– 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 || 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐞
SUMMARY: The Pack always knew imprints were a sacred thing. But when you're hurt, the imprint bond blurs the line between life and death. It makes for some interesting conversations with ghosts from the past. || multi chapter-fic PAIRINGS: Paul Lahote x fem!Reader TAGS/WARNINGS: Clearwater!Reader; human!Reader; domestic fluff; hurt
2.6k words || Chapter One {You are Here} || Chapter Two || Chapter Three (New!🐺)
Your siblings could tear into flesh, could break his bones if they so wished (and Leah had wished, had almost done it too before Sam intervened)–and yet, Paul considered you the most dangerous Clearwater out of all of Harry and Sue's children.
And it wasn't because you could flit between girl and wolf or because your teeth could rip into jugulars, but because you were you.
[Name] Clearwater: daughter to Harry and Sue, born a year after Leah and two years before Seth.
Before that night, your parents never intended for you to be keyed into the tribe's secret. It was only ever meant to be Seth, who they all anticipated would phase eventually.
But then Leah exploded into a four-legged beast with fanged teeth and matted fur, had shredded the Couch you'd been sitting on–and gods, if you hadn't moved when you did her claws would've gone deeper in your shoulder than it had–before Seth shifted, too.
The night had been a mess, to sum it up simply.
The pack link was overwhelmed by a maelstrom of grief-anger-hurt-blame that Sam ordered those who could get caught up in it all to phase out.
To give your siblings some semblance of calm, however futile, and to make sure you and Sue had help dealing with the aftermath.
The last thing the Pack needed was for someone to visit in the morning to find half the house's occupants missing, one partially mauled and the place looking as though it had been burglarised.
So Paul had phased out along with Jake. Jake, who came with his Dad's strength and his Mom's warmth that it brought Sue out of her shocked stupor and Paul, who didn't know what else to do other than turn your way.
Across the room, you were using the meat of your thighs to push the shredded couch towards the door. Single-handedly steering the couch outside whilst being mindful of your left arm which was bandaged over your chest, smelling of chemicals and iron.
He had expected tears. Had expected to scent the air for undertones of shock, fear or distrust as you grappled with the reality of seeing your sister and brother turning into something dangerous.
Of having two strange boys who could do the same clambering into your humble four-bedroom abode to see if you or your Mom needed help, but there was none of that.
Instead, you continued moving, holding yourself up by sheer force of will that Paul’s wolf stirred beneth his skin. Curious. Intrigued.
You hadn’t acknowledged him nor Jake when they had come in, but Paul moved toward you anyway. Body on autopilot as he followed an invisible path his wolf already seemed to be on.
"Here, I can help you with that," he said, bending down to lift one end of the couch.
On the other end of the long couch, you’d glanced at him for only a moment. A single moment to thank him politely, face solemn and eyes deep and soulful, that Paul struggled not to collapse to his knees then and there.
Because in that split moment, when your eyes met his for the very first time since he shifted, Paul’s universe ended and then began again with you at the centre of it all.
[Name] Clearwater: his imprint—his very human imprint—more dangerous than wolves and bloodsuckers combined after only a single glance.
After your siblings, your arm, your Dad—Paul thought you would stay far away from the Pack, maybe even La Push altogether.
Maybe you would find a job in Forks or somewhere else and hightail it out of there. Or maybe you would apply for a scholarship to some college on the other side of the country.
Instead you had done the least expected thing.
Despite what Paul thought, what he feared, you stayed; and then, you started coming around.
First to Sam and Emily’s where you spoke to his Alpha for an hour the first time you came, and then to Emily during all the visits after.
Sam was good at shielding his thoughts most days, but the gratitude and brotherly love he felt for you echoed in the bond for days after the first visit.
Every now and then you’d head over to drop off some spare clothes for Seth, laughing at one of Jared’s dry jokes before engaging in some light conversation.
About the Pack, about your siblings and how they were adjusting.
Their lives, Paul's life, before and after.
When Jake sheepishly admitted to falling behind in school, you’d settled on the dining room table, ushering him and Embry to do the same, too, as you carved out some time to come over and help them.
You even hung around on days Leah ran patrol, staying through dinner to act as a buffer between her, Sam and Emily when the tension grew too thick for the rest of them to breathe through the evening.
Paul had done a good job existing on the sidelines during it all, respecting Leah’s don’t you fucking force her into loving you by telling her, you sick bastard and Seth’s kinder plea to let you get used to the pack and him first without the weight of an imprint just yet.
But then one day you met his gaze, saw the poorly concealed reverence, devotion and warmth and instantly put the pieces together.
And because Paul knew better than to assume what you would do after all the times he had thought wrong, he did nothing.
He didn't think, didn't panic, didn't fear. Even when you asked if he imprinted, voice soft and eyes searching, and he told you the truth, Paul did nothing but be as he always was when it came to you.
Open, honest, and trusting that you wouldn’t hurt him if you felt even a fraction of what he felt.
And his ancestors must have seen fit to reward him for it because after he was done explaining, you stayed.
You stayed; and then, you gave him a chance.
The red-haired leech was still on the loose, and the pack's energy waned the longer she danced around them. Not that they weren’t trying.
She was simply too fast, too slippery, constantly evading them as they hunted her to no end. And since they hadn’t caught her, Sam figured it was best to amp up patrol to four per shift.
Even if meant older wolves like himself, Paul, Leah and Jared had to double the hours of their still-in-school members to compensate.
Paul understood, of course, but considering Leah couldn’t handle dealing with Sam it was Paul who was stuck being berated and vilified by her any time she so much caught an echo of you in his thoughts.
And Paul thought about you. Constantly.
The only reprieve he had was in moments like this, when their shift was over and Leah ran home along with Jared and Jake all the while you drove over to deliver Seth’s clothes for the following morning.
But Paul was exhausted tonight, so much so that he could barely keep his eyes open as you cuddled on Sam and Emily’s couch.
“Stay,” he murmurs lowly, being mindful of Emily sleeping in the other room. Sluggishly, he tightens his arms around your slender waist, a half-hearted attempt to get you to sink into him further, not that you would.
You may have been on good terms with Sam and Emily, but Leah was still your sister.
And even if you wanted to fall asleep encased in your boyfriend’s heavily corded arms, you wouldn’t.
“You know I can’t, baby,” you laugh, quietly, stroking a thumb over the apple of his cheek.
Your boyfriend chuffs at your words, blearily opening his eyes, before shifting forward so that that you can cradle his jaw.
A tide of emotion rises beneath your breast because even with everything happening, you’re so grateful for these stolen moments that you lean in, all petal lips and strawberry-flavoured gloss and Paul almost groans when your lips meet in a soft, unhurried kiss.
If it were up to him, there would be no red-haired leech and golden-eyed freaks. Just you and him and the taste of strawberries forever.
"I also think you should just crash here tonight," you tell him when you come up for air, slowly beginning to untangle yourself from his embrace.
For a moment, the muscles in Paul’s arm grow tense, and you know your boyfriend enough to know he’s about to protest. Or worse, get up to follow you.
Because if you can’t stay, then he’s going to force himself to escort you home anyway, even when he’s dead on his feet.
Gently, your hand drifts to the centre of his chest to keep him down.
“Em should have someone close by, and I’m going home to Leah anyway,” you remind him, lips curling at his small pout.
"And you can't even open your eyes properly, so I'll be back in the morning. Okay?"
Ordinarily, your shapeshifter boyfriend would move your hand away, before insisting he at least keep you company on your car ride home.
But as always, you’re right.
Paul’s tired. The kind of tired that should be impossible for someone like him, but it’s true.
So when you lean forward to press another kiss to his jaw, murmur quietly one more time for him to stay, that you’ll be okay, Paul relents.
The scent of you in the air, on his lips, is dizzying enough as it is. How can he possibly protest when all of it makes Paul want to–
"–M'okay," he slurs, eyes fluttering once, then twice, before shutting completely.
When he comes to, Paul remembers the scent of strawberries, your honeyed laughter and the lingering warmth of your touch.
It's enough to make him smile, before he blinks. In shock, then in confusion, turning around to take in his new surroundings.
Weird, he thinks.
Usually, when he dreams, he dreams of you.
On the beach, laughing as you kick up saltwater, before Paul runs after you and down the shore. Under the stars, a heated mess of tangled-up limbs, Paul in you and the feeling of you everywhere.
Sometimes, he even dreams of the two of you, together and years older, a little boy with his face and your smile held in your arms while a younger girl made in your image clutches to his pants.
But this time, though, there's none of that.
This time, he's in the middle of the forest, legs planted as if he were a tree himself.
All around him, there is a cloud of mist. Thick and encompassing, strange if not for the unnatural emptiness of the forest.
There are no cicadas clicking. No birds chirping. The forest, forever filled with even the quietest of whispers and groans, is dead silent.
That is, until Paul hears it.
Somewhere in the distance, a single voice hums something old, something ancient, the voice swelling into a song that shakes Paul to his core because he’s not alone.
He’s not alone.
The realisation is enough to spur him forward, Paul managing to take a step forward and then another, walking slowly through winding trees and thick mist before he ends up in a wide clearing where a bonfire has been lit.
Before the bonfire, still singing, sits a lone woman dressed in a traditional buckskin dress with a gentle face and two long braids.
She makes no move to indicate that she’s heard him. But the fire illuminates her face with an otherworldly glow, accentuates the way her throat flexes as she sings, the words sounding clearer now that he’s right in front of her.
It’s an old song, he remembers, one that has endured time and colonisation and everything in between.
He contemplates interrupting her, at first, uneasy by the strangeness of this situation. But then he inches closer, his wolf urging him to sit on the empty log across from her.
And so the woman sings, and Paul waits and he listens, because something in him, something instinctual, pulls at him.
Tells him that somehow this is real, that this is important.
And because the last time he felt this way was in the moments before he looked at you, Paul waits for the song to finish.
“The youngest of my sons made this song,” says the woman says after she stops singing, still watching the fire burn.
“The song opens up a door between your world and here, which my son used to communicate with us.
My older sons would listen to him with me here when he sang. They would even sing with him before he joined us, and they all left this place together."
The flames burn a little brighter, and the woman falters. Tilts her head, as if listening for something only she can hear.
And when she hears it, whatever it is, Paul catches her expression flicker in the firelight (grim, resigned) before she resumes, this time a little more hurried than before.
"But I didn't follow. I couldn't," the woman says, finally lifting her head to meet Paul's gaze from across the fire.
"Not without Taha-Aki."
And oh, Paul thinks, struck dumb.
Because painted in shadows made by the flames, the third wife–a woman he's only ever known through stories and legends–stares at him solemnly, the echo of infinity seared into her gaze.
“My husband’s spirit still roams your world," she says, ignoring Paul's clear shock.
“He guides all spirit warriors here when their time comes, and their imprints, too. This is where they rest for a while before they move on. But never does my husband come with them, though. Too ashamed, I think."
"Ashamed?” Paul asks, speaking for the first time before he stops himself.
The woman before him and Taha Aki were more than wife and husband.
They were imprinted, tethered together by the same forces that brought Paul to you. The same forces that wouldn't have put her in his dream unless there was something wrong with the imprint.
And there could only be something wrong with the imprint if something was wrong with...
"Why am I here?" he asks slowly, dread wrapping itself around his heart–painful and suffocating–as the third wife's face turns sad. Pitying.
…No.
"Why am I here?" he repeats, this time louder and more panicked as he surges to his feet.
Through the fire, the third wife stares at his face, her expression a little more troubled, a little more human, before the truth splits the air and his chest open.
"–Because my husband will soon guide your imprint here, and if you want to save her,"
NoNoNONONO
"–than you must to stop him before he succeeds."
A loud crash sounds in the distance, so loud that Paul slams his hands against his ears and grits his teeth, trying to convince himself that this isn't real.
That it's not the sound of your car folding in on itself that he hears in the distance, glass shattering into thousands of pieces.
It can't be, he thinks, agonised; and yet, it is.
Because the truth is that you're out there, somewhere in the wreckage of it all.
Paul knows it.
Feels it.
"How do I do it?!" he cries, turning to the ancient woman with wild, frenzied eyes when his ears won’t stop ringing.
(You’re screaming).
"How do I stop him?!"
(You’re crying).
The third wife at least has the decency to look regretful, before turning to look over her shoulder and into the long and dark forest.
“Have you not been listening?” she answers, cryptically.
And before Paul can snarl, beg, whatever he needs to do to get more than that (because what kind of bullshit answer is that), a howl echoes in the distance.
On autopilot, his body begins to shake, tremor, the air beginning to shift all around them before–
"Trust me Paul Lahote, you’ll know what to do," the third wife says, still looking into the unknown.
“–But you need to wake up. Now."
When I tell you the brainrot would not leave me alone for this one. But anyway, please feel free to comment, tag & repost. 🐺
©️ @intothemultifandom 2025
Next Chapter >>