We're The Heroes That Became Legends

The Creeper.

Anyone else would’ve run. Would’ve screamed. But not you.

Because he was yours. And someone had touched what was yours.

“Hey,” you whispered as you knelt beside him, brushing damp strands of hair away from his bruised face. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

His eyes flickered open, wild and red-rimmed, full of pain and confusion. He snarled low in his throat, instinct sharp even now — but it softened the moment he saw you.

He always softened for you.

“Easy,” you said, already pulling your shirt off to press against the gaping wound in his side. “They got you good, huh?”

He didn’t speak — he rarely did — but the growl he let out when you touched the broken edge of his wing was pure agony.

Your jaw clenched. You didn’t cry. Not for him. You got angry.

“Hunters?” you asked. “Or someone stupid enough to think they’d get famous?”

The Creeper gave the barest nod — blood slick and steaming under your hands.

“Okay,” you whispered, stroking his cheek with your knuckles. “They’re dead. I don’t care if they’re breathing right now. They’re already dead.”

He stared at you like you were the monster now — and maybe, when it came to him, you were.

You got him inside. You carried him, even when your muscles screamed and his talons gouged your shoulder. You didn’t flinch. He was too important. Too yours.

You cleaned the wounds with shaking hands. Ripped your own blankets to bandage him. When he growled and flinched from the pain, you leaned close and kissed his temple.

“I’ll kill anyone who touches you again,” you swore, voice low, full of heat and something darker. “You think I won’t? Try me.”

The Creeper reached for you with one bloodied claw — not to push you away.

To hold on.

He didn’t sleep. Not really. But he lay still under your watch, letting your hands soothe over ruined wings and split skin. Letting your scent settle around him. Letting himself be cared for.

He’d never had that before.

Possession was his game — but you flipped it. Made it mutual.

By the time dawn crept in, you were curled up beside him, one arm slung over his chest, heartbeat slow and steady. You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, lips brushing over scars and blood.

“You belong to me,” you whispered. “So you don’t get to die. Got it?”

He didn’t answer.

But his hand found yours, claws barely brushing your knuckles, and squeezed.

And you swore the next person who came for him would be your victim.