divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto
word count: 7.6k
synopsis: Paul Lahote was born to hate vampires. Unfortunately for him, the universe had other plans.
a/n: I have finally wrote something after over a month! A little different from my usual fandoms but I've been feeling nostalgic lately.
You always found the steady drizzle of the Pacific Northwest to be comforting. But after three centuries of wandering the earth as a nomad, a quiet exhaustion had settled deep into your cold bones. Lately, life had become entirely lacklustre. Staring out at the monotonous, heavy grey skies and the permanently drenched terrain, the magic of the endless forest had faded. Everything mostly just felt damp and dreary.
As a nomadic vampire, you didn't belong to a coven. You preferred the absolute freedom of the open road, answering to no one but yourself, though you shared the strict "vegetarian" lifestyle of your "cousins," the Cullens and the Denalis. Because you chose to abstain from human blood, you occasionally dropped by the rainy town of Forks to hunt the abundant wildlife and exchange pleasantries with Carlisle and Esme, who always welcomed you with open arms.
But even a welcome guest had to respect the rules. Because of the ancient treaty established between the Cullens and the local shape-shifters, you knew the exact layout of the boundary lines down to the millimetre. You stayed strictly on the Cullen side of the Hoh River whenever you came to visit, and you never tried to push your luck. You had lived for three hundred years by being smart, and poking a pack of giant wolves was never on your itinerary.
Until this particular grey afternoon.
You had been tracking a particularly meaty mountain lion for miles, the thrill of the chase briefly cutting through your dark, existential boredom. The large cat was fast, and the adrenaline of the hunt sent you tearing through the brush, matching its speed stride for stride. But your excitement had made you careless. The chase pushed you entirely too close to the treaty line, and just as you braced your legs to spring and make the kill, the mountain lion panicked. It bolted straight across the invisible border line, disappearing into the forbidden Quileute territory.
You skidded to a sudden halt right at the edge of the tree line, the damp earth groaning under the sudden force of your boots. Your bright topaz eyes, glowing with the hunger of a vegetarian vampire who hadn't fed in days, tracked your escaped meal as it vanished completely into the dense, foggy thicket of the reservation.
You let out a long, irritated sigh, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. As hungry as you were, you weren't about to instigate a problem over a snack. Carlisle would be disappointed, and honestly, you just didn't want to deal with the headache of fighting off a pack of wolves.
But just as you turned on your heel, preparing to leap back into the mossy canopy and find another trail, the heavy air shifted.
The wind blew from the west, and a sudden, overwhelming scent hit you like a physical blow. It was thick, intoxicating blend of woodsmoke, crushed cedar, and the distinct, muskiness of a wet dog. It was a smell so strong, it was nearly overwhelming, making your long dead heart give a strange, phantom twitch.
Before your brain could even fully process the frantic, heavy snapping of thick branches, the underbrush exploded.
A massive, silver-grey wolf burst from the thicket, its colossal paws tearing up the damp earth as it skidded to a violent halt just feet away from you, right at the precipice of the treaty line. The beast was easily the size of a horse, its powerful muscles bunching beneath a thick coat of silver fur. Its dark lips were pulled back in a vicious, terrifying snarl, exposing a row of razor-sharp, dagger-like teeth. A lethal, vibrating growl rumbled deep within its chest, a sound so low and resonant that it caused the small pebbles by your boots to tremble against the dirt.
You didn't flinch or stumble back, like most would when faced with such a creature. You were a three-hundred-year-old vampire; fear wasn't really a concept that existed in your emotional vocabulary anymore. Instead of fleeing, you merely tilted your head to the side, your bright topaz eyes sweeping over the creature with genuine, unbothered fascination.
So, the shape-shifter legends Carlisle mentioned are actually real, you thought to yourself, a spark of true interest finally breaking through the dull boredom that had plagued you for years.
You knew, conceptually, that beneath the wild, predatory exterior of the animal laid a human man. But looking at the wolf before you, you couldn't deny that he was truly majestic, a perfect specimen of raw nature and power. As your awe-struck, curious gaze lifted to meet his, you watched a sudden, inexplicable shift overtake the beast.
The wolf froze instantly, locking up as if he had been turned to solid stone.
The low, menacing growl died abruptly in his throat, cutting off into a sudden silence. The fierce, dark eyes dilated so completely that the irises nearly swallowed the whites. The massive beast stumbled backward a step, his front legs buckling slightly beneath his weight as if he had just taken a physical, crushing blow directly to the center of his chest. He stared at you, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. Even trapped in a wolf's form, he was particularly expressive, and you watched in utter fascination as the blinding, lethal hostility completely melted away, replaced by a look of profound, paralyzed shock.
You raised a single, perfect eyebrow, entirely unaware of the ancient, cosmic magic taking place right in front of you. You had no idea that the universe had just snapped its fingers, or that this boy’s entire world had just re-centered itself around the very breath in your lungs. You just thought he looked incredibly confused.
"Did I break a rule just by looking across the river, puppy?" you asked, breaking the heavy silence. Your voice came out as a smooth, melodic, if not slightly taunting purr, that rang clearly through the damp forest air.
The sound of your voice seemed to snap the wolf out of his trance instantly. A violent, chaotic shudder ripped through his massive frame from head to tail, his fur bristling in a sudden panic. He gave you one final, deeply conflicted glare before he whirled around with a desperate burst of speed, tearing back into the deep woods and vanishing into the fog as quickly as he had arrived.
You stood alone at the riverbank for a moment, listening to the distant, frantic thudding of his heavy paws fading into the distance.
"Well," you muttered softly to yourself, a slow, entertained smirk finally tugging at the corners of your cold lips as you looked back toward the empty tree line. "That was interesting."
The moment Paul’s paws hit the damp earth in a frantic, desperate sprint, his mind exploded.
He was running blind, tearing through the thick underbrush of the Quileute forest, his powerful chest heaving as he tried to put as much distance as humanly possible between himself and the treaty line. Between himself and you.
But he couldn't run from his own head. The second his focus cracked, the pack telepathy slammed back into his consciousness, loud and overwhelming and too chaotic for Sam and Jared to make of.
“Paul?! What the hell is going on? Paul, answer me!” Jared’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp with sudden panic.
Paul didn't answer. He couldn't. His thoughts were a chaotic, swirling vortex of images he couldn't control, and because of the pack bond, Sam and Jared were seeing every single one of them.
Through Paul’s eyes, they saw the flash of flawless skin. They saw the curtain of hair catching the dim forest light, the impossibly graceful tilt of a head, and worst of all, the striking, brilliant glow of topaz eyes.
“Is that... a leech?!” Jared shouted mentally, his thoughts recoiling in disgust. “Paul, did a bloodsucker cross the line? Did you fight—?”
“No!” Paul roared back in his mind, a deafening, mental snarl that made Jared wince within the bond.
“Then why does your head feel like it’s imploding? Let me see, Paul,” Sam commanded, pushing past Paul’s chaotic mental walls.
Sam didn't just see the memory; he felt the echo of what had happened to Paul the exact millisecond his eyes had locked onto the vampire. The sudden shift of Paul's universe. The way the gravity of the earth had suddenly detached from the center of the world and re-anchored itself entirely to a beautiful, cold monster standing across the river.
The telepathic link went dead silent.
“Oh shit,” Jared breathed, his voice dropping into a shocked, hushed whisper. “Oh, man. No way. Paul…”
“It’s not happening!” Paul screamed internally, his paws digging viciously into the mud as he pushed himself to run faster, trying to outrun the literal laws of physics. “It’s a mistake! She’s a parasite! She’s dead! I don't—I don't feel anything!”
But he was lying, and the pack knew it. They could feel the terrifying, absolute devotion that had just taken root in Paul's soul. They could hear the echo of her voice ringing in his head like a beautiful chime, “Did I break a rule just by looking across the river, puppy?” and they could feel the agonizing, furious heat of Paul’s humiliation and desire.
“Paul, calm down. Come to the clearing by the old mill,” Sam ordered, his mental voice surprisingly gentle now, filled with a heavy sympathy that only made Paul angrier. “We need to talk about this.”
“Get out of my head!” Paul snarled mentally, severing his conscious thoughts from them as best as he could, locking himself behind a wall of pure, unadulterated rage.
He didn't go to the mill. Instead, he tore toward a secluded, deeply wooded ravine near his house where he knew he’d be alone. His silver-grey form was a blur of frantic motion until he finally collapsed into a dense thicket of ferns, his massive body trembling violently.
A choked, human sound forced its way out of the wolf’s throat. With a horrific, echoing crack of shifting bones, Paul forced himself to change back—a feat that nearly surprised him considering how volatile his emotions currently were. His body convulsed, muscles snapping and reshaping, fur retreating into skin until he was lying face-down in the wet dirt, entirely human, gasping for air as if he had been drowning.
He dragged himself up against the trunk of a massive cedar tree, still shivering—not from the cold, but from the raw, terrifying power of the imprint. He reached into a hollow in the tree roots, pulling out a pair of beaten-up denim shorts he kept cached there, shaking as he pulled them on.
His skin was burning hot, a fever pitching through his blood. He buried his face in his hands, his fingers gripping his short, dark hair so tightly his scalp ached.
He could still smell you. Even miles away, the scent of the forest seemed completely devoid of meaning compared to the memory of her. He could still see her perfect, mocking smile, could still hear that slightly taunting purr that had completely dismantled his entire existence in a matter of seconds.
"Damn it," Paul choked out into the empty forest, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and absolute helplessness. He slammed his fist into the dirt, leaving a deep crater. "Damn it, no."
He was a protector of his tribe. He was meant to hunt the cold ones, to rip them to shreds and burn the pieces. He was Paul Lahote, the pack's muscle, the one who hated them most.
And now, by some sick, cosmic joke, his soul belonged to a leech.
Two days later, you found yourself lounging on a thick, mossy branch near the treaty line, idly tossing a pinecone up and down in your pale hand. Ever since you had encountered the massive silver wolf, you had been dying to see him again. The lingering curiosity had been humming beneath your skin for forty-eight hours, until finally, the temptation was simply too much to resist.
You had only been waiting for about ten minutes when the sharp sound of approaching footsteps reached your ears. They were human steps, not the heavy, padded thuds of a four-legged beast, but the scent cutting through the rain was unmistakably the same—that scorching, intoxicating blend of woodsmoke, cedar and wet dog.
A few moments later, a tall, powerfully muscular boy stormed through the trees. He was wearing nothing but a pair of torn denim shorts despite the chilly Pacific Northwest rain, his bronze skin radiating a visible steam, due to his abnormally high internal temperature. His chest was heaving with erratic breaths, and his jaw was clenched so tight you could literally hear the bone grinding from twenty yards away.
Your head tilted much like it had the first time you saw him, but this time, you were studying his human form. He was remarkably handsome—not like vampires, who possessed a flawless, frozen perfection, but in a way that was entirely wild and rugged.
He stopped dead at the edge of the treaty line, glaring up at you in your tree with dark eyes full of fire.
"You," he spat, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, dangerous threat. "Leech."
The corners of your lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk, instantly amused by his explosive temper. "You must be the dramatic puppy from Tuesday," you said, your voice a smooth, melodic purr that drifted down from the canopy. "Are we jumping straight to pet names, or shall we make a proper introduction?"
He looked like he wanted to rip your head off right then and there, but beneath the mask of his fury, there was a bizarre, frantic desperation bleeding into his eyes that completely contradicted his aggressive posture.
"You need to leave," he commanded, his voice shaking with a strange, ragged intensity. "Leave Forks, leave Washington. Get out."
You leaned forward and leapt down from the branch, dropping through the damp air with absolute weightlessness. You landed soundlessly on your feet just inches away from him, separated only by the invisible boundary of the treaty line. Cocking your head, you met his blazing stare with an unbothered, glittering gaze.
"Why?" you asked, your tone light and conversational. "As far as I can see, I'm breaking no laws. I haven't hunted on your side, and Carlisle says I'm perfectly within my rights to be here."
"I don't care what Carlisle says!" he growled, the words tearing out of his throat.
A sudden tremor ran through his broad shoulders, and you felt the temperature in the small clearing instantly spike. The air around him grew incredibly hot, heavy with the suffocating warmth of a furnace as his body vibrated on the verge of a physical shift.
"You're a monster," he hissed, his chest heaving as he fought a losing battle against his own skin. "A parasite. You shouldn't exist, and you damn sure shouldn't be... shouldn't be doing this to me!"
Your brows furrowed slightly as you tried to piece together exactly what you could have done to him. Yet, absolutely nothing came to the forefront of your mind. He was the one who had hunted you down, after all. But naturally, seeing how easily he was unraveling, you decided to push his buttons.
“Well, that’s a little rude," you murmured, adjusting your stance and letting your lips form a perfect, exaggerated pout. "And here I thought this modern age was all about acceptance and inclusivity. Where are the manners, puppy?"
"Shut up!" he barked, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the quiet woods. His hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides.
A dangerous, rhythmic ripple passed directly under his skin—the telltale sign of a shape-shifter on the precipice of exploding into a giant beast. The sheer heat radiating off him was making the damp mist around his bare chest evaporate into wisps of steam.
"Don't tempt me, leech," he threatened, his jaw locking so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. "I'll tear you to pieces, treaty or no treaty."
"I'd love to see you try," you dared softly, stepping a fraction of an inch closer to the invisible boundary line.
You flashed him a dazzling, flawless vampire smile, your perfect teeth glinting like polished porcelain in the dim, grey light of the forest canopy. You let your eyes trail slowly down his trembling, muscular frame before bringing your gaze back up to lock with his burning stare.
"I haven’t had a good tussle in a while," you purred, a wicked, teasing spark igniting in your topaz eyes. "And you know, they say hate sex is particularly appealing after a brawl. I’d be more than interested to try it if you are. Being mortal, biological enemies would certainly make it an interesting night to remember, don't you think?"
Paul choked on his own breath, the dark bronze of his skin rapidly darkening into a furious, deep crimson at your shameless offer but unlike him you were centuries old, shame was also another thing no longer in your emotional vocabulary.
"You—you fucking psycho," Paul stammered, his gravelly voice cracking under the sheer weight of his humiliation. He stared at you, his eyes wide and completely unhinged by your shameless teasing. "You think this is a joke?"
"Oh, come now," you laughed, the sound a bright, chiming cadence that mocked the heavy gloom of the forest. You shifted your weight, leaning hip-first against a massive, moss-covered boulder right at the water's edge, entirely comfortable in your own skin. "Don't tell me a big, bad wolf is afraid of a little experimentation. I'm just offering a creative solution to all that pent-up aggression you're carrying around. If you’re gonna hate me, we might as well make it fun with some benefits.”
"Get bent," he spat, though his eyes involuntarily flicked down to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes with a look of pure self-loathing. He took a sharp step backward, away from the tempting, intoxicating scent of your proximity. "I'd rather eat glass, leech. Keep your disgusting, cold mouth away from me."
"Your loss, puppy," you chirped, giving him a little wave of your fingers. "But if you change your mind, you know exactly where to find me. Clearly."
Paul let out a final, furious yell of pure frustration, turned on his heel, and stormed back into the dense foliage. He kicked a rotting fir log so hard the damp wood exploded into a shower of splinters and moss, his heavy, angry stomps echoing through the valley until he finally phased somewhere deep in the reservation.
You leaned your back against a cedar tree, a breathless, musical laugh escaping your chest. He was a puzzle, an explosive, dangerously hot puzzle, and for the first time in three centuries, you found yourself entirely cured of your boredom.
Oh, yes. Poking the wolf was going to be an exceptional way to pass the time.
Over the next three weeks, your little routine escalated into what could be considered an art form.
You quickly learned that Paul Lahote—the name belonging to your delightfully angry wolf—possessed the shortest fuse of anyone you had ever encountered in your three hundred years of existence, with the singular, spine-chilling exception of Caius Volturi himself. But unlike the ancient, genocidal Italian ruler, Paul’s wrath was loud, expressive, and incredibly fun to provoke. You made it your personal mission to light that fuse as often as humanly possible, finding a wicked thrill in watching how quickly his composure could disintegrate under the weight of a single, well-placed taunt.
As the days blurred together, you weren't the only ones attending these strange, borderline theatrical standoffs. The other wolves—the stoic, deeply burdened Alpha, Sam Uley, and the taller, lankier one you’d come to know as Jared—started showing up in the brush occasionally. They never crossed the line, and they never spoke a single word to you, keeping their distance. Instead, they would stand just inside the Quileute tree line, watching Paul's explosive, vein-popping tantrums with expressions of deep, utterly exhausted sympathy. They looked at Paul the exact way a tired parent looks at a toddler having a meltdown in the middle of a crowded grocery store. More than once, as Paul's body would begin to violently blur on the precipice of an involuntary phase, Sam would step forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on Paul's shaking shoulder. You could practically feel the invisible weight of the Alpha's command cutting through the air, forcing the younger boy to forcibly calm his racing blood before he caused a catastrophic, treaty-breaking international incident.
And then, of course, there was Paul himself.
Despite his endless growling for you to leave, his colourful vocabulary, and his daily, incredibly detailed promises to rip you to shreds and burn the pieces, he never missed a single day. Not once. You started testing him, purposely showing up ten or fifteen minutes late to your usual spot on the riverbank just to see what would happen. Without fail, every single time you delayed, you would find him already there, pacing the muddy bank of the opposite side like a caged wolf. His dark, wild eyes would be scanning the high mossy canopy with a frantic, almost desperate urgency, his chest heaving as if he were physically suffocating.
But the exact millisecond your feet touched the branch, the very moment his eyes locked onto yours, the change was staggering. The borderline manic panic tightly gripping his chest would visibly ease, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as a heavy wave of relief washed over his features. A beat later, he would remember himself, instantly settling back into his usual, comfortable mask of defensive rage and snap an insult across the water to cover up his slip.
You weren't stupid. You were an old, highly perceptive predator who had survived three centuries by reading the hidden motives of both humans and monsters alike. You knew with absolute certainty that whatever was truly happening between the two of you, it wasn't just simple, straightforward hatred. There was a tether. A thick, invisible cord pulled completely taut across the rushing waters of the Hoh River, binding your cold, unmoving, timeless existence directly to his scorching, vibrant, and fiercely chaotic life force. You weren’t entirely sure of the exact terminology or the ancient magic behind it, but you knew with a supernatural certainty that it had everything to do with the nature of the wolf beneath his skin.
You probably could’ve asked Carlisle for some clarity, but Edward was currently throwing a massive fit because some human girl in town happened to be his bloodsinger. The whole ordeal was causing an absurd amount of tension throughout the entire Cullen house, so you had been giving them a wide berth while they sorted out their dramatic coven issues.
"You know, for someone who hates me, you sure spend a lot of time staring at my mouth," you teased one evening, sitting gracefully on a moss-covered boulder right at the edge of the river.
Paul, who had been pacing like a caged animal on the opposite bank, froze dead in his tracks. In the dimming twilight, you watched the dark bronze of his face flush a deep, dark red. "I'm watching your fangs, monster," he snapped, his voice rough and defensive. "Making sure you don't try anything."
"Mhm. Sure," you murmured, a playful hum vibrating in your throat. "But there's just one little problem with that, puppy. We don’t actually have fangs. As someone who hunts vampires, shouldn’t that be a fairly crucial detail for you to know?"
You teased him ruthlessly, shifting your weight to slide down from the boulder and move even closer toward the invisible boundary line. Your eyes locked onto the rhythmic trembling of his broad shoulders. "You're shivering, Paul. And definitely not from the cold."
"I don't get cold," he growled, though his chest gave a heavy heave as his breathing suddenly became shallow and restricted.
You tilted your head, looking at him properly this time. Really looking at him. Beneath the layers of explosive anger, the harsh, venomous words, and the desperate masculine bravado, you could see the sheer, crushing exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
The relentless desire to poke the wolf suddenly evaporated, completely replaced by a strange, foreign pang of genuine concern deep inside your cold, unbeating heart.
“Are you alright?” you asked softly.
Paul blinked, completely caught off guard by your sudden, drastic change in tone. The venom vanished from his eyes for a split second, and he looked down at the rushing water separating the two of you, his rigid shoulders sagging just a fraction before he caught himself. His jaw tensed immediately. “I’m fine.”
“I’m over three hundred years old, darling. I’m filled with life experiences," you scoffed playfully, trying to ease the heavy, suffocating tension that had settled over him. "I’m practically offering you free therapy right now."
Paul let out a sharp, bitter breath that wasn't quite a laugh, but it lacked his usual venom. He didn't look back up at you, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the swirling eddies of the river.
"I don't think you have a license for that," he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the water.
You watched him silently, your supernatural vision effortlessly picking up the subtle, persistent tremor in his hands and the way the muscles in his neck were strained to the point of snapping. The teasing, lighthearted facade you usually wore around him began to feel inappropriate, slipping away to reveal the ancient, deeply observant creature beneath. You stepped right up to the very edge of the riverbank, the damp earth shifting slightly under your weight, your perfect posture loosening into something genuinely receptive.
"No license, but I have an infinite amount of time on my hands," you said softly, your voice cutting through the damp forest air like a soothing melody. "Come on, Lahote. What's eating you? Besides me, obviously."
Paul's jaw worked. For a tense second, you thought he was going to turn on his heel, shatter another log, and storm away into the fog like he usually did when his emotions overwhelmed him.
"I don't need therapy from a leech," he grumbled, though the insult felt half-hearted, lacking any real sting. It was an instinctual shield, a habit he was clinging to because he didn't know what else to do.
"Suit yourself," you said, crossing your arms and leaning your hip against a sturdy birch tree. "But 'fine' doesn't usually involve looking like you haven't slept since the turn of the century."
He lifted his head, his dark eyes burning into yours with a sudden intensity that made your playful banter die instantly on your tongue. The defensive anger was still there, but it was incredibly thin, cracking open right before your eyes to reveal the staggering weight he was carrying underneath.
The truth was, Paul’s life was a chaotic storm, and he was completely drowning in it.
When the shape-shifter gene had finally activated in his blood a few months ago, it had felt like an explosion. Out of the three shifters currently running the forests of La Push, Paul had supposedly taken to the wolf the easiest. Where Sam and Jared had deeply struggled with having to abruptly cut off and ignore the people in their lives to keep the tribal secret, Paul didn’t have that struggle. Phasing into a massive, silver-grey beast felt almost natural to him because he had spent his entire life carrying a baseline of nuclear-level rage. To Sam and Jared, he appeared to effortlessly embrace the unbridled, primal power of the spirit-warrior.
But the reality was a living nightmare. He was a teenage boy who had been abruptly stripped of his normalcy, forced into a supernatural pack bond that offered absolutely zero privacy. Every dark thought, every flash of insecurity, and every bitter memory of his failures was broadcast directly into the minds of his pack mates whenever they were in wolf form.
In truth, inheriting a sacred tribal legacy didn't magically erase the wreckage of his human life. It only magnified it.
His home life was its own quiet, miserable war zone. His father was a deeply bitter, abusive drunk—a man who spent his days drowning his own failures in cheap whiskey and his nights taking his frustrations out on whatever, or whoever, was within arm's reach. Before Paul phased, he had spent years taking those hits, absorbing the venom and building up a dark reservoir of hatred that threatened to swallow him whole. Now that he was a protector, now that he possessed the supernatural strength to tear a car in half with his bare hands, the dynamic at home had become a precarious tightrope. Every time his father stumbled home, slurring and swinging, Paul had to physically lock his entire body down. He would grip the edges of the kitchen counter until the wood threatened to snap beneath his fingers, utterly terrified that if he lost his temper for even a fraction of a second, he would accidentally murder his own father.
Because of that suffocating terror, he barely spent any time at home anymore. He practically lived on the run from his own house, taking refuge at Sam and Emily's place just to have a safe haven. On the nights when the shame and embarrassment of overstaying his welcome grew too heavy, he wouldn't even stay in a house at all; he would sleep out in the dirt and the damp woods as a wolf, letting the wild weather numb him.
He was entirely, utterly exhausted. He was so tired of the total lack of privacy between him and the pack, so tired of the lingering trauma of his childhood, and deeply weary of carrying the thankless burden of protecting a tribe that ultimately viewed him and the other boys as nothing but delinquent, good-for-nothings. He was a walking powder keg, and his hair-trigger temper felt like a bomb ticking away in his chest, waiting for the spark that would blow his entire world to pieces.
And then, to make a total mockery of his entire existence... there was you.
Paul ran a rough hand over his face, pushing his damp, dark hair away from his forehead. He looked at you—at your perfect face, the gentle curve of your mouth, and the bright gold of your eyes. He stared at how you seemed to stand so peacefully across the river, utterly unaffected by the biting rain, the freezing cold, or the crushing misery of the modern world. You were a creature of frozen grace, a timeless masterpiece carving a quiet space into his chaotic nightmare.
He hated how much he needed to be near you. He loathed the primal desperation that gripped his throat every single hour he spent away from this riverbank. But more than anything, he hated the terrifying truth that the endless, agonizing thoughts in his head—the fury at his father, the pack's telepathic intrusion, the burden of the tribal legacy— completely stopped the moment he was right here, standing across a river from a creature he had been born to kill. Your presence was an oasis of escape in his loud, violent world.
"You don't get it," he muttered, his jaw tightening so hard the bone beneath his bronze skin looked sharp enough to cut. He looked down at his own trembling hands, watching them clench and unclench into tight fists as if he were trying to physically hold his sanity together.
"I'm supposed to hate you," he whispered, his voice cracking violently under the staggering weight of the confession. He didn't look up, his gaze glued to his hands. "I try so hard to hate you. I can't sleep. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, my head is full of your voice, your face, your stupid, mocking smile. I’m supposed to want to rip you to pieces. I’m supposed to want to kill you. Instead, I’m spending every single second of my day fighting my own body, making sure I don't cross this goddamn river just to be near you. It's making me lose my mind."
You stared at him, your ancient mind rapidly recontextualizing every single interaction you’d had over the last three weeks. The pacing, the panic when you were late, the heavy, sympathetic looks from Sam and Jared. You knew there was some kind of bond, but you didn’t realize how hard it had been on him. You didn’t know it was an all consuming need that his biology had forced upon him, and he was tearing himself apart trying to fight it.
A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the riverbank, save for the wild, rushing water churning over the jagged rocks below. For the first time in three hundred years of wandering the earth, through every empire you had seen fall and every coven you had seen break, you felt completely, utterly speechless. The wit that usually defined you, the clever, taunting armour you wore to keep the lacklustre world at bay, dissolved into nothingness.
"Paul..." you started, your voice barely louder than a whisper, stripped entirely of its usual taunting edge.
"Don't," he choked out, his fists clenching tight at his sides. He looked at you one last time, a look of profound defeat and agonizing longing warring on his rugged features, before he turned sharply and vanished back into the shadows of the Quileute woods.
You stood entirely frozen, staring at the empty tree line as the first heavy droplets of a gathering storm began to fall through the canopy, the cold rain washing over you as the echo of his confession rang in your ears.
"Paul..." you started, your voice barely louder than a whisper, carrying a soft, aching weight you hadn't felt in centuries.
"Don't," he choked out, his fists clenching so tight that his entire body began to tremble with that dangerous, pre-shifting heat. He lifted his head and looked at you one last time—a look of profound defeat, raw exposure, and agonizing, heartbreaking longing warring on his rugged features—before he turned sharply on his heel. With a desperate burst of speed, he vanished back into the deep, unforgiving shadows of the Quileute woods.
You stood entirely frozen, your immortal body locking into the stillness of stone as you stared at the empty tree line. The silence of the forest rushed back to fill the void he left behind, and the first heavy, freezing droplets of a gathering storm began to pierce through the high canopy, splashing unnoticed against your cold skin.
The turning point came on a night when the storm was loud enough to drown out the very sound of the forest. Thunder clapped in deafening, rolling waves, and the rain fell in thick sheets, blurring the world into a chaotic haze of grey and green. You were hunting a few miles out, tracking a deer, when the air suddenly carried something that made your entire body lock up—blood. Intoxicating, heavy, human blood, followed instantly by the sweet scent of a rogue vampire having moved through the area.
Your predatory instincts flared, but it wasn't hunger that seized you despite how tempting the human blood smelled. It was a cold, paralyzing jolt of panic. As you tore through the woods, tracking the fast-moving scent trail, you realized with growing horror that the vampire had already went straight across the Hoh River. The nomad had most likely attacked the hiker directly onto Quileute land.
And your very first, consuming thought went to Paul.
You crossed the river without a second thought, your feet barely skimming the rushing water as you launched yourself deep into the forbidden territory, driven by a desperate, frantic need to ensure he was safe.
By the time you burst into the hidden clearing, the brutal reality of the hunt was already unfolding. The human hiker was gone, likely fled or worse, but the clearing was a battleground. A massive, silver-grey wolf was locked in a horrific, snarling grapple with the red-eyed nomad. They were a blur of teeth and claws, tearing up the mud, but the rogue had gained the upper hand, pinning the giant wolf beneath his weight. In his pale, stone-like hand, the nomad gripped a heavy, jagged rock, raising it high and aiming it straight for the wolf's eye with lethal force.
A primal, deafening screech tore from your throat. You didn't think. You just launched your body across the clearing, tackling the rogue vampire off of Paul a split second before the rock could descend. The blinding velocity of your collision threw the nomad violently through the air, sending him crashing into a massive, ancient cedar tree with a force that cracked the thick trunk right down the middle.
Before the nomad could even hit the ground, you dropped into a low, lethal crouch directly in front of Paul. Your clothes were soaked, your posture was entirely feral, and your topaz eyes seemed to shine in the darkness as you shielded the silver wolf with your own body.
"Don't touch him," you hissed, the words vibrating with a venomous, unyielding threat that rang clearer than the storm.
The nomad scrambled to his feet, rubbing his chest where you had struck him. He straightened up to his full height, his dark crimson eyes darting from your protective stance to the panting, bleeding wolf behind you. A look of profound, sickening disgust contorted his pale features.
“You’re defending a mutt from your own kind?” he spat, his voice laced with utter disbelief.
Behind you, Paul let out a low, ragged rumble. He was struggling to push himself up, his heavy paws slipping in the slick, blood-stained grass. You could feel the intense, furnace-like heat radiating from his massive body, practically baking the skin of your back. Even injured, his instinct was to push past you, to put himself between the danger and his imprint. But you didn't give him an inch. You stood like a wall of solid marble, unyielding and fierce.
The rogue nomad narrowed his red eyes, assessing the situation. He looked at the cracked cedar tree, then at your lethal posture, and finally at the massive silver-grey beast snarling behind you. He was fast, but he wasn't stupid. He was outnumbered, outmatched, and facing a vampire who looked entirely ready to tear him limb from limb.
“Disgusting parasite,” the nomad hissed, backing up a step into the shadows of the ferns. “You’re a disgrace to our kind.”
With a sudden, fluid movement, the rogue whirled around and launched himself high into the canopy, vanishing into the blinding sheets of rain as he fled, tearing away from the reservation.
You pulled your phone out of your pocket, your cold fingers moving with supernatural speed to send a quick text to Jasper. You gave him a brief heads-up on the runner's description and where he seemed to be headed, knowing with absolute certainty that the Cullens would handle the rest. They wouldn’t want dangerous rogues hunting anywhere near their territory and drawing unnecessary human attention.
Silence descended on the woods, save for the heavy, laboured panting of the giant wolf behind you.
You turned around slowly, your vampire grace suddenly feeling incredibly clumsy. Paul was already shifting back, the gruesome, rapid sound of cracking bones echoing in the quiet night. He quickly pulled a pair of shorts from a hidden cache in a hollow tree and stepped into them.
You waited for him to yell at you. Your cold muscles tensed as you stood your ground, bracing for the inevitable explosion. You had broken the treaty. You had crossed the river. By all rights and laws of his tribe, he could try to kill you right now.
Instead, Paul walked right up to you. The anger that usually defined him was completely gone, replaced by a fierce, burning intensity. He stopped inches from you, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, pushing away the damp chill of the night.
"You crossed the line," he whispered.
"He was going to take your eye out, Paul," you said defensively, crossing your arms over your chest as your chin tilted up to meet his gaze. "I couldn't just stand across the river and watch."
You looked at him, truly looked at him, and for the first time in three centuries, you felt a lump form in your throat. You swallowed hard, a purely human reflex that you hadn't needed in a regular conversation for a very long time, and shifted your gaze away from his. You couldn't bear the raw, bleeding exposure in his eyes. There was something about this shape-shifter, something about the searing warmth of his presence and the terrifying depth of his devotion, that made you feel human again. It was a feeling you had thought lost to time, a dangerous, beautiful spark breaking through the timeless numbness of your nomadic life.
“I broke your law," you murmured quietly, the words feeling heavy and hollow on your tongue. "If you want me to leave Forks and never come back… I will.”
It was all he’d been yelling at you to do since the exact moment you two had met. For three weeks, he had growled, demanded, and threatened you to disappear, and you were finally offering him exactly what he wanted on a silver platter. You figured that maybe with you gone, he might finally get some peace of mind.
The silence that followed your offer was deafening, stretching out between you even as the thunder rumbled overhead and the heavy rain continued to batter the ancient canopy. You kept your eyes trained on the muddy ground, watching the steam rise off his bare feet where they sank into the earth. You were bracing for the relief you expected to feel from him, the agreement that he wanted you gone.
But the relief never came. Instead, the air between you grew impossibly hotter, thick with a sudden, sharp spike of panic that was so potent you could practically taste it.
Paul felt his chest gave a sharp, violent heave, a ragged breath tearing out of his throat as if your words had physically struck him.
Instead, what you expected never came, he reached out. His large hand was trembling slightly, as he slowly, hesitatingly, rested his warm, calloused palm directly against your cold, wet cheek.
You gasped, a phantom shudder ripping through your unmoving veins. Your eyes snapped back up to his, wide and startled. His skin felt like liquid fire against your ice, a contrast so sharp, it nearly felt as if you were being burned, but it didn't hurt. In fact, it made you feel undeniably, beautifully alive. For three hundred years, you had walked the earth feeling nothing but the same boring cycle of a world that couldn't touch you. But right now, under the pressure of his hand, your entire universe shrank down to the singular point of his warmth.
“No. I’ve been an asshole to you," Paul muttered, his voice cracking as he forced the words past the tight knot in his throat. His dark eyes searched yours with an open, bleeding sincerity that laid him entirely bare. His thumb moved slowly, gently tracing the smooth, porcelain line of your cheekbone, wiping away the cold raindrops. "Every single day since I met you, I've done nothing but scream at you. I called you a monster. I called you a leech. And you just crossed the treaty line and risked your life to save mine."
Looking up at him now—completely exposed, completely stripped of the defensive, hot-headed bravado he used to shield himself from the wreckage of his life—the familiar, playful spark finally flickered back into your topaz eyes. You couldn't help it. The wit was your defence mechanism, your own way of handling the terrifying weight of what seemed to be blooming between you two.
"I told you before, Lahote," you whispered, your voice a soft, melodic purr that leaned into his warm touch just a fraction of an inch. "I like poking the wolf. I can't exactly let a rogue nomad break my favourite toy."
A breathless, genuine laugh broke from Paul's lips—the first real, untainted sound of amusement you had ever heard from him. It made his eyes crinkle at the corners, the harsh, severe lines of his face softening into something so breathtakingly handsome it made your dead heart ache.
"You are infuriating, you know that?" he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small, wry smile as he leaned his head down, resting his forehead gently against yours. Ice met fire in the middle of the dark, rain-slicked forest, and for the first time, there was no war.
"I've been told I have a certain charm," you replied softly, your pale, slender hands tentatively rising to rest against his bare, broad chest. Beneath your palms, you could feel the frantic, heavy thumping of his heart, a rapid, fiercely alive rhythm that seemed to echo in the empty space of your own chest.
"Yeah," Paul sighed, closing his eyes as he finally let go of the anger, the guilt, and the fear that had been tearing him apart for weeks. He wrapped his strong, trembling arms securely around your waist, pulling your cold body flush against his furnace-warm chest and you couldn’t help but relax into him. He held you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that was constantly shifting beneath his feet. "Maybe you do."
The storm raged on around you, the thunder shaking the earth and the rain washing the blood from the clearing, but as you stood there in the forbidden territory, wrapped in the arms of the boy who had been born to kill you, the dull grey of the world finally began to fade away.
Warning: SPOILERS FOR WAKANDA FOREVER!, war, blood…minor angst, but a happy ending.
The sky smells of ash and fire, colored red with billowing smoke—a distant scream withers in the wind. You do not smile upon your victory, a cost came with the fire of your people. A heavy toll of loss, for both sides as you sit upon the throne of iron. A chair fit for no one… Your finger thrums against the arm, chin lifting as you nod to each passing soldier.
They bow their heads and move along: “Lady Al-at…” You hum, closing your eyes and bowing your head in return. This city was known for its slave labor, its treachery and malpractice—now it is rubble at your feet.
That name no longer belongs to you, it has changed many times throughout your long lifetime. Evolving as religions shifted, allegiances begin and end, and empires rise—only to fall.
In some ways, as you sip your coffee—eyes locked on the beaches edge. You do not seem as prolific to the untrained eye, a young woman—no more than that.
A symphony of praise falls off the lips of mortals, above all else—their goddess Anat does not fail. A pantheon of gods and goddesses affirm their confidences. Yet as you look down on the mortal world below, you do not smile. For the bodies of the beaten and broken, are still chained.
Now you are just Y/N, someone who has lived far too many millennia. Tired of humanities endless cruelty, you begged the world to remember its history, but they never did.
The sweetness of the tart is comforting, familiar to the ones you’ve had before. The sound of waves opening and breaking on the sand, begins to become a rhythmic music.
“Lady Athena…” You look up at the soldier who is both wide eyed and bloody, too young, but still he followed you here with vigor. You imagine too much.
“Yes my child?”
“Did we win?” You nod, swallowing and looking away—trying to push away the image of how he held his insides in with his palm, they won. Yet you were not as proud as you once would be.
Cutting your eyes away, you turn your focus to your phone—mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. The world has changed more than anyone realizes, parts of you have changed with it. Eons of history built into a tiny black screen, and yet, war still continues. It is the only constant, the source of your strength, but their is no glory. No respect. It is as mindless as these screens, unable to tell who the real enemy is.
Echoes of prayers reach your ears, the people of Ireland often empassioned with raw confidence. You were seen as three deities, but you were only one—notably, you recall how war became filled with glory once more. It mattered. For the Irish were fighting for something, and then nothing at all… The same cycle that left you humming along to the prayers. Wishing they would stop altogether.
You often catch yourself wondering: is this it? Is the time of true war with purpose coming to an end? Am I?
Only you remained, the existence of war kept you young—even with your other interests, hundreds with every persona you took on. None of it held a candle to the power war gave you. The sand shifts as the seat across from you is pulled out, familiarity settles in your gut.
“K’uk’ulkan—” You bow your head, having met the Winged Serpent God quite a while back—you were shocked to receive a message from him. An intent prayer directly to you, to meet him here.
“It is I, who should bow to you, Y/N.” He gives a smile, it lifts his cheeks and then drops away almost instantly. “The Great War goddess.” Y/N was your chosen name, the one that was not chosen for you—one that was yours alone.
It silenced the voices, and for the first time since your creation… You were happy to finally be in the dark. To silence the prayers once and for all, maybe you should be thankful. Those prayers gave you life for so very long.
Instead, you welcome the quiet.
“I trust this is not a meeting to compliment me further?” Air escapes his lungs, as he nods—bowing his head a little.
“Perceptive as always.”
“There’s always a catch with you, Namor.” You emphasize the name given to him—the one that mirrors the many you have had yourself. It is the one that strikes fear into people.
“For many moons, my people have devoted themselves to the god, Huitzilopochtli—a name once given unto you.” A name familiar, the sacrifices of the past coming to mind. So much of your worship happened to be tied into blood. What once set you afire, sent you into the dark as you think of it now.
“I know your true name, Y/N and I call upon you one last time, to defend Talokan from the surface.” Something about the request is no longer of interest, it stiffens your resolve and heart to him.
“Do not request such things Namor. As a deity, I have asked to be left alone.” You take another bite, meeting his eye which does not shift. “Do not act above the rest, war is a complicated affair and no one wins anymore.” There is no victory when you’re living in a world of ash.
You stand, dusting yourself and straightening the sleeves of your jacket. “You will call me again, I am certain. But if it is at the expense of innocent blood I will not fight at your side.”
The prayer comes weeks later.
Not the kind hurled upward in desperation or sharpened into a weapon—but fractured, ragged around the edges. It reaches you in the quiet hours before dawn, when even the city seems to hold its breath. You are half-asleep on your couch, television humming softly, when the pull tightens around your ribs like a familiar ache.
Namor does not speak your name this time.
He does not need to.
Talokan answers you as it always has—water folding back in reverence rather than command. And then shielding you in a quiet embrace. Bioluminescent paths bloom beneath your feet as you descend, light brushing your skin like memory. Your feet never touch the sandy bottom, but you walk as if you do. The city is quieter than you remember. No songs carried on the current. No drums. Only vigilance—and pain.
You find him not on his throne, but in a chamber carved deep into stone and coral, guarded by none.
Namor kneels.
Blood—too dark, too much—threads through the water around him, drifting lazily like fallen banners. One wing hangs wrong at his back, torn and scorched, the skin along his ribs split where Wakandan steel and surface fire had kissed too deeply. His shoulders are rigid, pride holding him upright when his body clearly cannot.
For a moment, you simply look at him.
So many gods you have seen fall screaming. So many kings dragged into the dirt by their own certainty.
Namor looks up at you without shame.
“You came,” he says quietly.
“You called,” you answer, already kneeling before him. Your hands hover, not yet touching. Consent matters, even between gods. Especially between gods.
His jaw tightens. “I did not ask you to fight.”
“No,” you murmur. “You asked me to listen.”
At that, something breaks in him—just slightly. Enough that he nods.
You place your hands over the worst of the wounds, and the water around you stills completely. Power does not roar out of you anymore; you learned long ago that healing is not conquest. It is patience. It is remembering how bodies were meant to be before war taught them otherwise.
Warmth spreads from your palms, ancient and careful. Bone knits. Flesh remembers itself. The torn membrane of his wing trembles as it reforms, delicate as a newborn star. Namor exhales sharply, head tipping forward until his brow nearly touches yours.
You stay there longer than necessary.
Long enough for the quiet affection you have both denied to settle between you—unspoken, but undeniable. Two immortals who have watched eras burn, recognizing something gentler and far more dangerous than hatred.
When you finally pull back, he is whole again. Tired. Humbled. Alive.
He looks at you then—not as a god, not as a weapon—but as something closer to an equal.
“Tell me,” he says, voice low, stripped of command. “You who have been named for it… what is war?”
You lean back on your heels, considering him. Considering yourself.
“War,” you say slowly, “is what happens when grief is given armor and told it is righteous.”
His eyes never leave your face.
“It begins as protection. As love twisted by fear. It convinces kings they are gods and gods that they are necessary.” You glance at your hands, still faintly glowing. “It devours the innocent first, then the faithful, and finally the ones who started it—if they live long enough to see the cost.”
Namor swallows.
“There was a time,” you continue, softer now, “when war had rules. When it ended. When surrender meant survival. That time is gone. Now it is endless. Directionless. Fed by pride and remembered only by the dead.”
You look back at him, and there is no judgment there—only understanding.
“War is not glory,” you finish. “It is a wound that pretends to be a crown.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and heavy as the ocean itself.
At last, Namor bows his head—not in submission, but in acknowledgment.
“I thought victory would save my people,” he says. “I see now it would have only buried them deeper.”
You reach out, resting your hand briefly over his heart. It beats strong. Steady.
“There is still time,” you tell him. “For Talokan. For you.”
He covers your hand with his own, fingers warm despite the water.
“And for us?” he asks—not as a ruler, not as a god, but as something far more vulnerable.
You hesitate.
Then, just barely, you nod.
“For as long as we choose peace,” you say. “And not a moment longer.”
The light of Talokan brightens around you—not in celebration, but in quiet resolve.
For the first time in centuries, the war goddess does not feel the pull of battle.
Only the weight of a choice.
The chamber is dim when you wake.
Not dark—Talokan never truly is—but softened, the bioluminescent veins in the stone walls pulsing slowly, like a living thing at rest. The water beyond the open arches moves lazily, currents brushing the room in a steady rhythm that feels almost like breathing.
You are not alone.
Namor lies beside you, close enough that your knees touch, close enough that you can feel the heat of him through the thin barrier of sheets and water-cooled air. His bed is not ornate. No throne disguised as comfort. Just stone smoothed by centuries of use, layered with woven kelp-fiber linens that smell faintly of salt and crushed flowers.
You stare at the ceiling for a long moment, grounding yourself.
You do not sleep often. Not like this. Not deeply. Not without the weight of a thousand voices clawing at your mind.
But here—here is quiet.
Namor shifts beside you, careful, as if afraid the smallest movement might send you vanishing back into myth. One arm rests across his chest, the other bent beneath his head. His wings are folded tight, healed but still sensitive, the membranes catching soft light.
“You stayed,” he says quietly.
It is not a question.
“I said I would,” you answer, voice rougher than you expect.
Silence settles again, comfortable in a way that surprises you. Gods are not meant to be comfortable. You were carved for chaos, sharpened by worship and bloodshed. And yet, here you are, wrapped in sheets beside a king who once asked you to burn the world for him.
Namor turns his head to look at you. Up close, stripped of armor and ceremony, he looks… tired. Older than he lets his people see. Older than the legends.
“They will speak of this,” he murmurs. “Of you being here.”
“I no longer belong to their stories,” you say. “Neither do you—at least not the ones they tell.”
His gaze flicks to your mouth, then away again. Careful. Always careful with you. As if desire itself might be another kind of war.
After a moment, he says, “When I was defeated… I thought it would break me.”
You turn toward him then, propping yourself on one elbow.
“And?” you ask gently.
“It did,” he admits. “Just not in the way I expected.” His jaw tightens. “I have never known what to do with failure. Or mercy.”
You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing the back of his hand. He stills instantly.
“Neither did I,” you say. “That is why they made me into something terrible. It was easier than letting me be unsure.”
His fingers curl around yours, slow and deliberate, like he is learning the shape of trust.
“I have waged war for my people for centuries,” he says. “And yet… lying here, with you—this feels more dangerous than any battlefield.”
You almost smile.
“Because this requires you to be seen,” you say. “Not feared.”
He exhales, a sound halfway between a laugh and a confession.
“I do not know how to be soft,” he admits.
You slide closer, your forehead resting briefly against his shoulder. “You do not have to be,” you whisper. “Just honest.”
His arm comes around you then, hesitant at first, then firm—protective without possession. You fit there easily, as if some ancient geometry has finally resolved itself.
For the first time in your long existence, no one is asking you to fight.
No one is asking him to conquer.
The war goddess and the winged serpent lie entwined in the quiet aftermath of loss, not as myths or monsters—but as two beings choosing, for one fragile moment, not to be alone.
Outside, Talokan drifts on, unaware that something far rarer than war has taken root in its heart.
Warnings: grief, loss, descriptions of violence, death, some mild language.
The innocence of youth is often deceptive, a curved path of deception—12 Grimmauld Place stands like a haunted omen. It happened in the darkness, shadows loom and hover. Shifting in the wind, but your shadows, they are permanent. Etched into your skin, burning—aching.
All it takes is a knock.
A pattern, a thought—memories you’d rather lose than remember, but they remain.
You stand at the threshold, still cloaked in the black robes of your arrival, damp from rain and weighed down with more than weather. The room stills when they see you.
You don’t flinch. You don’t let the years show.
Not in front of them.
Sirius is the first to speak, but not in the way you remember. No witty quip. No bark of laughter. Just a low, broken murmur.
“…You.”
He looks older. Gaunter, sadder, haunted by Azkaban and ghosts with your face.
Remus is slower to look up. When he does, it’s worse. His brown eyes are soft, not from fondness, but from hurt. Like he doesn’t want to believe it. Like if he doesn’t blink, you’ll vanish again.
“Hello, boys,” you say finally. Your voice is calm, even, precise. The same voice that used to tease them under the giant beech tree by the lake. The same voice that used to whisper to Remus about the stars until the fire in the Gryffindor common room died out.
Now, it sounds wrong in your mouth. Stained.
McGonagall clears her throat, casting a look around the Order. “She’s here at my request. She has information. Valuable information.”
“Information?” Sirius’s voice rises, sharp now. “From where, the Dark Lord’s lap?”
His fury doesn’t sting. Not the way Remus’s silence does.
You draw back your hood slowly. The years have changed you. The falcon’s eyes that used to gleam with mischief are now watchful, weary. Your wand rests visibly at your hip, a deliberate statement: I won’t pretend I’m harmless.
“I’ve been under for years,” you say simply. “Since before his first fall. Dumbledore knew.”
“You lied to us,” Sirius snaps, stepping forward, and Tonks grips his arm out of instinct.
“I did,” you agree. “And if I hadn’t, I’d be dead. Or worse—you would be.”
Finally, Remus speaks.
“You left Hogwarts the same week I came back,” he says, voice softer than Sirius’s, but not gentler. “You wouldn’t even see me. Why?”
You look at him now, really look. There’s silver in his hair. There’s exhaustion in his bones.
Because you loved him. Because you still do.
“I couldn’t face you,” you say quietly. “I couldn’t face what I did to you. To all of you.”
His jaw clenches. He looks down, then back up. “And now you’re here. Why?”
“I’m here because he’s back,” you answer, stepping into the kitchen fully. “And I know how he moves. Who he’s reaching for. What he wants. You can hate me all you want. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m offering a weapon.”
“You’re offering yourself,” Sirius spits.
You turn to him. “I offered myself the day I let my father brand my arm to earn their trust. I’ve worn his mark for years. Burned for it. Every day. It’s the only reason I know what I know.”
Silence falls again, this one heavier.
It’s Remus who moves first. Not away. But toward.
He stops just a foot in front of you. Searching for the person that he knows, the one who he still thought of from time to time.
There’s a flicker in his gaze. A falter. Because he remembers them. The one who became an Animagus just to follow a werewolf into the woods so he wouldn’t be alone. The one who once fell asleep on his chest in the Astronomy Tower because you were too busy arguing constellations to notice the time.
It’s not forgiveness you feel in the air. It’s possibility. A thin thread of it. Worn, frayed—but not broken.
McGonagall sighs, drawing out her wand and a scroll. “Let’s begin. We need every advantage we can get.”
Sirius storms past you, brushing your shoulder with a bitterness you expected. Remus doesn’t move. Not yet.
• • • • • • •
It’s a rare, warm night. The kind that made Hogwarts feel like a sanctuary instead of a fortress. The Astronomy Tower is yours, as it often is during these nights — a shared secret between you and the Marauders. James is absent for once, having finally convinced Lily Evans to accompany him to a late-night stroll by the lake.
Sirius won’t shut up about it.
“I swear to Merlin,” he mutters around a mouthful of stolen Honeydukes chocolate, “if I have to hear James say ‘Evans smiled at me today’ one more time, I’m going to hurl myself off this tower.”
You grin, lounging on your back beside Remus on a thick blanket. “You say that every week, and yet here you are. Alive and tragically overdramatic.”
Remus chuckles softly beside you, flipping the page of his astronomy chart, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
Sirius throws a chocolate frog wrapper at your face. “Sod off. I’m the picture of restraint.”
“You’re the picture of something,” you murmur.
“Alright, enough,” Sirius says, brushing imaginary dust from his robes and standing. “I’m off. If I stay, I’ll start making moon-related jokes, and Moony will murder me in my sleep.”
Remus glances up. “You’ve made worse jokes. You survived.”
“I know,” Sirius smirks. Then he pauses, as if considering something. His gaze flicks from you to Remus, and then he sighs loudly, dramatically. “Fine. Fine. I can take a hint.”
You raise a brow. “A hint?”
“Oh, don’t play coy,” he says, wagging a finger. “The two of you practically breathe in sync. I’ll be downstairs. Don’t be boring.”
He leaves in a whirl of black hair and robes.
Silence falls, and you feel it. Not awkward, but charged.
You don’t dare look at Remus right away. You focus on the stars, on the gentle night breeze. Until—
“You’re quieter than usual,” he murmurs.
You glance at him. His face is bathed in moonlight, gentle and open. You swallow.
“So are you,” you say.
“I always am,” he replies with a faint grin. “But you... You’re only quiet when you’re thinking too hard. About something you won’t say.”
You bite your lip, fingers twisting in the edge of the blanket. He always sees you. Too much.
“You ever wonder if we’re… going to stay like this?” you ask softly. “All of us. Together. Laughing. Safe.”
Remus turns his head toward you, eyes dark and soft.
“I’d like to think so.”
“I’m not so sure,” you admit.
“Why not?”
You hesitate. “My family’s… complicated. There are expectations. Things they say I’ll need to do when I come of age. Things I’m supposed to. believe.”
He frowns. “You don’t have to do any of it.”
You glance down. “They don’t see it that way. I’m already… disappointing them. They call Gryffindor a phase. That I’ll grow out of it.”
“They’re wrong,” he says firmly.
You smile faintly. “Maybe. But sometimes I wonder if there’s a part of me that’ll always belong to them. That maybe the sorting hat made a mistake.”
Remus shifts toward you then, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes search yours, deeper now.
“I don’t think it made a mistake. You’re brave in ways people don’t see. Brave in the quiet moments.”
You look at him. Really look. The way his eyes glint, soft but intense. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you, but he’s too afraid.
You wonder if he can see it — the shadow beginning to creep in. The pull of blood and duty starting to poison the edges of your thoughts. You want to tell him.
But you don’t. You smile instead.
“You always make it sound like I’m better than I am.”
“Maybe I just see who you could be,” he says.
The moment stretches.
You don’t kiss him. Not yet. But you lean your head against his shoulder, and he lets out the softest breath like it’s a gift.
Above you, a falcon glides across the sky — small and fast and sharp against the stars.
The fire crackles in the drawing room. Shadows dance against the walls, distorted like memories. You're standing at the window, watching the street below through the parted curtains.
You hear him before he speaks—of course you do. You've known Sirius Black long enough to read his footfalls like a curse.
“You’ve got nerve,” he growls behind you. “Showing up here.”
You turn slowly, spine straight, chin raised. “Then throw me out.”
He crosses the room in three strides. “Don’t tempt me.”
Your mouth twitches. “Would you really? Or would you rather scream and feel something?”
He doesn’t smile. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to psychoanalyze me like we’re still friends. Like you didn’t choose them.”
“I chose survival.”
“You chose to watch our world burn. You let him take everything—James, Lily—Harry’s parents!” His voice cracks. “And what did you do? Sit in meetings with the ones who killed them?”
Your expression hardens. “You think I wanted that? You think I didn’t throw up every time I had to sit beside them and pretend I was one of them? You have no idea what I did to stay in that position. The things I had to become.”
He sneers. “A spy? Or a coward?”
The word slices through you, cleaner than you expect.
And it makes you angry.
“You think rotting in Azkaban gives you a monopoly on suffering?” you snap, stepping toward him now. “I didn’t get the luxury of being locked away, Sirius. I had to walk among them. Lie with them. Watch children tortured. Watch families torn apart and smile because I couldn’t break cover. I spent years praying for Dumbledore’s signal to get out. It never came.”
“Bullshit,” he spits. “You had us. You could’ve come to me.”
You laugh, but it’s bitter. “You? The boy who nearly hexed Snape’s face off because he looked at me the wrong way in sixth year? You’d have burned the world down just to see me free, and that would’ve gotten me killed.”
He stops. Just enough hesitation to let the silence slip between you.
“You let me think you were dead,” he says, lower now. Hurt rather than furious.
“I thought it was safer,” you murmur. “For you. For Remus. I— I wasn’t the same person anymore. I knew what I’d become.”
“And Remus?” Sirius presses. “Did you let him think you were dead, too? Or did you just enjoy breaking his heart?”
Your breath stutters, and the quiet confirms what you both already know.
“…You never stopped loving him,” Sirius says, voice shaking now. “Even when you wore that mark.”
“I never loved the cause,” you snap. “But I did love him. Still do. I left because I couldn’t stand the look on his face if he knew what I’d done. What I’d become. What I was capable of.”
Sirius paces, fingers raking through his hair. He looks like a storm barely held together.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” he says finally.
You nod. “Good. Don’t. I wouldn’t trust me either. But trust that I’m here now. For Harry. For Remus. For us, if there's still an us left.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
And for a moment, the firelight reflects not a Death Eater, not a spy—but the girl who once chased him on broomstick through the Forbidden Forest. The girl who punched Lucius Malfoy for calling James a mudblood lover. The girl who used to sit with Remus in silence after every full moon, wiping blood from his jaw without flinching.
“…I don’t forgive you,” Sirius says.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“But I’ll fight beside you,” he adds reluctantly. “For now. Because the boy upstairs deserves every protector he can get.”
You nod once. “That’s enough.”
He turns, his back to you as he walks away—but just before the door, he stops.
“Tell him,” Sirius says quietly. “Tell Remus. Before this war takes one of you again.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left alone in the firelight, trembling with all the things you wish you’d said years ago.
• • • • • • •
You kneel.
Marble floors chill your bones through the thin fabric of your robes. The room is too still. Even the fire crackles in obedience.
Lord Voldemort paces in silence, fingers laced behind his back. Every step he takes echoes like a heartbeat before a killing curse.
“You’ve returned sooner than expected,” he says. His voice is not loud, but it consumes the space.
You keep your eyes on the floor. “The Order has moved. They’ve begun using the boy as bait — they think he’s safest surrounded by them.”
A quiet, satisfied hiss. “And the werewolf?”
You hesitate. A mistake.
His eyes narrow, slits of crimson ice.
“Still soft for him, are we?” Voldemort whispers, now suddenly beside you, cold fingers beneath your chin. “Still dreaming of the half-blood mongrel?”
You don’t flinch. You can’t.
“I dream of his death,” you lie, voice flat.
He smiles.
“You were such a clever child. And yet still, I wonder… if cleverness can survive sentiment.”
You swallow. The mark on your arm pulses faintly. You nod. “I won’t fail you.”
“See that you don’t,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll have to remind you… where your loyalty lives.”
His smile is softer than death.
The firelight makes everyone’s shadows longer, thinner. Like ghosts waiting to be seen.
You stand at the edge of the room, arms crossed, posture stiff. Dumbledore is absent tonight, and without him, the silence in the Order feels different. Like everyone’s holding their breath.
Tonks throws a wary glance your way. Mad-Eye grumbles something under his breath about “bad habits dying hard.” And Sirius—he doesn’t look at you at all.
But it’s Remus who approaches. Always him. The soft-footed one, the quiet storm.
He doesn’t say your name when he stops beside you.
Just, “Rough night?”
You almost laugh. “Always is.”
He nods slowly, eyes searching your face. You’re not sure what he sees anymore. Guilt? Decay? Hope? Perhaps the physical, the fresh bruise blooming beneath the surface of your cheek.
“How long can you do this?” he asks softly. “Play both sides?”
“I’m not playing anything,” you answer. “There’s only one ending to this story. I know that.”
Remus’s jaw clenches. “Then why do it?”
You meet his eyes—tired, gentle, kind—and feel the weight of everything you once could have been pressing down on your shoulders.
“Because someone has to walk into the fire,” you whisper. “Someone who already burned.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “You don’t have to do it alone.”
You look away.
“I already am.”
• • • • • • •
When you first realized you loved Remus, more than anything else—you were certain that you’d sacrifice it all. Knew that loving him, meant surrendering to the idea of dying. Seeing him again, hearing his voice—betrayed, but an underlying tenderness.
You knew—you were going to die for him. One way or another, your story was going to end by his hand or Voldemorts.
You sit at the dinner table later into the night than you meant to, echoes of your past lingering just behind your eyes. A lifetime a sadness as your coffee goes cold, nearly two decades of never quite being enough. Playing two sides that never fully trusted you.
“Why’d you do it?” Harry’s voice was not soft, but razor sharp—cutting the quiet that never seems quiet enough.
“You’ll have to be more specific.” You try to sound nonchalant, to hide behind the shield that has helped you survive. The solace in the silence.
“Why did you betray my parents?” He didn’t mince his words, carved out by his own trauma.
“I don’t think I know anymore.” That doesn’t seem to satisfy Harry, his green eyes hold a fire that you used to recognize.
“You’re a coward, just like Sirius said.” The bite in his voice unmistakable.
“Harry—” But the softness in your voice is drowned out by Harry.
“You’re probably the reason they’re dead.” Your eyes shift as your back stiffens considerably, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your stomach.
“Harry.” There’s a firmness to your voice, but still quiet in the ways that matter. Still he steps forward, voice raising.
“I wish you’d have died instead!” There is a distinct harshness as lean forward, anger writhing deep within. The careful mask slipping.
“I do too!” He stumbles back, your voice waivers, sincerity—he believes you as you slump back into the chair. Harry doesn’t move towards you, but watches.
As you roll back your sleeve and reveal the dark mark, a stain. A scourge against your skin. You do not touch it, do not give it the satisfaction, but you trace the scar like lines with your eyes.
“I sold my soul when I got this.” You pause, even without touching you acknowledge the weight. “I thought I could protect my friends and honor my family. Thought this was my only chance.”
You meet his eyes, even though he doesn’t speak—you read him the same way you read his parents, so much of them in him.
“Harry I may have chose the wrong side, but I never would have given them up.” You roll the sleeve back down, not defending your choice, but hiding it beneath the fabric of your shirt. “Never.”
You feel a gentle pulse of admission, the guilt does not lessen, but you continue. “I loved them all more than anything else. Still do.” You meet his eye, inhaling as you rise from the table. “But I made my bed sometime ago, so now I must lay in it.”
Remus had been standing in the hall, Sirius close by—they were looking for Harry, but were surprised to hear you. A breath away, your admission hanging on the air as you turn the corner. Sirius does not move, but Remus moves back quickly as you turn the corner.
The weight of forever hanging inbetween, “Apologies.” You lower your gaze, moving between them and out the front door. Never looking back, but Remus couldn’t ignore the pound in his chest. The way his expression tightened.
“Do you think they meant it?” He glances over at Sirius, the words catching in his throat.
“Bloody hell if I care.” But they both cared in their own ways, more than either were willing to let on even as you slip out through the front door.
Even as they wonder if it’ll be the last time.
•
•
There it is—the untidy ending, but really, if you guys like this, let me know. I do have some ideas on how to continue this imagine. If there’s interest
Warnings: blood, near death experience, some language
Sam Uley X Demigod!Reader
The wind at the cliff’s edge isn’t just a breeze—it’s a living thing, pushing and tugging at your clothes like it’s trying to decide whether to shove you forward or pull you back. The salt in the air sticks to your lips, bitter and damp. Somewhere far below, the ocean churns in violent, endless motion, its black-blue surface frothing white as the waves smash against jagged rocks.
You’ve never been afraid of water—fire is in your blood, yes, but water has never been an enemy. Still, staring down into that restless deep, you know instinctively that you wouldn’t last five seconds in it. The waves here don’t break. They devour.
The sharp snap of a branch cuts through the wind.
You spin, heart jerking into your throat. Your hands twitch toward instinct—heat pricks at your palms, ready to flare—when your eyes lock on a figure half-hidden in the treeline.
Sam.
For a second, you think your mind is playing tricks on you. But then he steps forward, and the sight slams into you like the force of the ocean below. His skin is pale, almost sallow under the overcast light. Dark circles dig deep beneath his eyes, making the red rims stand out even more. He’s bigger than when you last saw him, muscle filling out his frame, but it’s the kind of bulk that looks hard-earned through survival, not training. He looks like he’s been living on the edge of collapse.
Weeks. It’s been weeks since you saw him—since that close call you both nearly didn’t walk away from.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
But in his eyes, you see it: the push-pull of wanting to close the gap and being terrified of what might happen if he does.
The two of you have been orbiting each other for years. Since you left for camp at nine, it’s been a cycle—pull close, break apart, drift, find each other again. Not magnets. Something looser, stranger. Like two people who keep colliding in random places: the same parking lot, the same playground, the same bakery. And now—this cliff.
Where you are, Sam is. And where Sam is, you are.
Before you can say a word, he’s crossed the space and wrapped you in his arms. His chest is solid and trembling against yours. His breath is warm against your ear.
“Don’t go.”
The memory hits before you can stop it—the last conversation you had.
You’d told him you were going back to Long Island. He’d stared like you’d spoken another language, waiting for you to grin and say you were joking. Waiting for you to admit you meant a week, not years. You’d said it flatly, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.
No one else can see Sam the way you do. And no one sees you the way he does.
“What’s on Long Island?” His voice had been sharp, but the question had hung heavy between you.
“It doesn’t matter.”
His jaw had tightened. “What’s his name?”
You’d narrowed your eyes. “Stop being jealous.”
“No—then what else is there?”
You’d never told him about the gods. About the monsters. About the wars. About the fact that your life wasn’t one you could explain to anyone who didn’t already live it.
“It doesn’t matter.”
When you turned to go, his hand had clamped around your arm, spinning you back. His grip was tight enough to tremble, his face a storm you couldn’t quite name.
The anger turned him into someone that you barely recognize.
“Sam, let go.”
And he had. Instantly. Like your voice had broken through the haze. And then there’d been nothing—just the empty space between you, heavier than the wind off the ocean.
Now, in the present, you hold him as tightly as he’s holding you, your face pressed into the curve of his neck. His scent—woodsmoke, pine, and something uniquely him—wraps around you.
“I couldn’t go,” you murmur.
You’d tried. Bags packed, train ticket in your pocket. But the closer you got to the station, the more wrong it felt. Camp had always been home. But now, the thought of leaving felt like tearing out something vital.
Home wasn’t a place anymore. It was a person.
“I don’t think I could stand it if you did,” he says quietly.
•
A year passes in a heartbeat. You live together now, and the secrets you carry grow heavier by the day. The longer you stay, the more the monsters come—too many, too often. You hide the weapons. The bruises. The burns. The way the fire in your palms itches to escape at the smallest provocation. Times when Sam almost caught you chasing the bumps in the night, and creaks in the attic.
You could go back to Camp Half-Blood. You could live in safety. But you know you wouldn’t last. You’d always look back.
You’d always want him.
“Babe?” Your voice echoes into the quiet house as you drop your backpack. No answer. Probably for the best—you need to wash the dirt and ash from your skin before he sees you like this.
The shower water runs black at first, spiraling dirt and blood into the drain. Your muscles ache as the steam wraps around you, loosening knots you didn’t know you had. You scrub until the scent of smoke fades from your hair.
You dress in the quiet, a towel draped around your shoulders, wandering into the bedroom. The sharp glare of the sun beaming through the window draws your eye. Down in the clearing, Sam walks with Paul and Jared, their laughter carrying easily through the open glass. You drink in the sound—warm, unguarded, rare.
Then your gaze shifts—and your blood runs cold.
The towel hits the floor as you bolt for the stairs.
The front door slams open.
“Move!” you shout, fire already blooming in your palm. The Minotaur bursts from the treeline, horns glinting, breath steaming in the cool air. You fling a burst of flame into its face, the smell of scorched hair thickening the air as it roars.
“Y/N?!” Sam’s voice is sharp, panicked.
“Inside!” You keep your eyes on the monster, your stance tight and ready. You shouldn’t be able to hear the Minotaur over the roar of blood in your ears, but every sound is crystal clear: its hooves scraping dirt, the low growl in its throat.
Then you make the mistake of glancing at Sam—just for a heartbeat.
It’s enough. The blunt end of the ax slams into your chest, the impact knocking the air from your lungs as you hit the ground hard. Dirt grinds into raw skin.
When your vision clears, a massive wolf is standing between you and the monster, hackles raised, teeth bared. And in its eyes, you see him.
“I guess we both have secrets,” you rasp as you stumble to your feet, pulling out a short dagger: We’re gonna have a lot to talk about when this is over.
•
Later, you sit at the table, facing each other.
“Look, I can explain the fire,” you start.
Sam shakes his head. “The fire’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about the ten-foot monster!”
You arch a brow. “So you turning into a giant wolf is fine? Water under the bridge?”
He leans back, jaw flexing. “My ancestors were shifters. We turn when cold ones are near. Happened a little over a year ago.” He gestures at you. “Your turn.”
“My dad’s Hephaestus. Greek god of the forge. I’ve fought in two wars—Titans and Giants. Been doing this since I was nine.”
He swallows. “I imprinted on you.”
You blink. “I produce fire at will.”
“I barely know what I’m doing as a wolf. Let alone its alpha.”
“I died once. Got brought back with old magic.”
Silence stretches.
Then his hand covers yours. His skin is warm—solid in a way that makes your chest ache. “It scared the hell out of me, seeing you run at that thing.”
You squeeze his fingers. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.”
“You’re not alone anymore.”
Your smile is small, but it reaches your eyes. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”
There’s always an underlying truth to what you and Sam share—a quiet thought and tension that neither of you gave name to. Something that neither of you understood. You always assumed that he knew what he was getting into when he chose a demigod. Monsters and gods alike. But it never quite clicks that danger lurks around every corner, and that being away from camp—is like a neon sign that says: “EAT ME!”.
Being in La Push, means that there is a certain level of risk to every outing.
So when the screen door slams behind you, it’s still rattling as you barely make it two steps before Sam’s voice is cutting through the dark. “You’re bleeding.”
You glance down, the slice on your side is much deeper than you thought with dark crimson seeping through the makeshift bandage. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” He’s already moving towards you as realization mounts, he’s not going to let this go. His eyes locked in on the blood. “You come home three hours later than usual, smelling like smoke and gods know what else, and you think I’m gonna let ‘nothing’ slide.”
You know it’s because he cares, remind yourself that’s why he does this—because he cares. But as you push past him towards the sink, the words slip out. “I handled it, Sam. End of story.”
His hand shoots out, not hard enough to hurt, but unyielding. “You think I’m just going to stand here while you run into danger over and over again? You think I don’t notice when you limp through the door, trying to hide the fact that you’re in pain?” There is an ache in his voice, one that reassures you of the truth that he cares, but your own temper flares, raw and sharp.
“I told you what my life is! Monsters don’t care that I live in La Push now. They don’t care that I’m dating you. They come, and I fight — that’s how it works.”
His jaw flexes, the muscle ticking. “And what about me? You think the imprint doesn’t tear me apart when you’re out there, bleeding, alone? You think I can just… switch it off? Pretend I don’t feel it every second you’re in danger?”
You glare, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t ask you to imprint on me, Sam.”
The words hang between you like a blade. His grip loosens, but his expression hardens.
“No, you didn’t. But I did. And it means you’re mine to protect — whether you like it or not.”
“Protect?” you bite back. “I’ve fought titans. Giants. Things that would turn you and your pack into ash before you could blink. I’m not some helpless girl waiting for a savior.”
“You’re not invincible!” His voice rises, deep and edged with a growl that doesn’t sound entirely human. “And one day you’re going to come back too hurt for me to do anything about it!”
Your side throbs under the force of your heartbeat, the pain making your vision pulse. “Then maybe stop trying to control me and accept who I am!”
His breathing turns ragged, his hands trembling at his sides. You see the faint shudder in his shoulders, the way his frame seems to swell — like the wolf is clawing right beneath the surface.
“Sam…” you say, softer now, but it’s too late. His whole body is vibrating, skin hot under the effort it takes not to shift. His eyes are burning gold, the wild in him straining to break free.
He turns away, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whiten. The kitchen is silent except for his rough, uneven breaths. You can almost feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the air thick with the electric tension of what he’s holding back.
“Sam, I don't want to be saved.”
Your words are still hanging in the air when Sam’s hands curl into fists so tight you hear his knuckles pop. His chest rises and falls in harsh bursts, the sound almost a growl.
“Sam—” you start, but the shift is already overtaking him.
It happens too fast. His body jolts forward, bones snapping and reforming with a sickening crack. Fur bursts along his arms, his frame widening, muscles twisting. You back up, the counter digging into your hip—not out of fear, but because you know what this means.
“Sam, stop!”
The wolf tears free before your words can sink in, towering over you, teeth bared in a soundless snarl. You’ve seen the pack shift before, but never him — not like this, not with the heat of your blood still in both your veins.
And truth is, there was nowhere for you to go.
His movement is a blur—a lash of instinct, not intent—and then white-hot pain explodes across your side. You barely register hitting the floor until you’re looking up at him, your hand clamped over your shoulder.
The claw marks are deep, four jagged lines tearing from your collarbone to your ribs. Blood soaks through your fingers, warm and steady, dripping onto the tile. Every breath sends a fresh wave of agony through your chest.
It was an accident, the shift came so quickly and he hadn’t meant for you to be so close—too close.
He freezes, golden eyes wide in something like horror. His sides heave, the sound of his breathing harsh and panicked.
You force yourself upright against the cabinet, biting back a groan. “Sam—” Your voice shakes. “It’s me. You need to calm down.”
He steps back, head shaking, a low whine breaking from his throat. The wolf in him wants to flee; the man in him wants to fix it. But right now, neither is in control.
You push through the pain, both hands out in front of you. “Look at me. I’m not afraid of you. You didn’t mean to—” Your breath catches as the pain spikes. “Sam. You have to breathe.”
He lowers his head, trembling so violently the muscles in his legs twitch. His claws scrape against the tile, his ears pinned flat. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the wildness straining at the edge of reason.
Blood loss makes the edges of your vision pulse black, but you keep talking, voice low, steady. “I’m here. I’m still here. You’re not going to lose me.”
The thought of cauterizing your wounds crosses your mind, but you hardly can bring a spark to your fingertips. Nothing makes sense.
For a long moment, the only sound is his labored breathing and the drip of blood on the floor. Slowly, the tension in his frame begins to ease — the gold in his eyes softening, the bristling fur along his shoulders smoothing. He inches forward, nose brushing your knee, a soft whuff of air against you.
Even hurt and half-dizzy, you rest your hand against his massive head. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “We’re okay.”
You’re not sure if you’re saying it for him or for yourself.
The sound of the shift back is ugly — bones snapping like dry branches, tendons twisting, the wet pop of joints realigning. When it’s over, Sam is kneeling on the kitchen tile in front of you, bare and shaking, his chest slick with sweat. His breathing is ragged, his eyes still flecked with that molten gold that means the wolf hasn’t fully let go.
He doesn’t touch you. His hands hover inches from your side, fingers curled like claws, as if even the air between you might hurt you more.
“Y/n…” His voice is shredded, so low it almost disappears under the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. “Oh God… what did I—”
Your whole left side is wet with blood. It’s soaking through your shirt, dripping in lazy rivulets down your ribs and pooling against your hip. The claw marks burn and throb in uneven pulses, each one a deep, tearing reminder of just how close his loss of control came to killing you.
“Sam.” You force the word out evenly, even though your breath trembles. “Look at me.”
He does and you see it: the absolute horror, the disbelief, the guilt already carving into him like a blade.
“You didn’t mean to,” you say, keeping your voice calm, clipped, the way you’ve been trained to be when you’re hurt and you can’t afford to panic. “It was an accident. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
He shakes his head so hard it’s like he’s trying to fling the words away. “I hurt you,” he grits out, voice breaking. “I swore I would never—”
“We can’t waste time on guilt,” you cut in, sharper this time, because the floor is tilting under you and the black at the edges of your vision is eating away at the room.
You draw in a shallow breath, every expansion of your lungs a lightning-strike of pain down your ribs. “Sam… you need to hold pressure.”
He flinches like the suggestion itself is an accusation. “I can’t—”
“You have to.” Your voice has steel in it despite the tremor. “Call 911, put your hands here, and don’t you dare let go.”
Something in your tone gets through. He lurches forward, pressing both palms to your side. His hands are huge, the heat of them searing into the wound, and they’re trembling so hard you feel the shakes in your bones. He’s breathing too fast, eyes darting between your face and the mess of blood under his fingers.
You feel yourself slipping — it’s harder to keep your gaze locked on his, harder to keep your voice from floating away. “Sam.”
His head snaps up instantly, panic roaring in his expression.
“I’m gonna pass out,” you tell him, and you hate how faint you sound. “So you need to listen to me. Right now.”
He’s shaking his head before you finish. “Don’t—don’t you close your eyes on me—”
It stops him cold. The way your eyes seem to lose focus, fear creeping in as his entire world shifts. As his mouth opens but nothing comes out, the words stolen by the look in your eyes. His grip tightens, pressing hard enough that you almost cry out, as if he can keep you tethered to him by sheer force of will.
Your vision is collapsing in on itself now, the world narrowing to his face — wild-eyed, desperate, sweat dripping from his temple — and the unbearable heat of his hands.
The last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you is your name, torn from his throat in a voice so raw it’s almost unrecognizable. Not the voice of the Alpha. Not the voice of a man. The voice of someone who thinks he’s already lost you.
There’s a blur after the kitchen—voices, movement, the feel of strong arms lifting you off the tile. The heat of Sam’s skin is replaced by the cold night air as he carries you outside. You catch fragments—the crunch of his bare feet on the gravel, the slam of a door, the sharp command in his voice as he shouts for someone to call an ambulance.
By the time the paramedics arrive, the world is a series of snapshots: flashing red lights in the dark, the sterile smell of antiseptic from the kit they carry, hands tugging your shirt away from the wound. Sam’s still pressing on your side, refusing to let go until someone physically pulls his hands back.
“She’s losing too much,” one of them says.
Sam’s voice is low, urgent, but steady. “We were out hiking, barely a mile from here—a bear came out of nowhere. She tried to fight it off.”
No one questions it. You’re in La Push. Bears aren’t rare here. And no one looks twice at Sam cradling his girlfriend, his forearms and chest streaked with her blood.
They load you into the ambulance. Sam climbs in without asking. His knees are braced wide to steady himself against the jolts of the road, one hand gripping the rail above, the other hovering over you like he’s still afraid to touch.
Your head lolls to the side and you catch flashes—the glow of passing streetlights across his face, the set of his jaw so tight it could crack, his eyes fixed on you like if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish.
“Stay with me, y/n,” he says, low enough that the paramedics can’t hear. “Just a little longer. You’re gonna be fine. I’ve got you.”
You want to tell him you’re trying, but your lips barely move. The effort of breathing feels like it’s pulling you under.
The hospital swallows you in white light and noise. Hands move fast, voices overlap. Someone’s cutting the rest of your shirt away; someone else is sliding a mask over your face. Sam’s still there, talking to anyone who will listen, repeating the bear story, the word bear rolling off his tongue like it’s the only thing keeping them from asking more questions.
And then a nurse is blocking his path. “Sir, you need to wait outside.”
“I’m not leaving her—”
“Sir.” The word is firm, final. “We need to work.”
You feel him hesitate, torn between obeying and fighting them off. Finally, his face appears above you again, just for a heartbeat. His palm brushes your hair back, his touch unbearably gentle after the violence of earlier.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he murmurs, voice breaking on the edges.
The black is pulling at you again, but you manage to force your eyes open one last time. He’s there —bare, disheveled, covered in your blood, looking more wrecked than you’ve ever seen him. You wish you could reach for him, but your arm won’t move.
The nurse tugs him back, the door swinging closed between you. And then he’s gone.
The first thing you’re aware of is the beeping—slow, steady, mechanical. The second is the dry ache in your throat and the dull, constant burn in your side, muted by something heavy and chemical in your veins.
The light is soft, filtered through the blinds. You blink a few times, disoriented, until your gaze catches on the figure slouched in the chair in the far corner.
Sam.
He’s still shirtless, a thin hospital blanket draped haphazardly around his shoulders. His hair is a mess, sticking out in every direction, and there’s a dark smear on his jaw that might be dried blood —your blood. His elbows are on his knees, his head bowed, fingers knotted together so tight his knuckles have gone white.
You can tell by the lines on his face he hasn’t slept. Not really. The set of his jaw is hard, but his eyes—when they finally lift and meet yours—are raw, rimmed red, and wet.
“Y/n.” The word comes out like he’s afraid to breathe it too loud.
You try to smile, but your lips barely twitch. “Hey.”
He’s on his feet in an instant, crossing the space between you. He stops at the edge of the bed, though, like there’s an invisible barrier he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross.
“I—” His voice cracks. He swallows hard, tries again. “I thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t.” Your own voice is a rasp, but you keep it steady. “I told you… I’m not going anywhere.”
His jaw tightens, but you see the tremor in his hands. “I swore I’d never hurt you. And the first time I lose control—”
“Sam,” you interrupt, your tone firmer despite the ache in your ribs. “You didn’t mean to. You were trying to keep from shifting and it happened. I’m still here. That’s what matters.”
Something in him cracks at that — his breath shudders, and the next thing you know, he’s sinking into the chair beside your bed, his head bowed against the mattress. One of his hands finds yours, enveloping it completely, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of them.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says into the fabric of the blanket.
You squeeze his hand, weak but certain. “Too late. You’ve got me.”
He huffs out something that might be a laugh if it weren’t so broken, then lifts his head just enough for you to see the tears clinging to his lashes. “I love you.”
“I know.” Your eyes start to drift shut again— exhaustion heavier than gravity.
He doesn’t let go of your hand. Not when your breathing evens out. Not when the nurse comes in to check your vitals. Not even when the doctor tells him visiting hours ended hours ago.
By the time you fall fully back asleep, the last thing you feel is the solid weight of his hand wrapped around yours — as if letting go isn’t an option.
We just surpassed 500 followers—and I’ve never been so grateful!!! 🫶
It’s been three years since I revamped this account, and since then you guys have steadily enjoyed my writing. I’ve gone through writers block, life changes, and it always brings me back to you ✨
• I am so thankful and grateful, and humbled by all of you •
I just read your “Until Dawn” fic and it had me SEATEDDDDD. And when I saw ur requests were open I got really excited lolll. So I was wondering if u could write a Legolas x reader where they meet at a tavern and the reader is gets the whole tavern dancing once the band starts playing. Similar to the scene in Tangled when Rapunzel gets the townsfolk to start dancing in the circle! Hope this makes sense lol
Take as much time needed and have a wonderful day 💗
By the Babbling Water
Legolas Greenleaf X human!Reader
The tavern was louder than most places Legolas Greenleaf had ever set foot in. Earthy scents of spiced mead and roasting meat mingled with laughter and off-key singing, humans crammed elbow to elbow in a warmth that no Elven hall could replicate. It was strange… and oddly comforting.
Aragorn sat beside him, nursing a drink with his usual ease, though his eyes scanned the room out of old habit. Legolas, however, sat still, ever the watchful observer. Until you passed by.
You weren’t just another figure moving through the crowd. You glided. A tray balanced with impossible grace in one hand, hair tucked behind your ears in a way that framed the brightness in your eyes. Your laughter rang out like chimes in the wind, and it was so genuine—so inviting—that people leaned toward it like sunflowers seeking warmth.
Legolas stared. He didn't mean to, but he did.
“Careful, my friend,” Aragorn muttered, following his gaze. “You’re staring like a stunned deer.”
“I…” Legolas’s voice faltered. “She laughed. The room shifted when she did.”
“You’ve been traveling too long if that surprises you.”
But it did surprise him. In a world filled with shadows and scars, you were a flame that didn’t flicker. There was life in your step, kindness in the way you remembered every patron’s name, and something enchanting about the way people *gravitated* to you, like you held court and didn’t even know it.
And then your eyes met his.
It was brief, a flicker of recognition—he hadn’t spoken a word to you, yet you smiled, like you already knew him. Like his face was one you wouldn’t forget.
“You two traveling through?” you asked when you finally made it to their table. The tilt of your head was playful, curious, and Legolas found himself at a loss for words. “Haven’t seen you before, but I never forget a face.”
“We are,” Aragorn replied, clearly enjoying the rare sight of his Elven friend struck dumb. “Passing through to the north.”
You turned to Legolas. “You’ve got a look to you,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Like you belong in a song.”
His lips parted slightly. “I… do not sing often.”
You laughed, delighted. “Pity. You’ve got the eyes for it.”
His gaze lingered on yours longer than it should have, but you didn’t shy away. In fact, you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “I always know when someone’s more than they seem.”
Before he could gather his wits, you were off again, swept into a tide of patrons calling your name, laughter trailing in your wake. Legolas watched you move, that quiet little smile still ghosting his lips.
Aragorn leaned over, voice low. “She’s got the heart of a fire, that one. Careful you don’t get burned.”
“I do not fear the flame,” Legolas murmured, still watching you. “Only that I will not feel its warmth again once I leave.”
Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps you should stay a little longer.”
Legolas didn’t answer—but the next evening, he was back. And the evening after that. And every evening until you were the one saying, voice gentle, “You don’t have to leave when the road calls. Sometimes, the road leads you where you’re meant to stay.”
And for the first time, the prince of the Woodland Realm wondered if perhaps the world of men, with its clamor and song and fire-hearted barmaids, had something to teach him after all.
They came again, like always—just before the fire was lit and the mugs had begun to overflow, boots wet with road dust and wind in their cloaks.
You were already in the thick of it—greeting the man who’d lost his wife last winter with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, handing off warm cider to the merchant’s twins who always shared one between them, slipping behind the bar to kiss the cook on the cheek and tease a plate of bread from him.
It was like watching someone command a kingdom built of stories and laughter, of faces you never forgot and names you always remembered.
When your eyes met Legolas’s across the tavern, your smile bloomed like it always did—like seeing him was part of your ritual.
“Well look who the wind dragged back,” you said as you approached their table, swiping a mug off a tray and setting it down in front of Aragorn without asking. “Starting to think you two are putting down roots.”
“Not roots,” Aragorn replied with a grin. “Just fond of good company.”
“And better dancing,” you added, tossing Legolas a playful look. “What do you say, my lord of the woods? Think you’ve got another jig in you?”
“I survived the last,” Legolas replied, voice low, though his eyes never left your face.
You laughed, radiant, and leaned in just slightly, enough for him to feel the warmth of your breath. “Then you’ll survive this one too.”
As if summoned by your words, the music struck up again—quick and lovely, the kind of tavern song that needed no introduction. Just a beat. A clap. A stomp.
You straightened with a grin. “That’s my cue.”
And just like that, you were off.
The crowd parted without protest, a hush of eager anticipation giving way to cheers as you moved into the center of the room. Your skirts twirled with every step, and you clapped your hands once—sharp and sure.
“Come on now!” you called. “Don’t make me dance alone!”
The old man by the hearth was first. You caught his hand and spun him gently, laughing when he stumbled on purpose. A young girl next, all freckles and wide eyes. Then a woman with a baby on her hip who managed to sway with you as the music built.
Then a farmer. A boy barely tall enough to reach your waist. An old woman with silver in her braid and laughter on her lips. One by one, you pulled them in, weaving a circle of stomping feet, flushed cheeks, and joy so real it made the tavern walls feel too small to contain it.
Legolas didn’t move.
He just watched.
Watched the way you danced without care for grace, how your steps were uneven but sure, how your laughter sparked every time someone missed a beat or made up their own. How you never paused, never hesitated—how you belonged.
It was all too human. Messy and alive. Fleeting.
And somehow, watching you felt like aching.
“You’re staring again,” Aragorn said under his breath, smiling into his mug.
Legolas didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Because the room spun with you, filled with the noise of hands clapping and feet stamping, and for a heartbeat, it was as if the whole world had been reduced to this moment. To you. To the sound of your laughter wrapped in fiddle strings and the weightless pull of something he didn’t have a name for.
You caught his eye again. Not by accident. A look passed between you—playful, knowing, soft.
And even as the dance went on without pause, it was clear:
You didn’t need to take his hand to pull him in.
You already had.
The music didn’t stop. If anything, it soared—fiddle climbing, drum thumping, boots slapping the old floorboards like they’d been waiting all week for this very song. The tavern was alight, hearts pounding, ale sloshing, voices raised in tune and laughter.
You spun again, cheeks flushed, hair wild with movement. The circle was wide now, a glorious mess of partners changing hands, people twirling and stomping in the wrong places and not caring a bit.
Your eyes found his, right where he stood—statue-still, too composed, golden hair catching the firelight like something ancient and unwilling to give in.
You turned as you danced, facing him fully.
“Gonna make me ask, little leaf?”
It was loud, clear, and shameless. Half the room laughed. The other half watched with baited breath.
Legolas blinked. Something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, something like indignation, and something else too: heat.
Then a woman caught him—literally. A short redhead from the far end of the room grabbed his arm with a shout of delight. “Come on, pretty thing! Don’t let her down now!”
And he was in.
He stumbled, just once—his boots not made for this kind of clatter—but his instincts were quick, and his grace never failed him long. He found the rhythm, awkward for only a breath before he spun the redhead expertly into the arms of another, and was swept toward a broad-shouldered farmer, who grinned and slapped him on the back before sending him spinning again.
You laughed, breathless, catching glimpses of him between partners—tall, lean, so out of place in this raucous dance but trying. Trying because you asked.
And he was watching you too. Every time a new partner took your hand, he found you again. Every spin, every clap, every laughing stumble that passed between you both—you found each other. Again and again and again.
It became a game. Who could catch the other’s eye fastest. Who could hold the longest. Who could hide the smile and who couldn't.
The music was rising now—faster, brighter, louder. The final stretch of the song. The room whirled, people tossed from hand to hand in a joyful chaos of bodies and movement and song.
And finally—finally—as the last beat built to a crescendo, you turned—
And he was there.
Right in front of you. Chest heaving. Eyes bright. Hair disheveled. A flush in his cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
You didn’t hesitate. Both your hands slid into his, your fingers curling firm around his palms, and with a shared breath, you spun together. The music crashed into its final note—feet stomped, hands clapped, voices shouted—
And the room roared.
You landed breathless, grinning, still holding him. He didn’t let go either.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” you teased, laughing.
Legolas, winded and dazed, looked down at your hands in his. “I am… frequently underestimated.”
You leaned in just enough for your smile to soften. “Not by me.”
For a beat, neither of you moved.
The tavern was still ringing with applause, but for a moment, all Legolas could hear was the echo of your voice, and the thunder of his own heart.
And for the first time, maybe, he realized something.
He hadn’t just been caught in the dance.
He’d been claimed.
The tavern had settled into a gentler rhythm now—mugs clinked, voices dropped to soft hums, and the musicians had retired to a corner, the last song still echoing in everyone’s bones. A few regulars lingered, half-asleep by the hearth or curled into quiet conversation over lukewarm cider.
You were drying mugs behind the bar when you saw him—still there.
Legolas, seated by the fire, hair loose from the dance, boots dusted and damp, his cloak draped across the back of his chair. He looked like he belonged in a forest clearing, not this room full of noise and stories and spilled drink—but there was something in his posture now, in the way his shoulders weren’t quite so tense, that made him seem closer. As though, without quite meaning to, he’d let the place in.
You wiped your hands and made your way to him without fanfare.
He looked up as you approached, that same unreadable softness behind his gaze.
You didn’t sit right away. Instead, you offered him a steaming mug, fresh and fragrant. “Mulled cider. With a splash of something sharper,” you said, smiling. “On the house. For surviving the dance.”
His lips twitched. “You have many talents. Humility is not among them.”
You grinned. “What fun would that be?”
You sat beside him, just close enough to feel the warmth from the fire—and from him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The crackle of the logs, the low murmur of distant laughter, the pop of pine in the hearth. You let the silence stretch, not awkward, just easy. Like both of you were still catching your breath.
Finally, you spoke, quieter now. “You did well, you know. Most men fall flat on their backs trying to keep up with that tune.”
“I had a good reason to try,” he replied.
You looked at him then, surprised—but not too much.
His gaze held yours. Calm, steady. Like he wasn’t afraid of silence anymore. Like he wanted to sit in it with you.
“You know,” you said after a beat, your voice softer than before, “You’ve been coming here for nights now, always quiet, always watching. I’ve met enough travelers to know most keep moving, especially elves. But you… stay.”
A pause. Firelight flickered across his cheekbones. “The world has many wonders,” he said, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Mountains that breathe mist, forests that sing. And still…”
He turned his head, eyes finding yours again.
“…somehow, this place calls me back.”
You could feel your pulse in your throat. Not fast. Just aware.
“Is it the cider?” you teased lightly, just to ease the weight in your chest.
“No,” he said, barely a whisper. “It’s you.”
The words hung in the air, fragile and too-honest. Not dressed up or guarded. Just true.
You didn’t know what to say to that. For once, words felt too small.
So you just sat there. Close. Warm. Quiet.
Outside, the wind brushed against the tavern walls. Inside, the fire crackled low.
And Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm, stayed at your side long after the last mug was emptied.
Warnings: Imagine included sexual acts, and some violent depictions (non-sexual).
AN: May the 4th be with you✨ I’ve been saving this one for a while, almost forgot to post it.
Blasterfire lit up the alley in a staccato rhythm, red bolts flashing like lightning in a bottle. You pressed your back to the wall, breath steady despite the chaos around you.
Your target—a slimy, blue-skinned con artist named Kess Pralo—was holed up behind a speeder wreck, whimpering between his useless return shots.
“Pralo,” you called, voice low and smooth, “you’re surrounded. Or you will be in about fifteen seconds when my thermal detonator goes off.”
“Wait! Wait! Don’t—!”
Thunk.
The sound made you look up. Someone else had landed on the rooftop above the alley—someone cloaked in beskar and silence. He dropped to the ground with the weight of certainty, his rifle already trained on the cowering conman.
“You’re late,” you muttered, stepping out of cover, blaster aimed steady.
“I wasn’t trying to be early,” came the calm, modulated voice.
The Mandalorian.
You hadn’t seen him in nearly two cycles—not since the botched job. Back then, he was quiet, efficient, and unbothered by things like allies. He still seemed that way… but something lingered in his helmet’s tilt as he looked at you.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” you said, toeing your boot against Pralo’s dropped weapon. “You usually ghost your way through a job.”
He slung his rifle over his shoulder, stepping closer, visor never leaving your face. “You handled it well.”
“You watched that long before stepping in?”
“Long enough to see you almost talk him into giving up,” he said. “That doesn’t happen much.”
You smirked. “Some of us have skills beyond brute force and a carbonite chamber.”
That got a low hum from him. Maybe amusement. Maybe respect. With Mando, it was hard to tell. But he lingered longer than you expected, his silence almost… curious.
“I was thinking of tracking him,” he said, nudging Pralo’s whimpering form with a boot. “But I’ll defer. You got here first.”
You raised a brow. “Since when does the Mandalorian play nice?”
“Since I started valuing company that doesn’t get killed by the end of the job.”
You froze for just a second. Not because the words were threatening—but because they weren’t.
A compliment. Maybe.
“Next time,” you said, binding Pralo’s wrists with cuffs, “don’t be a stranger. You might like having someone who can match you.”
He turned, but his voice lingered behind him.
“I already do.”
And just like that, he vanished into the shadows—silent, cloaked, and gone.
But something told you this wouldn’t be the last time.
•
The twin suns of Arvala-6 hadn’t risen yet, but the wind carried grit like tiny razors. You crouched low on a ridge overlooking a weathered outpost, the bounty puck’s holo flickering beside you. Your mark was inside, surrounded by offworld raiders and too much firepower for one person.
Good thing you weren’t alone.
“I told you this wasn’t going to be a clean job,” you muttered, barely turning your head.
Behind you, the gravel crunched.
“I wasn’t looking for clean.”
You didn’t jump—didn’t have to. You’d recognized his footfalls before he spoke.
“I thought you worked alone,” you said, glancing over your shoulder.
“I do,” he said. Then added, “Usually.”
The Mandalorian crouched beside you, visor scanning the outpost. His presence was like a storm front—quiet but heavy, pressing at the edges of something you couldn’t quite name.
“How’d you find me?” you asked.
“You’re hard to miss.”
You arched a brow. “That a compliment?”
“I don’t do compliments.”
“Could’ve fooled me, last time.”
He didn’t answer. Just a tilt of the helmet, the kind that felt like a shift in gravity. You felt it again now—that uncanny tension, the pause between two sparks right before the explosion. It hadn’t faded. If anything, it had grown.
You both waited in silence, side by side in the low light, watching.
Then, he broke it.
“I’ve had a few jobs since we crossed paths. Kept thinking about that alley on Nevarro.”
You looked over, slower this time. “Why?”
“You didn’t flinch,” he said. “Even when you knew I had the shot. You weren’t afraid of me.”
You held his gaze—or at least the visor where his eyes might be. “Should I have been?”
“No,” he said. And then, after a beat, “That’s the problem.”
You couldn’t help the dry chuckle. “You’re not used to someone not flinching?”
“I’m not used to someone staying.”
That quiet between you grew sharper. Not uncomfortable—but brimming. He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling you stirred in him.
“I can take the left side,” you said finally, voice quieter. “Hit them when they least expect it.”
“I’ll cover you.”
“And afterward?”
There it was again—that pause. Like he hadn’t considered there was an afterward.
He turned toward you, and for a second, the wind didn’t exist. “Then maybe… you stay.”
You blinked, the tension settling deep in your bones. A flicker of heat, not from the suns or the adrenaline.
You nodded slowly. “Then let’s make it worth surviving.”
He didn’t say anything else—but the way his shoulder brushed yours before you moved into position told you everything.
The Razor Crest creaked softly in the stillness of orbit. You stood near the wall of the dim cargo hold, body still humming with leftover adrenaline, dust and sweat clinging to your skin like memory.
He stood a few feet away, silent in his armor, visor tilted ever so slightly toward you.
“You didn’t have to come back for me,” you said, arms crossed to keep your voice steady.
“I know.”
“Could’ve taken the bounty, flown off, and never looked back.”
“I didn’t want to.”
The air tightened between you. You took a step forward. Then another.
When you reached him, your fingers brushed the cool beskar of his chestplate. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
“I don’t want your face,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “I want what you’re willing to give.”
His breath hitched through the vocoder—just slightly. But his hands came up, slow and searching, pulling you close like the restraint he usually wore was cracking open at the seams.
Your fingers slid to the exposed skin at the back of his neck where the armor ended—warm, real, human. He stilled.
“There are other places to kiss,” you whispered, “besides the lips.”
That made him exhale, sharp and low. Almost a groan.
He grabbed your hips and pulled you flush against him, a hand sliding up your back to your neck. You kissed the line of his jaw under the helmet, your lips brushing the warm skin where it peeked out near the base—then lower, against his throat, lingering where his pulse thudded hard beneath it.
He made a sound—rough, guttural.
And then everything unraveled.
His gloves were off. Your shirt was lifted. The cargo hold became the site of something wordless and hungry. He touched you like he’d gone too long without the weight of another body, without the heat, the contact, the closeness.
Every movement was rough, his hands navigating you like a man desperate to know every part. The way your lips felt like sin against his chest, his abdomen, as he laid himself back on the small makeshift bed.
You let him take. Let him give. And gave it right back.
He never removed the helmet. You never asked.
And that restraint—your willingness to navigate the spaces around it—somehow made it more intimate than anything else could have.
Later, when your heartbeat settled and the silence returned, you sat side by side near the foot of the ramp, not touching now, but changed.
“I won’t ask what this was,” you murmured, fingers resting on your thigh.
He didn’t look at you. “I wouldn’t know what to call it.”
You smiled—small, bittersweet. “You don’t have to.”
The ramp hissed open.
Neither of you said goodbye.
•
The cantina was warmer than you remembered. Still rebuilt from the ashes of the old guild hall, its edges were cleaner, brighter—but the smell of fire, spice, and old violence clung to the walls like an echo. You sipped something strong at the back table, half-listening to the music droids and the murmur of passing smugglers.
Your ship was grounded for repairs after a hard exit from Sorgan. You hadn’t planned on lingering.
Until he walked in.
At first, you didn’t look—just felt it. That ripple in the air. Like a shift in gravity. Then came the sound: familiar boots on stone, the low hum of beskar plates, and a presence that hadn’t left your memory since the last time you touched it.
You turned your head slowly, keeping the smile in check.
Mando stood near the threshold of the tavern, cloaked in armor and shadow. But what stunned you wasn’t him—it was the child cradled in his arms. Tiny. Wide-eyed. Green.
You blinked.
The Mandalorian had brought something soft into a hard world. And he looked… changed. Not less dangerous. Just—more human.
His gaze swept the room, and then landed on you.
A flicker. A shift in his stance.
He didn’t move for a beat. Then—he started walking toward you.
You rose from your chair just as he reached the edge of your table.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, that familiar glint in your eye. “You still make a dramatic entrance.”
He tilted his head slightly. “You haven’t changed.”
You smiled faintly. “Noticed that, did you?”
“I always did.”
Your eyes fell briefly to the child, nestled in the crook of his arm, half-asleep but peering at you with startling curiosity.
“Well, you’ve changed,” you said, voice softer. “I see you picked up a new partner.”
Mando glanced down at the child. “Something like that.”
You met the child’s eyes, and the corner of your mouth lifted. “He’s special.”
“He is.”
He watched you longer than he needed to. Watched the way you stood—still, centered, not threatening, but… present. You hadn’t even reached for your blaster. You rarely needed to. There was something in your stillness, the way your eyes read a room without speaking. Like you were listening to something deeper.
It clicked, somewhere deep in him.
You didn’t just move like a bounty hunter.
You moved like someone who used to be something else.
He didn’t say it out loud. But the realization landed like a quiet stone.
Jedi?
Or… not quite.
Something else.
But you didn’t offer the truth. And he didn’t ask.
Instead, you gestured to the empty seat. “Sit. Unless you're just here to stare at me again.”
He hesitated. Then sat.
The child climbed curiously onto the table, reaching toward your cup before Mando gently pulled him back. You laughed, light and unguarded.
For a few moments, you shared nothing but silence. Then, you leaned in just slightly.
“Nice to know the galaxy hasn’t worn you down yet,” you said. “Though I guess it takes a different kind of armor to raise someone like him.”
Mando studied you through the visor. Your face. Your voice. Your calm. He remembered your hands. The warmth of your breath near his neck. The way you never asked for his name, or his face—but still left a mark like you'd seen both.
And now… you were still here.
Still not aging.
Still untouched by the years and the weight of war.
“You’re not just passing through,” he said finally.
“No,” you admitted. “I think I was meant to cross your path again.”
And deep down, though he didn’t want to believe in fate or anything beyond survival, Mando felt it too.
Because the child was staring at you now—not with curiosity.
But recognition.
Mando hadn’t said a word in over a minute. Not since you joined him at the table. But the Child had. Not aloud—just with his eyes.
He hadn’t stopped watching you.
Not unlike a child watching a stranger. More like someone remembering.
You glanced his way again, offering a soft smile, and reached toward him—not touching, just allowing space. The Child blinked, then let out a low, pleased gurgle.
Mando stiffened slightly.
You noticed.
“It’s alright,” you murmured. “I’ve spent time with beings like him before.”
Mando tilted his head. “Beings?”
“Sensitive ones.”
He went still, and the air around the table changed. Not tense. Just heavy.
Your gaze flicked to the child, and your voice lowered. “I knew someone once who could move stars without lifting a hand. He was kind. Strange. Lost. This little one reminds me of him.”
“You were close?”
You looked at Mando carefully, that unreadable expression in your eyes again—the one he remembered from that night on the Crest.
“We were… aligned, for a time. He’s gone now.”
Mando didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t have to. The look in your eyes said it was the kind of loss that never fully left.
Before he could speak again, a voice called across the room—
“Mando!”
Greef Karga, flanked by Cara Dune, gestured from the doorway.
Mando stood, but paused before turning. “You coming?”
You blinked. “That an invitation?”
He hesitated. Then, “It’s not not one.”
You scoffed, but stood anyway, brushing past him as you picked up your gear. “Lead the way, Mandalorian.”
The husk of what used to be an Imperial facility loomed like a wound in the rock. You moved with the others—Cara on point, Mando at the flank, Greef handling the rear. But every few steps, the Child peeked out from the satchel on Mando’s chest to look at you.
Watch you.
Feel you.
And you let him.
There was something in you he recognized—not the same power he had, but a cousin to it. Yours was quieter, older. Like stone weathered smooth by centuries of wind.
When the stormtroopers came—panicked, outnumbered—you moved through them with lethal grace. Blaster low, blade hidden in your boot, you struck with an ease that made Greef pause mid-shot just to stare.
“She always move like that?” he muttered.
Mando grunted. “Yeah.”
But he was staring too.
Not just at how you fought—but how you knew when to fight. You didn’t waste a shot. You didn’t lose your breath. And when the last trooper fell, you were already turning to the Child—who stared at you with wide eyes, as if seeing something that had always been there.
You crouched near the child. “You feel it, don’t you?”
The child reached toward you.
Mando stepped closer. “He doesn’t do that often.”
You met Mando’s gaze, voice quiet. “He knows I’ve walked close to the Force. I’m not one of them—not Jedi—but I’ve touched it. Been touched by it.”
Mando said nothing. But inside, he felt the old weight of questions. Things he’d trained himself not to wonder.
And now you were back. Still unaged. Still silent. And carrying something ancient beneath your skin.
Not Jedi.
Not Sith.
Something else.
•
The stars outside the viewport bled into lines as the Crest jumped into hyperspace, its battered frame groaning gently with the shift. You sat in one of the co-pilot seats, eyes on the blue swirl beyond the glass, but your thoughts weren’t out there.
They were behind you—in the hull of the ship, where you could hear soft, shuffling feet, and Mando’s low voice speaking to the child in that quiet way he thought no one noticed.
It hadn’t been a request, not at first.
You’d caught up to him near the hangar bay, dust still clinging to your shoulders, and without turning to you, he said, “You should come.”
No explanation. No pretense.
Just: You should come.
You hadn’t needed to ask why.
And now, as the door to the sleeping chamber slid shut and his footsteps echoed back into the main cabin, your pulse ticked faster against your throat.
You didn’t look at him when he returned—but you felt him. Every step, every breath. The quiet weight of his gaze on the side of your face.
He sat across from you, in the bench bolted to the wall. The helmet was still on. Of course it was. You didn’t expect anything else.
“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure you’d ask.”
The hum of the hyperdrive filled the silence between words. Not uncomfortable—just familiar.
You finally turned to look at him. “You were different, today. With the child. You care for him?”
“I do,” he said quietly. “More than I expected to.”
“Is that why you trust me now?”
He didn’t answer at first. But you watched his shoulders shift under the armor, slow and tense.
“I never stopped thinking about that night,” he said. “Even when I told myself I should.”
You smiled faintly. “I didn’t expect to see you again. Thought maybe it was just… a moment. A passing star.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It didn’t feel like a moment.”
Your eyes met the blank visor—and still, somehow, it felt like looking directly into him.
“Do you ever wonder,” you said softly, “if the people who find you, the ones who get closest… are the ones who see past the armor? Even if they never see your face?”
He went still again. A silence more vulnerable than words.
“I remember your breath,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “The way your hands shook for a second. Like you weren’t used to being wanted without demand.”
You leaned back in the chair, eyes half-lidded.
“There was something holy in that,” you murmured. “To want, without asking for more than someone can give.”
He was quiet for so long, you almost closed your eyes.
Then—his voice, low and hoarse.
“I remember how you kissed my throat. Like it meant something.”
“It did.”
The quiet swelled again, a pressure neither of you released.
You glanced back, and the Child’s soft snores drifted in from the back. A presence warm and fragile. Like hope made small and sleeping.
You spoke again—quieter now, with a tired edge to your voice.
“You don’t know what you’ve brought into your life, Mando.”
He watched you. “You mean the kid?”
You hesitated.
“No,” you said. “Me.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just tilted his head the slightest bit, as if trying to read the face behind your words.
“I don’t know what you are,” he admitted. “But I don’t think you do either.”
That stung more than it should have. Mostly because it was true.
You’d carried the weight of your survival for so long that the shape of it had begun to blur. You weren’t Jedi. You weren’t Sith.
But what were you?
The Force had marked you. Twisted something in your bones. Preserved your breath when the rest of your kind had turned to dust.
And now it was pulling again. Toward a child. A Mandalorian. A path you hadn’t meant to follow.
“Why did you ask me to stay?” you asked suddenly.
He didn’t answer right away.
You turned to face him fully. “Is it because of what I can do? Because I’m useful? Or is it something else?”
Din didn’t shift. But there was something in the air between you—dense, unspoken.
“You were already staying,” he said finally. “I just gave you permission to admit it.”
That silenced you.
Not because he was right. But because you didn’t know if he was.
Outside, hyperspace swirled on endlessly. But inside, the silence thickened. You didn’t move. Neither did he. The distance between you felt both endless and razor-thin.
You turned back to the stars, jaw tense.
“You should sleep,” you murmured.
“So should you,” he said.
But neither of you moved.
And neither of you would—for a long, long time.
he ground was ash beneath your boots. Blackened bark cracked under every step. Mando walked ahead, the Child nestled in the sling at his chest, but you kept to his flank—silent, alert, and oddly aware of how the air had shifted the moment you landed on this world.
You felt her before you saw her.
Not the way most would. Not in sound or heat or shadow. But through the strange weight that pressed behind your ribs, coiling tight like a string drawn too far.
She felt you too.
Ahsoka’s approach was fast and precise. And the moment she leapt from the trees, igniting her twin sabers in that silent-white glow, you already knew the strike wasn’t for Mando.
It was for you.
You moved fast, drawing no weapon, only stepping into her line with an arm raised. “Stop—”
White light halted inches from your shoulder. Mando didn’t breathe. The Child let out a small, startled coo.
Ahsoka narrowed her eyes, staring at you with an intensity that felt ancient. Her voice, when it came, was not surprised. Not truly.
“You.”
You met her gaze. “Ahsoka Tano.”
“I felt you before I saw you.”
“And now that you’ve seen me?”
“I still don’t know what you are.”
Her sabers didn’t lower.
Mando stepped slightly between you, tense. “Theyre with me.”
“They’re not Jedi,” Ahsoka said flatly, ignoring him. “But she’s something.”
You gave her a faint, tired smile. “I’ve heard that before.”
She circled slowly, eyes never leaving you. “I knew someone like you. A long time ago. A being who touched the Force, but didn’t follow it. Not Jedi. Not Sith. Something in between. He burned alive trying to find meaning in it.”
You didn’t flinch. “And yet here I stand.”
“Why?” she asked.
Mando looked at you, too—but his gaze was softer. Quieter. He’d been wondering the same thing since Nevarro, but hadn’t spoken it aloud.
You looked down at the Child, who was staring between the two of you, wide-eyed and still. His little fingers curled around Mando’s tunic.
And then, softly, you answered.
“Because something wanted me to stay.”
Ahsoka exhaled slowly, sabers deactivating with a hiss. “That’s not always a kindness.”
“I never said it was.”
A long silence fell between you, layered with things unspoken—lives lost, orders fallen, choices made in grief and fury.
The Child’s ears twitched.
Then Ahsoka stepped back, finally turning to Mando.
“You’re here for the child.”
He nodded.
Her voice lost none of its edge. “Then come. All of you.”
You followed them deeper into the forest, but Ahsoka kept her distance from you. Even as she sat across from Mando, even as she gently opened her mind to him, you felt the flickers of her attention drifting—back to you.
To what you were.
To what you still might become.
And when night fell and the Child, now known as Grogu slept in Mando’s arms by the fire, Ahsoka finally came to sit beside you at the edge of camp.
She didn’t look at you when she spoke.
“There’s still a chance to turn away.”
You glanced sideways. “From what?”
“From becoming something even you won’t recognize.”
You let the firelight dance across your fingers before replying.
“I already don’t recognize myself.”
Ahsoka didn’t speak again.
But she stayed.
Because like you, she’d known what it was to be made of fragments. To walk through fire and still not burn.
To be chosen by something that never asked if you wanted to survive.
•
Grogu was asleep again. Mando had carried him off into the Razor Crest to rest, pausing only to glance back once—at you, at Ahsoka, at the strange distance between you.
You sat with your back to a scorched tree, fingers absently tracing patterns into the dirt beside your boot. The fire crackled low. Orange light danced across your features, softening the edges of the exhaustion you wore like a second skin.
Ahsoka didn’t speak for a long while. She sat across from you, eyes half-closed, hands resting in her lap like a statue carved by silence.
“I wasn’t sure it was you,” she said at last.
You lifted your gaze. “You thought I was someone else.”
“No,” she said, slow and sure. “I knew you weren’t him. But you reminded me. The same… stillness. The same ache beneath the surface.”
You leaned back against the bark. “Who?”
She hesitated.
Then: “Quinlan Vos.”
You stilled.
The name rippled through the space between you, carried like smoke—familiar, dangerous, mourned.
“He wasn’t like me,” you said.
“No. But he stood where you’re standing. On the edge of the Force. Close enough to wield it. Far enough to be consumed by it.”
There was something unreadable in her tone. Not accusation. Not quite sorrow, either. Something more… unfinished.
You breathed in slowly. “I heard he died.”
Ahsoka’s eyes flicked toward you. “So did I.”
The silence was heavier now.
“You said he burned alive,” you murmured.
“He did,” she said. “But not in fire. In grief. In the fracture between what he was and what the galaxy made him become.”
You looked away. That hit too close.
“He trusted too much,” she added.
“And I don’t trust enough,” you replied.
“Maybe,” she said, almost gently. “Or maybe you’re just afraid to.”
You felt the pull in your chest again. That ache that never left.
“I don’t age because I don’t live the way others do, my people on my planet, they lived immortal until they chose to settle—” you whispered. “I exist. I survive. But I don’t move forward. I don’t let myself. Not really.”
Ahsoka nodded slowly, watching the flames. “That’s what I saw in you. Not darkness. Not power. Just… drift. Like a being suspended between now and then.”
You laughed under your breath, dry and low. “And yet he asked me to stay.”
“The Mandalorian?”
You nodded.
Ahsoka tilted her head slightly. “He doesn’t ask easily.”
“No,” you said. “He doesn’t.”
A longer pause.
“I’m not what Grogu needs,” she said after a while. “But maybe you are.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I can’t train him. Not without risking the path Anakin walked.”
You winced at the name, but didn’t speak.
“But you…” Ahsoka trailed off, watching you carefully. “You walk a line so thin it disappears beneath your feet. And still you’re here. Still trying.”
Your mouth felt dry.
“I can’t guide him,” you said. “I don’t even know where I’m going.”
She looked at you, steady.
“Then maybe,” she said, “you’re exactly the one who should walk beside him.”
The silence in the chamber was unreal. Not peace. Not stillness. Just absence.
Grogu was gone.
You could still feel his presence clinging to the air like warmth after fire, but he was no longer in Din’s arms. No longer his to protect. No longer yours to tether you to the path you hadn’t known you were walking until it ended here.
Din hadn’t moved for a long time after Luke Skywalker carried the child away. He just stood there, hands at his sides, his breathing loud inside the helmet. Like he’d forgotten how to exist without someone to carry.
It was just the two of you now, beneath the humming wreckage of a war that had cost more than either of you were ready to count.
You stared at him—not with judgment. Not even pity.
Just…understanding.
“You let him go,” you said softly.
Din didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“I thought I was the one who couldn’t,” you added. “Turns out… you’re braver than I am.”
He stood completely upright.
You froze. Not out of fear—but reverence. He had only done it for Grogu, that’s what you told yourself. You’d never ask. Never take that from him:
He’d revealed himself to Grogu, but with his back to you, all you could see was the dark curls that hung loosely. Unkempt. But when he turned to face you, you could finally see.
Because there he was.
Eyes rimmed with red. Skin marked by hours under steel. A face that looked too human for the armor he wore. Vulnerable. Raw. Quiet.
You’d imagined it, once. Wondered. Dreamed.
But nothing had prepared you for the weight of it.
He looked at you the way a man looks when there’s nothing left to hide.
And you didn’t look away. Because in that moment, you felt that time clock in you start. Felt your soul snap into place and you knew, Din Dijarin, helmet or not—was always meant to be your ending.
Your voice cracked as you whispered, “Now I know your face.”
He swallowed, jaw clenched. “I wanted you to.”
The honesty in it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
You took a step forward, slow. Careful. Like you were walking toward something sacred.
“I’m not who you think I am,” you said.
“I don’t care.”
You blinked. “You should.”
He reached out, fingers barely brushing yours. “I don’t.”
And that was the moment.
Not the helmet. Not the look. Not even the touch.
But the knowing.
Two people who didn’t belong anywhere, finally seeing something in each other that did.
He didn’t kiss you.
You didn’t ask him to.
You just stood there, eye to eye—two survivors, stripped down to nothing but truth and quiet and the ache of goodbye still echoing in both your bones.
hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol
can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !
I hope your day goes well <3
Until Dawn
Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader
The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.
The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.
Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.
You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.
“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”
“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.
“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”
You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”
The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”
“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”
You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.
“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”
You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."
A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”
He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”
And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.
As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight
You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.
When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.
“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”
They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”
A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.
You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.
“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.
You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”
“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.
Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.
“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”
You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.
“Don’t.”
His grin faded instantly.
“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”
Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.
“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.
“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”
A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.
Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”
You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.
“I know,” you said at last.
He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.
And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.
You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.
The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.
But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.
Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.
“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.
You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”
He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”
You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.
“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”
Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.
Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”
You paused again. Set the mug down.
“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”
“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.
You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”
Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.
“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”
That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”
“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”
A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.
Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”
You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.
“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”
“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.
You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”
And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.
“It always does.”
The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.
But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.
The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.
Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.
“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.
You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”
He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”
You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.
“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”
You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”
“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”
“I didn’t know who you were.”
“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”
You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”
You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.
“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”
Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”
“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”
A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.
“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”
“I know.”
“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”
Silence wrapped the room again.
“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”
You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.
“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”
He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”
You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.
In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.
The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.
You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.
But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.
The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.
There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.
“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”
You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”
He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.
The warmth twisted.
Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.
Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.
“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”
You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.
You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.
Only silence answered you.
You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.
The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.
And yet...
There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.
And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.
The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.
You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.
As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:
“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”
You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.
Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.
The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.
Literally.
The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."
When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.
Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”
You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”
Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”
“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.
He was already watching you.
There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.
“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.
Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”
You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”
Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”
“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.
That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.
As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.
“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.
You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”
He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”
You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.
“Try to keep up, princeling.”
You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.
But this time, you didn’t face it alone.
The quiet had ended.
The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.
Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.
They were tombs.
Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.
Gimli had fallen silent long ago.
You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.
But none came.
And then you reached the Chamber of Records.
The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.
Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.
He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”
You froze.
Balin.
Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.
Your throat closed.
“He was the best of us,” you murmured.
Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”
You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.
“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”
Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.
“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”
He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”
You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.
“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”
A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.
“Thank you,” he said.
You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”
Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.
The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.
They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.
You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.
“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.
The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.
The drums of war pounded.
Dum. Dum. DUM.
You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.
And then came the heat.
A low rumble.
A deeper shadow.
The Balrog.
It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.
He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.
“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”
You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.
But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.
“Go,” he said. “Now.”
You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.
And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.
“You shall not pass!”
The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.
Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.
You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.
Resolve.
“Fly, you fools—!”
And then he was gone.
Silence fell.
And it screamed.
You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.
The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.
You stood apart from them.
Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”
“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.
He paused, his expression faltering.
You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.
“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”
Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.
“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”
He didn’t speak.
You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.
Balin, laughing over a campfire.
“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”
His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.
Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.
“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”
You had believed him then.
But now… now the fire only took.
You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.
Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.
The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.
The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.
The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.
Muted.
You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.
Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.
You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.
“Haldir,” you breathed.
The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.
“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”
You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.
“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.
“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”
There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.
With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.
Legolas watched from a few paces away.
He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.
You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.
Later, as you stood beneath the trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.
“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.
“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”
Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”
You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”
There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.
“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”
“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”
You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.
“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”
He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.
You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”
And you left him there, beneath a barren tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.
•••
The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.
The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.
Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.
“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.
“No,” you replied simply.
“You’re meant to be with the others—”
“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”
“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”
“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”
He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.
“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”
You looked away, breath catching.
“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”
That gave you pause.
The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.
“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.
He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”
You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”
He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.
As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.
Still standing.
Still his.
The night deepened. The sky wept.
Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.
You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.
Then came the horns.
Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.
Hope.
The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.
Elves.
And at their head—Haldir.
You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.
He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.
You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.
“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”
“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”
A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.
He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.
Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.
He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”
You nodded. “There always is.”
“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”
You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”
Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”
Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.
He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.
Not because Haldir had it.
Because he used to.
The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.
And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.
The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.
But not before Legolas promised himself: Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.
The sun rose, but it did not warm you.
The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.
You stood where Haldir had fallen.
His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.
He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.
And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.
You hadn’t spoken since.
You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.
“You should rest.”
You didn’t move.
He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”
Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”
A beat of silence.
“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”
“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You should have let me go!”
Legolas flinched as if struck.
“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”
“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.
You froze.
He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.
“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something break in you.”
He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”
The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.
“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli and Thorin. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”
Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.
“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”
You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.
“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”
You let out a shuddering breath.
And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.
There were no promises. No healing words.
But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.
The final battle was chaos.
Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.
You had lost sight of Legolas.
Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.
You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.
Legolas.
He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.
A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.
You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered wall of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.
There was silence.
Then—
“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.
“Don’t say that,” you breathed.
Your hands were braced on his chest, blood—thankfully—was not his. But the fear was.
You were shaking.
“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”
“But I didn’t.”
You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”
His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”
Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.
“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”
You closed your eyes.
You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.
For once, it was not about loss.
It was about not letting go.
The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.
Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.
You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.
For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.
Just stillness.
And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.
You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.
And then he found you.
Legolas.
He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like himself.
“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.
“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.
You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.
“It’s over,” he said. “And we’re still standing.”
You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”
You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.
“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.
Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”
“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”
His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.
“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”
“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.
You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”
“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you with m.”
You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.
How about Kotetsu x Gender Neutral! Reader where he told them he still wishes that people acknowledge his efforts, even though saving people is still his first priority. They reassure him that he will always be their hero as they seen how hard he tries & they never want him to stop doing what's right! They admire him & told him that he inspired them to be a hero like Mr Legend to him. They also bought his hero cards with his original & current designs too. Is this ok?
My Hero
Kotetsu X GN!Reader
Warnings: violence, blood, almost dying, some language. An 'age gap', y/n is in their 20s vs Kotetsu is 38.
Ngl this request completely kickstarted my urge to get into writing again, after a hiatus that lasted months. So it may have gotten a little more detailed than the original request(and by detailed I mean that I got super carried away like 7K words carried away), but I hope you like it!
Kotetsu T. Kaburagi had always been good at saving people. It came with the job—and the powers—but it wasn’t until he met you that he realized how powerless he could feel outside of a fight.
You were fast. Not just in speed, but in everything—thought, speech, the way you moved like the world never quite caught up. A NEXT with the alter ego Shockwave, although he knew you by Y/N. You are in your twenties with a kinetic energy that made people stop and stare, even when you weren’t glowing. Kotetsu was well past that kind of attention, these days. His joints ached more often than he’d admit, and he had to squint at his phone sometimes to read the messages without his glasses.
He felt the years between you like a physical thing, especially when you smiled at him. Not polite. Not hero-to-hero. Just... warm.
Too warm.
“I don’t get it,” he muttered, sitting with a half-empty can of coffee on the edge of the training deck.
Barnaby glanced over. “You don’t get a lot of things.”
Kotetsu sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “How do you even tell if someone’s just being nice, or if they—y’know—like you?”
“You could try asking.”
He scoffed. “Right. ‘Hey, I know I’m like ten years older and might’ve pulled my back last week, but are you flirting with me?’ That won’t get me slapped at all.”
Barnaby raised a brow. “You like them.”
“Of course I like them. They’re smart and brave and... and they believe in making the right choice.” Kotetsu paused, voice dropping. “I just don’t know what I’d look like beside them. Like some washed-up has-been hero?”
“More like a reliable partner,” Barnaby said. “But that’s your call.”
You found Kotetsu alone later, half-bent over a vending machine like he was losing a war with it.
“Need a hand?” you offered, already pulling your glove off to short-circuit the stuck machine with a controlled spark.
The can thudded free.
Kotetsu blinked. “You’re scary good at that.”
“I’m good at a lot of things,” you said with a grin that made his brain short-circuit a little. “But you’re not bad yourself, old man.”
He laughed, but the phrase caught—old man—and his smile faltered.
You noticed. “Hey. I was kidding. That didn’t bug you, did it?”
“A little,” he admitted. “Not because of the words. Just… I know there’s an age gap. And I don’t wanna misread anything. Or make you uncomfortable.”
Your expression softened.
“Kotetsu,” you said gently, stepping closer. “You’re one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met. You never pretend, even when it’d be easier. That matters more to me than any number.”
He blinked. “So you...?”
You nudged the can into his hand. “I like you, idiot.”
His power flared for exactly one second—just enough to trip over his own feet in shock.
You caught him before he hit the ground. “Still a hero,” you teased.
Breathless and red-faced, he looked up at you and smiled like a man who just realized maybe he could still catch up.
Even if it took a second or two longer.
You often felt like there was extensive uncertainty in that department, but things came to a swift beginning—he was your friend, best friend in the league.
He gave you advice and often spent hours together, and when your feelings became real. It left you at an impasse. You’d never ask though.
Not when it meant that he might not feel the same. It wasn't just light banter or some flirting, you saw him and knew. Almost instantly. That he was it.
He was the one.
You were training, lifting heavy and hoping your body didn’t collapse under the weight. As the distance became longer, the weights and time became heavier. The bar presses down on your shoulders, back straight as you bend into a squat—a stream of sweat beads down your cheek and your teeth clench together.
A rush of exhaustion hits fast and your eyes widen, only the weight doesn’t come instead it lifts off your shoulders entirely. Clicking back into place, you lean over onto yourself—exhaling heavily and then standing upright.
“What’s up Kotetsu?” His arms have crossed over his chest, compared to some he is average stature, but to you— he feels massive. Your eyes trailing up to look at him, a knot forming in your stomach and in your throat.
“We gotta talk?” Your teeth bite the inside of your cheek, eyes drifting down to the ground.
“About???” You drag the word, wiping the sweat and hoping that it’d be about training.
“Where’d ya go, kid?” Your lip twitches at the stupid nickname, that ball of nerves in your throat is threatening to choke you. He leans his back onto the machine, arms still crossed as you shrug.
“I’ve been here the whole time…” You pause, “training…” But you know that’s the not the answer he is looking for, not even close. A loud sigh leaves your lips.
“See that, I can tell somethings up. But you’re just gone…” You too feel the miles of distance, it felt like it happened overnight, but still when you find it in yourself to look up at Kotetsu. Your thoughts stumble.
“I’m right here.” You assert, of course you know that’s not the truth—that you are trying to put miles and miles of distance to protect yourself. Afraid. Kotetsu already had his one true love, and you would never try be anything close to that. Hell, he even has a daughter. The age difference is there, something that seems to even bother him. But if you're honest with yourself, you just don’t know if you could say it outloud.
“You’re not though. I look forward to our Thursday night outs and every other day, movie night. I love that you always burn the popcorn. But it’s always changing, here and there. I know I’m no—” He runs a hand through his hair, making a funny face. "It's hard to read when it keeps changing."
“Look, I’m no good at this, I haven’t even thought about it before now. But you can’t just stop, because I don’t want you to stop. To ya know—” His words seem to be falling off his tongue, and you can hardly stop your head from spinning. Is your heart supposed to be in your throat? Choking you? Drowning out every other noise, except for your heartbeat?
“Kotetsu…” His name coming out of your mouth silences him, he goes completely still and slumps onto himself. “You’re rambling.” You half smile, partially genuine and partially forced—god, he means the world to you and he doesn’t even know it.
“I know. I know, but I just don’t know how to explain it. I like knowing you’ll be there every night, and most of those nights, all I want is to hold you.” You had wanted to hear those words before, pleaded with the fates to give you the chance to hear them. You had completely given up hope of ever hearing them, settling in with the thought you’d only ever be his friend. It’s almost too good to be true.
“Prove it, Kotetsu.” You swallow, turning so that you’re facing him, eyes upcast to meet his. Warm and brown, and full of life. “Because I’ve spent a long time trying not to cross any lines, terrified I’d do the wrong thing and you’d be gone." You whisper that last bit, you wish you could scream, but a whisper will do.
Turns out, kissing Kotetsu was almost as good as cuddling up to watch a movie, or show. It was quiet and calm, needy, but too much.
It was warm, and all those good feelings people talk about—and it was right.
You didn’t mean to fall for him.
Honestly, you thought it would just be admiration. Respect, even. Kotetsu was a legend, after all—one of the few heroes who never let the spotlight change him. Rough around the edges, sure. Loud, disorganized, sometimes a walking disaster. But he cared. He saw people. He saw you.
Even when you were still getting your footing in the hero world, he never treated you like a kid. He'd wait when you were figuring something out, even if it meant getting singed a little in the crossfire. He listened. He laughed at your bad jokes. He believed in you when you weren’t sure if you deserved it.
So maybe falling wasn’t the surprise.
Maybe the surprise was how hard it hit you.
You knew he felt the age thing. You could see it in the way he’d hesitate after a compliment, or change the subject when someone mentioned “the old days.” Like he thought he had to be the past, and you were the future.
That brings you to where you are now, beside him on the edge of the rooftop, the city below scattered in golds and soft blues. He was fiddling with the tab on his can, trying too hard not to look nervous.
“So,” you said, letting your knee brush his. “You gonna tell me what you were actually thinking back at the vending machine?”
Kotetsu scratched his cheek. “That obvious, huh?”
You nodded. “You get this scrunched-up look when you're trying not to talk.”
He huffed a laugh. “Can’t hide anything from you, huh?”
“You’re not that sneaky.”
A beat of quiet.
“I was thinking I didn’t expect you to like someone like me,” he said, voice low. “Not just the age thing. I’ve got a kid. I’ve got baggage. I’m not exactly... a shiny new hero.”
Your chest tightened.
You turned to him fully. “I don’t want shiny. I want real.”
He looked up at you, surprise flickering behind his eyes.
“I want someone who fights even when it’s hard. Who looks out for everyone else before himself. Someone who’s got a big, dumb heart and laughs too loud and makes terrible coffee.
He blinked. “My coffee’s not that bad.”
You leaned in, resting your head lightly on his shoulder. “It is. But I’d still drink it every morning if it meant being with you.”
Kotetsu went still. You could feel the tension humming off him like electricity.
Then, slowly—like the moment needed to breathe—he let his head rest gently against yours.
“You’re gonna break my heart, y’know that?” he whispered.
You smiled. “Only if you run from me.”
He didn’t run.
Didn’t even flinch.
Instead, his hand found yours—calloused, warm, a little unsure.
And he held on.
Sternbild had seen the fair share of heroes and all of them seemed above reprise. It felt as though there should be no crime or violence, a picturesque city of cooperation. Yet whether there are heroes, there is always crime.
When you first came to Sternbild, you felt like the whole world was against you in the big city. No one really gave you a handbook on how to be a big-time hero.
Sure, your training took you far, but not nearly far enough for it to matter and a violent fight a lot of people and most of the sponsors thought you were powerful, but not enough to be assigned into the big leagues.
When it all came down to it, you stood out enough— got quite a few high profile saves and Hero TV couldn’t sign you faster. That’s also when Kotetsu first noticed you…he couldn’t explain the connection or interest, it made no sense.
Kotetsu thought for a very long time that he was content, that he had everything he wanted in life and more. At all hours, Kotetsu was in awe of you and everything that you had accomplished—so much so that he couldn’t even put it into words.
There’s a shift on the couch as Kotetsu shifts himself closer, his arm wrapping around the top of your shoulder. The TV playing in the back ground, but you can tell something is wrong with him. Although you’re not able to see into his mind, but he has not spoken a word—leaving you in the dark.
You were looking for the right moment to ask him about it, but when he’s quiet like this, your mind begins to wander. When he’d go quiet, it’s been half the night worried terrified of losing him to whatever you might have done. Then other times you would go down the rabbit hole of thinking that you’re no more than a distraction—you know Kotetsu has already had his one true, but Kotetsu is that to you.
He was the one that made the world go round.
You lean onto his shoulder, the sensation of his palm is warm on your bicep. His fingers flex to grass you a little tighter and a heavy sigh escapes your lips.
“What’s going on?” Your eyes go wide and you glance over, only able to manage that much for a few moments.
“Nothing.”
“Cmon, I know there’s—” You interrupt him, spitting the words out as quickly as you can manage.
“I’m just worried about you…” Kotetsu’s eyes seem to shift, his attention moving completely to you—the tv off in a few seconds. “You just seem so—I don’t know. Withdrawn.” Your concern is real, even from his word he seemed withdrawn and it left you feeling more insecure. “Sometimes I worry you think I can’t handle the truth.”
That seems to trigger something because Kotetsu shifts until you were facing each other his palms warm resting on your waist, and you are all too aware of the sensation of how close. The way he circles your skin with his thumb, even through the shirt he is comforting.
“No.” He drags the word, “No. Nothing like that at all—I just…” He sighs, “I didn’t realize you thought…” It’s as if he is talking to himself, but you remain close to him and observant. Watching the way he exists in front of you, seemed to be so present in this conversation.
Kotetsu was always difficult to read, so good at putting on a performance. So it made it hard to know the truth. “I’m not really a hero anymore.” His admission is shocking you expected it to be the pressure or anything else. “You’re even outselling me on cards in your first six months than I have in five years, even in our duo pack… People are only buying it for you…” You place your hand on his arms, keeping yourself attentive to his expressions. “People come to our panels to see you.”
Your own thumb runs along his arms, trying to imagine a more peaceful moments. You sigh: “Now it’s a good card…” Your eyes can see the way he gains light, his expression softening at what you imagine is your card illustration. There’s a flush of pink under his cheeks: “A great card even.” He adds a little laugh out, but there is a great deal of sadness in that laugh too. “But all I wanted to be was a hero, to mean something to someone.”
You smile up at him softly, reaching up to trace the stubble of his chin with your thumb. “You’re my hero.”
His eyes soften as he draws you closer, “I know. I know, but that’s what you’re supposed to say.”
You hush him with your eyes, a look that silences him. “No. I really mean it. You inspired me in so many different ways.” You feel the breath hitch in his chest, smiling at him. “Even before I came to Sternbild. But when I got here, I collected every one of your cards, you were always so strong. So good.” You smile up at him, trying to share your joy and warmth with him.
You rest your hand over his heart with a smile, recalling every card you ever found. “You’re a good hero. A great hero.” Mocking how he spoke about your card, “You’re my hero.”
Kotetsu smiles, finally finding it in himself to breathe again. Leaning his head forward until your foreheads touch, his hands wrapping themselves around yours—bringing you close. “That's probably the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me.”
You shut your eyes, smiling lightly at the confession. That’s the thing about Kotetsu, he always does the right thing. No matter what.
Kotetsu had faced mad men, killer robots, even his own mortality.
But nothing made his palms sweat like this.
He sat across from Kaede at their favorite little soba place, a quiet corner booth by the window. She was home from school for the weekend, already halfway through her bowl and telling him about some new internship like it was no big deal.
She was growing up too fast. Smarter than him. Stronger, probably. And somehow still patient enough to humor her mess of a dad.
He should just say it.
But every time he opened his mouth, it felt like a noodle was stuck in his throat.
“So,” Kaede said, finally eyeing him with suspicion. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you fidget like you’re hiding something. Spill it.”
Kotetsu rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. Jeez. Can’t put anything past you.”
Kaede grinned. “Nope.”
He took a breath. “So, uh... I’ve been seeing someone.”
Her chopsticks froze mid-air.
“You what?”
“Not—like—not a lot yet. It’s new,” he stammered. “But it’s serious. Or, I think it could be. I just didn’t wanna drop it on you out of nowhere.”
Kaede blinked, then set her bowl down. “Wait. Like dating? You’re dating someone?”
He nodded.
She stared.
Then leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Who is it?”
He hesitated.
“…You know Shockwave, right?”
Her jaw dropped.
“You’re dating Shockwave?” she repeated, voice climbing.
Kotetsu flinched. “Is that—okay? I mean, I know they’re a bit younger and all, but—”
“Dad,” Kaede interrupted, wide-eyed. “That’s not why I’m freaking out.”
“…It’s not?”
She shook her head, slowly breaking into a smile.
“I love Shockwave! They’re so cool! Oh my god, does this mean I’m going to have to start pretending not to know when they’re flirting with you in the kitchen?”
Kotetsu groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Kaede—”
She was laughing now, full and bright.
“I’m happy for you, really,” she said, more softly this time. “You deserve someone who makes you feel seen. And safe. And a little less like a disaster.”
He peeked at her through his fingers. “Thanks, kiddo.”
Kaede reached across the table and squeezed his wrist. “You think you’re old and rusty, but you’re still you. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”
His heart cracked a little at that—right down the middle in the best possible way.
“…So you’re okay with it?” he asked, still a little breathless.
Kaede grinned. “Only if I get to tease you both endlessly.”
“Deal.”
The alert came through during dinner.
Kaede had insisted on staying over—partly to keep the mood light after the conversation the night before, and partly to help her dad reorganize the disaster that was his living room.
They’d just finished teasing each other over burnt gyoza when the HeroTV emergency broadcast lit up Kotetsu’s phone.
A rogue NEXT. Downtown. Civilian casualties reported.
Your name listed on the active response team.
Kotetsu felt his stomach clench.
The news station cut to aerial footage before HeroTV could sanitize it. The city skyline blurred behind you as you chased the NEXT across the rooftop grid—blindingly fast, like lightning barely tethered to a human form.
You were holding your own.
Until you weren’t.
Kotetsu watched it happen in one gut-wrenching second.
The enemy pulled a fake-out—redirected a collapsing beam mid-air with their telekinesis, fast enough that you didn’t see it coming. The metal crashed down across your back, and the feed flickered with static and screams.
Your body hit the rooftop.
Hard.
“Kae—Kaede, give me the remote!” Kotetsu’s voice cracked as he fumbled to turn up the volume. “Where’s their vitals? Where the hell’s the status—?!”
Kaede’s eyes were wide, frozen to the screen. “Oh my god. Dad—”
Kotetsu’s hands were already trembling. “Why weren’t they with backup? Where’s the rest of the team—?!”
A second camera cut in, shakier—closer. You were down, unmoving, but alive. The rubble around you glowed faintly from your residual energy, flickering like a dying ember. Blood stained the side of your uniform. Too much blood.
And still, you tried to get up.
Kotetsu stood so fast he knocked his chair over. “I have to go. I have to—”
Kaede grabbed his arm.
He stopped. Looked down at her.
“You can’t,” she whispered. “You’re not cleared. You’ll just slow them down. You know that.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to tear through the screen and grab you and carry you somewhere safe.
But he couldn’t.
He could only watch.
His heart split in two.
“Please,” he whispered—to no one, to whatever gods might still be listening. “Please, don’t take them from me.”
Kaede leaned against him, quietly, her hand still on his sleeve.
Neither of them said anything for a long time.
It was Kaede who looked up at him after a few minutes, "You gotta go to them." Her voice seems to not reach him, as she tugs at his sleeve. "Go to them." She says it with more force.
Kotetsu meets his daughter's eye, before nodding. Not needing another word or explanation as he stormed towards the door, out of the tower and through the streets.
Even when his ability failed.
Even when no one moved, and he had to push through as he ran.
Kotetsu never stopped.
He arrived just as the medics did, colliding roughly with the barrier as he slipped on his mask and hopped the barricade.
Nothing mattered, other than you. Not even the numerous camera clicks, the live footage of him breaking rank and rushing to your side.
You were unconscious. Hands slick with blood, but you were alive and that's all that counted as the medics finally made it through.
•
•
Beeping.
Distant, rhythmic, too slow to be yours.
You cracked your eyes open to sterile white light and the low hum of machines. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, but the tightness in your chest and the searing ache in your side were not.
You remembered the fight. The beam. The blood.
And his name in your throat as everything went dark.
“Back with us?” a nurse asked gently, glancing up from her chart. “Don’t try to move too fast. You’ve got three broken ribs and a punctured lung. Could’ve been worse.”
Could’ve been worse—but it wasn’t good. You weren’t wired to sit still. The idea of lying here while people were still out there, still getting hurt.
No.
You shifted, trying to sit up.
Pain lanced through your torso. You hissed, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Stop that,” the nurse warned. “You’re stable, not invincible.”
“Have to move,” you gritted out. “I need to—”
“You need to stay in bed.”
You ignored her.
She moved to gently restrain you, but you shoved her hand away—weak, but stubborn. “I’m not—I'm not broken. I just need to breathe—”
“Y/N, stop.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Your breath hitched.
Kotetsu.
He looked like hell. His jacket was half off, tie undone, eyes dark with worry and exhaustion. There was dried blood on the edge of his sleeve—your blood, maybe—and his jaw clenched when he saw you halfway out of the bed, pale and trembling and still trying to fight.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said again, stepping forward. Softer now, but firmer. “Not like this.”
You stared at him—chest tight, pain forgotten for a second. “I have to do something.”
“You did. You lived.”
You looked away, hands fisting in the sheets. “It’s not enough.”
Kotetsu crouched beside your bed, voice quiet but charged. “It is to me.”
That landed like a punch to the ribs—almost worse than the real ones.
You blinked fast. “I thought I was gonna die out there.”
“So did I,” he whispered. “And I couldn’t do a damn thing but watch.”
Silence.
The kind that makes the world feel too loud around it.
His hand found yours, warm and shaking. “You scared the hell out of me.”
You finally looked at him—and everything cracked.
The fear. The pressure. The guilt.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
He smiled faintly, painfully. “I want to see you any way, as long as it means I still get to see you.”
Your shoulders sagged, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.
He squeezed your hand gently. “Stay. Just for now. Let me be scared and hold your hand through it.”
You closed your eyes.
And, for the first time since you woke up, you stopped trying to leave.
You woke to the sound of his snoring.
Soft. Steady. Just loud enough to make your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the bruises.
Kotetsu was slumped in a visitor chair, head tilted back against the edge of your bed, one hand still wrapped around yours. His hat was gone. So were his glasses. His coat had been draped over you at some point—probably when the nurses weren’t looking.
He looked exhausted.
And he hadn’t let go.
You watched him in silence for a moment, heart full and heavy. You could feel the tremor in your chest start to rise again—less pain, more emotion. You almost didn’t notice the soft murmur of the television on the far wall.
It was a news report. HeroTV recap. Volume low, captions scrolling. A familiar drone of polished voices and commercial gloss.
“...unexpected collapse mid-chase left the young NEXT hospitalized after sustaining serious injuries…”
“...concern growing over lack of oversight—especially with veterans like Kotetsu T. Kaburagi breaking protocol to rush the scene…”
You blinked. Sat up slightly.
The anchor’s voice didn’t change. Calm. Detached. Clinical.
“While Kaburagi is no longer an active lead on many high-risk missions, his arrival at the scene sparked debate online—some calling it heroic, others asking why a man in his forties is romantically linked to someone over a decade younger…”
Your blood went cold.
“One user wrote, ‘Why is a washed-up hero playing white knight for their new intern?’ Another added, ‘He’s old enough to be their dad—this feels more sad than sweet.’”
You didn’t realize your grip on his hand had tightened until he stirred.
“Hm?” he mumbled, voice groggy. “Hey—hey, you’re awake…”
You looked at him, wide-eyed.
“Kotetsu,” you whispered. “They’re talking about us.”
He blinked. Sat up. Turned toward the TV.
The color drained from his face.
He reached for the remote. You stopped him.
“I heard it.”
He hesitated. “It’s just noise. People always talk.”
You shook your head. “They’re saying you’re pathetic. That you’re… clinging to something you shouldn’t have.”
His expression twisted—like he wanted to argue, to fight, but didn’t know how to swing without hitting something that wasn’t there.
“I don’t care what they think,” you added quickly. “But I care if you do.”
He looked at you—really looked at you—and something in his shoulders collapsed.
“I knew this would happen,” he said quietly. “I knew the second they saw us, they’d twist it. Make me into some desperate old man chasing something too good for him.”
Your breath caught. “You think I’m too good for you?”
“I think you deserve someone who doesn’t come with baggage and a reputation people can tear down in one headline.”
You let that sit in the air for a beat.
“Funny. I thought I deserved someone who shows up when I’m dying under a building and doesn’t let go.”
He looked stunned.
You sat up, still weak, but steady. “They can say whatever they want. But I know you. And I love you. All of you. Even the parts that flinch when people talk.”
His eyes glistened.
“I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “So unless you want to run…”
He shook his head before you could finish. “No. Never.”
You reached out, resting your palm against his cheek. “Then let them talk.”
The lights were too bright.
Kotetsu had done hundreds of press conferences before. After missions, after accidents, after funerals. But this one felt different—more like standing trial than giving answers.
He sat center panel, flanked by PR staff and a moderator, the HeroTV logo shining like an accusation behind him.
“Mr. Kaburagi,” one reporter began, not even bothering to smile. “Some are calling your decision to leave your post and rush to the scene impulsive—reckless, even. Do you consider your personal relationship with Shockwave a conflict of interest?”
Kotetsu exhaled slowly. “I responded to a priority call. I didn’t even know they were involved until I got the footage—”
“But you left the tower without clearance.”
“I’d do it again,” he said without missing a beat.
That caused a ripple through the crowd.
Another reporter jumped in. “Isn’t it irresponsible, though? You’re in your forties. A veteran hero. Shouldn’t you be setting an example, not chasing after someone half your age because you’re emotionally compromised?”
He flinched—just for a second. But they saw it.
“Would you have done the same for anyone else?” someone else called. “Or was it because you’re trying to relive your glory days through someone younger, faster—”
That’s when the back door of the conference room slammed open.
You.
Still in recovery gear. A bandage visible under the collar of your coat. Eyes blazing.
The room went dead silent.
You stormed up to the edge of the panel. “Say that again.”
The reporter blinked. “Excuse me—?”
“I said say that again. About him. Right to my face this time.”
PR staff started to rise from their seats. Someone whispered into a headset. But Kotetsu didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was frozen—half in awe, half in fear of what you were about to do.
You stepped in front of the panel, between him and the press.
“You want to ask about recklessness? Let’s talk about mine. I jumped headfirst into a fight with incomplete intel because I knew people were in danger. I would’ve bled out under that building if he hadn’t fought tooth and nail just to make sure I lived. He ran 10 blocks with no abilities, just to help a fellow hero."
Cameras clicked like gunfire.
“He didn’t show up because he was ‘emotionally compromised,’” you snapped. “He showed up because he’s a hero. One of the only ones left who gives a damn about more than ratings and contracts.”
Murmurs spread. You didn’t stop.
“You want to question the age gap? Fine. Go ahead. But don’t act like he’s some old man trying to relive the past. He’s better than half of us in the field. He’s smarter, tougher, and he cares more than anyone I’ve ever met. That’s why I love him.”
The room exploded.
Gasps. Flashes. A chorus of whispers.
Kotetsu’s breath caught.
“I love him,” you said again—softer this time. “Not in spite of who he is. Because of it.”
And then you turned toward him, eyes locking on his like there was no one else in the room.
“And if anyone else has a problem with that… They can talk to me directly.”
Dead silence.
One person clapped. Then another. Then more.
It wasn’t everyone. But it was enough to shake the room.
Kotetsu stood slowly, stepping beside you. He didn’t speak. Just took your hand—deliberate, steady—and laced his fingers through yours for the world to see.
And for once, the world listened.
The room reeked of polished wood, synthetic calm, and corporate panic.
Three executives sat across from you, smiles just a little too tight, voices just a little too rehearsed. The head of PR kept folding and unfolding her hands, like she wanted to be holding a leash. Probably yours.
You weren’t giving her the chance.
“We appreciate your passion,” she said, with that faux-empathetic tone that made your skin crawl. “Truly. And your loyalty to Mr. Kaburagi is admirable. But we need to think long-term. About optics.”
You leaned back in the chair, bandages pulling slightly under your clothes. “Right. Because optics are what matter most after someone nearly died.”
“We’re not minimizing what happened,” one of the producers said quickly. “But there’s been… backlash. Social media is split. Sponsors are nervous. And the age-gap narrative has become—well, distracting.”
You stared at him.
“‘Narrative?’” you echoed. “I nearly bled out doing my job, and you’re worried about a narrative?”
The PR woman cleared her throat. “All we’re asking is a small clarification. A joint statement. Reframe the story. Maybe suggest that emotions were high. That your words came from adrenaline, not commitment. You don’t even have to walk it back entirely—just... soften it.”
Your blood boiled.
You stood, slowly. “Let me make this easy for you.”
All three of them leaned in slightly.
“If you think for one second I’m going to stand in front of a camera and pretend that what I said about Kotetsu was anything but true, you’ve picked the wrong hero.”
“Shockwave—”
“No. Shut up and listen.”
That worked.
“I’m not here for fake ratings and glossy smiles. I’m here to do my job. And part of that job—the most important part—is protecting people. That includes him. So if this network wants to twist what we are into something shameful just to make nervous old men in suits feel comfortable, then I’ll walk.”
They went dead still.
You took a step closer.
“I’ll walk,” you repeated, calm but lethal. “Out of HeroTV. Out of your contracts. Out of your entire goddamn system. I’ve had cameras in my face since I was seventeen—I won’t let you weaponize them against someone I love.”
PR looked pale. One of the execs looked like he was about to faint.
“I’ve got enough injuries to prove I don’t bluff,” you added. “So try me.”
Then you turned, walked out, and didn’t look back.
Kotetsu was watching the footage on a tablet in the Tower lounge, Kaede beside him, both of them slack-jawed in silence as your voice cut through the speaker like a lightning strike.
“She really said that,” Kaede whispered, somewhere between horrified and awed.
Kotetsu didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just smiled, slow and stunned, like someone who’d just realized the person they loved had set the world on fire for them—and would do it again.
The city always looked softer from above. Like maybe it wasn’t all fire and chaos when you weren’t right in it. Like maybe you could forget how ugly people could be, even for just a second.
Kotetsu stood at the edge of the rooftop, hat in hand, watching the street lights flicker like stars too stubborn to stay in the sky.
He’d just seen the HeroTV statement go live.
“We at HeroTV stand firmly behind both Shockwave and Kotetsu T. Kaburagi. The strength they bring—individually and together—is an example of the very best of what our heroes represent: loyalty, courage, and the power to protect not only lives, but each other.”
It wasn’t perfect. Carefully worded. Safe. But public. And that made it real.
He didn’t know how you’d pulled it off. Didn’t know how you’d scared executives into defending a man they used to call a relic.
But he knew one thing: it was you.
And it terrified him.
Footsteps behind him. Light. Familiar.
You stopped beside him, bandages still peeking out from under your collar, posture relaxed like this was just another night.
He glanced over. “You see the statement?”
You nodded. “They folded after I left. I told them I meant every word.”
“Did you… threaten them?”
“Maybe.”
“…Did it work?”
You smirked. “What do you think?”
He huffed a laugh. Looking back at the skyline.
“You said you’d walk. Really walk. Were you serious?”
You didn’t even blink. “Yes.”
Silence.
The kind that doesn’t echo, just sinks.
He looked down, jaw tightening. “Damn…”
You turned to him. “What?”
He shook his head, tried to keep it light. “I just—I guess I thought, deep down, that this would be the line. That if it came down to it… you’d pick your career. Your future.”
You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Kotetsu.”
“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen people run before. I’m used to being the one who—”
“Kotetsu,” you cut in, firmer now.
He met your eyes.
“I didn’t even hesitate.” You stepped closer, voice low, intense. “Not for one second. I’d burn it all down if it meant you got to breathe easy. You think I’d trade you for a camera crew and a paycheck?”
He tried to smile, but it faltered.
You reached up and rested a hand on his chest. “You’ve been told you’re disposable so many times, you started to believe it. But I don’t. I never did.”
His throat worked silently, and his eyes dropped to the hand on his chest like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.
You added, softer now, “You’re not a footnote in my story, Kotetsu. You’re the reason I’m still in it.”
And finally, something inside him cracked.
He pulled you in gently, holding you like he was afraid you’d still disappear. “You scare the hell outta me, y’know that?”
You smiled into his shoulder. “You love it.”
He did.
God help him—he really, really did.
The tower’s lounge buzzed with quiet energy—TV murmuring in the background, energy drinks stacked like neon totems on the table, the sharp scent of takeout hanging in the air.
Everyone was pretending they weren’t waiting.
You sat beside Kotetsu on the couch, arm resting lightly against his. The team had gathered for a "debrief," but so far, all they'd done was rewatch the press conference and trade half-glances over greasy noodles.
Fire Emblem was the one who finally broke.
“So,” he said, dramatically crossing one leg over the other, “Are we going to talk about the literal soap opera that just played out live on national television, or are we still pretending?”
Blue Rose’s eyes flicked from her cup to you, sharp and curious. “You two looked pretty comfortable on that stage.”
Origami Cyclone nodded from the corner. “There’s been… speculation.”
Sky High blinked, chip in hand. “Wait, you’re dating?”
Everyone turned to him.
“You didn’t know?” Rock Bison muttered.
Sky High looked confused. “I thought it was just HeroTV trying to spice up the ratings again—”
Kotetsu sighed. “It’s not a PR stunt.”
The room stilled.
All eyes on him now.
You watched his jaw twitch slightly as he sat forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s real.”
He didn’t look at them.
He looked at you.
And that glance—soft, steady, full of something that didn’t need to be spoken—answered everything.
No flashy declarations. No overcompensating.
The room fell silent.
Then Fire Emblem smiled, wide and wicked. “Well, it’s about damn time. I was starting to think you two were going to keep orbiting each other forever.”
Blue Rose scoffed. “You knew before I did?”
“I see things,” Fire Emblem replied, flipping his hair. “It’s a gift.”
Origami Cyclone offered a quiet bow of approval. “We’re happy for you.”
Sky High held up his drink. “To unexpected but welcome developments!”
Rock Bison slapped Kotetsu on the back hard enough to rattle his bones. “Look at you, old man! Still got some fight in you after all.”
Kotetsu just laughed, cheeks a little red, eyes still on you.
You leaned in close and said, low so only he could hear: “They’re never gonna let you live this down.”
He shrugged. “Worth it.”
You grinned. “You’re damn right it is.”
The first time you stood on a rooftop again, your lungs clenched like they remembered the last time.
Sirens howled below. Wind tugged at your coat. You could see the distance—the edge of the building, the exact place you’d fallen. Your ribs didn’t hurt anymore, not physically. But your chest? It squeezed with every heartbeat.
The call had come fast: NEXT suspect with volatile powers, two hostages, barricaded inside an industrial plant. You and Kotetsu were closest. Backup was ten minutes out. The kind of call you used to answer on instinct.
But now you hesitated.
Your hands trembled slightly as you crouched by the skylight. Breath shallow. Vision blurring, just for a second. You could feel the phantom weight of the beam that hit you. Smell the blood. Hear your own gasp echo.
“Hey.”
Kotetsu’s voice, quiet beside you.
You looked up—he was watching you, brows furrowed, worry barely hidden.
“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low and firm. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything,” you murmured.
“Then what?”
You hesitated. Then: “I just don’t want to freeze when it matters.”
“You won’t,” he said without missing a beat. “Because you’ve already been through the worst—and you didn’t break. You’re here. You’re breathing. You’re still fighting.”
You stared at him.
Then nodded. Once.
“Let’s move,” you said.
It didn’t go perfectly.
The suspect was erratic, his power unstable, crackling with kinetic pulses that shattered windows as you moved in. The air stung with static. For one terrifying moment, he locked onto you—eyes wild, hand raised—and you froze.
Just a second.
But it was enough.
Kotetsu moved fast, intercepting the blast with his shield gauntlet, taking the brunt of the hit as you rolled clear.
And that snapped everything back.
You surged up, focused, controlled.
Your power wrapped around the suspect like steel wire, locking him down mid-strike. Dropped him to the ground. Cuffed him.
Done.
The hostages were safe. The suspect contained.
You stood over the scene, chest heaving, hand scraped raw—and alive.
And this time, you were still standing.
The lights were back. So were the reporters.
But this time, the only thing buzzing in your chest was fire.
You stood at the podium beside Kotetsu, mic angled toward you, cameras flashing. One reporter called out: “Shockwave, this was your first return to active duty since the incident. There were concerns you might not be ready—”
You cut in smoothly. “I was ready. I am ready.”
Another question: “There’s been a lot of talk about the emotional impact of what happened. Was there any hesitation returning to the field?”
You looked out over the sea of faces. Then turned—just slightly—to Kotetsu, who gave you that same soft look he always did when he was proud of you.
You faced the crowd again.
“There was fear,” you said honestly. “But I didn’t go back out there alone.”
“I’m stronger because of him. Because Kotetsu never let me forget what I’m capable of—even when I doubted it myself. That’s why I came back. And that’s why I’ll keep showing up.”
Flashbulbs popped. Whispers spread.
You didn’t care.
You turned to Kotetsu, just for a second. He was smiling—soft, amazed, maybe a little misty.
Could you write something where Adrian goes into a Spirit-induced depressive episode after a long day of tutoring Lissa? He’ll turn to Gaurdian!Reader for comfort since she quickly noticed his change in demeanor. Maybe he’ll use compulsion to drink her blood in his room though she’ll be willing soon enough. I actually wanted to base this off the dorm scene Rose and Adrian had but couldn’t find the right words to describe my request.
Intentionally Close
Adrian Ivashkov X F!Reader
Warnings: mentions of depression, blood, minor swearing.
AN: Sorry this took forever, it got buried in my drafts and I’ve been cleaning it out. And saw this! I went a little different than the scene with Rose, it’s been a while since I read the books, but I like how this turned out! I hope you enjoy!
You knew better than to get close to Adrian Ivashkov—not only of his reputation, but also his intensities. That’s the right word—he was a devil in disguise, one of the worst if you’re honest.
He dangled himself on a line, and you were a fool for your own lack of inhibition. Time spent with him was like waiting for the ticking time bomb to finally go off, and it did manage to mount eventually. The tension had become thick, and while you had thought you’d be the one to pull the trigger.
It was Adrian. He had spent the day watching you closely, every inhale and exhale—the subtle rise and fall of your chest. He watched your lips as they spoke, only sometimes he didn’t even know what words you had said.
For every time you considered him mildly attractive, he found you absolutely ravishing. Completely consuming his every thought. You made him both strong and weak, his little dhamphir. He quite liked the way your visits went, the comfort that came from being so close. Not too close, but painfully so that he could just shift slightly and touch you. Brush his arm against yours. Let his fingers slightly bump into your hand, an accidental touch. Sometimes he was even certain that you were chasing him with just as much vigor.
Around and around, a never ending cycle between the two of you. A game of cat and mouse.
Coming home that night was like dragging himself through cement, he felt overwhelmed and a tad off. Lissa had excelled today, but it meant more taxing training and more work from Adrian. A longer day than he had planned. It took nearly every ounce of his being to keep himself upright, but coming into the room to find you in his bed.
Boots neatly tucked by the door were the dead giveaway that you were there, but seeing on top of his blankets. Your eyes trained on the stake twisting about your fingers, a part of Adrian seems to snap into place.
His room is quiet when he steps inside, almost too quiet, like the air itself is holding its breath. Adrian stands at the edge of the bed, his usual cocky mask missing-no smirk, no careless charm. Just him. Bare, beautiful, and broken in a way few ever get to see.
You look up when you hear the door close, his eyes catching yours in the dim light. There's something haunted behind the green—something that doesn't quite match the silk shirt rumpled on his shoulders or the expensive scent that still clings to him.
"You came," he says, quietly. Like he didn't think you would.
You cross the room, with both caution and reverence. "You said you needed me."
His throat works as he swallows, gaze dropping to the floor. "I hate needing anyone."
But you're already kneeling in front of him, lifting his chin so he has to look at you. "But you do."
He closes his eyes. "It's not just hunger," he murmurs. "It's you. It's always you."
The silence stretches between you, heavy with things unspoken. Then, carefully, he touches your arm, fingers trembling just enough for you to teel it.
"I can't ask this of you," he says, voice raw. "Not again. Not when it... takes something from you."
You tilt your head, exposing your neck without a word.
His breath catches. "Don’t—" he whispers. "Don't make this easy. I don't deserve easy."
But he leans in anyway, helpless against the pull.
When his lips press against your skin, it's not a kiss-it's a confession. The sting of his fangs is sharp, but what follows is deeper: warmth, longing, guilt wrapped in intimacy.
His hands are shaking as he drinks, holding you like you're something fragile, something sacred.
You feel the way he tries to pull back, to stop himself-but he lingers, and you know it's not just about the blood.
When he finally withdraws, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard. "I'm sorry," he says, so softly you almost miss it. "You make me feel human again... and I don't know if I can live with that."
You feel the way he tries to pull back, to stop himself-but he lingers, and you know it's not just about the blood.
When he finally withdraws, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard. "I'm sorry," he says, so softly you almost miss it. "You make me feel human... and I don't know if I can live with that."
You touch his hair, smoothing it gently. "Then don't live with it," you whisper. "Just... feel it. With me."
He doesn't reply—but the way he holds you tighter says everything.
You don't stay in Adrian's room long after. Once his breathing evens out and the trembling in his hands fades, you quietly gather yourself. He doesn't ask you to stay. He just watches you with those tired, stormy eyes, like he's already bracing for the weight of the silence you're both about to carry.
By the time you slip out into the hall, the guilt is clinging to your skin like smoke.
You don't make it ten steps before you hear your name.
"Hey!" Rose's voice, sharp and familiar, cuts through the quiet. She's leaning against the wall outside the lounge with Lissa beside her, arms crossed and eyes narrod with suspicion.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Your heart stumbles in your chest. Lissa watches you with that Spirit-user intuition-soft, silent, but all-seeing. Rose, of course, doesn't wait for an answer.
"You weren't in your room. We thought maybe something happened."
"Nothing happened," you say quickly, too quickly.
"I just... needed some air."
Rose lifts a brow. "In Adrian's wing of the dorms?"
You force a shrug, keek. s your face neutral. "I just... needed some air."
Rose lifts a brow. "In Adrian's wing of the dorms?"
You force a shrug, keeping your face neutral. "I ran into him. We talked for a bit. That's all."
Lissa tilts her head. "You look pale."
"I'm always pale," you say with a faint smile, hoping the joke deflects enough. "Maybe I'm coming down with something."
Rose doesn't buy it. She never does. "You weren't with him again were vou?" Her tone is laced with a venom you didn’t understand, there was no way she know, but Rose was guarded now. Protective. And you know she's not just talking about conversations.
You pause for half a heartbeat too long.
"No," you lie, soft and practiced. "It's not like that."
Lissa's eyes soften, but not with belief—more like disappointment. Or maybe she just senses the ache you're carrying, the residue of something deeper.
They don't push, not today. Maybe because know, deep down, that if they asked again, the truth might unravel something none of you are ready to face.
You walk with them back to the dorms, your fingers brushing the side of your neck where his bite is already fading. But the memory lingers— his voice, his guilt, the way he held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.
You lied to protect him.
But part of you wonders if you're just protecting yourself.
•
•
•
The door to your room closes with a soft click, and the silence that follows is deafening.
You lean against it for a moment, eyes shut, willing your heart to stop pounding. But it doesn't. It won't. Not with the taste of Adrian's voice still echoing in your mind. "You make me feel human again."
You should feel needed. Wanted. Loved.
Instead, you feel... hollow.
Crossing to the mirror, you tug down your collar and study the faint bruising left behind. It's already healing-fast, like always-but your skin remembers. Your body always remembers. Not just the bite, but everything that came with it: the way he clung to you lik you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. The way it hurt, not physically-but emotionally. Spirit doesn't just drink blood. It drinks pieces of you.
You press your fingers lightly to the spot, then pull your hand back like it burned.
You told them it was nothing.
Rose would call you out. Lissa would look at you like she knew, like she felt it all through the threads of Spirit. But you couldn't tell them. Not just because of Adrian—but because admitting it would make it real.
And you don't know if you're strong enough to carry what that means.
So instead, you do what you've been doing every time it happens: you bury it. You climb into bed without turning on the :. You wrap your arms around yourself, clutching the pillow like it might anchor you.
And in the dark, you whisper the truth to no one but the silence:
"I want to be there for him."
But there's no one to answer back. No one to reassure you that being there isn't slowly breaking you apart too.
So you close your eyes and pretend the ache in your chest is just exhaustion. Not love. Not guilt.
Just tired bones.
Tomorrow, you'll smile. You'll laugh when Rose teases you and nod when Lissa asks if everything's okay.
You've gotten good at pretending.
•
•
•
You stop showing up at the court garden where you used to cross paths by accident-on-purpose.
You don't linger in the lounges near the Moroi dorms. And when your friends make jokes about Adrian, you laugh too easily-too forced.
Adrian notices.
He's not as careless as people think. Behind the sarcasm and the lazy elegance, he sees everything. Especially when it comes to you.
So one night-when the silence gets too loud and the ache of your absence starts crawling under his skin—he finds you.
You're in the training gym after hours, long after even Rose has called it a night. Your punches are sharp and angry—powerful in ways no one, but him understood. Not entirely. He leans against the doorway. Arms crossed.
"You always fight like that when you're trying not to feel something," he says softly.
You don't stop. Don't even turn around.
"Don't you have a bottle to chase or a party to crash?" you reply, biting.
He pushes off the wall, walking toward you slowly. "I'd rather chase the one person who actually means something."
You freeze—just for a second-but it's enough.
He sees it.
You lower your fists and finally look at him.
There's a wall in your eyes now. Not anger. Not coldness. Just distance. The kind that wasn't there before.
"You said you hated needing people," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "I think I started hating it too."
Adrian stops in front of you, hands shoved in his coat pockets like he doesn't trust them not to reach for you. "I never wanted to make you feel that way."
"You didn't mean to," you say. "But you did."
The words hang heavy between you.
He looks down, swallowing hard. "Is it the bite?"
"It's not just the bite," you say. "It's what it means. What it takes from me every time. You ask like you're giving me a choice, but we both know I could never say no to you."
He flinches—actually flinched.
"I thought maybe being with you would make me stronger," you continue, "but lately, I'm starting to feel like I'm disappearing."
Adrian steps closer, and this time, he does reach out—gently. Hesitantly. His hand brushes your arm, but you don't lean in.
"You're the only thing that keeps me grounded," he says quietly. "But if holding onto me is making you lose yourself... I'd rather let go."
There's a rawness in his voice that cracks something inside you. You shake your head. "I don't want to lose you."
"But I can't lose you either," he says. "And I will, if this keeps being something you survive instead of something you choose—then you’ll lose yourself... I'd rather let go."
For once, there's no charm in his voice. No wit.
Just a scared, hurting boy who's finally realized that love isn't just about needing-it's about giving. About not asking someone to bleed just so you can feel whole.
•
•
•
It's late when you find him again.
His room is dark, the curtains drawn tight like he's trying to shut out the world. You don't knock—you just open the door and step inside. Adrian is on the couch, half-sunken into it, staring blankly at a canvas that hasn't been touched in days.
He looks up slowly, eyes tired, like he wasn't expecting anyone. Especially not you.
But the moment he sees you, everything stills.
His breath. His sadness. Like for a second, you've pulled him back from the edge again.
You close the door behind you.
"I've been thinking," you say softly, stepping toward him. "About what you said. About what I said.” He says nothing. Just watches you, eyes flicking to the way your hands tremble slightly at your sides.
"I didn't come here to survive this," you whisper. "I came because I choose this. I choose you."
Adrian stands slowly, like he's afraid to move too fast and shatter the moment. "You don't have to _"
"I want to," you cut in. "But only if we stop pretending this doesn't mean something. I need it to be real. Not just hunger. Not guilt. Us."
The words hang in the space between you, and then carefully he steps closer.
When he cups your face, it's not with urgency or hunger. It's reverent, as if he is beneath the heavens itself.
His forehead presses against yours, and you feel the way he's shaking. "I don't deserve this," he breathes.
"Maybe not," you whisper. "But I do. I deserve to choose this."
You tilt your head, exposing your neck--not out of obligation, not because he needs it—but as a gift.
One last time.
Adrian's lips tremble against your skin. And when he bites, it's different this time.
It's not desperation. It's not the darkness. It's love.
The pull of Spirit is still there-electric and intimate-but you feel it in your chest, not just your blood. It doesn't drain you. It connects you.
And when he pulls away, there are tears in his eyes. "You didn't disappear," he says, voice cracking."You came back."
You touch his face, smiling through your own tears. "| never left. I just needed to remember who I was. And that I'm not afraid of what you need... not if it's with me.”
He leans into your touch like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.
And for the first time in a long time, the ache between you isn't pain.
It's love—loud and honest. With a choice only you could make.
I’d like to request something based on Théoden’s travel from Rohan to Helms Deep. A love triangle with fem Elf!reader, Legolas and Aragorn had already been present. What I was thinking is during the chaos of battle, she gets her belt stuck on a Warg’s saddle (it wouldn’t be Aragorn going over to cliff this time), Legolas and Aragorn wouldn’t notice until it’s too late. But the Orc had grabbed hold of the necklace that Legolas had given her. Put as much angst and hurt/comfort as you’d like!
Symphony of Hearts
Legolas X elf!Reader!love triangle X Aragorn
Warnings: violence, angst, some graphic descriptions.
If there is one thing you’re certain of, it’s that joining this company was a mistake. What once was a quiet affair had become all too blatant—Legolas had loved you since you were children, but Aragorn loved you from the moment you met.
There are two emotions that never quite aligned, the simple love shared with Legolas and the pining that came with falling for Aragorn. And truthfully, neither ever forced a decision. However, by joining the company, the close proximity of the trio had left you listening to endless questions of choosing.
And how could you? When it meant you’d lose the other entirely, they made that abundantly clear when a quiet bickering turned into a silent treatment between them one evening.
No one gave you a manual when deciding, or a peek into the future other than the knowledge that there’s people who depend on you. There’s always been people, and glancing at Legolas you recall all of the people you have helped with him.
You battled beside him with Tauriel in the Battle of the Seven Armies—and following him was easy as breathing. He was like a breath of fresh air, always there, but it was always give some and take some. There was a balance, not that you minded much.
But with Aragorn, there was devotion beyond all else. There was no need for anything other than him—you hardly knew air once he was within sight. You didn’t need to give anything, he was more than willing to take on every burden.
However, as the days continued on and the journey grew heavier—you found yourself riding at the front of the march to Helms Deep. Your body ached in ways you could not explain, and the least of your worries was which of the two would stay at your side.
You didn’t have time to think of that.
In truth you couldn’t help the way your mind began to wander, thoughts of the nights before coming to mind. Their memory seeming to haunt you.
The sun had just begun its descent, casting long, golden beams across the verdant fields of Rivendell. The cool breeze stirred the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and wildflowers—a scent you had always associated with peace and home. You stood in the center of the practice ring, your boots digging into the soft earth beneath you, and before you, Legolas, your oldest friend, readied himself.
You hadn’t seen Legolas for many years, not in the way you’d once known him as a child. You had both been inseparable once, growing up together in the lush woods of Mirkwood. You had laughed under the stars, trained side by side with swords and bows, and shared secrets that only the two of you would understand.
But time had changed things. The world had changed. And now, after years apart, you found yourself standing across from him, just as you had when you were both young, but this time the stakes were higher—war loomed, and the weight of destiny hung in the air.
He smiled at you, that familiar glint of mischief in his bright eyes, but there was something deeper there too, something that spoke of the years he had spent away from home, of the battles fought and the losses endured. The years had made him into the warrior he was today—strong, precise, and relentless.
“I’ll warn you, Y/N,” Legolas teased, his voice as light as it had always been, “I’ve improved since last we sparred.”
You met his playful gaze with a raised brow. “You’ve always been a little full of yourself, Legolas,” you replied with a smirk. “Let’s see if your arrogance can match your skill.”
Legolas grinned, clearly delighted by the familiar banter. He was poised, his twin blades glinting in the fading sunlight as he waited for your move.
You didn’t disappoint. With a quick fluid motion, you darted forward, your twin short swords slicing through the air, meeting his blades with a sharp clang. The sound of steel against steel echoed, but you both moved effortlessly, almost as though you were one—two friends, two warriors, locked in an ancient dance.
Legolas’ eyes gleamed, his steps graceful as he countered your moves with precision, always just a step ahead. His blade clashed with yours, and for a moment, you were transported back to the time when you were both young, training beneath the canopy of trees in Mirkwood, full of dreams and promises.
But now, the sparring was different. There was a weight to each movement, an intensity you hadn’t expected. You couldn’t help but notice how his eyes lingered on you for just a heartbeat longer than they used to, how the tension between your blades seemed to carry more than just friendly competition.
You were no longer just the childhood friend. He was no longer the mischievous boy you had once known. Time had forged him into something else—something more.
With a swift movement, you broke away, taking a few steps back, eyes narrowing. Legolas followed suit, but there was something else now, something unspoken in the way his eyes traced over you. The smile was gone, replaced by something deeper, more contemplative.
“Something on your mind?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light, though you, too, felt the change in the air.
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve always wondered…” he began softly, his voice almost wistful, “what it would be like if things had stayed the same. If we were still the children we once were, running through the forests, careless and free.”
Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t expected him to say this. You had spent so many years wondering if he still thought of those moments with the same fondness you did.
“I think about those days often,” you said, your voice quiet. “But we are not children anymore, Legolas. The world has changed, and so have we.”
He stepped closer, his gaze intense, his eyes searching yours. “Not all change is for the worse, (Y/N). Not all of it.”
You swallowed hard, feeling a shift in the air, a pull between you that you hadn’t felt in years. The silence between you seemed to stretch for longer than it should have, the weight of his unspoken words hanging in the space.
You had always been close, yes—but this? This was different. There was something deeper, a longing in his gaze that you hadn’t seen before, not even when you were younger.
And just as you opened your mouth to speak, a voice from the edge of the training ring interrupted, pulling both your attention away.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Aragorn’s voice was low, almost too quiet, as he stepped into view, his gaze fixed on you and Legolas. He had been watching you for a while now, though neither of you had noticed him. “The bond you two share.”
Legolas turned his head, his expression unreadable, but you could see the flicker of something, something that betrayed his calm composure. His relationship with Aragorn had always been one of mutual respect, but this moment—this felt different.
“Aragorn,” Legolas greeted him, though there was an edge to his voice, a subtle shift in his usual demeanor.
Aragorn’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before returning to Legolas, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing something. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Y/N lately,” he said, his voice even, but there was something in it—something more. Something heavier.
You caught the shift in Aragorn’s eyes. There was a weight in them that hadn't been there before, something deep, something conflicted. You knew Aragorn well enough to recognize it: a subtle flash of realization.
You and Legolas had always been close, but Aragorn was seeing something now that he hadn’t before. And as you glanced between them—between the quiet tension in Aragorn’s gaze and the understanding that passed between you and Legolas—you realized that something had shifted. Something had changed in Aragorn’s heart, though he hadn’t yet come to terms with it.
Legolas caught your eye for a brief second, his expression softening. “We were just reminiscing,” he said, his voice calm again, though you could hear the undercurrent of something more.
Aragorn’s gaze lingered on you, then shifted to Legolas. His eyes flicked between you both for a heartbeat, and in that brief moment, something clicked within him. The realization settled in his chest like a stone, heavy and undeniable. He had been too focused on his duties, too involved in the weight of his responsibilities, but now it was clear.
The tension in the air thickened, and Aragorn’s gaze softened, but not with the warmth you were used to. This was different—a quiet, internal battle playing out behind his eyes, and though he didn’t speak it aloud, you knew.
He loved you.
It was in the way he looked at you now, in the way his eyes followed your every movement. You weren’t just a companion. You were something more. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to see until now.
The moment passed, and Aragorn gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his expression carefully neutral. But you saw the flicker in his eyes—the silent acknowledgment that he was beginning to understand his own heart.
And as you returned your attention to Legolas, who stood by, his expression softening with something that wasn’t quite friendship, you realized the delicate balance between all three of you had shifted—irreparably.
The weight of love, of history, of unspoken feelings, hung heavy in the air.
And none of you knew where it would lead, but in that quiet, fleeting moment, you all knew this was only the beginning.
You were distracted, the memories seemed to haunt you in more ways than one—even as the orcs descended, as the attacks came and went. As you cut them down, and dealt blow after blow. None of it mattered.
Because one second you were defending the people, trying to take out an orc, and the next your wrist was tangled up.
Eyes widening, fingers scrambling, but it was too late because before you know it—you are flying off the edge of the cliff.
The world goes black the moment you hit the water.
One second you were sprinting toward the orc on the cliffside, your blood singing with the rush of battle, and the next—well, the earth is gone beneath your feet.
You don’t scream.
The fall is silent, almost peaceful, and then—impact. Cold. Darkness.
Your lungs burn. Limbs heavy. Everything fades except the weight in your chest—not water, but memory.
You see Aragorn first. His weathered hands tying a bandage around your forearm after you went and got yourself injured. You tended to do that, act first and think later.
"You should be more careful," he murmured, eyes downcast.
"And miss your tender touch?" you teased. But the way his gaze lifted to yours—soft, uncertain, lingering—it wasn’t a jest anymore.
He didn’t kiss you. He wanted to. You can see that now in the darkness.
Then the memory shifts. You can feel the echoes of your life trying to pull you to the surface, but you remain still, floating.
Legolas, beside you on a high branch, both of you wordless as the moon filtered through the leaves.
He didn’t speak often of love, but he didn’t have to. It was in the brush of his shoulder, the way his bow always found your enemies first.
"I would follow you beyond the sea," he said once, not looking at you. "If you asked it."
You hadn’t answered. You didn’t know how.
Your eyes snap open. Breath floods your lungs like fire.
You’re not dead. You’re on a riverbank—muddy, shivering, alone.
No sword. No bow. No Aragorn. No Legolas.
You sit up slowly, body aching. Every movement feels like dragging yourself through more than just mud—through memory. Through guilt.
Somewhere out there, they must think you’re gone. And yet you survived.
Now comes the hardest part.
Finding your way back.
And choosing—if you still can.
The forest is dense, the shadows deep. You move silently between the trees, every step forward bringing another memory. Another fracture in your heart.
You walk alone now—but you haven't been alone, not truly, in months.
The wind howled across the plains. You stood outside the Golden Hall, your cloak flapping wildly, fingers still stained from the skirmish that day.
Inside, Aragorn leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching you.
"You move like the wind," he said, stepping closer. His eyes searched yours. "But I feel it pull me with it. Every time you go."
You smiled, but the ache was sharp. "And yet, it is Legolas who follows."
He didn’t flinch. He only said, "Yes. He always will. But I would wait."
You wanted to say something more. You didn’t. The wind took it.
•
You stumble now on a tree root, nearly falling again. The irony bites, but you catch yourself. You always do.
Your path turns toward Helms Deep, and the trees whisper as you pass—strange and watchful. You half expect to see Legolas emerge from the gloom, bow ready, smile soft.
But there’s only silence.
Until your memory speaks again.
Night fell gently in that elven realm. You sat beside Legolas near a silver stream, both of you barefoot, toes brushing the water.
"You are not like them," he said. "You do not belong to time the same way."
"Neither do you," you replied, leaning back on your hands, watching the stars blink alive.
"But I have never feared it. Not until I met you."
You turned your head then. His face was close. He didn’t kiss you—but his hand found yours, and it stayed there, warm, grounding.
He never asked for more. He just gave.
The path ahead forks—one toward Helm’s Deep, the other toward the river that leads back to Gondor. You pause.
They could be either place.
You close your eyes, breathing in the wind, the trees, the memory of two men whose hearts you still carry—one a king, bound to duty and shadow, the other a prince of starlight, silent and enduring.
The path doesn’t matter anymore.
You will find them.
Or they will find you.
•
•
You smell fire before you see it—smoke on the breeze, faint and familiar. Someone camps nearby.
You crouch low, slipping through underbrush like a ghost.
And then you hear it. A voice.
"I told you she would live."
Your heart stops.
Legolas.
A second voice, quieter, ragged with disbelief: "But she fell."
Aragorn.
You rise slowly. Your steps are silent—but the moment you emerge into the clearing, both men turn, and for the first time in weeks—perhaps ever—their eyes hold nothing but you.
Aragorn rises first. He looks older. His expression crumbles and reforms all in a breath.
Legolas doesn’t move. But his gaze pierces through you, as if to be sure you're real.
You say nothing.
Neither do they.
Until Aragorn whispers, "We mourned you." He let himself feel your loss, the weight burdening his shoulders.
And Legolas, "I never did." He knew you would return, or at least hoped enough. That was Legolas, he bottled it up.
Choose Aragorn…
The moon hung high above Helms Deep, its firey glow casting long shadows across the quiet path. There is not gentleness to the defensive walls, long overbearing shadows and echoes of people along the way. The world felt suspended in time, almost as if the very land itself were holding its breath.
You and Legolas had always shared a bond, one born of shared history and countless memories, but something in the air had shifted. It wasn’t just the training anymore. There was more between you two—something deeper.
And then there was Aragorn.
You hadn’t missed the subtle tension between him and Legolas, nor the quiet change in Aragorn's gaze when he had watched you and Legolas spar some time ago. It was impossible to ignore how his eyes lingered on you longer than usual, how his demeanor had shifted so subtly, yet so definitively. Something had changed in him, and it had made your heart ache in ways you hadn’t expected.
You hadn’t expected this… feeling.
You had spent the evening alone, trying to sort through your emotions, but the quiet, the stillness, only made your thoughts spiral more. Trying to clean yourself of the trauma, of falling off a cliff. Finally, you decided to take a walk—although you weren’t ready to face what secrets Helms Deep had to offer—and as you made your way through the stone—you found yourself outside. The cool night air wrapped around you like a cloak, and you took a deep breath, letting the fresh scent of pine soothe your troubled mind.
And that was when you saw him.
Aragorn.
He was standing at the edge of the courtyard, his back to you, staring out at the moonlit landscape. The battles to come hang on the air, a stillness to the world around them. His stance was rigid, as though lost in thought, his cloak rustling softly in the breeze.
You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to approach him, but the pull to speak with him was too strong. You knew that something had changed—had been changing—and you needed to understand what it meant, for both of you.
“Aragorn?” you called quietly, your voice breaking the stillness.
He turned slowly, his dark eyes meeting yours. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but you could see the weight behind his gaze. The internal struggle that had been brewing since earlier in the day was written all over him.
“You’re out late,” you remarked, trying to keep the mood light, though you could sense the heaviness in the air between you.
Aragorn didn’t immediately respond, and for a long moment, the two of you stood in silence. Then, his voice came, low and heavy with something you couldn’t quite place.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly. “Too many thoughts. Too many things I’ve been avoiding.”
You took a step closer, your heart racing in your chest. “What things?”
He took a slow breath, his eyes not meeting yours now, as though he couldn’t bring himself to face you directly. “I’ve spent so much time focusing on the battles ahead. The task at hand. The lives we must save. But…” His words trailed off, his hands clenching at his sides.
“But what?” you pressed, stepping a little closer.
He turned to face you fully, his eyes meeting yours now, dark and full of unspoken emotion. There was no more hiding behind his usual calm demeanor. In the moonlight, you saw it—his vulnerability. The walls he had carefully built around himself for so long were crumbling, and in that moment, you could see the man behind the ranger. The man who had always been there, but who had never allowed himself to truly be seen.
“I’ve been fooling myself for too long,” he said, his voice quiet but raw. “Focusing on everything and everyone else. And all the while, I’ve been…” He paused, as if searching for the words, his breath shaky. “I’ve been denying something that has been so clear to me. To my heart.”
Your pulse quickened. His words hung heavy between you, and you felt a stirring deep inside you, a mix of hope and fear.
Aragorn took another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Y/N, I’ve spent so many years with you by my side. Fighting side by side, protecting those who cannot protect themselves. But I’ve come to realize… it’s you that I’ve been protecting the most. It’s you who I…” He faltered for a moment, his eyes glistening with something that wasn’t just the reflection of the moonlight. It was something deeper. Something far more personal.
Your breath caught in your throat. “Aragorn…” you whispered.
“I love you,” he said, his voice barely audible, yet each word was carved into the silence like a truth he could no longer keep hidden. “I’ve always loved you, Y/N. But I was too blind to see it. Too afraid to admit it… to you, to myself.”
The world seemed to stop. The sounds of the night faded into nothing. All that remained was his confession, hanging between you like a weight, grounding you in that moment.
Your heart hammered in your chest, the truth of his words settling into your bones. You hadn’t dared to hope for this—hadn’t dared to believe that Aragorn, the man who carried the weight of Middle-earth on his shoulders, could feel the same way. But now, in the quiet of the night, it was undeniable.
You took a step toward him, reaching out to place a hand gently on his chest. The warmth of his body beneath your touch made your heart race even faster, but the tenderness in his eyes, the vulnerability, made it all feel so real.
“I didn’t know…” you began softly, your voice trembling. “I didn’t know you felt this way. I thought… I thought I was just a friend to you, Aragorn. A comrade. A companion.”
He shook his head slowly, his hand reaching up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. “You are so much more than that to me. You always have been. But I was a fool to let fear keep me from saying it. Fear of the battles ahead. Fear of the war. But in truth, the greatest fear I have now is losing you… before I ever had the chance to tell you what you mean to me.”
You felt a lump form in your throat, your emotions rising up to overwhelm you. Aragorn, the king-to-be, the ranger, the protector—had never been so open, so vulnerable before. And now, standing before you, admitting his love, he had never seemed more human.
“I’ve loved you for so long,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I thought I was the only one who felt this way.”
Aragorn’s eyes softened, his hand gently cupping your face. “You are never alone, Y/N. Not in this.”
The distance between you closed in an instant, and before you could stop yourself, you kissed him—a soft, lingering kiss that held the weight of everything unsaid, of every moment that had led to this one. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. The kiss deepened, but it wasn’t just passion—it was everything: the years of friendship, the battles fought, the distance between you finally vanishing.
When you pulled away, breathless and shaky, you looked into his eyes, the uncertainty finally gone. “What now?” you asked softly.
Aragorn smiled, his thumb brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. “Now, we face everything together. Whatever comes, whatever the future holds.”
You nodded, knowing in that moment that whatever battles lay ahead—whether on the fields of war or within your hearts—you would face them side by side. Together.
The And for the first time in a long time, the world felt a little less heavy.
Choose Legolas…
The moon hung high above Helms Deep, its firey glow casting long shadows across the quiet path. There is not gentleness to the defensive walls, long overbearing shadows and echoes of people along the way. The world felt suspended in time, almost as if the very land itself were holding its breath.
You and Legolas had been inseparable since childhood, both of you the sons and daughters of Mirkwood, growing up together under the canopy of trees. Your bond was forged through shared experiences, and despite the distance and time that had passed, it had never weakened. But now, as adults, there was an undeniable pull between you—a pull that went beyond mere friendship.
The training sessions, the quiet moments in the forests, even the small glances shared across the campfire… everything had changed, and yet neither of you had spoken of it. Not aloud, at least.
Tonight, however, something felt different.
You had found yourself near what used to be the training grounds, as if drawn here by some invisible thread, and there he was—Legolas. He was standing by the fountain, his eyes focused on the water as he traced the surface with a delicate hand, lost in thought. His usual playful demeanor was gone; there was something more serious about him tonight, something that reflected his inner turmoil. He hadn’t noticed you at first, but you could sense the weight of his thoughts.
Taking a deep breath, you finally took a step forward, breaking the silence that had stretched between you both. “Legolas.”
He turned toward the sound of your voice, a soft smile curving on his lips as his blue eyes locked with yours. “Y/N,” he greeted, his voice warm but tinged with a quiet sadness. “I didn’t expect to find anyone out here at this hour.”
“You’re always out here,” you said, smiling faintly. “I thought maybe I would find you.”
He raised an eyebrow playfully, his expression softening. “And why is that?”
You paused for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts. The words you had been holding in for so long were suddenly rushing to the surface, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. You had always been able to talk to Legolas, but this—this was different. This was something more.
“You’ve been different lately,” you said softly, taking a step closer to him. “I’ve noticed it. It’s like you’ve been carrying something, something you’re not telling anyone.”
Legolas’s smile faded slightly, and he lowered his gaze, his fingers trailing across the stone of the fountain. “It’s nothing, Y/N,” he replied, his voice distant, guarded. “There are many burdens on my mind. The journey ahead, the war, you falling off a cliff… all of it.”
You could tell he was trying to deflect, but you knew him better than anyone. You had seen his strength, his bravery, but you had also seen the quieter side of him—the side that was vulnerable, that carried the weight of his responsibilities on his shoulders.
“It’s not just the war, is it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “There’s more to it, Legolas. I know you.”
He met your gaze, his eyes darkening with a mix of emotions—confusion, sadness, and something else. Something that made your heart ache.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you filled with unspoken words and memories. Then, finally, you couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Legolas…” you began, your voice shaking slightly. “I’ve spent so many years beside you, and I’ve always felt that connection, that bond. But lately… lately, I’ve realized something. Something I can’t ignore anymore.”
Legolas looked at you, his brow furrowing slightly, as though he were trying to read the emotions behind your words. “What is it, Y/N?” he asked, his voice soft, his gaze intense.
You took a step closer to him, feeling the rush of emotions swirl inside you—love, fear, longing. You had always been by his side, always supporting him, but now, in this moment, you could no longer pretend that your feelings were anything less than deep.
“I love you, Legolas,” you confessed, the words spilling from your lips before you could stop them. “I’ve always loved you, in a way that goes beyond friendship. I don’t know when it started, but it’s always been there, and I can’t pretend it’s not anymore.”
There it was—the truth, hanging in the air between you. You held your breath, waiting for his response, unsure of what would come next.
Legolas’s expression softened, a mixture of surprise and something deeper that you couldn’t quite place. He seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, as if trying to process the weight of what you had just said.
“I…” he began, his voice catching slightly. “I didn’t know.”
You nodded, your heart sinking. You knew he hadn’t expected this—hadn’t seen it coming. You had kept your feelings hidden for so long, not wanting to risk the precious bond you had built over the years.
“I didn’t want to ruin what we have,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “But I can’t keep it inside any longer.”
Legolas took a slow step toward you, his face softening as he reached for your hand, his fingers gently brushing over yours. “You never could ruin what we have, Y/N.” He said, his voice low but filled with warmth. “Our bond is not something so easily broken. But…” He paused, his gaze searching yours. “I’ve been a fool, too. I’ve been blind to what was right in front of me.”
Your breath caught in your throat as he stepped even closer, his presence overwhelming you with both comfort and uncertainty.
“I care for you more than words can express,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I never thought it could be more than that. I never allowed myself to see it. To see you, the way I should have.”
The ache in your chest lessened, replaced by something warmer, something that wrapped around your heart like a delicate, fragile thread. You stepped closer to him, feeling the distance between you shrink.
“So… what now?” you asked, your voice soft, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Legolas smiled, a slow, tender smile that was both a promise and a question all at once. “Now… we figure it out, together.”
And with that, the distance between you both disappeared as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was everything you had longed for—sweet, filled with the years of friendship and love, and yet, new and fresh, like the beginning of something both familiar and unknown.
When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Together,” you whispered.
“Together,” Legolas echoed softly, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close as the world around you seemed to fade away.
For the first time in so long, you felt complete—like the universe had finally aligned, and the love you had kept buried deep inside had finally found its place. And in the quiet of the night, beneath the stars, you knew that this was only the beginning of something beautiful.
Was definitely surprised to get two requests for this over the last few months, so I figured I should post them back to back.
There is no such thing as an easy life, but you always felt that you were under the spectrum of simple: not because you had money, but because your family had a position. People flocked to the family step, believing that if they curry favor then they suddenly hold the same position, but that is not how it works. It has never worked like that. You know who is there as a friend, and those who are phonies. No matter what, you will never accept strangers into your way of life-- they can bring as many gifts, propose in the most extravagant ways, but you will never see them as equals. No way to forget what you already know-- that they are just there to earn the right to be a part of your world.
“Y/N?” You glance upwards, placing your spoon onto the table as you smile up at your father.
“Yes?” There is a moment of hesitation, you watch his eyes flicker upwards and then back towards you-- the apple of his eye and only daughter. Yes, he has three sons who are all very successful in there fields, but it is you who brings him joy.
“Since you turned seventeen-” Your eyebrows furrowed together as you breathe in deeply, completely sure of one thing as your corset tightens as your lungs expand-- that he wants you to do the one thing you don’t want to do. “It is time for you to marry.” With that, you stand abruptly, dress moving and swishing with your movement as he places both hands on the table.
“You cannot expect-” He cuts you off, silencing you with his dark gaze-- disappointed, angry, emotions that you had never seen him express towards you. Then you are gone, unable to speak or force the words out of your throat. Unable to face him, so you disappear into the courtyard and into the night.
Bella stares at you with perplexion as you whisper out the words, it has been well over four hundred years—you were born in the early 16th century, in the center of Italian society. With time, you were able to move forward with your new immortal life, however, there will always be pain. You never got to apologize, or see your father again. You never saw your brothers. After that night, all you knew was the Volturi and their cruelty.
“Demetri was drawn to my gift.” You pause, trying to find the right words to explain what happened to you. How it changed you into the person you are today. “When I entered the courtyard, I thought about the possibility of marriage—I thought I wasn’t ready to give up my freedom, but I wanted to make my father proud. I was about to re-enter my house when I was grabbed, I couldn’t scream or breathe.” You purse your lips together tightly, trying to imagine a darker time in your existence than those first hundred years.
“Bella, I spent two decades trapped with the Volturi--just two… But I spent the next century rampaging through Europe and then the Americas. I wish I could say I didn’t remember, but I do--” You pause, your eyes flashing darkly as memories of your Ripper years invade your mind. “I was a Ripper. I didn’t kill to feed, I killed to kill. The hunt was fun, and the blood was just blood.” You shrug, even heavily pregnant—you can see Bella shifting as you speak hushly.
“I was worse than James.” You the knowing look in her eyes as she recalls one of the scariest moments, the fear. The way you knew how he thought, because it was you. It made sense.
“And we never thought twice.” Her sweet voice is soft, tender and loving—more kind than she’s with anyone else, but you aren’t just anyone.
“I’m not telling this to scare you, but you need to know what you’re getting yourself into. The risk that comes from being a vampire and the truth that you might not be epic like everyone else.” You pause, your gift is not unique but it does harness enough power. It’s a form of manipulation, you can say anything and it just sounds so true. So convincing, as long as you touch them. Your white gloved hands look so pristine against the dark blue of your pants. “You could be a Ripper. You could be anything, and I can’t let you believe that this is going to be easy.” Rosalie keeps you close, chin resting on your shoulder as your voice trails off and leaves Bella sullen, Edward will probably smack you upside the head later for scaring her, but it's the truth.
There’s comfort as you walk away from Bella, following the gentle tugs of Rosalie as she takes you towards the bedroom. She doesn’t say a word because that’s a part of the agreement, no one gets to say a word about the pain or the bad things you’ve done. You three decided that a long time ago, before Bella and before Forks.
Even as the door shuts, the click that eases your mind as she finally meets your eye. You imagine she had beautiful eyes as a human, violet as she called them, but you imagine them as gems. Too rare to be labeled with such an average color, because it's Rosalie. Your Rose. She smiles, you see the ghost of your past and the guilt rises until you are forced to look away.
Yet she does not keep your eyes linger on the floor for long as she lifts your chin so you look her in the eye, to her--you are beautiful. Her smile is not so sad, but it has warmed and that warmth attracts your hands to her waist. Beautiful. You trace her hips, fingers trailing as you imagine loving a more beautiful creature.
The innocence of touch.
You had thought it would be easy to forget the way her touch felt, to wallow in your self-pity a few minutes more, but she doesn’t let you. She never has. Her thumbs rest on the highest point of your cheeks and it silences the voices, and you cave. Your eyes shutting tightly as you learn into her touch, grabbing her tight and pulling her close. She sets you on fire, and you try to remember what it feels like to cry because that’s what you would be doing right now.
“I love you, Y/N.” She makes all the voices go quiet, “Us finding you was never a mistake.”
Your chest heaves, but it is. You are tainted, burned and scarred, skin raised from the abuse of your existence. Every fiber of your essence is stained red, it bleeds into your palms and now you’re this. The silent stoic. Rose is frigid. And Emmett, he’s just the purest form of all the good in the world. What a group you make… Such a broken mismatch trio, but it worked--they made you feel something.
Emmett’s arms sneak around the pair, his grasp is tight as he buries his face in your hair--pressing a kiss to the top of your head and then leaning over to press a kiss to Rose’s. “If I had known you both would be in your feels before I got back, I wouldn’t have left at all.” His voice is not judgemental or harsh, but it flows off his tongue and lulls your fear. It tucks it all away into a box and the lightness to his tone.
“Y/N told Bella.” He breathes out an ‘oh’: these are his girls, his beautiful and amazing wonders that sit before him every day. The ones that choose him everyday despite them being two gorgeous creatures that could run off together, but they don’t.
“I had to. She has to know.” Ripper’s aren’t rare at all, usually the Volturi takes care of them, but sometimes they don't. Sometimes they just let things fall as they do, and hope they don’t take it too far.
“Well we love you as you are.” Emmett doesn’t hesitate, and you smile reciting the mantra back.
Nothing quite like an evening at the mountain peak, especially with such a wonderful woman at your side. You glance over, noting the perfection that is your wife—nothing quite like it at all.
The way she tucked her legs up under her as she leaned into your side, her left hand twisting circles in your hair. Her right hand intertwined with yours. In the sunrise, you both shimmered, but she seemed to shine—her eyes shut as the sunlight brushes her cheeks. Is this heaven?
Your hum, seemed to call to her as she glances in your direction. Nothing short of perfection. "Are you ready to head back?" You shook your head, adamant that you want to stay—your cheek against her hair, enjoying the dance of sun off the blonde curls.
"I could stay like this forever..." She smiles, you hum again and return the gesture—your fingers tightening their grasp as she slides closer.
A scream cuts through the silence, splitting the mountains in two as a breeze shifts the air. The thick scent of blood that sings like a song you once sang.
"Y/N?" You look back, realizing you had stood and were now at the cliffs edge—you swallow, there is concern in those amber eyes. An emotion that often clings to her, she worries too much, but now—in this moment, you can't explain the song. You tug her hand, eyes shifting in the direction of the scent—begging her listen, pleading her to hear your pleas.
Rosalie always understood, but now, she hesitates. You were older and more compassionate, you had more control—more experience. You were simply a better person.
In this moment, you felt different.
She notes the purse of your lips, the way your eyes shifted ever so slightly. She notes the way you tugged her hand again, this time more forcefully. Ready to take the leap, with or without her, and she'd never let you jump alone.
That was the day you found Emmett, you can recall the bloodlust with a perfect clarity, until you saw the way Rosalie looked at him. Even in that moment, even knowing the song his blood sang—you were content in waiting back.
Watching as her gentle fingers brushed his curls and whispered comforts as she carried him. Now as you watch them, you smile fondly at the pair—embracing the chaos of their many personalities left you whole in ways you did not understand.
Ways you felt you did not deserve.
"Y/N!" Emmett makes grabby hands in your direction, the way Rose was tucked in his chest already as he lounged across the bed.
You smile, notating the way he seemed to brighten with the gesture. The way his blood once sang, now it was simply him. Rosalie, she was your lover, a mate, and Emmett was your singer. A connection that could hardly be matched, except by a mate. It seemed perfect when you all connected, falling into rhythm like a symphony.
.
.
.
"So Y/N can't talk?" Bella asked Edward, as he explained his family dynamic—one of the elder Cullens, you didn't go to school like the rest despite being similar in age.
"More like doesn't. Y/N wasn't changed by Carlisle and only joined him a few months after he left the Volturi—a lot of their human memories are fuzzy, but they were maimed in an experimental procedure." Bella's eyebrows furrowed, trying to imagine why you wouldn't speak—you seemed so sweet, but never spoke a word.
"Ho-?" The word didn't even finish before Edward interrupted her.
"Someone crudely removed their vocal cords among other things, so when they turned. They healed, but—" Edward inhales, glancing over at Bella in the passenger seat.
"But they never quite recovered. Y/N is roughly 200, but only found Rosalie in 1933 and Emmett 2 years later. She spent her first 100 years alone and unheard, Rose helped her find a voice again." Bella notes his smile at his adopted siblings.
"They still don't talk?" He shakes his head.
"But they sing."
Rosalie could hear the velvety sound of your voice, it seemed to carry warmth and comfort. Every word echoes off the walls of the cottage as the rain patters on top of the porch roof—you spoke next to nothing, but your voice seemed to bury itself in song.
There were no reservations, the piano seemed to harmonize with the rain. Rosalie leaned her head onto the doorframe, just listening as everything poured out of your soul.
You never let Rosalie walk alone, every strain and stress was your burden to share. Your love was never questionable to her, held no strings or stipulations—she never had to earn it.
She felt Emmett’s presence, close, but too close. His eyes shimmering a brilliant red, you were quick to bring him here. The little getaway cabin where you spent many years with Rosalie, enjoying her without the shame. “Have they always talked?”
He couldn’t remember ever hearing you say a word, but he remembered your face with perfect detail. The way you smiled. How Rosalie gravitated to you.
“It’s complicated.” She smiles softly, never looking away. “They’ll sing everything you’ll ever need to hear.” You use ASL mostly, Rosalie had taken it upon herself to learn years ago, but you kept to yourself.
Emmett had found this new life complicated, it felt intricate and challenging, but these two women. You and Rose. It didn’t seem impossible.
“It’s about you isn’t it?” She hmmms, you smile through the lyrics—playing out the notes. Emmett gestures, “The song. It’s about you.” Rosalie’s expression is soft as she looks at you.
“Maybe it’s about you too.”
Looking back, you’re almost certain that was the moment Emmett realized he would never be alone again. That he would always have someone on his side, no matter what.
Introspectively, you knew from the first minute, he was simply meant to be in your life. The same with Rosalie, she had been changed with the intent of being for Edward (a perverted thought that bothered you even now), but once you saw her. Heard those screams—not even Carlisle could deny it.
You didn’t move for three days as she begged you for death, and the silence that followed her change. “I’m so sorry he did this to you.” she recalls the whisper as she met your eye, “I never would have wanted this for you.”
It was the first and only time you ever spoke to her, your voice was soft and tender—it felt broken, she could feel the broken in your tone. Now she understands you more, loves you deeper than then.
“Rose?” Emmett looks up at her, before glancing at you across the room. There’s something so curious about quiet need held within his eyes. “Y/N?” You look back, practically coming to them instantly—you bent to their needs at all hours.
Emmett folded your hand in his and then hers, the dynamic felt natural as he summoned some courage. “I want to go with the others to school, with you Rose.” You smile, not feeling at all bothered that he felt ready to explore himself more. To venture away from the home the three of you built—in these four walls, it was just the three of you.
You nod, folding your other hand over his with eagerness—you place it over your heart, knowing you wouldn’t join them.
“I don’t want you to feel left—” You don’t even let him finish as you shake your head, moving your joined hands over his own heart. “But—” You lean up to give him a quick kiss, “Thank you. For always loving me.”
You feel Rosalie snake her arm around you, enjoying the way she leans down to kiss the top of your head. Was Emmett always this sentimental, no, but he always meant it.
••SMUT BELOW••
Rosalie laid out beneath you, lips hovering above her clit as your tongue rolled across the sensitive point. Your thumbs rolled circles in her thighs as your face buried itself in between, the soft pull of her fingers in your hair encouraged you. Her back arches as her body shivers beneath your mouth, she tasted like perfection.
The soft moans you elicited from her etch into your brain, as you pull away—her legs draped across shoulders and grin as you lick your lips. Even without needing breath, her chest heaves—the soft mounds of flesh grabbing your attention as they rise and fall in perfect harmony.
"Do you like what you see?" It felt like a dare, and she swears your eyes seem to come alight as you drop her legs and drag yourself upwards between them. Your bare stomach pressed against hers as you hover above: "Cmon love, I'm not going to break." You lower yourself, keeping your eyes locked on her—memorizing the face she makes as your lips lock over her nipple, tongue flicking as you grasp the other. Her eyes close, lips parting to let out another moan.
Letting go of her breast, you let your fingers drag across her soft skin—not an imperfection in sight. Without a second to breathe, you palm her mound with your hand—resting your middle finger just above the clit. Giving it just enough of a touch, to remind her exactly what it means to be yours. "Please..." You comply with the plea, sliding your finger downwards to touch her entrance before sliding inside.
Rosalie didn't shy away from moaning your name as you work her entrance, pacing yourself as you begin to kiss the other breast before bringing your lips up to kiss. Hoping she can taste herself on you.
You start slow with only a single finger, only entering half an inch before removing. After a minute, you place a second finger—driving it deeper as her lips part. Sweet noises bringing your closer as you increase your pace, working your thumb along her clit as you drive three fingers into her.
Large hands reach around your chest as the mattress shifts under Emmett's added weight. He palms your breasts in his hands, thumb and forefingers rolling your nipples. "I go out hunting, and almost miss all the fun." His tone is light as you smile at him, retracting your fingers and bringing them to his lips. He wraps his mouth around them, before smiling—looking down at Rosalie who was still breathless. "Oh Rose, you taste wonderful." He leans down to place a kiss between her thighs, never breaking eye contact as she bends to them both.
They were safe. They were warm and good, and everything icy about her melted beneath their fingertips.
Emmett wraps his hand around yours as he brings it back to her pussy, "I love when you do that.”
Your legs on either side of her thighs, one hand bracing while the other works Rosalie. You feel Emmett lay down on the end of the bed before his lips kiss your entrance. You shiver in anticipation, feeling him grasp your hips and pull you lower as his tongue moves through your folds and onto your clit with precision.
Rosalie came quickly again, her insides quivering as kisses you deeply enjoying the way your moans feel against her lips. She could feel your pleasure in every hesitation when his tongue hit the right spot. You felt warm like the world was on fire, as you remove your fingers from Rosalie and bury them in her hair.
Skin to skin, and you still attempted to bring her closer. Her breasts against yours, you felt high as you came. Breathing heavily as Emmett enjoyed every drop of your climax, loving your taste as he slid out from under you.
The mattress shifts as he lays beside you both, spooning your forms as Rosalie moves to lay inbetween. Her facing Emmett as you spoon her from behind—you can think of no better place than behind Rosalie Hale.
“Remember our first?” The memory lights up your mind as you recall your first time with the pair. You’d been with Rosalie before, but with them both, everything felt like it clicked into place.
Emmett was gentle with his touch, hesitant to get close to either of you knowing your past. But he wasn’t them, and as you guided his hands to grip onto Rosalie’s hips—you felt his confidence growing.
You smile up at him, sitting up with your head resting against your fist. Giving a soft nod, Emmett cannot explain how it feels to love you both.
It felt like a warm spring after a cold winter. A soft autumn breeze to cool the summer sun. It was the lull of water against the sand, or the roar of the falls against the rocks.
Emmett didn’t have many words and was never one for poetry, but that seemed to be a good start.
You were starved of both ocean and sky, born a Velaryon who could not reside at Driftmark and a Targaryen whose dragon egg did not hatch. By some miracle you had found sanity within Kings Landing—the whispers were loud, but your name eased off their lips once you came into yourself. The eyes and beauty of your mother, but the skin and curls of your father.
Similar to your cousins, Rhaena and Baela—you were clearly the only of your siblings to be true born.
“Aemond…” You note how when you say his name, his jaw tightens. “Do not make me say it…” He doesn’t speak, he simply looks further than you could see. You’re losing him to his own mind.
“Aemond! You are every bit as sweet as you are bitter, I do not—” The words get all caught up in your throat, “No. I will not let you believe otherwise.” Something in that moment left Aemond still, but his gaze seems closer. As if he could still see you.
“I may be of my mother, but even more than that, I am yours. What can they say of that desire? That need?”
“You are meant to marry Lord Stark…” Every word is forced, like it had been locked up in a box and your closeness had set them free.
“To the seven hells with marriage. I speak only of my heart, which has been taken with you for many moons.” You had gotten so close to him that he wasn’t sure he knew how to breathe properly. Your hands ran up to his neck, fingers resting upon his shoulders. “Let me hold you. On the eve of this wedding, let me feel you beneath my touch.”
If it were anyone else, Aemond would have taken them there—innocent or not, but this was you.
Y/N Velaryon. 
“If I am to have you, it will only be as my wife.”
.
.
.
You were young and naive then, to marry Aemond was one of the worst mistakes you could make. He was as much intoxicating as a glass of wine, a bitter taste upon your tongue. He was the one thing you should not have, and yet you did exactly as you should not.
Deep in your womb, you carried his child but the sorrow of your loss burns deeper. Lucerys was gone. You had no explanation as to how it happened, only that he fell in Shipbreaker Bay. The same place that Aemond just so happened to be—a coincidence you could not blindly ignore.
“Y/N.” You turn your eyes to his voice, knowing that your next words would be the last you’d share with him. “My love.”
You were a prisoner of war, with child and no dragon to carry you to dragonstone.
“Do not flatter me with kindness, I fear that I know what you have done…” You purse your lips, a tightness existing with your chest you could not fathom. “I wish I did not, but I do…” Meeting his eye did not seem possible—a marriage you hoped would mend the broken pieces between your family and his, it shattered. So quickly, slipping right through your hands.
The swell of your belly was clearer as you stood, finally finding the courage to look at him which made you more certain. “I stood aside as Aegon took my mother’s birthright. I thought, perhaps peace is still possible.” You were not idle in your words, you spoke against usurping when you could. No one listened to the 2nd born daughter, but you did as you could.
“But to kill my brother, Aemond, that’s an unforgivable act.”
He does not defend himself, knowing it would only push you further from him. You already exist so far. “He is hardly your brother.”
You leave the shared room without as much as another word, making a slow trek through the halls.
.
.
.
Ser Erryk Cargyll came to your room in the quiet of the night obscured by a cloak of black. Shrouding your face and silvery hair beneath the shadow it casts, and until you are through the gates—you are unable to breath, it felt as though every step left you a second away from collapsing.
You were afraid.
“We’ll make it to dragonstone before daybreak.” The boat rocked with the waves, it seemed to rest and roll in the gentlest of ways—the trip was kind to you.
“Why did you come back?” You seem him adjust, the way he seems uncomfortable under your gaze.
“Her majesty was distraught knowing you were stuck in Kings Landing.”
“Thank you, Ser Erryk.” He kept quiet, knowing you recalled the last meeting you shared. The quiet silence after you confessed your fear to him, when Viserys death was certain. Those words rested upon his shoulders for many moons, you were kind to him and he felt guilt knowing he left you.
.
.
.
Dragonstone was quiet, it seemed no one was within its walls—the unrest ran deeper than you expected. Even here. “Your highness.” Set Erryk bows and leaves you to your rooms, tucked away from prying eyes. Where you inhale deeply, even as the tears begin to fall—like a weight both relieved itself and landed back upon your shoulders.
“Your highness, the council is meeting.” You nod, unable to recall how much time has passed since arrived.
“Has my mother returned?” The lady shakes her head, to which you nod and rise from your chair. Adorned in your house colors, you make your way to the council room.
. . .
“Lady Y/N of house Velaryon.” You did not wait for them to finish announcing to enter the room, your presence seeming to shock the men within the room.
“Your highness, we did not expect you to make the trip to dragonstone in your condition.” You did not crack a smile, but instead take your place at the table.
“My condition is of no concern to you, but I ask, what is the state of this council that you would meet without the presence of the Queen, or the Prince royal?”
“Our forces require direction, and even with their unplanned absence, direction must still be taken.”
“If you’re not careful, one might think you see yourself above your Queen.”
None said a word, as you overlooked them even this close to labor—you encouraged a deep respect from the Lords, you knew why. You were true born—a sea of fire and stone.
Labor came quick in the night, dragon stone echoes your cries as you bare down with hands tight on the bedframe. You sent away your ladies and the nurses, their hands left unease as you recall your aunts passing. Your grandmother. Your mother.
The women who passed too quick as they took up the battle of baring a babe.
No husband. You think back to when he would smile at you, the way it sent a shockwave from head to toe. He used to love you more than power.
No mother. She mourned Lucerys still, absent from court and no way to tell her.
You feel another wave of pain run through your body, pressure building in your core as grit your teeth.
“Nurse!” Your voice quakes, it seems shattered by the pain. “Please! I think it’s time!” They seemed to manifest, figures appearing at your side as one of the older ladies lays hands upon your shoulders. Her eyes meeting yours.
“Milady, this is going to hurt, you will bleed and cry, and scream. And that is fine.” You nod, another wave of pain running through your muscles as they contract. “But I won’t leave your side, I will carry you through, so for now—just breathe.” She wipes away the sweat, “Prepare to push.” You nod again, inhaling deeply and note the way your breath feels as it leaves your lips.
Finding comfort in a stranger. “Her highness is ready.” No husband. No mother. Just you, a bed, and nurses. The nurse guides your hands to the frame, and you trust her—feeling her hand rest just beneath your belly button. The other on your back, as another nurse rests a cold cloth against your face.
“Now, when I say push. I need you to give it everything.” You exhale, putting your weight into the bed—centering your feet. Saying a word a quick prayer. You feel it start in your abdomen and spread, that wave of pain. “Now.” You release a guttural scream, one that comes from the deepest parts of your soul.
“Very good.” You lean forward, head against the wooden pillar—“Prepare.” Your face contorts as you feel the relief fade into pain once more, “Now.”
Aemond takes your hand quietly as the party fades off in the distance, the affair had become very real as he spins you into his arms.
“Perhaps as your husband, I would dance with you until dawn?” It was playful as he begins to sway, the music seeming to be hushed by the walls.
“Perhaps as your wife, I would never leave your side?” He smiles down at you, as you were the only person who always saw him.
“Perhaps as your husband, I would shower you in all the love you deserve?” You return the smile.
“As your wife, I’ll kiss you like this.” You lean up to meet his lips, one that grows deeper as his shock wears off. Neither ended the gesture for a minute, and neither said a word as Aemond left quickly. Your eyes widening as you realized you were alone.
It wasn’t until that night, in the darkest time, when a knock came from the door. It echoed as the palace slept.
“Aemond?” You look at the man beside him, “What?”
“Marry me?” Your eyes widen, a priest and a ring—one that shines in the warm light of candles. “If I am to have only one—” he takes your hand and slides the ring onto your finger. “Then I shall have you before I cannot.”
You brush the outside of your finger along the small and supple cheek of your babe, their sweet eyes still shut as the lull of their breath calms your soul. Something so small, and precious—“Laenor.”
A boy. An heir. You hum a soft song, as you take on the name of your son. His silvery tendrils of his hair giving away his heritage—another Targaryen prince.
“Sweet girl.” Your eyes shift upwards, smiling at your grandmother who enters the room with a steadfast gentleness. “Why did you not call on me?”
You glance down: “He came so quick.” The bed dips as she eases beside you, looking at him. “How perfect is he?”
“That he is.” She holds out her hands, and you pass the sweet child to her without fear. “What is his name?” You watch as she cuddles him into her, with the knowledge that this is her blood before her.
You smile: “Laenor.” Her eyes widen before settling back on the babe, your son.
“A strong name. Just as his grandsire.”
•
•
•
“To claim a dragon requires more than blood.” You hear the echo of your mother’s voice, “It requires sheer will.”
You imagined the day you faced a dragon, you would be claiming Seasmoke, but face to face with Vahaemion—the ancient beast of caverns. She hid deep in the mountains many years ago, and recently was spotted nearby.
You never thought you would take the leap, but you did, staring down the beast—you keep yourself upright.
“Lykiri…” She was once ridden, A Targaryen war dragon— “Lykiri Vahaemion.” She growls, but bends to the will of words. Lowering her head but never quite relaxing.
You do not hesitate, “Dohaeras.” You hold out your hand, “Lykiri.”
Sir Criston Cole sees a dragon breech the sky—l sporting a rider of silver hair. The dragon is large as well, with scales the color of soot. His eyes widen, one notable trait being the silvery purple scales that shimmer across the dragons chest—Vehaemion.
A bell rings out as you circle Kings Landing, your eyes set upon the balcony of your shared room. Knowing he would rise to see the commotion, called upon as a protector.
He sees you, instantly drawn as he makes contact and for a moment, you think he smiles. Upon neutral soil, you wait upon the cliffs edge for his arrival. Knowing it is time to face your sin.
“I always knew you’d claim a dragon.” His voice is as you remember, although it used to sound sweeter. “You and I are alike in that way.”
“I had hoped you’d ask of our son.” Your face remains stone, Aemond has trouble reading your expression.
His face brightens in a way that you do not appreciate, “A son?”
“He’s healthy. A beautiful boy.” You add quietly, knowing just as well that he would not care if it were a girl. “The Aemond I loved would have asked.”
“Laenor.” But he knows that, know you enough to know that is his name. He did shy from the idea, did not seem phased. For a moment you saw, Aemond. “Come home, Y/N?”
You shake your head, “Aemond I can’t. You’ve spilled too much blood. My blood.” Your grandmother. Your brother. There is too much.
“Y/N.” And for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the way he says your name. “It’s war.” Even now he admits it, he’d be on his knees if you asked. You are strong, look strong—dragon rider suits you. For a minute, you kiss him and let yourself have a moment with your husband. With the first and only love you’ve had. Just this moment.
You pull away, “you’re right. It is war.” You mount your dragon, leaving a part of you to die in that mountain. Knowing the next time you saw Aemond, you would be on opposite sides of the field.
