#dragonbornreader

Synopsis:

One month in the Blood Moon pack, and (Y/N) is still a dragon among wolves — scales beneath her skin, fire in her throat, and a song no one understands. When Erik sends her to meet twin pop sensations Markus and Martinus, she expects awkward human confusion, but instead they see her fire and beg her to teach them the music that burns in her blood. Now she's torn between the wild, the spotlight, and two boys who might be the first people to ever truly hear her — if she can stop being afraid of what happens when she finally lets go. 🔥🐉

Pairings:

Dragonborn!Reader x Markus & Martinus (slow burn)

Dragonborn!Reader x Erik (platonic / found family)

Dragonborn!Reader x Alpha Kael (complicated tension)

The autumn air was a blade against her throat—cold, sharp, and tasting of decay. (Y/N)'s boots crushed through the carpet of crimson and gold leaves scattered across the forest floor, each crackle and crunch reverberating through her heightened senses like distant thunder. One month. Thirty days since the Blood Moon pack had accepted her into their fold. Thirty nights of lying awake in a den that smelled of pine and musk and wolf—never smoke and brimstone. The restlessness hadn't faded; it had metastasized, growing roots deep in her chest where her second heart beat a rhythm that didn't match the wolves' steady pulse.

They don't feel it. They don't feel the pull.

The urge to sing burned beneath her sternum like embers smothered too long, a low, persistent flame that refused to be extinguished. It wasn't the simple howling of wolves—that was just communication, just instinct. This was something ancient. Something that had been woven into her very DNA by ancestors who had soared through skies humans could only dream of. The melody coiled in her throat, a serpent of sound waiting to be unleashed.

She stopped at the forest's edge, where the skeletal fingers of bare branches reached toward a sky the color of old bone. The pale October sunlight filtered through, casting dappled shadows across her face. Without permission, without warning, a soft, longing hum escaped her lips—a single, keening note that seemed to make the very air around her vibrate in sympathetic resonance.

Just once. Just once, I want to sing without feeling like I'm screaming into the void.

"You're doing it again."

The familiar voice sliced through her reverie, and (Y/N) turned to find Erik leaning against a gnarled oak, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His wolf's eyes caught the thin light, glinting like chips of amber. He wasn't angry—she'd have felt that heat radiating from him if he were. Instead, his expression was lined with something that looked almost like weariness. Like he'd watched her do this a hundred times before and knew he'd watch her do it a hundred more.

"I can't help it." Her hands clenched at her sides, the leather of her gloves creaking. "It's just... it's part of what I am."

They don't understand what it means to have fire in your blood. To carry the weight of scales beneath your skin.

Erik shrugged, the gesture almost casual but for the way his jaw tightened. "I know. But the alpha won't say anything about it, so neither will I."

There it was. The heart of the problem, wrapped in Erik's easy acceptance. Alpha Kael didn't care about her singing. He didn't care about the things that made her different—the way her pupils sometimes slitted when she was angry, the faint shimmer of golden scales that appeared along her collarbones when she was too warm, the smoky scent that clung to her like perfume.

He doesn't care because he doesn't understand. None of them do.

Kael had welcomed her into the pack with the gruff, no-nonsense acceptance of a leader who valued strength over strangeness. In his mind, that was the end of it. She was a wolf now, as much as any of them. But she wasn't. She would never be. Her bones remembered the shape of wings, her lungs remembered the feel of air at impossible altitudes, her blood remembered the song of her ancestors.

"It's lonely," she whispered, the words barely audible even to her own ears.

Erik was silent for a long moment, his boots scraping against the gravel path as he pushed away from the tree. He crossed the distance between them, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the kind of expression that meant he'd been nursing an idea for longer than he'd let on.

"You know," he said, stopping just inches from her, close enough that she could smell the pine sap and earth that clung to his clothes, "I think there are two young boys who could benefit from meeting you, (Y/N)." He tilted his head, a sly glint entering his amber eyes. "They're called Markus and Martinus."

The names struck a chord somewhere deep in her memory—a distant, half-remembered melody, like a song heard through a wall. Her brow furrowed as she nodded slowly, her tail—invisible to human eyes but very real to her—twitching with uneasy curiosity beneath her jacket.

"I've heard their names for certain," she said carefully, her arms folding across her chest. "But they're too young for me, Erik."

Too young. Too human. Too... everything I'm not.

Erik's laughter was a bark of genuine amusement, startling a pair of crows from a nearby branch. "Too young? You're only twenty-three, (Y/N)." He gestured vaguely toward the path that wound away from the forest, toward the distant glitter of civilization. "Go. I'll keep an eye on your pups."

The protest died on her tongue before it could form. Instead, a long, heavy sigh escaped her, misting in the cold air like a ghost of what she truly was. Her shoulders dropped, the tension draining from muscles that had been coiled like springs for weeks.

"If anything happens to them—"

"Nothing will happen." Erik waved a dismissive hand, already turning back toward the treeline. "Now go. Before you talk yourself out of it."

She closed her eyes.

The heat came first—a familiar, welcome warmth that bloomed in her chest and spread through her veins like liquid fire. It crackled along her spine, each vertebra shifting with a series of wet, grinding pops. Her bones remembered this. Her blood remembered this. Her skin split, and scales rippled across her arms, her neck, the sharp angles of her face—burnished gold and copper that caught the thin sunlight and blazed like captured flame.

This is what they don't understand. This is what I am.

Her fingers stretched, elongated, the bones lengthening into wicked claws that gleamed like obsidian. Her spine bowed, arching as a powerful tail unfurled behind her, its barbed tip slicing through the back of her jacket. The fabric shredded with a sound like tearing silk—she'd need a new one. Again.

Massive wings burst from her shoulder blades, membranous and strong, the bones creaking as they unfolded to their full span. The pain was exquisite, as familiar as breathing.

Within seconds, the woman who had stood before Erik was gone, replaced by something ancient and terrible and magnificent. (Y/N) stood in her full dragon form, smoke curling from between teeth as long as her forearm, each exhale a cloud of sulfur and heat that made the surrounding leaves curl and wither.

Her eyes—now slit-pupiled and glowing with the molten fury of a forge—met Erik's for just a moment. He wasn't afraid. He never was. Maybe that was why she liked him.

Then she crouched, powerful muscles coiling like springs, and launched herself skyward.

Her wings caught the air with a thunderous crack that sent leaves spiraling in every direction, a whirlwind of autumn colors exploding around her. The ground fell away—the treetops shrinking to a patchwork quilt of red and gold, the birds scattering in alarm, their tiny hearts pounding in her heightened senses.

Higher. Higher still.

She climbed through the grey October sky, the wind howling against her scales in a chorus that almost, almost sounded like music. The cold bit at her exposed flesh, but beneath her skin, the fire burned ever brighter, answering the call of the open sky.

This. This is what I was made for.

Below her, Erik watched her disappear into the clouds, his arms still crossed, that faint, knowing smile still playing on his lips.

"Fly well, dragon," he murmured, the words carried away by the wind.

The city glittered below her like a nest of jewels, all neon and glass and the distant pulse of a billion heartbeats. (Y/N) circled once, twice, her keen eyes scanning for a place to land that wouldn't cause a panic. The penthouse balcony was her usual perch—tucked away from prying eyes, high enough that even the most dedicated paparazzo would need a telescope.

Her talons found the railing with practiced ease, the metal groaning beneath her weight. A shimmer ran across her scales, and the transformation began in reverse—the wings folding into her shoulder blades, the tail retracting, the claws shortening, the scales retreating beneath the surface of her skin like a tide going out.

When she stood on the balcony, she was (Y/N) again—dragon's daughter, wolf's sister, woman of twenty-three years with a fire in her heart and a song stuck in her throat.

The penthouse doors slid open with a soft hiss, and she stepped inside.

The room was a temple of modern excess—floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the skyline, leather furniture that had probably cost more than most people's houses, and a sound system that could shake the very foundations of the building. This was the world of Markus and Martinus, the twin boys—young men, really—who had somehow carved out a kingdom for themselves in the ruthless arena of pop music.

But it wasn't the opulence that caught her attention. It was the music.

It was playing softly through the speakers, a haunting melody that seemed to reach inside her chest and wrap around something she'd thought was hidden. The tune was achingly beautiful, full of longing and loss and something she couldn't quite name.

Who wrote this? Who understands?

She moved through the apartment like a ghost, her bare feet silent on the heated floors. The boys were in the studio—she could hear their voices, muffled through the soundproofing, arguing about something that seemed very important to them.

"—no, no, no, that's not the right emotion, Markus, you're not feeling it—"

"I am feeling it! I just think the bridge should be bigger—"

"And I think you're overcomplicating something that's supposed to be simple—"

The door swung open before she could knock, and there they were—two young men with earnest faces and passionate eyes, their argument dying on their lips as they took in the sight of her.

Markus was the first to recover. He always was. "Oh! You're—" He pointed at her, his brow furrowing. "You're the wolf girl. Erik said you might come."

"Erik talks too much." (Y/N) crossed her arms, her eyes flicking between the twins. They were identical, but she could already see the differences—the way Markus held himself with a restless energy, the way Martinus's eyes seemed to search for something just beyond her shoulder.

"Are you a wolf?" Martinus asked, tilting his head. "Erik said you were part of the pack."

Interesting. He's the careful one. The observer.

"I was a wolf first," she said slowly. "But that's not all I am."

The room fell silent. The music still played—that aching, impossible melody—and something in (Y/N)'s chest began to burn.

"Will you sing for us?" Markus asked, and his voice was so earnest, so hopeful, that she almost laughed. "We heard you used to—before—"

"I used to sing a lot of things." Her voice was sharp, but she didn't mean for it to be. "Before I learned that no one understands."

Martinus stepped forward, his expression open and unguarded. "Try us."

Try us. Like it's that simple. Like they could possibly understand what it means to have fire in your throat.

But the melody was still playing, and the burn in her chest was becoming unbearable. The song wanted out. It always did.

"Okay," she said, and her voice was barely above a whisper. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

The twins exchanged a glance—something passed between them, a silent communication that was as natural to them as breathing. Then they stepped back, giving her space, and she felt their eyes on her like a physical weight.

She closed her eyes, and let go.

The sound that emerged from her throat was not human.

It was something older, something that had been sung by creatures whose bones had turned to stone beneath ancient seas. It was joy and grief and rage and longing all twisted into a single, impossible note that seemed to make the very air vibrate with its power.

This is what I am. This is what I've always been.

The lyrics poured out of her like water from a broken dam—a song about losing, about searching, about the ache of being something that no one else could understand. But it wasn't just the words. It was the heat that radiated from her skin, the subtle glow that built behind her eyes, the shimmer of scales that crept along her collarbones.

The music around her swelled, grew, the instruments picking up her melody and weaving it into something vast and terrible and beautiful. She wasn't singing for them anymore. She was singing for herself, for the dragon that lived in her blood, for all the things she'd kept locked away.

She was singing when her eyes opened, and they were blazing.

The flames came without warning.

A torrent of brilliant, golden fire erupted from her throat—not to consume, but to illuminate. It danced along the ceiling, reflecting off the glass windows, casting the whole room in a warm, flickering glow. The heat was intense but not destructive, a controlled conflagration that seemed to respond to the rhythm of her song.

Oh. Oh, this is what they were afraid of. This is what they always knew I could do.

The flames died as quickly as they'd come, leaving only the faint scent of sulfur and the lingering warmth in the air.

When she finally stopped singing, the silence was deafening.

The twins stood frozen, their eyes wide, their faces slack with shock. For a long, terrible moment, (Y/N) was certain she'd made a terrible mistake. They'd run. They'd call the authorities. They'd—

Markus broke first.

He burst into applause, his face splitting into a grin so wide it seemed to encompass his entire being. "THAT. WAS. INCREDIBLE!" he shouted, his voice cracking with excitement. "Did you see that? She breathed FIRE. FIRE, Martinus!"

"I saw it." Martinus's voice was calmer, but there was a tremor in it that betrayed his awe. "I saw it."

"You're not afraid?" The question slipped out before (Y/N) could stop it. "I just—I breathed fire in your apartment."

"Afraid?" Markus laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen! We've been trying to figure out how to make our stage show more dramatic, and you just—" he gestured expansively, at a loss for words.

Martinus stepped forward, his careful eyes studying her face. "Can you teach us?" he asked, and there was no mockery in his voice, only genuine curiosity. "Not the fire part, but... the song. How you made it feel so... huge."

They don't want to cage me. They want to learn.

For the first time in a month, (Y/N) felt something other than the familiar ache of loneliness. It was a strange, fragile thing—like a seedling breaking through frozen ground.

"I could try," she said slowly, and her voice was hoarse from the fire. "But I can't promise I'll be any good at teaching."

"We'll figure it out together," Markus said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "We always do."

She stayed for hours.

The twins were relentless in their curiosity, asking questions about her song, her power, her past. She told them about the pack, about Erik and Alpha Kael, about what it felt like to be a dragon among wolves. They listened with the kind of rapt attention that made her feel like she was the most interesting person in the world.

And when the night grew long and the city lights began to flicker below them, (Y/N) found herself promising to come back.

"Same time tomorrow?" Markus asked, and his voice was almost hopeful.

"Same time tomorrow," she agreed.

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if this is a good idea.

But the warmth in her chest wasn't the familiar burn of suppressed fire. It was something softer, something that felt a little bit like hope.

As she climbed back onto the balcony, ready to take flight, she paused. The twins were still watching her, their faces lit by the glow of the city.

"Thank you," she said, and the words felt inadequate. "For not running."

"Thank you for breathing fire," Martinus said, a hint of a smile on his lips. "We've been trying to get that on stage for years."

Maybe this world isn't so different from the one I left. Maybe there's room for a dragon in the bright, glittering spotlight.

She jumped.

Her wings caught the wind, and she soared into the night sky, the city lights spreading out beneath her like a sea of stars. Above her, the clouds had cleared, revealing a sliver of silver moon and a handful of distant stars.

Maybe I'm not so alone after all.