally looks at you with this look in his eyes that makes your heart ache, with this waver in his voice, vulnerable. “I can’t.” As you start forward, say his name, he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaling. “I’m fine, I’m fine – just let me be. Go back to bed. I’m okay.”

[x] [x] drabble imagine requested by @bennyhargreeves // request here!

request: steve rogers + 24 ‘dust floating in golden sunlight’ (based off this post)

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The twist of the pencil in his hand was muscle memory; it was with automatic movement that Steve flicked the lead across the sketch page, the image travelling from his gaze to his fingertips. The heaviness in his heart was slowly lifting, becoming lighter and lighter whenever his pencil lifted and touched the page again. New lines, sketched, dark and light. Maybe it was the old action of drawing that brought him peace or perhaps it was the image in front of him, that had wholly inspired him.

It was you.

Sprawled on the sofa, golden sunlight falling through the dust of your apartment, illuminating. You were concentrating on your book and your eyebrows were furrowed in a way that convinced Steve you didn’t even know this was your look of attentiveness. The whole scene – the warm afternoon filled with casual touches, the apartment tinged with the smell of burnt pancakes, the sunlight falling like that, through the specks of dust, you – had made Steve rummage around the closet, around old clothes, and pull out his sketchpad.

“What are you doing?” Steve looks up from his page when you ask, meeting your curious eyes, finger holding your page number, before looking down at his page.

“Just drawing.” He replies.

You consider this for a moment, note the smallest of smiles on Steve’s face, sunlight making his blond hair golden in the afternoon. “It’s been a while since you’ve done that.”

[x] requested by anon // request here!

-

“Hey, Simon, do you know where Alec is?” You keep looking around the Institute, gazing around the room at the faces, as you ask. “Aline and I need to talk to him about something.”

It’s a moment before you realise that Simon isn’t replying and your gaze flicks from the room to Simon’s face or, more specifically, Simon not meeting your eyes. Finding anywhere to look but you, even as you raise an eyebrow, exchanging glances with Aline over your shoulder. You prompt, “Simon?”

“Oh, the poor boy just never pictured you guys together.” The familiar voice drawls, amusement dripping. Jace comes to a stop, Clary and Izzy also beside him, a smug look on his face. “But, aren’t you just the cutest?”

“What?” Aline says sharply, from beside you.

Jace holds his hands up in a surrender-like position, expression one of surprise. “I know, I know. You guys just started out, not sure how you’re feeling yet, but, in my personal opinion, you guys are cute together.”

“Jace.” Clary shoves Jace with her shoulder, folding her arms. She sends both Aline and you apologetic glances. “We seriously thought that you were a couple now…that…you…”

“Hooked up.” Aline finishes.

You groan, feeling your cheeks becoming hotter, “That’s not a great way of putting it.”

“So,” Izzy says tentatively. “You’re not a couple?”

[x] [x] requested by anon // request here!

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“I don’t see why she couldn’t have stayed at Hogwarts for the break.” Lucius says casually, his pen scrawling carefully across the page. The conversational tone your father held didn’t betray the intent behind the words; this is conveyed through a flick of cool eyes and the refusal to acknowledge your presence in the room. You swallow roughly, the pages of your book becoming unfocused as you catch the look Draco is sending your father, shaking your head slightly. He backs down, lounging in his armchair.

You had made an effort to be with your father over the holidays, wanting to do nothing but impress him. Your father had always been, to say the least, irritated about your choice at Hogwarts. Your mother and brother had talked him down from quite literally cutting your ties with the Malfoy family line. Irritated, you thought, was an understatement.

Lucius seems unsatisfied with your silence and tries again, muttering to himself, malice on his tongue. “Hogwarts would have been more welcoming than this house. I thought that simple fact would have been obvious to her.”

“That’s it.” Draco says, sharply, snapping the words out of his mouth. Lucius looks up, more startled than anything. “That’s enough.”

“Careful, Draco.” Lucius says.

Draco is not done; he leans forward in his armchair, elbows leaning on his knees, almost snarling. “She is your daughter and my sister and she is a Malfoy. But, God forbid she isn’t a Slytherin! Actually,” Draco says, slowly, angrily, “If I had to put up with the countless insults, I would be glad I’m not in Slytherin. If I had to endure half of all those comments you threw at her, I would not be proud to be a Malfoy.” He spits the last line.

[x] requested by anon // request here!

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“I’m pretty sure I just heard your name out of some Gryffindor’s mouth.” Flint sneers, spinning a pencil between his fingers.

“Who?” You say, distracted as you copy down notes from a library book.

“Over there.” Flint says shortly, and you look up, flicking the general location of his point a quick look before returning to your notes. Then, you realise who it is. You swallow. Look up again, to your left.

It’s him.

Seamus is half-folded on the table, chin propped in his hand, talking across to Dean Thomas. His collar is messy and his tie undone and his hair is just a little bit singed from where you can see. His accent drawls and you strain to hear, “I just – did you see her on the field yesterday? She’s a quiet player but she’s efficient – she’s honestly the best on the team. Oi, Dean? Do you think I should do it? Do you think I should ask her out?”

You shift your gaze across to Dean, who looks up lazily from his textbook and makes eye contact with you. He shrugs, “I dunno, Seamus, why don’t you? She is sitting right there, after all.”