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“ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴠᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ. ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀʟʟ.” -ᴏꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴡɪʟᴅᴇ

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Stubborn Beetle
Jacob Black x Reader
This was a request from @sweetvanillafawn555 . Enjoy!!
Jacob Black had been complaining about your car since the day you started dating.
Not because he hated the color—he claimed the faded powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle was “kind of cute”—but because, according to him, it was “one cough away from becoming lawn décor.”
You, of course, disagreed.
It was your Beetle.
It had personality.
It had history.
And, admittedly…
It had a habit of making concerning noises.
⸻
“You know,” Jacob said one afternoon as he leaned against the hood, folding his arms with an exaggerated sigh, “normal cars don’t whistle when they’re parked.”
“It isn’t whistling.”
“It literally just wheezed.”
“It sighed.”
“It begged for mercy.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“You’re jealous because she’s prettier than your truck.”
Jacob barked out a laugh.
“My truck runs.”
“So does Betsy.”
“…You named it?”
“Obviously.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You named the death trap.”
You stuck your head out the window.
“She has feelings.”
“She has mechanical issues.”
“You hurt her feelings.”
“I hurt your feelings every time I tell you this thing is gonna strand you somewhere.”
“It has never stranded me.”
He pointed at you.
“Yet.”
You grinned smugly.
“You’ll see.”
Jacob shook his head.
“I’m serious, sweetheart.”
“I know.”
“No—you don’t.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I absolutely do.”
He stepped closer to your window, resting his elbows against the door.
“This thing is forty-something years old.”
“So?”
“So it’s held together by optimism.”
“It’s held together by love.”
“It’s held together by duct tape.”
“That was one time.”
“It was six times.”
⸻
The teasing became routine.
Every time the Beetle coughed…
Jacob looked at you.
Every time it rattled…
Jacob looked at you.
Every time you started it…
He muttered, “Come on… don’t embarrass yourself today.”
You’d shove his shoulder.
He’d laugh.
“You wait,” he’d say.
“One day I’m gonna get a phone call.”
“‘Jacob… Betsy’s exploded.’”
“I won’t call.”
“You’ll have to.”
“I’ll prove you wrong.”
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
He leaned down, kissed your forehead and smiled.
“I hope you do.”
⸻
Three weeks later…
You were driving home after visiting a friend.
The road stretched endlessly through the Olympic Peninsula.
Trees towered on both sides.
No houses.
No traffic.
No people.
Just forest.
The Beetle hummed happily beneath you.
You smiled.
“See, Betsy?”
You patted the dashboard.
“We’re proving him wrong.”
As if offended by your confidence…
The engine sputtered.
“…No.”
It coughed.
“No.”
It jerked.
“No no no…”
Then—
Silence.
The steering suddenly felt heavy as the car rolled to a stop on the gravel shoulder.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You tried the key again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
One more—
The engine made an awful grinding sound before giving up entirely.
You slumped against the steering wheel.
“…Jacob is never letting me live this down.”
⸻
You grabbed your phone.
One bar.
Hope.
You called Jacob.
It rang once…
Then—
Call Failed.
“…Seriously?”
You climbed out of the car.
Maybe there’d be better reception.
You wandered a few metres down the road, phone held ridiculously high.
“Come on…”
Nothing.
You walked further.
Still nothing.
The screen mocked you.
No Service.
You sighed.
“Fantastic.”
⸻
Back in La Push…
Jacob looked down at his phone.
He frowned.
“Huh.”
Quil glanced over.
“What?”
“Thought I felt my phone buzz.”
“You did?”
Jacob checked again.
“There was almost a call.”
“What?”
“It rang once then stopped.”
He frowned harder.
“…From Y/N.”
Embry shrugged.
“Probably pocket dial.”
Jacob wasn’t convinced.
He texted you.
Everything okay?
No reply.
He waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Twenty.
His leg bounced impatiently.
“She would’ve answered.”
Quil raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe she’s busy.”
Jacob stood abruptly.
“No.”
“What?”
“She’s driving home.”
“So?”
“So she always answers.”
Embry looked at him.
“You worried?”
Jacob grabbed his truck keys.
“…Yeah.”
⸻
Half an hour later…
He’d driven your usual route twice.
Nothing.
His jaw tightened.
“C’mon…”
Then—
Way off in the distance…
A familiar blue shape.
Jacob practically slammed on the brakes.
“There you are.”
⸻
You were sitting on the hood of the Beetle with your knees pulled to your chest when you heard the unmistakable roar of Jacob’s truck.
Your head snapped up.
Relief flooded your face.
Jacob jumped out before the truck had fully settled.
“Y/N!”
You slid off the hood.
“Jake!”
He crossed the distance in seconds.
The moment he reached you, he grabbed your shoulders.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I thought—”
He stopped himself.
His shoulders finally relaxed.
“You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I got this weird feeling something was wrong.”
“I tried calling.”
“I know.”
“No signal.”
Jacob looked around.
“…Figures.”
You offered a tiny guilty smile.
“So…”
He looked at the Beetle.
Then back at you.
“…I’m trying so hard not to say it.”
You sighed dramatically.
“Go ahead.”
“I told you so.”
“I know.”
“I warned you.”
“I know.”
“I specifically said—”
“I KNOW.”
He burst into laughter.
You crossed your arms.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I definitely do.”
He stepped closer, smiling that stupidly adorable smile that made it impossible to stay annoyed.
“You still love me.”
“…Unfortunately.”
⸻
Jacob walked around the Beetle, lifting the hood.
“…Well.”
“What?”
“You’ve got yourself a very dramatic little car.”
“I prefer ‘vintage.’”
“I prefer ‘mechanical disaster.’”
“It has character.”
“It has trauma.”
You snorted.
Jacob began checking hoses and wires with practiced ease.
“Hm.”
“What?”
“I think I found it.”
“You already know?”
“Baby…”
He looked at you with mock offense.
“I rebuild engines for fun.”
“Show off.”
He grinned.
“Absolutely.”
You leaned against the car while he worked.
Watching his hands.
Watching the concentration on his face.
“You know…”
He didn’t look up.
“Hm?”
“I really did think she’d prove you wrong.”
“I know.”
“I even talked to her.”
Jacob chuckled.
“You encouraged the breakdown.”
“I did not.”
“You challenged fate.”
“I believed in her.”
“You called her Betsy.”
“Because that’s her name.”
He laughed again.
⸻
After another fifteen minutes…
Jacob wiped grease off his hands.
“Try it.”
You climbed inside.
“Ready?”
“Go.”
You turned the key.
The Beetle sputtered.
Coughed.
Then—
The engine came to life.
Your eyes widened.
“Betsy!”
Jacob laughed so hard he doubled over.
“You are unbelievable.”
You jumped out and threw your arms around him.
“It works!”
He caught you effortlessly.
“Told you I’d fix it.”
“You actually did.”
“You doubted me?”
“No.”
“You looked surprised.”
“I was impressed.”
“I’ll take impressed.”
⸻
You rested your forehead against his.
“…Thank you.”
His smile softened.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
“I was worried sick.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
“When I couldn’t reach you…”
“I know.”
“I kept thinking about every stupid possibility.”
“I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“But don’t scare me like that again.”
“I’ll try.”
His eyes drifted toward the Beetle.
“…Or…”
“What?”
“We could finally get you a reliable car.”
You gasped dramatically.
“Betray Betsy?”
“I’m begging you.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“I’ll even help pay.”
“Nope.”
“I’ll build one.”
“No.”
He groaned loudly.
“Y/N…”
You laughed.
“She just needed a little love.”
Jacob pointed toward the Beetle.
“She needed me.”
“…Technically.”
He smirked triumphantly.
“So you admit I was right?”
You sighed with theatrical defeat.
“…About this?”
“Yes.”
“You were right.”
Jacob pumped his fist into the air.
“YES!”
“Oh my God.”
“I won!”
“You are insufferable.”
He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close before pressing a kiss to your lips.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again.
“I’d rather be right and have you safe,” he murmured.
You smiled softly.
“I know.”
He glanced once more at the Beetle.
“…We’re still taking my truck home.”
You laughed.
“…Yeah.”
“…But Betsy’s coming too.”
Jacob groaned so loudly it echoed through the trees.
“I swear that car is the third person in this relationship.”
You grinned, patting the Beetle’s roof affectionately.
“Don’t listen to him, Betsy.”
Jacob shook his head with a laugh.
“I’ve accepted that I’ll never win against that car.”
You slipped your hand into his.
“You don’t have to.”
He squeezed your fingers, smiling.
“I already won the important thing.”
Where The Wolves Bow
Jacaerys Velaryon x Stark!Reader
The North had always felt endless.
Its forests stretched farther than the eye could see, cloaked beneath blankets of fresh snow, while ancient pines whispered secrets to the wind. Grey skies hung over Winterfell, but instead of making the castle feel bleak, they made it feel strong. Timeless.
It was nothing like Dragonstone.
Jacaerys Velaryon stood atop Winterfell’s battlements with his hands resting against the icy stone. His dark curls danced wildly in the wind, and despite the thick black furs Lord Cregan Stark had insisted he wear, he still shivered.
A familiar voice behind him chuckled.
“You’ve been staring at the snow for nearly ten minutes.”
He turned.
“There you are.”
You smiled, arms folded over your own thick wolfskin cloak.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I needed air.”
“You’ve had enough air to freeze.”
“I think my eyelashes have turned to ice.”
You laughed.
“They have.”
Jace sighed dramatically.
“I knew coming North would be difficult.”
“You’ve only been here three days.”
“It has been the longest three days of my life.”
“Oh?”
“I haven’t felt my fingers since yesterday.”
You burst into another fit of laughter.
“Soft southern prince.”
“I am not soft.”
“You complained because your drinking water was cold.”
“It was frozen.”
“That is what happens here.”
“I know!”
“You stared at it for a full minute hoping it would melt.”
“I thought perhaps it might.”
“It was snowing.”
“I was trying to remain optimistic.”
You shook your head.
“You are hopeless.”
“And yet…”
He stepped closer.
“…you keep finding me.”
⸻
The two of you had met years before.
Your father had once travelled south to Dragonstone, bringing several members of House Stark with him—including you.
Back then, Jace had been awkward.
Far too polite.
Far too eager to impress.
He’d nearly fallen into the sea attempting to demonstrate how gracefully he could spar while walking backwards.
You had laughed so hard you cried.
He had never forgiven you.
Or perhaps…
He never wanted to.
Because every raven exchanged between Dragonstone and Winterfell afterwards somehow included a letter addressed to you.
Sometimes discussing politics.
Sometimes dragons.
Mostly arguments over whether wolves or dragons were superior.
“You cannot seriously believe wolves would defeat dragons.”
“They’re clever.”
“They’re wolves.”
“They hunt in packs.”
“They’re still wolves.”
“They bite.”
“Dragons breathe fire.”
“Wolves have determination.”
“Determination doesn’t stop fire.”
“It certainly helps.”
“No…”
“You’re simply biased.”
“I own a dragon.”
“I own several very angry wolves.”
“I believe Vermax would win.”
“I believe Grey Wind would bite his tail.”
“He flies.”
“He lands eventually.”
He’d laughed so hard he’d nearly spilled ink across the letter.
⸻
Days passed.
Jace remained at Winterfell while discussing alliances with Lord Cregan.
Whenever those meetings ended…
He found you.
Always.
One afternoon you led him through the godswood.
Snowflakes drifted lazily through the red branches of the weirwood tree.
Jace looked around in awe.
“It feels…”
He searched for the words.
“…ancient.”
“It is.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
You rested your hand against the pale bark.
“My mother says every Stark eventually comes here when they need answers.”
“And have you?”
“Many times.”
“Has the tree answered?”
You smiled faintly.
“No.”
“It simply listens.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“I suppose that’s enough sometimes.”
Silence settled comfortably between you.
The only sounds were crunching snow beneath your boots and distant ravens calling overhead.
“You’ve changed,” he said quietly.
You looked at him.
“So have you.”
“I used to think you hated me.”
“I did.”
His eyes widened.
“What?”
“You were terribly annoying.”
“I was not.”
“You tried showing off constantly.”
“I was twelve.”
“You challenged every guard in Dragonstone to spar.”
“I lost every duel.”
“You challenged them anyway.”
“I had confidence.”
“You had arrogance.”
“I had optimism.”
You laughed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The grin.”
“What grin?”
“The one that tells me you’re about to argue.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I merely intended to defend myself.”
“You always defend yourself.”
“I have to around you.”
“Oh?”
“You never let me win.”
“Because you’re usually wrong.”
“I am a prince.”
“And?”
He stared.
“…that was unnecessarily cruel.”
⸻
That evening the castle celebrated with music, roasted venison and warm ale.
Jace sat beside Lord Cregan while nobles filled the Great Hall with conversation.
Across the room…
Your eyes met.
Just for a second.
Then someone interrupted him.
Then someone interrupted you.
Neither of you noticed Lord Cregan watching the exchange.
Later…
Much later…
When most guests had gone to bed…
Jace slipped outside into the snowy courtyard.
He wasn’t surprised to find you already there.
“I wondered how long it would take.”
“You knew I’d come?”
“You always escape loud feasts.”
“They’re exhausting.”
“They’re political.”
“They’re both.”
You leaned against the stone wall.
Snowflakes settled in your dark hair.
“They’ll ask you to leave soon.”
“I know.”
“You’ll return south.”
“I will.”
“And the war grows closer.”
His expression became serious.
“Yes.”
The playful warmth faded from both your faces.
Winter suddenly felt colder.
“I don’t like it,” you admitted.
“Neither do I.”
“I’ve heard whispers.”
“So have I.”
“They say dragons will burn kingdoms.”
“They might.”
“They say brothers will kill brothers.”
His silence answered that.
You swallowed.
“When you leave…”
He stepped closer.
“…I’ll come back.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can.”
“No. You know why? Because none of us know what tomorrow brings.”
His smile disappeared.
“I know.”
You looked down.
“I don’t want another letter saying someone I care about has died.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll fight.”
“You always fight.”
“And I’ll survive.”
“You sound certain.”
“I have something worth surviving for.”
You looked back up.
“What?”
His eyes held yours.
“You.”
The world seemed to stop.
Even the wind felt quieter.
You blinked.
“What?”
“I’ve wanted to tell you since I arrived.”
He laughed nervously.
“I actually planned something rather more eloquent.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“I had an entire speech.”
“Did you?”
“It was very impressive.”
“What happened to it?”
“You smiled.”
Your lips curved upward.
“And?”
“I forgot every word.”
“You? Forget words?”
“I know.”
“I thought princes were meant to be charming.”
“I was.”
“Was?”
“Until you looked at me.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
“You’ve become impossible.”
“I’ve become honest.”
“You’ve always been honest.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“I’ve hidden this for years.”
You stared at him.
“I wrote you because I missed arguing.”
“I know.”
“I looked forward to every raven.”
“I know.”
“I found excuses to visit Winterfell.”
“I suspected.”
“And every time I saw you…”
He took one careful step closer.
“…I found another reason not to leave.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
“You truly are terrible at speeches.”
He groaned.
“I knew it.”
“They’re dreadful.”
“I’ve ruined everything.”
“They’re awkward.”
“I should’ve planned better.”
“They’re rambling.”
He sighed dramatically.
“I’ll stop talking.”
You smiled so brightly it stole the breath from his lungs.
“But…”
You gently reached for his hand.
“…they’re my favourite speeches I’ve ever heard.”
Hope flickered across his face.
“You mean…”
“I’ve loved receiving those ridiculous letters.”
“They weren’t ridiculous.”
“One was four pages explaining why dragons are secretly oversized cats.”
“They are.”
“They breathe fire.”
“So do cats.”
“They absolutely do not.”
“They do if sufficiently annoyed.”
You laughed so hard your shoulders shook.
Jace couldn’t help laughing with you.
The sound echoed through the silent courtyard.
Then…
Very gently…
He rested his forehead against yours.
“I’ll come back,” he whispered.
You closed your eyes.
“I’ll hold you to that, Prince.”
“I was hoping you would.”
Snow continued falling around the two of you, covering the courtyard in white, while somewhere high above Winterfell a lone raven took flight into the night—carrying the promise that whatever storms lay ahead, the bond between a dragon and a wolf would not be so easily broken.
Old Money
Chuck Bass x Rich!Reader
The Upper East Side had a rule.
Everything had a price.
A designer handbag.
A penthouse.
A favor.
A secret.
A person.
At least, that’s what Chuck Bass believed.
Until he met you.
⸻
The Palace Hotel ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and old money.
You stood near the bar, dressed elegantly but effortlessly, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the event.
Chuck noticed immediately.
Because nobody looked unimpressed around him.
Especially not girls.
He adjusted his cufflinks and smirked.
“Nate.”
Nate glanced up from his drink.
“What?”
“Who’s the girl?”
Nate followed his gaze.
“Oh.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means don’t.”
Chuck laughed.
“Don’t?”
“She’s Y/N L/N.”
Chuck raised an eyebrow.
“The Y/N L/N?”
“The one whose family owns half of Europe? Yeah.”
Chuck grinned.
“Perfect.”
Nate sighed.
“No. Not perfect.”
⸻
Five minutes later, Chuck appeared beside you.
“Chuck Bass.”
You looked him up and down.
“I know.”
The smile on his face faltered slightly.
That never happened.
“And you are?”
You stared.
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke.”
“That’s a lie.”
Chuck chuckled.
“Fair.”
You took a sip of your drink.
“What do you want, Bass?”
Straight to the point.
Interesting.
“I wanted to introduce myself.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful.”
You blinked.
“Oh.”
Chuck smiled victoriously.
Then you added—
“And because you introduce yourself to every beautiful girl in Manhattan.”
The victory vanished.
You walked away.
⸻
The next morning, Gossip Girl exploded.
SPOTTED: Chuck Bass rejected? Say it isn’t so.
⸻
Chuck stormed into Blair’s apartment.
“Did you tell Gossip Girl?”
Blair barely looked up.
“No.”
“Nate?”
“No.”
“Then who—”
“Maybe someone saw.”
Chuck frowned.
“She embarrassed me.”
Blair nearly choked on her coffee.
“You liked her.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was interested.”
Blair smirked.
“You like a challenge.”
A week later, you were attending a charity auction.
Unfortunately, so was Chuck.
You noticed him approaching.
Again.
“Persistent.”
Chuck grinned.
“Determined.”
“Annoying.”
“Ouch.”
You continued reading the auction catalogue.
“What do you want?”
“Dinner.”
“No.”
“Coffee.”
“No.”
“A conversation.”
“We’re having one.”
Chuck laughed.
“You do this with everyone?”
“Do what?”
“Act like they’re beneath you.”
Your eyes widened.
“That’s rich coming from Chuck Bass.”
He paused.
Okay.
Point to you.
⸻
Later that evening, an antique necklace went up for auction.
You raised your paddle.
“Twenty thousand.”
Someone countered.
“Twenty-five.”
You lifted yours again.
“Thirty.”
Then—
“Fifty.”
You turned.
Chuck.
Smirking.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Are you serious?”
He nodded.
You raised your paddle.
“Sixty.”
Chuck didn’t even blink.
“One hundred thousand.”
Gasps echoed around the room.
You stared.
“You’re insane.”
He smiled.
“You wanted it.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Chuck leaned closer.
“Because now you’re looking at me.”
⸻
After the auction, you cornered him.
“You spent one hundred thousand dollars to get my attention?”
“Technically one hundred and ten.”
“Chuck.”
“Y/N.”
“What is wrong with you?”
He laughed.
“A lot, apparently.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Just a little.
Chuck noticed.
Of course he did.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The smile.”
Your smile disappeared instantly.
“Never mind.”
⸻
The next few weeks became a battle.
A ridiculous, exhausting battle.
⸻
At a charity gala—
“You followed me.”
Chuck pointed across the room.
“You followed me.”
“I was here first.”
“I own the hotel.”
You rolled your eyes.
⸻
At a fundraiser—
“You bought the table next to mine.”
“Coincidence.”
“Chuck.”
“Fine. Not a coincidence.”
⸻
At brunch—
“You bribed the hostess.”
“I tipped her.”
“You gave her five hundred dollars.”
“Exactly.”
⸻
Eventually, your friends became unbearable.
One afternoon, Serena practically bounced into your seat.
“You like him.”
“No.”
“You smile when he texts.”
“No, I don’t.”
Blair snorted.
“You literally just smiled.”
You looked down.
Chuck’s text glowed on your screen.
You’re smiling right now.
You nearly threw your phone.
⸻
A month later, Chuck found you sitting alone on the rooftop terrace of a fundraiser.
For once, neither of you spoke immediately.
The city lights sparkled below.
Chuck sat beside you.
Quietly.
No jokes.
No flirting.
No games.
You glanced at him.
“You’re being weird.”
He laughed softly.
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Silence settled again.
Then Chuck sighed.
“I think I ruined this.”
You looked at him.
“Ruined what?”
“Whatever this is.”
His voice sounded different.
Honest.
“I kept treating you like everyone else.”
You stayed quiet.
Chuck stared at the skyline.
“Usually people want something from me.”
“Money.”
“Status.”
“Power.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled sadly.
“And then you came along.”
You swallowed.
“Chuck—”
“No, let me finish.”
For once, you did.
“I couldn’t buy your attention.”
He laughed quietly.
“I couldn’t charm you.”
“Debatable.”
“Couldn’t impress you.”
“Definitely couldn’t impress me.”
Chuck grinned.
“See?”
You laughed.
And suddenly neither of you could stop.
The tension broke.
The walls cracked.
Chuck looked at you.
Really looked at you.
“You make me nervous.”
You nearly fell out of your chair.
“Chuck Bass gets nervous?”
“Only around one girl.”
The teasing smile faded.
“I like you.”
Your heart skipped.
“You know that, right?”
You stared at him.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“Because I like you too.”
Chuck froze.
Actually froze.
You laughed.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re shocked.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Chuck pointed at you.
“You were supposed to make me work harder.”
“You chased me for two months.”
“Good point.”
⸻
The first kiss happened seconds later.
No dramatic interruption.
No Gossip Girl blast.
No scandal.
Just Chuck reaching for your hand.
And you meeting him halfway.
When you pulled apart, Chuck smiled.
A real smile.
Rare.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Perfect.
“So.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“So?”
“Can I finally take you to dinner?”
You laughed.
“After all this?”
“After all this.”
“Fine.”
Chuck grinned triumphantly.
“Yes.”
“Don’t get used to winning, Bass.”
He squeezed your hand.
“Too late.”
And for the first time in a very long time, Chuck Bass looked completely, hopelessly happy.
The Quiet of The North
Jon Snow x Reader
The Lord Commander’s quarters in Castle Black were never truly warm, but tonight, the cold felt sharper, carving its way through the gaps in the heavy timber walls. A single candle flickered on the cluttered desk, casting long, dancing shadows across maps of the Gift, lists of grain stores, and crumpled missives from King’s Landing. The smell of old parchment, melting wax, and stale woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, trapped by the thick fur drapes covering the narrow windows.
You stood by one of those windows, your hands wrapped tightly around a horn cup of spiced wine that had long since gone lukewarm. Outside, the wind howled a fierce, lonesome tune against the Wall—a sound that usually brought a crushing sense of isolation to anyone unlucky enough to hear it. Tonight, however, the room felt incredibly small, filled entirely by the quiet, heavy presence of the man sitting just a few paces away.
Jon Snow sat with his head buried in his hands, his dark curls spilling over his fingers and obscuring his face. His heavy lord's cloak of black fur was slung carelessly over the back of his chair, leaving him in his dark leather brigandine. He looked thoroughly exhausted, the immense weight of the Night’s Watch, the impending wildling migration, and the political games of the south pressing visibly down on his shoulders.
"You should be asleep," Jon said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that broke the heavy silence of the room. He didn’t lift his head, but you saw his shoulders tense under his dark tunic.
"I could say the exact same to you," you replied softly, stepping away from the window. The floorboards groaned beneath your boots, a familiar, grounding sound in the quiet fortress. "The fire is dying, Jon. And you’ve been staring at that same map of the Gorge for three hours. The ink isn't going to change no matter how hard you look at it."
Jon finally dropped his hands, looking up at you. His dark eyes were heavily shadowed with fatigue, lines of worry etched deeply into his forehead. Yet, as his gaze fixed on you, the harshness in his expression softened, just a fraction. It was a subtle shift, one that only someone who knew him deeply would notice.
"There’s no time for sleep," Jon said, sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"The rangers report more movement near the Shadow Tower. The Free Folk are restless at the gates, and the lords of the South write to me of crowns, iron, and ancient bloodlines, as if the true enemy isn't marching straight for us. They don't understand. None of them do."
"The true enemy will still be marching tomorrow, Jon," you said gently. You walked over to the hearth, picking up a fresh, heavy log from the iron woodbasket. You tossed it onto the dying embers, watching a flurry of bright orange sparks fly up the stone chimney.
"But you won't be able to fight them if you faint from exhaustion first. A Lord Commander who can barely stand is exactly what the Night King would want."
A faint, ghostly trace of a smile touched Jon’s lips, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. He leaned back slightly, watching you dust the bark off your hands.
"I don't faint."
"No, you just brood until you collapse," you countered, turning around to face him. You walked over to his desk, leaning your hip against the sturdy edge of the oak wood and crossing your arms.
"Which, structurally speaking, is much worse for the morale of the men. They see you looking like a ghost, and they start thinking the long night is already here."
Jon let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh. It was a rare, precious sound in Castle Black. He pushed a stack of supply ledgers aside, leaning back in his heavy chair and tilting his head up to look at you. For a long moment, he just watched you. The flickering candlelight reflected in the dark depths of his eyes, and the sheer devotion in his gaze was palpable. It was a heavy, silent thing that always took your breath away. In a world of ice, betrayal, and shifting loyalties, the way Jon looked at you was the only constant anchor you had.
"What would I do without you?" he murmured, the words slipping out of him like a confession he hadn't intended to make aloud.
"Probably freeze to death," you said lightly, though your heart did a quiet, frantic flutter against your ribs at the intensity in his voice.
"Or forget to eat until you withered away into a shadow. I haven't entirely decided which fate would claim you first."
"You're likely right on both counts," Jon said. He reached out across the cluttered desk, his gloved hand moving slowly, almost hesitantly, as if he were afraid he might scare you away. His fingers brushed against the rough fabric of your sleeve, and he didn't pull back. Instead, his grip tightened slightly, anchoring himself to you.
"Sometimes, it feels as though this room—as though you—are the only place in the whole world where everything isn't tearing itself apart. The moment I step outside that door, I have to be a leader. I have to be a shield. But here..."
You looked down at his hand, then moved your own to cover it. The leather of his glove was cold from the room's draft, but the solid warmth of his palm beneath it was undeniable.
"Then let the world tear itself apart outside these walls for just one night, Jon. You don't have to carry the weight of the Seven Kingdoms right now. Not at midnight."
"I took a vow," he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a desperate sort of hunger, a need for reassurance that he rarely allowed himself to show.
"To be the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn. But when I look at you... I don't think of the realms of men. I don't think of the Watch, or my duty, or the Starks. I think only of keeping you safe. I think of what I would do if the cold ever reached you, and it terrifies me."
"Jon..." Your voice softened, your thumb tracing the back of his hand, feeling the strong tendons beneath the leather.
"I am safe. Look at me. I'm right here."
"I know," he said, his voice dropping to a fierce, quiet undertone that vibrated through the small space between you. He stood up from his chair, the heavy wood scraping against the floorboards. He closed the small distance between you until you could feel the heat radiating from his body, entirely defying the northern chill.
He reached up, his large, calloused hand cupping the side of your face. His thumb gently brushed over your cheekbone, his touch incredibly tender, a stark contrast to the harsh, violent world he was forced to command.
"But every day I look out over the top of that Wall," Jon continued, his dark eyes locked onto yours, "and every day I think of what's coming for us. The dead don't feel pity, and they don't stop. The only thought that truly terrifies me isn't my own death. I've seen that darkness already. It's the thought of a world where you aren't in it. That is a winter I couldn't survive."
The raw honesty in his words hung in the air, thick and heavy, making your throat tighten with emotion. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a brief second to just feel the safety of his hand against your skin, letting his warmth chase away the residual chill of the windowpane. When you opened them, you looked directly into the eyes of the boy who had grown into a king, seeing the fierce, unyielding loyalty that defined his very soul.
"Then I'll just have to make sure I stay right beside you," you said, your voice steady, full of a certainty that you hoped would quiet his racing mind.
"You're not facing the winter alone, Jon Snow. No matter what comes through that gate, no matter how many weights or monsters, we face it together. Do you hear me?"
Jon gazed at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, shuddering breath. The profound exhaustion seemed to lift from his face, replaced by a quiet, fierce resolve that made him look every bit the leader he was born to be. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. "I am a bastard with nothing to my name but a sword and a frozen room, but I will spend every single breath I have left making sure you are protected."
"I don't need a king or a hero, Jon. I just need you," you whispered back, a small, comforting smile tugging at your lips despite the gravity of his words. "But right now, I need you to promise me you'll actually get some sleep."
Jon let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound rich and warm in the otherwise bleak room. It was the kind of laugh that made him look young again, stripping away the titles and the scars. He pulled you just a bit closer, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck as if to shut out the rest of Westeros.
"I promise," he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin. "Tomorrow, I'll be the Lord Commander. Tomorrow, I'll worry about the dawn. But tonight... tonight I'm just yours."

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Green and Gold Don’t Mix
(until they do)
Ron Weasley x Slytherin!Reader
In a castle where house rivalries run deep, a sharp-tongued Slytherin and an easily flustered Gryffindor keep finding themselves on the same side of things. What starts as reluctant tolerance turns into something harder to ignore—and even harder to hide. Between whispered rumours, stolen moments, and too many arguments that don’t quite feel like arguments, they’ll have to decide if crossing that line is worth everything that comes with it.
“Move, Malfoy, before I hex your hair off.”
“That would require skill, Weasley,” Draco drawled, not even looking up from his book. “Something you’re famously lacking.”
You sighed, leaning back against the stone wall of the Slytherin common room corridor. “Honestly, Draco, if you’re going to insult him, at least be creative. That one’s getting old.”
Ron’s head snapped toward you from down the hall. His ears were already turning red. “Oh brilliant—another Slytherin chiming in. Just what I needed.”
You crossed your arms. “Relax, Weasley. I’m actually on your side. Shocking, I know.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.
Draco scoffed. “You’re wasting your time, Y/N. He wouldn’t recognise help if it smacked him in the face.”
You pushed off the wall. “I don’t remember asking for your commentary.”
Ron blinked, clearly thrown. “Wait—are you actually defending me?”
“Don’t make me regret it,” you shot back. “Now go before McGonagall catches you loitering down here and docks me points for your stupidity.”
He hesitated. “Right… yeah. Fine.” Then, quieter, “Thanks. I guess.”
You smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
⸻
The next time it happened, it was in Potions.
“Wrong ingredient, Weasley,” Snape said coldly. “Unless your goal is to melt your cauldron.”
Ron panicked, fumbling with the vials. “I—no, I—hang on—”
“For Merlin’s sake,” you muttered under your breath, stepping closer. “That one. The crushed bicorn horn, not the knotgrass.”
Ron glanced at you. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because if your cauldron explodes, it’s taking mine with it,” you said flatly. “I value my eyebrows.”
He snorted despite himself. “Fair point.”
Snape’s eyes flicked toward you. “Miss Y/L/N, is there something you’d like to share with the class?”
You didn’t even flinch. “Just observing, Professor.”
“Then observe silently.”
“Yes, Professor.”
Ron leaned closer once Snape turned away. “You’re going to get in trouble because of me.”
You kept your eyes on your potion. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened this week.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re strange, you know that?”
“Careful, Weasley,” you said, glancing at him. “You almost sound like you like me.”
He choked. “I do not— I mean—I didn’t say—”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Relax. I’m joking.”
“…Right. Good. Yeah. Joke.”
But he didn’t stop looking at you after that.
⸻
It turned into a pattern.
Hallways. Library corners. Accidental run-ins that didn’t feel so accidental anymore.
“Why do you always sit here?” Ron asked one afternoon, dropping into the chair across from you in the library.
You didn’t look up from your book. “Because it’s quiet.”
He glanced around. “It’s never quiet when I’m here.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
He grinned. “You don’t mean that.”
You turned a page. “I absolutely do.”
“…You saved me a seat.”
You paused, then sighed. “Don’t read into it.”
“Too late,” he said, leaning back. “I already am.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“And yet,” you admitted softly.
⸻
It didn’t go unnoticed.
“You’re spending a lot of time with a Gryffindor,” Pansy said one evening, narrowing her eyes at you.
“And?” you replied coolly.
“And it’s Weasley.”
“Your point?”
“My point,” she said, leaning closer, “is that people are talking.”
You shut your book. “Let them.”
“He’s not like us, Y/N.”
“I know.”
“So why him?”
You hesitated—just for a second. “…Because he’s not like you.”
⸻
The confrontation came sooner than you expected.
“Oi—Y/N!”
You turned in the courtyard to find Ron jogging toward you, slightly out of breath.
“What now, Weasley?”
He stopped in front of you, hands shoved into his pockets. “I heard what Pansy said.”
You stiffened. “Eavesdropping? Classy.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” he said quickly. “I just— Is it true? Are people really talking?”
You exhaled. “Yes.”
“And you don’t care?”
You met his eyes. “Should I?”
“I don’t know!” he snapped, then immediately winced. “I mean—maybe? It could get you in trouble. With your house, I mean.”
You studied him for a moment. “Are you worried about me… or about what people think of you?”
He blinked. “What? No—I—this isn’t about me.”
“Then what is it about, Ron?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “It’s about the fact that I don’t understand why you’re even talking to me in the first place!”
You stared at him. “You want me to stop?”
“No!” he said immediately, then froze.
The silence stretched.
“…No?” you repeated quietly.
He swallowed. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Because I like talking to you, alright? You’re… different.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“You don’t act like the others,” he said. “You don’t look at me like I’m a joke.”
You softened slightly. “You’re not a joke.”
He let out a small laugh. “Tell that to half the school.”
“I’m not half the school.”
“No,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You’re not.”
Something shifted between you.
You took a step closer. “So what are you saying, Weasley?”
He hesitated, clearly nervous. “I’m saying… I don’t care what house you’re in.”
You tilted your head. “And if I said I felt the same?”
His breath caught. “Do you?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out, grabbing the front of his robes and pulling him just slightly closer.
“That depends,” you murmured. “Are you going to keep overthinking this… or are you going to do something about it?”
His eyes widened. “I—what?”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake—”
And then you kissed him.
It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t soft.
It was decisive.
Ron froze for half a second before melting into it, his hands awkwardly finding your waist like he wasn’t quite sure where they were supposed to go—but he wasn’t letting go.
When you finally pulled back, his face was completely red.
“Blimey,” he breathed.
You smirked. “That’s your response?”
“I had a better one,” he said faintly. “I think it died.”
You laughed—actually laughed—and it caught him off guard.
“Don’t make me regret this, Weasley,” you said.
He grinned, still a little dazed. “No promises.”
You rolled your eyes. “…Idiot.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. “But apparently your idiot.”
You pretended to scoff—but you didn’t correct him.
And that said more than enough.
Gravitational Pull
Jacob Black x Imprint!Reader
The rain in Forks didn't just fall; it heavy-pressed against the earth, a constant, dull hum that mirrored the ache in your chest. For months, you had been floating in the periphery of Jacob Black’s life.
Once, you were his center. You’d been inseparable since you were kids, sharing scraped knees, bad jokes, and a bond you thought was unbreakable. But then he grew a foot over the summer, chopped his hair, joined a "cult-like" pack of guys on the Rez, and completely shut you out. You became an orbiter—circling his massive, burning gravity, getting just close enough to feel the heat, but always kept at a distance.
Tonight, you were done being left in the cold.
You pushed open the door to the Black residence without knocking, your jacket dripping onto the linoleum. Jacob was standing by the kitchen counter, looking impossibly large, tense, and exhausted.
"What are you doing here?" his voice was rough, a low rumble that vibrated in his chest. He didn't look at you.
"Oh, I'm sorry, is the weather too bad for a visit? Or am I just interrupting your scheduled time to ignore my existence?" You pulled off your hood, glare fixed on his broad back.
Jacob sighed, a heavy, defeated sound. "You shouldn't be here. It’s not safe for you to be hanging around me right now."
"Safe? Jacob, we used to talk about everything. Now I get monosyllables and closed doors. I’ve been right here!" You stepped closer, your voice cracking. "I was here when your dad got sick. I was here when Bella broke your heart. I’ve been here for everything. And you treat me like a stranger."
He turned around then, his dark eyes flashing with something agonizingly complex. "You don't understand. I'm trying to protect you!"
"From what?!" you shouted, tears finally stinging your eyes. "From you? Because the only thing hurting me right now is how easily you threw me away. I’ve loved you since we were ten years old, Jacob! And it kills me that I’m just some ghost orbiting your life while you pretend I don't exist."
Jacob froze. The confession hung in the air, thick and suffocating. His jaw clenched, his fists shaking at his sides. "You... you love me?"
"Of course I do, you idiot," you whispered, wiping a tear away. "But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep burning up just to stay in your universe."
Before Jacob could answer, the air in the room shifted. A sudden, violent crash echoed from the woods just outside the house, followed by a low, unnatural snarl that made the hairs on your arms stand up.
Jacob’s posture changed instantly. He went rigid, his eyes darting to the window. "Get in the back room. Now."
"Jacob, what is that?"
"Go!" he roared.
But it was too late. The glass of the living room window shattered inward. A pale, blur of a figure burst into the house—a vampire, its eyes a crimson red, teeth bared. It smelled the scent of a shapeshifter and had come for blood.
Jacob didn't hesitate. With a violent, explosive tremor, his clothes shredded as he transformed in a split second into a massive, russet-furred wolf. He lunged at the intruder, a deafening roar tearing from his throat.
The fight was chaotic and brutal. The wolf and the vampire slammed into the walls, destroying the small living room. You backed up against the kitchen counter, terrified but unable to tear your eyes away. Jacob was holding his own, but the vampire was fast. It managed to plant its feet and grab Jacob by the throat, lifting the massive wolf and preparing to drive a jagged piece of broken furniture through his chest.
Jacob was pinned. He couldn't swing his jaw around in time.
You didn't think. There was no calculation, no fear for your own safety—only the terrifying reality that Jacob was about to die.
"Hey!" you screamed.
You grabbed the heaviest thing within reach—Billy’s old iron skillet from the stove—and charged. With all the strength in your body, you slammed it into the back of the vampire's head.
The metal clanged loudly. The vampire hissed, distracted just long enough for Jacob to break free and tear the creature's arm off. But in its momentary distraction, the vampire’s backhand swung out blindly.
The impact caught you square in the chest.
You flew backward, crashing hard against the brick fireplace. The sound of your breath leaving your lungs was sickening. You crumpled to the floor, the world spinning into a hazy, dark blur.
Through the fading light of your vision, you saw the giant russet wolf absolutely tear the vampire to shreds, burning with a lethal, terrifying rage. But as the danger passed, the wolf turned toward you.
And then, everything changed.
Jacob froze. The wolf's eyes locked onto your broken, bleeding form.
In that exact moment, the universe stopped spinning on its axis. The gravity that had kept you orbiting him broke apart, snapping and reforming into something entirely new. It wasn't Bella anymore. It wasn't the pack. It wasn't even the earth beneath his paws. The air connecting him to you became a steel cable, pulling him down.
He didn't just see his childhood friend; he saw his entire universe, his past, his present, his future, his reason for drawing breath.
A agonizing, human sob tore from the wolf's throat as he shifted back into his human form, stumbling over the debris to fall to his knees beside you.
"No, no, no," Jacob choked out, his hands hovering over you, trembling violently. He was terrified to touch you, terrified he’d break you further. "Look at me, please. Open your eyes. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You tried to speak, but your eyelids felt like lead. The last thing you felt was his searing, unnatural heat enveloping you, and his desperate voice begging you to stay.
The darkness lasted for three days.
When your eyes finally cracked open, the glaring white light of the hospital room made you wince. Your chest felt tightly bound, a dull ache throbbing in your ribs.
"Hey. Hey, don't move. Please."
The voice was cracked, completely hoarse. You turned your head slowly.
Jacob was sitting in a chair pulled so close to the bed his knees touched the mattress. He looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark purple bruises of exhaustion. His hair was a wild mess, and he was clutching your hand against his cheek like it was an oxygen mask keeping him alive.
"Jacob?" your voice was barely a whisper.
A tear slipped down his face, cutting a clean line through the dirt and sweat on his skin. He pressed his lips to the back of your hand, sobbing silently. "You're awake. God, you're awake."
"What... what happened?"
"You're in the hospital. You have three broken ribs and a severe concussion," he said, his voice shaking. "You saved my life. You idiot, why did you do that? You could have died. I almost lost you."
Memory came rushing back—the fur, the teeth, the impossible transformation. You pulled your hand back slightly, fear flickering in your chest. "You... you were a wolf."
Jacob flinched, looking devastated by your withdrawal. He kept his hands open, palms up, a silent plea. "I know. That’s why I shut you out. I was dangerous. The pack, the shifting... it’s hereditary. I didn't want to drag you into this world."
"You should have told me," you whispered.
"I wanted to. Every single day, I wanted to," he confessed, leaning closer, his dark eyes brimming with an intensity that took your breath away. "But something happened when you got hurt. Something I can't undo, and I don't ever want to."
You blinked. "What do you mean?"
"It's called imprinting," Jacob said, his voice dropping to a fierce, reverent whisper. "It’s... it’s like gravity. When I looked at you, everything else just fell away. I'm not whole without you. I will be whatever you need me to be—your friend, your protector, your lover, your servant. I am yours. Completely."
You stared at him, trying to process the sheer weight of his words. The boy who had spent months pushing you away was now looking at you as if you held the keys to his existence.
"So... I'm not just an orbiter anymore?" you asked, a faint, bittersweet smile touching your lips.
Jacob reached out, his warm fingers gently tracing your jawline, his touch so light it felt like a breath of air.
"No," Jacob murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute certainty. "You're the center of my universe. And I’m never letting you go."
Somebody Told Me You Were Trouble
Jordan Li x Reader
The music at the party was too loud—like always—but that wasn’t why your head was pounding.
“No, because somebody literally told me you were flirting with them,” you said, arms crossed, raising your voice over the bass.
Jordan blinked at you. “I—what? Who told you that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Jordan said immediately. “It really matters, actually.”
You scoffed. “Right. Because you totally didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” they shot back. “I was talking. That’s it.”
“Yeah? Looked like more than talking.”
Jordan ran a hand through their hair, clearly trying not to lose patience. “You weren’t even there the whole time.”
“I saw enough.”
“Oh, did you?” they said, stepping closer. “Or did you just decide what you thought you saw and ran with it?”
You glared. “Don’t twist this.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” Jordan said. “I’m trying to figure out why you’re mad at me for something I didn’t do.”
A group of people brushed past you, laughing, completely unaware of the tension snapping tight between you both.
“Maybe because it’s not just tonight,” you said.
Jordan froze slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” you gestured vaguely, “you’re always like this. Charming. Talking to everyone. Making it seem like—like they matter.”
“And that’s a problem?” Jordan asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“When it’s not real, yeah.”
Jordan let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You think I fake it?”
“I think you’re good at making people feel special,” you said. “Even when they’re not.”
The words hung there.
Jordan’s expression shifted—hurt flashing before they could hide it.
“…Wow.”
You hesitated, but your frustration pushed you forward. “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“Oh, everyone?” Jordan repeated. “Or just whoever fed you this story?”
“Why are you so defensive if it’s not true?”
“Because it’s not true,” they snapped. “And because you’re standing here acting like you know me better than I know myself.”
You shook your head. “Then explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“Why it always looks like you’re about to kiss someone every time I turn around.”
Jordan stared at you for a second, then let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“You really think that?” they asked, softer now.
You swallowed. “It’s not just me.”
“Stop saying that,” Jordan said. “I don’t care what ‘somebody’ told you. I care what you think.”
“I just said what I think.”
“No,” Jordan said, shaking their head. “You said what you heard.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
Jordan stepped closer, lowering their voice despite the noise around you.
“Do you actually believe I’d do that to you?”
The question hit harder than you expected.
“…I don’t know,” you admitted.
That landed like a punch.
Jordan looked away for a second, jaw tightening, then back at you.
“Okay. Then let me make it really simple,” they said. “I wasn’t flirting. I wasn’t leading anyone on. I wasn’t thinking about anyone else in this entire stupid party.”
“Then what were you doing?” you asked.
Jordan held your gaze.
“Looking for you.”
Your breath caught.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” they cut in. “I got stuck in a conversation I didn’t want to be in, and the whole time I was trying to figure out where you went.”
You frowned slightly. “Why?”
Jordan gave you a look like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“Are you serious right now?”
“I just—people said—”
“I don’t care what people said,” Jordan said, a little sharper again. “You think I’d rather flirt with random people than be with you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable.
“…So you weren’t flirting,” you said finally.
“No.”
“And you weren’t—”
“No,” Jordan repeated. “Not even close.”
You looked down, suddenly feeling a little stupid. “Then why did it look like that?”
Jordan sighed, some of the tension easing.
“Because I was trying to be polite,” they said. “Which, apparently, is my villain origin story now.”
You huffed a small laugh despite yourself.
“Don’t,” they said, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at their mouth. “I’m still annoyed.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“Good.”
Another beat of quiet.
“…You really thought I’d do that?” Jordan asked again, softer this time.
You hesitated. “I just… didn’t like the idea of it.”
“Okay, but that’s different,” they said. “Not liking something isn’t the same as it being real.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” Jordan tilted their head slightly. “Because you came in pretty strong for something that wasn’t even true.”
You winced. “Yeah. Okay. That’s fair.”
Jordan studied you for a moment, then crossed their arms.
“So,” they said, “what actually bothered you?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re not just mad about a rumor,” Jordan said. “You’re mad about what it means.”
You hesitated, then sighed.
“I don’t like the idea of you… wanting someone else,” you admitted.
Jordan’s expression softened almost instantly.
“That’s it?”
“That’s not a small thing,” you muttered.
“I didn’t say it was,” they said. “I just—” they shook their head slightly. “You could’ve just told me that.”
“Yeah, well, that would’ve required me being emotionally mature,” you said dryly.
Jordan snorted. “Right. My mistake.”
You glanced at them. “You’re not exactly perfect at that either.”
“Hey, I’m trying,” they protested. “I’m literally having a calm conversation right now. Do you know how rare that is for me?”
“Very.”
“Exactly.”
You both went quiet again, but this time it wasn’t as tense.
“…So you were looking for me?” you asked.
Jordan nodded. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you just text?”
“I did,” they said.
You pulled your phone out, checking—three missed messages.
You winced. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh,’” Jordan echoed.
“Okay, that’s on me.”
“A little bit.”
You slipped your phone back into your pocket, glancing up at them.
“…Sorry.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“What do you want, a speech?”
“I mean, a speech would be nice,” they said. “Maybe a dramatic apology. Tears, even.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re not getting tears.”
“Wow. So cold.”
“But you’ll get this,” you said, stepping a little closer. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. And I shouldn’t have listened to random people instead of just asking you.”
Jordan watched you carefully.
“…Go on,” they said.
“And,” you added, a little quieter, “I trust you. I just… forgot that for a second.”
That did it.
The last bit of tension in Jordan’s shoulders finally eased.
“Okay,” they said. “That was decent. Not quite tear-worthy, but I’ll accept it.”
“Wow, generous.”
“I know.”
A small smile tugged at your lips.
“…So we’re good?”
Jordan pretended to think about it, then nodded.
“Yeah. We’re good.”
Relief settled in your chest.
“Good.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“…You still jealous, though?” Jordan asked, a hint of teasing creeping in.
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m just asking—”
“Jordan.”
“Okay, okay,” they laughed, holding their hands up. “I’ll stop.”
But they didn’t step away.
Neither did you.
The music thumped around you, people moving, talking—but it all felt distant now.
“…Next time,” Jordan said, quieter, “just come to me first.”
You nodded. “Yeah. I will.”
“And maybe don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Depends who it’s about,” you said.
They smirked. “Wow. I see how it is.”
You bumped their shoulder lightly. “I said I was sorry.”
“You did,” they admitted. “And I accepted. I’m just gonna hold it over you for a little while.”
“Of course you are.”
“Obviously.”
You both smiled, the earlier tension fading into something easier.
And as Jordan’s hand brushed yours—lingering this time—it felt a lot more real than anything “somebody” could’ve told you.
You’re Not Fine
(and I’m not leaving)
Stiles Stilinski x Reader
The Jeep rattled like it always did, but tonight it felt louder. Sharper. Like every little sound was scraping against your nerves.
“Okay, you’re doing that thing again,” Stiles said, eyes flicking between the road and you. “The silent, broody, ‘I’m definitely not okay but I’m gonna pretend I am’ thing. I hate that thing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You literally just proved my point.”
“I said I’m—”
“—fine,” he cut in, nodding rapidly. “Yeah, yeah, Beacon Hills’ favorite lie. Right up there with ‘nothing weird is happening’ and ‘this town is safe.’”
You turned your head to the window, jaw tight. “Can you just drop it?”
Stiles didn’t answer right away. That was rare. When you finally glanced at him, his grip on the steering wheel had tightened.
“No,” he said quietly. “I can’t, actually.”
“Stiles—”
“No, seriously, explain it to me,” he went on, words picking up speed. “Because last time you said you were ‘fine,’ you had a concussion and tried to fight a werewolf with a tire iron. So forgive me if I don’t trust your self-assessment.”
“I handled it.”
“You almost died!”
The Jeep swerved slightly before he corrected it, breathing out hard.
“I’m not doing this again,” he muttered.
“Doing what?”
“This—this thing where you shut me out and get hurt and then act like it’s no big deal.” He shook his head. “It is a big deal. To me.”
Your chest tightened, but you forced your voice to stay steady. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough!” he shot back. “About yourself, at least.”
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
“Pull over,” you said suddenly.
“What? No—”
“Stiles, pull over.”
He hesitated, then huffed and jerked the wheel into a quiet roadside, the Jeep coughing as it stopped.
“Great. Awesome. Love this. Roadside emotional breakdowns are my favorite—”
“I got hurt tonight.”
That shut him up instantly.
“…What?”
You swallowed. “Not bad. Just—” You winced slightly as you shifted. “Not nothing.”
Stiles stared at you like the world had tilted.
“Where?”
“It’s fine—”
“Where?” he repeated, sharper now.
You sighed and carefully lifted the edge of your shirt just enough to reveal the bandage wrapped around your side, already stained faintly red.
His face went pale.
“Okay—nope. Nope, that is not fine. That is the opposite of fine. That is actively bleeding through a bandage, which, last time I checked, is bad.”
“I said it’s not that bad—”
“You’re bleeding through gauze!” he practically shouted. “That’s like—Gauze’s whole job is to stop that!”
“It’s slowing it down.”
“Oh, fantastic, love that for you.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing outside the Jeep for half a second before leaning back in, eyes wide.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You hesitated. “Because I knew you’d react like this.”
“Like what? Concerned? Horrified? Mildly on the verge of a panic attack?” His voice cracked. “Yeah, sorry, that’s kind of my default when you’re hurt.”
You looked away. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal.”
“You don’t get to decide that alone!” he said. “Not when it’s you.”
Something in his tone made your chest ache.
“…Why?”
Stiles blinked, thrown off. “Why what?”
“Why does it matter that much?” you asked quietly.
For once, Stiles Stilinski—human encyclopedia of sarcasm and panic—had no immediate response.
He just stared at you.
“Are you serious right now?” he said finally, softer.
You shrugged slightly. “I just… don’t get it.”
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh, running both hands over his face.
“You really don’t see it.”
“See what?”
“This!” he gestured wildly between you. “You and me and the fact that every time you’re in danger, I—” He stopped himself, exhaling hard. “I lose my mind.”
“That’s just because we’re friends.”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Totally. Friends. Just regular, normal, ‘I can’t breathe when you’re hurt’ friends.”
You frowned. “Stiles—”
“No, you know what? No, I’m saying it,” he interrupted, words tumbling now. “Because clearly subtlety isn’t working, and near-death experiences are becoming way too frequent for my liking.”
He took a step closer, eyes locked on yours.
“I care about you. Like—stupid amount, probably unhealthy amount of caring,” he admitted. “You get hurt, and it’s like everything in my brain just goes, ‘Nope, not allowed.’”
Your heart was racing. “Stiles…”
“I mean, seriously, I would rather it be me,” he said, voice shaking slightly. “Every time. No question.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“Well, neither is you bleeding in my passenger seat and pretending it’s nothing!” he snapped.
You both went quiet again, the weight of everything hanging between you.
“…You’d really rather it be you?” you asked after a moment.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
Something in your expression softened, but your voice was still small. “That’s… kind of terrifying.”
“Yeah, welcome to my emotional state 24/7,” he muttered.
A tiny, unwilling smile tugged at your lips.
He noticed immediately. “Oh, good, you’re smiling. Fantastic. Love that we’ve reached the ‘injured but amused’ phase.”
“I’m not amused.”
“You’re a little amused.”
“Maybe a little.”
He sighed, but his shoulders relaxed just a bit. Then his gaze dropped back to your side, and the tension snapped right back.
“Okay, we are not sitting here anymore. Hospital. Now.”
“It’s not hospital-level—”
“It is bleeding-through-gauze level,” he argued, already moving back to the driver’s side. “Which is, like, at least urgent care. Possibly dramatic Stiles meltdown level, which is basically the same thing.”
You caught his wrist before he could open the door.
“Stiles.”
He froze.
“…I’m glad it was you,” you said quietly.
He blinked. “What?”
“That found out,” you clarified. “That I told.”
His expression softened, all the frantic energy dimming into something warmer.
“…Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then, because he was Stiles, he ruined the moment just a little.
“Cool. Great. Love emotional vulnerability. Still taking you to get that checked, though.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course you are.”
“Obviously. I’m not done freaking out yet.”
He opened the Jeep door, then paused, glancing back at you.
“And, uh… for the record?” he added, a little awkward again. “This thing? With me caring too much?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Not gonna stop.”
You held his gaze, something steady settling in your chest despite everything.
“…Good.”
He nodded once, like that was all he needed, then got in and started the Jeep.
“Seatbelt,” he said automatically.
You rolled your eyes but clicked it into place.
The engine roared to life, and as he pulled back onto the road, his hand briefly squeezed yours—quick, grounding, like a promise he wasn’t ready to say out loud yet.
Borrowed Time
Billy Butcher x Reader
You can steal time—no one ever notices.
Until Billy Butcher does.
Now you’re caught in a war against Vought, where every second you take costs more than it should… and trusting the wrong person might cost everything.
“Don’t move.”
You froze.
Not because of the gun pointed at your chest—but because of the tone behind it.
Slow. Certain. Dangerous.
“…You gonna shoot me,” you said, raising a brow, “or just keep staring?”
Billy Butcher smirked slightly. “That depends. You gonna tell me what the hell you are first?”
You tilted your head. “You first.”
He let out a short laugh. “Cheeky.”
Hughie leaned closer to Butcher, whispering, “She doesn’t look that dangerous—”
The second he blinked—
You were suddenly standing right in front of him.
Hughie jumped. “Jesus—!”
You smiled sweetly. “Hi.”
Butcher’s grip on the gun tightened, but his expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked… impressed.
“…Fast,” he noted.
You shook your head. “No.”
“Then what was that?”
You tapped your temple. “You ever lose a few seconds and not know why?”
Hughie blinked. “Yeah…?”
“Yeah,” you said. “That’s me.”
Silence.
Butcher’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Explain.”
You sighed dramatically. “God, you people are so demanding.”
“Explain,” he repeated, sharper.
You rolled your eyes. “I take time. Small pieces. Moments. Seconds. Sometimes more if I’m pushing it.”
Hughie frowned. “Take… time?”
“Yeah,” you said casually. “From people. From rooms. From… everything.”
Butcher lowered the gun just slightly. “And where does it go?”
You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Into me.”
“Bullshit,” Butcher said.
“Watch.”
Before he could respond—
Everything stuttered.
The flickering light above you froze mid-buzz. Dust hung still in the air. Hughie stood completely motionless.
And Butcher—
He wasn’t frozen.
Not completely.
His eyes moved. Slowly. Fighting it.
“…Well,” he muttered, voice dragging like it was being pulled through syrup, “that’s… new.”
You walked around him casually. “You’re strong. Most people don’t even realize it’s happening.”
“Lucky me.”
You leaned down slightly, meeting his eyes. “I’ve got about five seconds before it snaps back.”
“Then talk fast.”
“I can move while everything else pauses,” you said. “But every second I take… it sticks with me.”
His brow furrowed. “Meaning?”
Time snapped back.
Hughie gasped. “What just—?!”
You exhaled slowly, rubbing your wrist. “Meaning I don’t age like you do.”
Butcher’s gaze sharpened. “How old are you?”
You hesitated.
“…Old enough.”
“Try again.”
“…I was around before Vought,” you said quietly.
That wiped the smirk clean off his face.
“Right,” he said after a beat. “Now I know you’re takin’ the piss.”
“I’m not.”
“You expect me to believe you’ve just been… what, nicking time for decades?”
“Centuries,” you corrected.
Hughie made a strangled noise. “Centuries?!”
You shrugged. “Give or take.”
Butcher stepped closer, studying you like you were a puzzle he needed to solve.
“…And what’s the catch?”
“There’s always a catch, yeah?” you said.
“There’s always a catch.”
You looked at him, expression quieter now. “Every second I take… I feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“Everything that would’ve happened in that moment,” you said. “Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every… possibility.”
Hughie blinked. “That sounds—”
“Awful?” you finished. “Yeah.”
Butcher didn’t speak for a second.
Then—
“Useful,” he said.
You stared at him. “…Seriously?”
“What?” he shrugged. “You stop time. I don’t care if it gives you a headache, it’s bloody useful.”
“It’s not a headache,” you snapped. “It’s—”
You cut yourself off.
He noticed.
“Go on,” he pressed.
“…It messes with you,” you said finally. “The more I use it, the less… real things feel.”
That made him pause.
Just for a second.
“…Right,” he said, quieter now. “Well. Join the club.”
You blinked. “That’s your comforting response?”
“I don’t do comfort.”
“No kidding.”
He holstered the gun.
“Alright,” he said. “You’re comin’ with us.”
You scoffed. “That wasn’t a question.”
“Nope.”
“I don’t take orders.”
“Good,” he shot back. “Neither do I.”
You stepped closer, tilting your head. “You don’t trust supes.”
“Don’t.”
“And yet…”
“And yet here you are,” he said. “Still standin’. Still not dead.”
You smiled faintly. “You like living dangerously.”
“I like winning.”
Hughie looked between you both. “This feels like a bad idea.”
“It is,” you and Butcher said at the same time.
You glanced at him.
He smirked.
“…See?” he said. “Already in sync.”
“Don’t push it.”
A beat of silence.
Then you sighed. “Fine.”
Butcher’s brow lifted. “That was easy.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you said. “I’ve got conditions.”
“Course you do.”
“No innocent people get hurt.”
He hesitated.
You noticed immediately. “That’s not negotiable.”
“…Alright,” he said after a moment. “We’ll keep it clean.”
“We will keep it clean.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
You held his gaze, searching for any sign he was lying.
“…If you make me regret this,” you said quietly, “I won’t just stop time.”
His smirk returned, slower this time. “Yeah?”
“I’ll take yours.”
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, not fear.
“Now that,” he said softly, “is terrifying.”
Later, as the others argued in the background, you stood beside him, watching.
“You really think this is going to work?” you asked.
“No,” he said honestly.
You blinked. “Wow. Inspiring.”
“But it’s gonna hurt them,” he added. “And that’s enough.”
You studied him.
“…You’re not afraid of me.”
He glanced at you. “Should I be?”
“Most people are.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” you murmured. “You’re really not.”
Another quiet moment passed.
Then—
“…Don’t overuse it,” he said suddenly.
You frowned. “What?”
“That power of yours,” he muttered. “You said it messes with your head.”
You stared at him, surprised.
“…You care?”
“Don’t get carried away,” he said quickly. “Hard to win a war if your secret weapon’s gone mental.”
You huffed a small laugh. “Right. Of course.”
But you didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary.
Or the way his voice had softened—
Just a fraction.

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