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ilovemarvel97 · 2 months ago

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Craving What We Shouldn’t

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Reader

Summary: Senior year. What could happen? School troubles? Suspended? Or becoming step-sisters with the girl you are in love with?

Word Count: 3,617

Warnings: High school AU, Angst, forbidden romance, step-siblings, reader has a penis, mutual pining, secret relationship, emotionally charged.

A/N: I just wondered how step-siblings would be if they fall in love before becoming siblings. Please do not interact if you don't like the topic.

Main Masterlist

---

The last place Y/N wanted to be on the first day of senior year was standing in front of a brand new front door with a suitcase and a forced smile. Her mom had been glowing with happiness ever since she married Oleg Maximoff over the summer. A second chance at love, she called it.

For Y/N, it felt like a cruel twist of fate.

Because on the other side of that door was Wanda Maximoff. The girl who stole her heart during junior year. The girl who kissed her once at a party before summer and never talked about it again. The girl who used to sneak glances at her across the library table, who blushed when their hands brushed.

Now they shared a house. A bathroom. A last name.

And none of it changed how Y/N felt.

“Come on,” her mom said with a light laugh, nudging her shoulder. “You’ll love it. Wanda’s been asking when you'd arrive.”

That made Y/N’s stomach tighten.

She stepped into the house. The air smelled like rosemary and floor polish. A few family photos had already gone up on the walls—her mom with Oleg, Wanda with Pietro, one of all of them awkwardly posed at the wedding.

Then—“Hey.”

Y/N froze. Her head turned slowly toward the stairs.

Wanda stood halfway down, her red hair pulled into a lazy ponytail, a soft sweater hanging off her shoulder. Barefoot. No makeup. Just her. And she was looking at Y/N like nothing had changed.

Like everything had changed.

“Hi,” Y/N said, her voice caught somewhere between casual and breathless.

They stared at each other. Too long for step-sisters. Too long for ex-almost-somethings. Just long enough for the air to thicken.

Wanda broke the moment with a quick smile. “Your room’s next to mine.”

“Of course it is,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

That night, lying in bed with the walls too thin and Wanda’s music playing faintly through them, Y/N stared at the ceiling.

She’d spent months trying to forget her.

Now she was going to see her every morning. Every night. Every hallway at school.

She couldn’t want her anymore.

She already did.

---

Y/N didn’t even make it through her first morning coffee before things got awkward.

She stepped into the kitchen still half-asleep, only to find Wanda already there in her cheer uniform—leaning against the counter, sipping orange juice, acting like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn’t once kissed Y/N in the hallway after finals. Like she hadn’t ghosted her all summer. Like they hadn’t suddenly become family.

“Want toast?” Wanda asked without looking up.

Y/N grabbed the mug waiting for her on the table. “I’ll live.”

Wanda glanced at her then. Briefly. But long enough.

There it was again. That electric pull. That heat just beneath the surface.

Y/N took a long sip of coffee to distract herself. She didn’t look at Wanda again.

---

At school, nothing had changed—and everything had.

Wanda slipped into her role like a second skin: queen bee of the cheer squad, top of her AP classes, adored by teachers and untouchable by everyone else. She walked the hall like she owned it. Beside her were Monica and Pepper, as always. Pietro waved from across the lockers, grinning at both of them.

Y/N moved differently. Not a loser, not a nerd—just a little outside the lines. She wore her usual cargo pants and hoodie, skateboard slung through the strap of her bag, earbuds in, always just out of reach.

Except now people were talking.

“Didn’t you hear?” someone whispered by the lockers. “Maximoff’s got a new stepsister.”

“She’s kind of hot, right?”

“Wait—is that the girl who punched Steve Rogers sophomore year?”

“No way. I thought she was expelled for that.”

Y/N smirked. She wasn’t. She just hated how Steve talked to Bruce that day.

But the whispers didn’t stop when she passed Wanda in the hallway.

If anything, they got worse.

“Do you think they knew each other before the wedding?”

Wanda’s eyes flickered to her. Brief. Loaded. But she didn’t say anything. She just laughed along with her friends, like nothing was wrong.

Y/N looked away.

---

Lunch was the worst part.

She’d barely sat down at her usual table—Nat, Carol, and Clint already mid-convo about the upcoming school trip—when a tray slammed down across from her.

Wanda.

“What are you doing?” Y/N asked, half-whispered, half-panicked.

“Eating,” Wanda said coolly. “We live together now, remember?”

Nat raised an eyebrow. Carol looked like she smelled drama. Clint was just frozen mid-chew.

Wanda took a bite of her apple and looked right at Y/N when she said it:

“Besides… family should sit together.”

Y/N choked on her drink.

Nat reached over and thumped her back with a smirk. “You alright there?”

Y/N nodded, eyes burning.

Wanda smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Y/N hated her for that.

And wanted her anyway.

---

Y/N found her in the hallway after seventh period.

Wanda had just slipped out of AP Lit, a stack of books in her arms and her signature bored-but-beautiful expression on. The hallway was nearly empty—just the occasional echo of locker doors slamming and chatter from other classrooms.

Y/N caught up fast. Too fast.

“Hey,” she said, grabbing Wanda’s arm gently. “We need to talk.”

Wanda didn’t flinch. “We’re talking.”

“Not here,” Y/N hissed. “Come on.”

Wanda rolled her eyes but followed, heels clicking as Y/N led her around the corner to the empty back stairwell. The one nobody used anymore except for cutting class or making out. Fitting.

Y/N dropped her bag and crossed her arms. “What the hell was that at lunch?”

Wanda leaned against the railing like she wasn’t cornered. Like this was a game. “Lunch?”

Y/N stepped closer. “Don’t play dumb. Sitting with me. Calling me family in front of *everyone*.”

Wanda shrugged. “That’s what we are now, aren’t we? You and me. One big happy—”

“Don’t,” Y/N cut in, voice low and sharp. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

Wanda looked at her then. The sarcasm slipped for a second. Just a second.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” she asked, quieter now. “That I regret it? That I wish we’d never…?”

Y/N swallowed. “I want you to be honest. For once.”

Wanda stepped forward, suddenly too close. Her voice dropped.

“Fine. You want honesty?” Her eyes searched Y/N’s. “I think about that kiss every night.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I think about what would’ve happened if my dad hadn’t proposed to your mom. If we weren’t stuck under the same roof, pretending nothing ever happened.”

Wanda’s fingers brushed her wrist. “But we are. And now I have to sit at breakfast with you across from me, wearing that stupid hoodie, acting like you don’t feel it too.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “I do feel it.”

Silence. Their eyes locked.

“Then why are you mad at me?” Wanda asked, softer now.

Y/N looked away. “Because you ghosted me after that kiss. And now you sit with me at lunch like nothing’s wrong. Like *you* get to decide when it matters.”

Wanda blinked. Guilt flickered.

“I was scared,” she admitted.

Y/N turned back to her. “So am I.”

A long pause.

“I shouldn’t want you,” Y/N whispered.

“I know,” Wanda said, barely audible. “But I do.”

And for a moment, the world tilted.

But neither moved. Neither kissed.

Because wanting each other was easy.

Living with it—that was the hard part.

---

Dinner was quiet.

Too quiet.

Oleg was rambling about his new teaching position, and Y/N’s mom nodded politely at every word, stealing glances toward the teens at opposite ends of the table.

Wanda picked at her mashed potatoes like they offended her. Y/N kept her eyes on her plate and said nothing at all.

They hadn’t spoken since the stairwell.

Not at school. Not on the walk home. Not even when Wanda brushed past her at the front door, close enough for her perfume to linger.

“I’m glad you girls are getting along,” Oleg said with a smile, breaking the silence. “High school’s tough enough without family drama, right?”

Wanda’s fork froze mid-air.

Y/N gave a small, hollow laugh and shoved another bite in her mouth.

---

Later, Y/N stood in the upstairs hallway, toothbrush dangling from her mouth, staring at Wanda’s bedroom door.

It was cracked open.

She should’ve kept walking. Should’ve gone into her room, shut the door, put headphones in, and pretended everything was normal.

Instead, she knocked.

Softly.

“Yeah?” came Wanda’s voice from inside.

Y/N stepped in.

Wanda was curled up on her bed in an oversized sweater, hair wet from a recent shower, legs tucked under a blanket. She wasn’t reading. She wasn’t watching anything. Just… sitting there. Waiting.

Y/N stayed near the door.

“You okay?” she asked.

Wanda looked at her with those deep, unreadable eyes. “You’re asking me that now?”

Y/N sighed. “I didn’t mean to come at you so hard earlier.”

“No, you were right,” Wanda said, her voice quieter now. “I shut you out. I didn’t know what to do with what happened between us.”

“And now?” Y/N asked.

Wanda hesitated. “Now I want to pretend we’re just two girls in the same school again. Before the wedding. Before all this.”

Y/N gave a small, tired smile. “We can’t go back.”

“I know.”

A silence stretched between them. The hallway light behind Y/N cast her shadow across Wanda’s carpet.

“I think about it too,” Y/N said finally. “That kiss.”

Wanda looked at her like she was holding her breath.

“I never stopped wanting you,” Y/N confessed. “Even when it got complicated. Even when it got impossible.”

They stared at each other. That familiar pull crackled in the air between them.

But neither moved.

Because outside that room was a hallway. And down the hallway were their parents. And in that house, they weren’t just Y/N and Wanda anymore.

They were stepsisters.

“Goodnight,” Y/N whispered.

Wanda’s voice was barely a whisper. “Goodnight.”

And as the door clicked shut, both of them lay awake, two doors apart, craving something they couldn’t have.

Not anymore.

---

The days that followed were unbearable.

They barely spoke. Barely made eye contact. But the tension followed them like a shadow—thick in the air during breakfast, suffocating during car rides, lingering in the spaces where their shoulders nearly touched but never quite did.

At school, they played their roles. Wanda smiled in the hallways and laughed with her friends. Y/N kept her head down, skated to class, joked with Nat and Carol like she wasn’t constantly glancing toward red hair in the crowd.

But the truth followed them home every day.

In the quiet. In the in-between.

And eventually, it had to break.

---

It was late.

The house was dark. Everyone else asleep. Wanda padded into the kitchen in an old t-shirt, hoping for water. She didn’t expect to find Y/N already there, back turned, staring out the window with a glass in her hand.

Wanda froze.

Y/N didn’t turn around. Just said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Wanda said, voice barely a breath. “You?”

Y/N shook her head. Silence stretched again. Familiar. Heavy.

Then—

“This is killing me,” Wanda whispered. “Pretending like we’re not… something.”

Y/N turned then. Slowly. Her eyes tired. Sad. And so full of everything Wanda felt too.

“It’s killing me too,” she said. “But what are we supposed to do, Wanda? Risk tearing our parents apart because we can’t stay away from each other?”

Wanda looked down.

“I don’t want to hurt them,” she said.

“Neither do I.”

“I want to choose you,” Wanda said quietly. “But if I do, it won’t just be us who gets hurt.”

Y/N stepped closer. “So what? We ignore it? We bury this and pretend we don’t want each other?”

“We already are,” Wanda said with a bitter smile. “And it’s tearing me apart.”

Y/N reached out without thinking. Her fingers brushed Wanda’s, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto.

And for a moment, Wanda let her.

They stood there, trembling, their hands barely touching, eyes locked in silent agony.

“I wish we met in another life,” Wanda whispered. “Where you weren’t my stepsister. Where we didn’t have to pretend.”

“I know,” Y/N said, voice cracking. “But this is the life we got.”

Wanda nodded, tears clinging to her lashes.

Then, slowly, she pulled her hand away.

“We have to stop,” she said, though it broke her to say it. “We have to try.”

Y/N blinked fast, nodding. “Yeah. We do.”

But neither moved. Not yet.

Because even when they tried to be strong, tried to do the right thing, the ache was still there. Unrelenting.

---

One Week Later

By the end of the first week, everything looked perfect from the outside.

Y/N and Wanda passed each other in the halls with polite nods. They shared the bathroom like normal siblings. They even managed to help set the table together without saying a word too sharp or too soft.

To their parents, it looked like the girls were settling in just fine.

But every moment felt like walking a tightrope.

Every brush of fingers when reaching for the same spoon. Every second of accidental eye contact. Every laugh they weren’t supposed to share, every memory they weren’t supposed to have.

It was unbearable.

Y/N stopped eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Wanda started walking to school with Monica instead of waiting for Y/N on the porch.

They both told themselves it was better this way.

They were lying.

---

One Night

It was late.

Everyone was asleep. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that rang in your ears.

Y/N was wide awake, staring at her ceiling, heart pounding like it always did lately—tight and restless. She couldn’t stop thinking about Wanda’s bare legs under oversized sweaters, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating, or how she laughed—*really* laughed—when she let herself forget the rules.

And then there was the memory she couldn’t outrun: that kiss. Hot. Breathless. Full of promise.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.

The hallway creaked.

Her bedroom door cracked open.

Y/N bolted upright.

Wanda stood there in the dark, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes shining in the dim light.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

Y/N’s voice was hoarse. “Then don’t be here.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Wanda stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.

She didn’t climb onto the bed. She didn’t touch her. She just sat on the floor against the wall, wrapping her arms around her knees, like she was trying to ground herself.

“I thought I could do this,” Wanda whispered. “Pretend. Keep you at a distance. But I see you every day, and it’s like I’m starving.”

Y/N swallowed thickly. “You think I don’t feel that too?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Wanda said. “They’re so happy. Our parents. I don’t want to ruin that. I can’t.”

Y/N pushed her fingers through her hair. “So what are we supposed to do? Torture ourselves?”

Wanda looked up at her. “We have to try.”

And for a while, they just sat there. Quiet. Wanting.

Eventually, Wanda stood and left.

Y/N didn’t sleep at all.

---

The Next Day

At school, they avoided each other like it was a sport. But their friends noticed.

Pepper leaned into Wanda’s side at lunch. “You okay? You’ve been off all week.”

“I’m fine,” Wanda said too quickly, stabbing at her salad.

Across the room, Carol gave Y/N a sideways look. “You know if you keep bottling stuff up, you’re gonna explode, right?”

Y/N didn’t respond. She just tossed a grape into her mouth and stared at nothing.

Because Wanda was sitting with Monica. Laughing. But not really.

And Y/N hated that she could tell.

---

Two Weeks Later

It happened on a Sunday.

The house was quiet. Oleg and Y/N’s mom were out at some local art exhibit. Pietro was at a friend’s. The storm outside had knocked out the power.

Wanda lit candles in the living room, wrapped herself in a blanket, and put on an old record player Oleg had dug out of the attic.

Y/N wandered in after hearing the music, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“I didn’t think you liked Fleetwood Mac,” she said.

Wanda shrugged. “Didn’t think you paid attention.”

“I pay attention to everything when it comes to you,” Y/N said before she could stop herself.

Wanda froze.

The thunder cracked in the distance. The song shifted to Landslide.

Neither of them moved.

“I miss you,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N stepped forward, every breath shaky. “I never stopped missing you.”

Wanda looked up, her eyes wet. “We can’t.”

“I know.”

Their fingers touched. Just barely.

Wanda shook her head, trying to breathe. “You make it so hard to be good.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “Then maybe we stop pretending to be.”

For one breathless second, it was all too close.

Wanda leaned in—so close their noses brushed.

But she stopped.

She stepped back.

“We can’t,” she said, voice trembling.

Y/N nodded, her heart breaking again. “I know.”

But neither walked away.

And that was the scariest part.

---

They were picture-perfect again.

Wanda helped her mom cook. Y/N helped Oleg in the garage. They all sat down for dinner like a Hallmark ad.

At school, Y/N and Wanda didn’t walk together, didn’t eat together, didn’t exist in each other’s orbits if they could help it.

But Y/N was always watching.

That’s how she saw it happen.

Some tall junior with too much gel in his hair cornered Wanda by the vending machine. He was smiling like he was confident and clueless. Wanda laughed politely, brushing her hair behind her ear. Classic deflection.

Y/N clenched her fists.

It meant nothing. She knew that. Wanda wasn’t into him. Wanda never even looked at anyone else.

But that didn’t matter when the jealousy hit like poison in her veins.

When the guy leaned in a little too close, Y/N saw red.

---

That Night

Wanda barely had time to set her bag down before she realized something was off.

Y/N didn’t greet her.

Didn’t glance up from the couch.

Didn’t even flinch when their mom said, “Girls, want to pick a movie for tonight?”

“I’m tired,” Y/N said. “Not in the mood.”

That wasn’t like her.

Wanda frowned but said nothing.

Later, she knocked on Y/N’s bedroom door.

No answer.

She opened it anyway.

“You’re ignoring me,” she said flatly.

Y/N sat at her desk, scribbling something into her sketchpad like it was life or death.

“Go away, Wanda.”

Wanda stepped inside anyway. “What the hell did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Y/N snapped, still not looking at her.

Wanda’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you acting like I don’t exist? You’re not even pretending anymore.”

“I can’t pretend anymore!”

That made Wanda freeze.

Y/N stood up abruptly. Her eyes were wild—pained.

“I’m in love with you, Wanda,” she said, voice cracking. “I’ve been trying not to be. I’ve been trying to be good, for our parents, for you. But I can’t watch you let some random guy flirt with you. I can’t watch you and pretend it doesn’t kill me.”

Wanda blinked. “Y/N—”

“You laughed at something he said.”

“It was small talk! I didn’t even like him—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Y/N said, softer now. “Because I’m the only one who can’t have you.”

Wanda’s eyes were filling with tears. “You think this is easy for me? You think I’m not dying inside every time I have to act like you’re just my step-sister?”

Silence stretched between them like a live wire.

“I want you too,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N looked at her like she didn’t believe it.

“I never stopped,” Wanda said. “I’m just… scared. We’re not supposed to feel this.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “But we do.”

And that was the truth.

The silence between them was heavy. Breathing was hard.

Wanda’s words hung in the air like something sacred and dangerous all at once.

“I want you too.”

Y/N stepped closer before she could stop herself, eyes searching Wanda’s face for any hesitation. There was fear there, yes—but it was tangled with longing. Raw and open.

Wanda didn’t move.

Didn’t pull back.

Didn’t blink.

Y/N’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Then kiss me.”

And just like that, Wanda did.

She surged forward, hands fisting into Y/N’s shirt, pulling her down, up, into her—like she didn’t know where she began and where Y/N ended. Y/N’s arms went around her instantly, holding her like she’d been waiting for this exact moment her whole life.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss.

It was desperate. Messy. Hungry.

A crash of emotion too long suppressed.

Wanda whimpered against her mouth, and that broke something inside Y/N. She backed Wanda into the wall, their bodies pressed tight, lips moving fast, like they were making up for all the times they pretended they didn’t want this.

Didn’t need this.

But they did.

God, they did.

Wanda gasped when Y/N’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye like she was fragile and precious. “I don’t care if it’s wrong,” Y/N said between kisses. “I just want you.”

Wanda nodded, breathless. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

They kissed again, slower this time. Softer. Like a promise.

They stayed like that until they heard footsteps outside in the hallway.

Wanda stiffened.

Y/N pulled back, resting her forehead against hers.

Back to reality.

Back to hiding.

But now, they couldn’t go back to what they were before.

Something had shifted.

And it was too big to ignore.

---

Does anyone want to see part 2 😁

#wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen x female reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda x y/n #g!p reader

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dreadfutures · 2 years ago

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gonna actually make a thing for this campaign

#my wip art #pf2e #stolen fate ap

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f4ggydog · 2 months ago

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lottie x reader: point of no return🔞

warnings: noncon, smut, force/coercion, dead dove, dark lottie, omegaverse dynamics, alpha lottie, breeding, deflowering, blood, lottie has a cock, reader has a pussy

Out of the entire Yellowjackets crowd, only two of them were alphas. Those roles belonged to Shauna and Lottie. And Shauna was the only one who obtained a breeder, which was the unfortunate Melissa who definitely didn’t consent to being picked. But in a way, despite Shauna’s undeniable brutality, Lottie still led them all.

She had the closest connection to the wilderness. She was the first to don the antler queen crown. Lottie led the ritual during Coach Ben’s feast and Lottie pushed them deeper into the wilderness’ belief system. She never wanted to return home back to her lavish penthouse. Lottie found a purpose inside of the forest that her parents nor her riches could supply. For the first time in ages, Lottie felt complete. She felt like she had a reason to continue living and her service to ‘it’ was a priority she couldn’t ignore.

It called for Lottie to have a mate. Of course you understood the possible implications of that, but you thought there was no way in hell you would get chosen. If anything, you saw the role going to either Akilah or Travis. But, your anxiety grew when you saw Travis wasn’t a part of the draw. That’s okay, though. Literally anyone else could’ve gotten selected. It was going to be alright…until it wasn’t.

You are adamant in your belief that you weren’t supposed to be picked. The cards must’ve been rigged. Van must’ve fucked up the shuffling. What were the odds that you drew the queen? God, you really wish you could’ve gotten yourself into AP Stats.

You were doing so good, evading the howling girls and managing to slip past obstacles in the snow. Your only fault was cutting your foot on a tree branch. But you recovered swiftly from your injury and ignored the blood trickling into the fluffy white. However, the chase couldn’t go in your favor for too long.

You turned one corner and found yourself getting tackled to the floor. You fell face first in the ground, the snow coating your white dress. You quickly crawl backwards until your back hits the tree. Lottie inches closer, a perverted and ominous glint in her eyeballs. She pants, her mouth watering at the thought of conquering your untouched body.

“Get back!” You cry out, shooing Lottie away like she’s a cat sitting on the counter. “I-I reject you.”

“An omega can’t reject their partner,” Lottie chuckles. “Only an alpha gets to decide if they will reject you or not. And, well, I’m definitely not saying no to you.”

“Get away, Lottie!” You shout. “I’m warning you! Leave me alone! Go hunt someone else. I’m not yours!”

“Would you rather wait until we get back to camp?” Lottie smirks. “Would you rather me breed you in front of everyone else? That would send a message, wouldn’t it?”

“No! No, what the fuck? Lottie, I’m not yours! I’m not your mate! I was chosen by chance, not by destiny.”

“This is your role,” Lottie explains. “We all have a job here. The wilderness wanted you to be my perfect little mate. You picked the queen card because it knew you would be fantastic for the job. I could sense it too.”

“What are you talking about? What is it, Lottie?”

Lottie’s smirk only widens.

“It doesn’t have to explain itself. It’s just there, guiding us through every decision and sacrifice it desires. It called on you to be mine. Shauna already had her mate chosen. I can’t be an alpha without my own personal breeder.”

“And I’m sure Melissa’s fucking ecstatic about that decision!” You say sarcastically. “Shauna wouldn’t even let that girl break up with her! Melissa tried to leave and this wolf psychology bullshit wouldn’t let her!”

“Because you can’t just leave. It’s not as simple as that, Y/N. We’re bound by a red string of fate. Once you’re tied to me, you’re connected to me forever. And I will always find you, no matter if we’re miles apart.”

Lottie makes it sound so romantic, as if you aren’t hesitant to be used like an incubator.

“It’s your choice,” Lottie states. “We can have our own private moment here, just the two of us. You become mine without anyone having to witness you at what you would perceive is your… ‘lowest.’ Or I can bring you back and let the others watch.”

Lottie pulls you from your spot under the tree and forces you onto your back. She can feel her cock throbbing in her pants, aching to breach through your pussy and put a baby inside. She squeezes her bulge to provide herself temporary relief and sighs at your mortified figure. It excited her further to see you in distress, to see you ripe for the taking and in terror.

But, you gotta admit that you’d rather have Lottie ravish you here. You can’t imagine the embarrassment of being violated in front of a crowd, them being forced to watch while your innocence is ripped away from you. Of course, if neither was an option, that would be your preference.

“You look so good,” Lottie rasps. “The way your dress gives me easy access, every quiver from your thighs, your breath catching in your throat. It’s too good to ignore.”

Lottie pins your hands together so that your crawling is worthless. Your legs aim to kick at her face, but they miss every time. You’re caught as prey in winter’s harshest hour, yet you don’t feel as frigid as you should.

You’re concerned that frostbite is out of the question. There’s a pool of heat between your legs that spreads its warmth throughout the rest of your body. You feel it soak up in your arms and legs and even your chest. Though, the heat doesn’t seem abnormal or manufactured. It’s legitimate and natural. Not understanding the source only serves to scare you more.

“Look at that.” Lottie presses her hand down on your core, which makes you yelp. Again, your attempts to kick her back are unsuccessful. Frankly, they make you look like a child wrestling with their mother over bedtime. “It knows you were the chosen one. You’re already getting so hot for me.”

You frown, shaking your head like blatant refusal will do you any justice. Lottie’s not discouraged. Your pussy’s a special place to plant her cum inside. She won’t have your fear distract her from fulfilling the wilderness’ orders. Your virginity’s a sacrifice for the satisfaction for the pack. Lottie demands your purity. And in exchange, the pack sleeps another night without death creeping closer. Your virginity’s a present to the gods who aren’t easily pleased, whether you’re an eager donor or otherwise.

“Why is my body doing this?” You whimper.

“Your body wants me just as bad as I want you,” Lottie affirms. “It wants you out of that old dress and naked before me. This isn’t a means of hurting you or punishment. It’s dedication, it’s nourishment, it’s liberation.”

Liberation? To be kept by an alpha’s chains? You almost laughed at that hypothesis. But, that confident gaze in Lottie’s eye was no giggling matter.

She removes the clothing resting on the lower half of her body. You recoil instantly at the size of Lottie’s shaft. She’s thick and fully erect, her tanned flesh twitching at the prospect of slipping inside your moist walls.

“It’s better if you stay still,” Lottie advises. “Makes the process smoother. For both of us, of course.”

You wriggle under Lottie’s grip. Her hand finds its way to the bottom half of your dirty white dress and rips it open. Momentarily, you forget that you were in such a rush to get dressed for the hunt that you didn’t even toss on underwear. Not that a scenario with you wearing undergarments would matter much. Lottie would get to your soft cunt one way or another.

“Exquisite,” Lottie comments, frothing at the mouth. “I don’t even think you need a warm up. That pussy’s ready to be used.”

“Lottie please don’t.” You know begging won’t get you proper solutions. But you’re unsure of what course of action will get Lottie’s erection to simmer down. You’ll try every option you’ve got at your disposal. However, Lottie wields determination like you’ve never observed before.

She pumps her cock in her hand, groaning at the gooey precum that oozes out. Your pussy involuntarily pulses at the sight of such a strong member. Your body’s reactions don’t mean you want this to happen. But even the most headstrong omega can’t ignore their biology.

“It’s not even gonna fit,” you remark. “Y-You’re too big.”

“A good alpha knows how to make it fit for their mate,” Lottie reassures.

Lottie teases the head of her cock against your quivering pussy. She rubs her tip against your slit, mixing it with your juices. Lottie gasps at the sensation, the intense heat overpowering any chill the winter could provide.

“Don’t do this.” Your eyes widen and you stare at Lottie with bated breath. “L-Lottie, I’m not ready. I’m not ready for this.”

“If you weren’t ready, the wilderness wouldn’t have chosen you. You selecting the queen card is sheer proof that this is the time.”

“I-I didn’t know I would get the queen card. I didn’t plan to get it. Lottie, I didn’t want to get it.”

Your pleas are useless chitchat. Lottie wants to get the show on the road. Without further questioning or attempts at distraction, Lottie sinks balls deep into your heat. Despite the warmth, she pierces through like a knife cutting through someone’s skin.

You’ve never been more uncomfortable in your life. You sob, watching as blood trickles down your inner thigh. Lottie chuckles at her work, not bothering to pull back. It hurts so fucking bad. You feel like you’re being split open by Lottie’s penis. You’re in a panicked state, wondering if Lottie’s going to tear you to shreds.

“Your blood makes ideal lube,” Lottie purrs in your ear, her thrusts slow but buried.

“N-No more,” you sniffle. “Lottie, it hurts. Please, pull out. Please, it hurts.”

“Shhhh,” Lottie coos, her cock forcing its entry. “It always hurts for a first timer. I’m sure Melissa was in pain too. You’re being very strong right now, my little breeder.”

Lottie’s told to stop, over and over again. That smile of malice and ownership covers her lips. She’s no longer wilderness grandma who goes around convincing the Yellowjackets to consume shrooms. Lottie’s a fucking queen, a future leader. She’s the child of the forest. She was offered the guiding hand in exchange for authority. Lottie’s a blessing to it and your curse simultaneously.

“Feels so good,” Lottie moans, nibbling on your neck as she rocks your body with her thrusts. “Agh fuck, you feel so fucking good. So tight and wet, shit.”

“Lottie,” you whine your alpha’s name, your pussy still leaking crimson around Lottie’s huge cock.

“That’s it,” Lottie encourages, her hot breath on your collarbone. “Say my name just like that. I know you can take my cock. I know you can handle it.”

The sound of Lottie’s hips bumping against yours makes your skin crawl. Your pussy tightens more around Lottie’s shaft, squeezing it so hard that Lottie might cum too fast. Then she pounds you harder, skin hitting skin like a depraved symphony.

Lottie’s cock caresses you deep, your pussy swallowing her flesh whole. Your head tilts back, sobs and gasps of pain leaving your throat. In return, you get grunts out of Lottie’s mouth. Her hand no longer pins your hands together. She holds you down fully, her body tangled with yours while your face is smothered with rough kisses.

“Yes,” Lottie chants. “God, yes. Fuck, fuck. Take all of me. Take all of me inside of you.”

“Lottie, fuck! I-I can’t-“

“Just let it happen,” Lottie coos. “Let it happen. Let me have you. You were made for this. You were made to be my sweet little cum dump. Your body’s been craving me and my seed.”

Lottie’s ruts grow rapidly in pace. You feel like all the air’s been sucked out of your lungs. Your toes curl as a response to the pricking. The other parts of your body lay stiff, allowing Lottie to consume you until there’s no innocence left.

“I’m gonna cum so hard.” Lottie’s eyes roll back. “Fuck, when I cum inside of that tight little pussy, I’m gonna fill you up for days. You’ll never go without my cum for too long. It’s always gonna be inside of you. Fuck, always!”

“Please, d-don’t cum. Lottie, I can’t get pregnant. P-Please, we’re out here in the middle of freaking nowhere! I-I can’t raise a kid out here.”

“You won’t be alone,” Lottie says. “It’s my child too. I’m gonna be the rightful father. And our child’s going to grow up with such a happy family.”

Lottie leans down to nip you on the nose.

“You’re gonna be such a good parent. Fuck, you’re gonna look so good pumped full of my cum. And when you’ve given birth to our delightful offspring, I’ll fuck you full of cum again. Over and over.”

You can sense that Lottie’s close to spilling. There’s nothing you can do to deter her. You can only lay down and take her cock. You can only hope that the pregnancy will go smoothly. You can only hope that this won’t be enough to create a new life form. Though you know Lottie will try again if no baby is produced this time.

“Such a good little breeder,” Lottie rasps, her cock spasming. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum. Shit, shit. Fuck, I’m gonna cum inside of you baby. Fuck, take it. Take my cum inside of that pretty hole. Shit, shit!”

Before you can protest, a torrent of semen splashes into your womb. Hot ropes of cum shoot inside, stuffing you like a damn turkey. You can barely move. Your world’s been turned upside down. You swear there’s stars floating above you, even though it’s the daytime.

Worst of all, Lottie doesn’t pull out. She ensures that every bit of her cum has been drained before slowly pumping into you again.

“You feel too good,” Lottie pants. “Fuck, I wanna cum in you again. I’m not ready to take you back to the others yet. I just want to fuck you so full. Baby, h-hah….”

You don’t have the energy to argue.

“So good. So fucking good.”

Lottie’s still very much trapped in the heat of the moment. And you are her victim who can’t snap her out of this.

“C-Can’t stop. Need to make sure I give you a baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

It isn’t long before Lottie empties herself again. She growls. More of her semen floods your pussy. She falls on top of you, her thrusts lazy and languid. Her kisses are drooly and Lottie’s saliva covers your face.

Even when Lottie’s had two orgasms, her hips won’t stop moving. Her rhythm isn’t as firm as before, but she never wants to pull out of you. Your pussy’s too snug for her. At this rate, the other will have to drag Lottie away from you.

“Good little breeder,” Lottie says dreamily. “Fuck, I knew you’d be just perfect.”

Tears stream down your cheeks. How many more rounds could Lottie possibly go?

734 notes · View notes

mahalachives · 3 months ago

Text

Part 1: The Lady of Autumn

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The worst part about nursing school isn't the exams, the clinical rotations, or even the soul-crushing student debt.

It's the persistent feeling that you're being slowly murdered by sleep deprivation.

Which, ironically, is exactly what they're training you to prevent in others.

"Just four more blocks," you mutter, clutching your textbooks as you trudge home at 2 AM. Streetlights flicker ominously above, casting elongated shadows that seem to reach for you with hungry fingers. You make a mental note to report this to the city's Department of Overly Dramatic Lighting.

Your phone buzzes.

Your roommate: Did you die from studying? Should I eat your leftover pizza?

You respond: Still alive. Touch my pizza and you won't be. I've memorized 206 bones in the human body, which means I know exactly which ones to break.

The wind intensifies, scattering crimson and gold leaves in a spiraling dance reminiscent of flames.

That's when it hits you—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Cold fingers trace your spine despite your thick jacket. You quicken your pace, mentally cataloging potential weapons in your bag.

Trauma care textbook? Too unwieldy, but could give someone a concussion—and then you'd be ethically obligated to treat them. Pen? Requires close combat skills you definitely lack. The pepper spray is buried somewhere in the depths of your backpack—unreachable in time, like that one french fry that falls between car seats.

A shadow shifts to your left. A figure emerges from between two parked cars.

A man. Unmistakably dangerous.

"Wallet and phone," he demands, voice gravelly with impatience.

"Seriously?" Exhaustion momentarily eclipses fear. "I'm a nursing student. I have seventeen dollars and a maxed-out credit card. You'd make better money outside Starbucks.”

His expression hardens, something feral flickering behind his eyes. "I said, wallet and phone." Moonlight catches the blade in his hand—not the cheap switchblade you'd expect, but something with an almost ceremonial quality to its curved edge.

"Fine, fine," you say, reaching slowly for your bag. "No need for violence. The seventeen dollars is all yours.”

As you move, he lunges forward—startled by a passing car or simply impatient.

The knife slides between your ribs with disturbing ease.

"Oh," you say stupidly. "That's not good."

Pain erupts, sharp and searing, as your textbooks crash to the pavement. The man flees without even taking your wallet, his footsteps fading too quickly, as if he's vanishing rather than running.

You press against the wound, your training asserting itself through the shock.

Pressure. You need pressure.

But blood seeps between your fingers with alarming speed, warm and sticky against your increasingly cold skin. Iron and copper fill your nostrils—the unmistakable scent of your own mortality.

"Help," you try to call, but it emerges as a whisper.

As you slide down against cold brick, vision blurring, something inexplicable happens. The shadows around you deepen, moving with apparent purpose. The autumn leaves aren't merely wind-blown—they're circling you in a deliberate vortex, faster and faster until they blur into a wall of fire-colored light.

In your fading consciousness, you witness something impossible.

A tear—as if reality itself has been sliced open by the same blade that pierced your side. Through this aperture pours light unlike anything you've seen before, golden, warm, and impossibly ancient. It smells of cinnamon and woodsmoke and something else—something that reminds you of lightning striking earth.

As darkness encroaches, one final, absurd thought crosses your mind. I'm definitely going to miss that anatomy exam tomorrow. Dr. Phillips will never believe I died as an excuse.

Then nothing.

Until you wake to a ceiling painted with flames and falling leaves, each one rendered with such excruciating detail that they appear to be actually falling, burning, dancing above you.

You sit up cautiously, your muscles responding with unfamiliar grace. Your body feels simultaneously lighter and more powerful, as if gravity holds less sway over you. Your hand instinctively finds your side where the stab wound should be.

Nothing. Not even scar tissue.

Just smooth skin beneath unfamiliar silk nightclothes embroidered with flame-colored threads in patterns of leaves and fire. You realize you've never felt silk this nice before.

When you swing your legs over the bed, the room tilts strangely. Your balance is off, your center of gravity shifted. You nearly stumble, catching yourself on an ornately carved bedpost shaped like twisted branches. Your reflexes seem sharper, but your limbs are longer than you remember, more elegant.

The door opens, and a petite woman with auburn hair enters, carrying a silver tray. When she notices you're conscious, she startles violently, nearly spilling a glass of dark liquid. The smell reaches you—wine, but infused with unfamiliar spices and something that makes your nose tingle.

"My lady!" she exclaims, voice pitched high with unmistakable terror. But beneath the fear, you detect something else—a morbid curiosity, as if she's witnessing a predator that might choose another target instead of her. "You're—you're awake!"

You stare at her, bewildered by her fear. "Yes... How long was I asleep?" And why are you looking at me like I'm going to use your spleen as a hat?

She sets down the tray with trembling hands, maintaining maximum distance between you. "Three days, my lady. The High Lord has been most concerned."

High Lord.

The words should be meaningless, yet they resonate with peculiar familiarity, like a half-remembered dream. Images flash unbidden—a throne room with walls of amber, a crown of golden antlers, hands that can conjure fire with a snap of fingers.

"Where am I?" you ask gently, afraid she might bolt at any sudden movement. Your voice sounds strange to your ears—more musical, with an undercurrent of authority you've never possessed.

Her eyes widen further, pupils dilating with renewed fear. "The Autumn Court, my lady. Your home." She retreats toward the door, never breaking eye contact, as if you might attack without warning. "Shall I... inform Lord Eris of your awakening?"

"Yes, please," you reply, mystified by her reaction. "Thank you."

She curtsies deeply—too deeply, almost mockingly so, though terror doesn't resemble mockery—and hurries out, closing the door with a soft click that somehow conveys relief.

You slide from the bed, noticing an ornate mirror across the room. Approaching cautiously, you examine your reflection.

You look... different.

Not dramatically, but there's something otherworldly about your appearance now. Your features are still recognizable, but sharper, more refined. Your skin glows with a subtle luminescence, like late afternoon sunlight through amber. Your eyes now hold flecks of gold that shift and dance like embers in a dying fire. And most obviously, your ears now taper to delicate points. Fae ears. You touch them gently, half-expecting elaborate prosthetics.

But they're warm, sensitive—undeniably yours. When you touch them, a strange shiver runs down your spine, and the candles in the room flicker in response.

I can feel the magic, you realize with a jolt of both terror and exhilaration. It hums beneath your skin like an electrical current, responding to your emotions. The knowledge of how to use it feels tantalizingly close, like a word on the tip of your tongue.

The door opens without warning—no knock, no announcement—and a tall, imposing figure enters. He has auburn hair threaded with gold and eyes like smoldering embers. His face is all sharp angles and aristocratic contempt, beautiful but cold. Yet something flickers in those burning eyes when they meet yours—recognition, followed by confusion, followed by calculation so swift you almost miss it.

"Sister," he says, voice deceptively smooth, like honey concealing broken glass. "How... unexpected to see you awake." His fingers tap against his thigh in a pattern that seems deliberate rather than nervous—one-two-three, pause, one-two—as if counting or sending a signal.

Sister?

He approaches slowly, burning eyes assessing you with predatory intensity. When he passes the window, you notice how the late afternoon light bends toward him, as if drawn to his presence.

"The healers doubted your recovery. Father remains quite... displeased about the incident."

"Incident?" you echo, your voice sounding foreign even to yourself.

A flicker of something—suspicion?—crosses his features before vanishing behind indifference. He stops, studies you with his head tilted slightly, like a raptor sighting prey. "Yes. Your ill-conceived experiment." His smile never reaches his eyes, but a muscle twitches in his jaw—tension or suppressed emotion. "Three days unconscious is theatrical, even for you."

"I was trying to understand them," you say, surprised at the words rising unbidden from some deeper knowledge. "Mortals. Their bodies may be weak, but there's something... innovative about it."

He circles you deliberately, like a predator stalking prey. His movements are too fluid to be human, too predatory to be comforting. "You seem... different."

"Different how?" you ask carefully, fighting the urge to back away.

"I can't quite identify it." He stops uncomfortably close. You can smell autumn on him—fallen leaves, woodsmoke, the sharp tang of apples fermenting into cider. His smile turns cruel, but there's a guardedness to it now. "Is this your new strategy? Feigning amnesia for sympathy? It won't work on Father, I assure you."

"The spell may have had... unexpected effects," you admit, the half-truth forming easily. Something tells you revealing your true nature would be dangerous—possibly fatal. "I'm still... adjusting."

"Hmm." Skepticism radiates from him, but also a hint of curiosity. He examines your face as if searching for cracks in a mask. "Memory loss? Or something more interesting?"

You meet his gaze steadily, despite the instinctive fear his presence evokes. "Let's just say I'm seeing things from a new perspective."

A bark of laughter escapes him—genuine, if brief. "How delightfully cryptic. Perhaps you've finally developed an interesting personality to match your talent for cruelty." He steps back, and you resist the urge to sigh with relief. "Disoriented or not, Father expects you at dinner tonight. The Night Court delegation arrives tomorrow, and he won't tolerate any... incidents."

Night Court. Again, words that should mean nothing yet trigger faint recognition. Dark stone halls beneath a mountain. Political rivals. Ancient grudges. Assassination attempts thinly disguised as diplomatic overtures.

So basically Thanksgiving with extra stabbing.

"I'll be there," you promise, uncertain what else to say. "When should I present myself?"

"Sunset. Wear the red. Father will expect a demonstration of your control after your... mishap." Something almost like concern flashes across his features. "Don't disappoint him. The last time..." He gestures vaguely to a thin scar on his wrist. "Let's just say his temper hasn't improved with age."

"Thank you for the warning," you say, the words feeling strange in your mouth—genuine gratitude toward this dangerous, beautiful creature who is supposedly your brother.

His eyebrows rise slightly, that calculation returning to his gaze. "Now I know something is wrong. Expressing gratitude? Perhaps we should summon the healers again."

"Perhaps I'm simply in a generous mood." Or perhaps I'm not actually your psychotic sister, but just a nursing student who got stabbed and body-swapped into Fantasy Mean Girls.

"See that you are." He turns to leave, pausing at the threshold. "Oh, and sister? Try not to terrorize the servants so thoroughly. The last one you 'played with' still hasn't regained use of her hands. Even Father found that distasteful."

With that, he vanishes, leaving you alone with horrifying implications. And a newfound appreciation for your old life of student loans and instant ramen.

Whoever you now are—whoever's body you inhabit—is someone who tortures servants for amusement. Someone whose mere presence evokes terror. Someone even her brother approaches with caution.

You sink onto the bed's edge, heart racing. Your legs feel weak with the enormity of your situation. Magic. High Lord. Autumn Court. Pointed ears.

All impossible, yet undeniably real. And in a few hours, you must somehow convince a father you've never met that you are his daughter, a daughter renowned for cruelty and volatility. And you thought your nursing practical exams were stressful.

"This can't be happening," you whisper to the empty chamber.

As if in response, the flames in the fireplace leap higher, responding to your distress. On your bedside table, the wine in the glass ripples without being touched.

You stare at your reflection one final time, adjusting the crimson gown that drapes over your unfamiliar body like liquid fire. The fabric responds to your touch, rippling with actual embers that dance along the hemline without burning.

Magic. Your magic, apparently.

"You can do this," you mutter. "Just channel your inner Regina George with a sprinkle of sociopathy."

A knock at the door makes you jump. The same terrified servant enters, keeping her eyes downcast.

"My lady, Lord Eris asked me to remind you that dinner begins in ten minutes."

"Thank you," you say automatically.

The servant freezes, eyes widening in shock.

Right. Apparently psycho-sister doesn't say 'thank you.'

You clear your throat. "I mean... how dare you interrupt my preparations!" The attempt at menace falls embarrassingly flat, your voice rising into a question at the end.

The servant's expression shifts from terror to confusion. "My apologies, my lady. Shall I... help you with your hair?"

"No. Yes. I mean—" You attempt a haughty sneer. "Make it quick, or I'll... turn your fingers into twigs." Was that threatening enough? Too specific? Not specific enough?

The servant approaches cautiously, as if expecting a trap. When you don't immediately immolate her, she begins arranging your hair with trembling fingers.

"You seem... different, my lady," she ventures, immediately flinching as if expecting punishment.

"Do I? How fascinating that a lowly servant thinks she can analyze me," you reply, wincing internally at your awkward delivery.

"Of course not, my lady. Forgive me."

You catch her eye in the mirror, and genuine remorse floods you. "What's your name?" you ask softly.

She freezes mid-motion. "Briar, my lady. Though you've asked seven times this month."

"And I keep forgetting because you're so..." you search for something suitably cruel, "...insignificant."

Rather than appearing hurt, Briar looks relieved. This is familiar territory.

"That's more like you, my lady," she says, almost smiling.

Great. Even my attempts at cruelty are recognizable as fake.

"Tell me, Briar," you say as she pins a golden leaf-shaped comb into your hair. "What exactly is expected of me at dinner?"

Briar's hands pause. "The usual, my lady. Lord Beron will want a demonstration of your powers. You typically create those little fire animals that dance across the table." Her voice drops. "Though perhaps not the ones that tried to set Lord Eris's sleeve on fire last time."

"And what about the Night Court delegation?"

"They arrive tomorrow, my lady. The High Lord and his Inner Circle retinue from the Night Court." She hesitates. "Your father expects you to behave... diplomatically. After the incident with the wine at the Winter Court."

"Ah, yes. That incident."

"When you made Lord Kallias's wine freeze in his throat because he suggested your fire powers were less impressive than his lady's ice abilities? He nearly died."

Holy crap. Who AM I?

"A measured response," you manage to say.

Briar finishes your hair and steps back. "There. You look beautiful, my lady."

"Thank—" You catch yourself. "Obviously I do. Now get out before I decide to use your eyeballs as earrings."

Briar curtsies hurriedly and backs toward the door.

"Wait," you call, softening despite yourself. "Your hands. Are they... I mean, will they heal?"

Her expression shifts to pure confusion. "My hands, my lady?"

"My brother mentioned something about... never mind."

"Oh! You mean Lily's hands. After you made her hold burning coals." Briar's voice is matter-of-fact, but she subconsciously rubs her own palms. "The healer says she might regain partial use eventually."

The horror must show on your face because Briar adds hastily, "She spoke out of turn, my lady. Everyone agreed the punishment was... appropriate."

"Of course," you murmur, stomach churning.

When Briar leaves, you take several deep breaths. I'm inhabiting the body of a literal psychopath in a family of magical sadists. Cool. Cool cool cool.

The dining hall is breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. The ceiling soars impossibly high, its fresco depicting scenes of battle and conquest. Flames dance in mid-air instead of candles, casting everything in flickering amber light.

At the head of the table sits a male who can only be your "father," Lord Beron. His power radiates from him like heat from a furnace, ancient and oppressive. His eyes—identical to Eris's—track your entrance with predatory assessment.

Eris sits at his right hand. Three other males who share your familial features occupy seats along the table—more brothers, you assume. Their conversation dies as you enter.

"Ah, the prodigal daughter awakens," Beron says, voice like gravel over silk. "How good of you to join us."

You dip into what you hope is an appropriate curtsy. "Father."

"We were taking bets on whether you'd grace us with your presence," says one brother, his tone suggesting he lost money on your arrival.

"Sorry to disappoint," you reply, taking the empty seat across from Eris.

Beron studies you with narrowed eyes. "I'm told your little... experiment left you somewhat altered."

"Nothing that affects my abilities, Father." You hope.

"We shall see." He gestures to your untouched goblet. "Show us."

Crap. Fire animals. How do I—

You stare at the goblet, willing something—anything—to happen. The magic inside you stirs sluggishly, like a reluctant student being forced to solve an equation at the board.

Come on. Fire. Animals. Dancing. How hard can it be?

To your relief, a tiny spark ignites above the wine. It grows, taking shape—limbs forming, a tail, ears—

"A... bunny?" one brother snorts. "How terrifying."

Indeed, a fire-rabbit now hops across the table, leaving no burns despite its flickering form. It looks less "creature of nightmare" and more "adorable woodland friend."

Beron's expression darkens. "Is this a jest?"

"I thought I'd try something... different," you manage.

"Different," Beron repeats flatly.

The rabbit multiplies, becoming two, then four, then eight tiny fire-bunnies hopping around the table. One nuzzles Eris's hand.

"Stop this foolishness," Beron commands.

You frantically try to extinguish them, but they only multiply faster, now nibbling at ghostly fire-carrots that materialize from nowhere.

Eris chokes on his wine, and you can't tell if it's suppressed rage or laughter.

"Perhaps she hit her head harder than we thought," suggests another brother, watching as a fire-bunny does a little dance by his plate.

"ENOUGH!" Beron roars, slamming his fist on the table.

The bunnies explode into shower of sparks that reform into—

"Butterflies?" Eris's voice cracks.

Dozens of fire-butterflies now flutter around the chandelier, casting warm, gentle light across the room.

The brothers exchange baffled glances.

"Who are you," Beron asks slowly, "and what have you done with my daughter?"

Oh no.

"I don't know what you mean, Father," you stammer. "I'm simply exploring... gentler forms of expression."

"Gentler," he repeats, as if you've suggested something obscene. "My daughter, who set her nursemaid on fire for brushing her hair too roughly, is exploring gentler forms of expression."

"Maybe it's a side effect of her spell," offers one brother. "Temporary insanity."

"I'm not insane," you protest. "I'm just..." A human nursing student trapped in a homicidal fairy's body. "...evolving as an artist."

Eris snorts into his wine, earning a glare from Beron.

"Control your creatures," Beron demands.

You concentrate, and the butterflies reluctantly merge into a single flame that hovers over the table before extinguishing itself.

An uncomfortable silence falls.

"Perhaps we should postpone the delegation," suggests the brother beside you. "If she's going to behave... oddly."

"No," Beron's voice is final. "The alliance is too important." His gaze fixes on you. "But you, daughter, will remain in your chambers tomorrow unless you can demonstrate appropriate behavior."

"What if..." you begin carefully, "...what if I promised not to harm anyone?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

"Not harm anyone?" Beron repeats incredulously. "That's the entire point of the delegation. To show strength. To remind them of the consequences of betrayal."

"Through diplomacy," you suggest weakly.

All five males stare at you as if you've sprouted a second head.

"I think," Eris says slowly, "that my sister is merely disoriented from her spell. She'll be herself by tomorrow." His eyes meet yours with unmistakable warning.

"Indeed," you grasp the lifeline. "Just a temporary... adjustment period."

Beron doesn't look convinced, but he returns to his meal with a dismissive gesture. "See that your 'adjustment' concludes before they arrive. The Night Court already thinks us weak after your mother's... display of mercy last solstice."

The brothers return to their previous conversations, though you catch them casting curious glances your way. Only Eris continues to study you openly, his expression calculating.

Later, as servants clear the plates, Eris corners you in the corridor.

"Whatever is happening with you, sister, fix it," he murmurs. "Father is already suspicious."

"I'm trying," you reply truthfully.

"Fire bunnies? Promises not to harm anyone?" He scoffs. "If I didn't know better, I'd think someone replaced you with a Spring Court weakling."

Your heart skips. "Don't be ridiculous."

"The sister I know would have turned that servant's hair to ash just for looking at her directly." He narrows his eyes. "Tomorrow, when they arrive, you will act like yourself. Feared. No more of whatever... this is." He gestures vaguely at all of you.

"Or what?"

A cold smile spreads across his face. "Or I'll tell Father exactly how your experiment failed. And what it might mean for the power dynamics within our court."

The threat hangs in the air between you.

"Fine," you manage. "I'll be more... myself."

"Good." Eris steps back. "I'll have the servants draw up a training schedule for you in the morning. Your magic is clearly... unstable." His eyes linger on yours, as if trying to peer through to the truth. "Sleep well, sister. Tomorrow will be... illuminating."

After he leaves, you hurry back to your chambers, heart pounding. The situation is worse than you thought. Not only are you trapped in a body that isn't yours, in a world of magic and cruelty, but now you have to pretend to be someone you're not—someone terrible.

The moment your door closes behind you, the tears come. Hot and desperate, they stream down your face as you slide to the floor, your back against the door. The elegant gown pools around you like congealing blood.

"I want to go home," you whisper, your voice breaking. "Please, I just want to go home."

Around you, the flames in the fireplace respond to your distress, flickering wildly before dimming to barely-glowing embers. Even the magic of this place seems to mourn with you.

For the first time since waking in this nightmare, you allow yourself to truly feel the loss. Your life. Your future. Your identity. All gone, replaced by this twisted fairy tale where your "family" measures love in scars and power in screams.

There, on the cold stone floor of a monster's bedroom, you cry until exhaustion claims you.

Tomorrow, you'll have to become the villain of someone else's story. But tonight—just for tonight—you allow yourself to be exactly who you are: lost, afraid, and desperately hoping for a way home.

Author's Note: Thanks for diving into this canon(ish) ACOTAR adventure where a nursing student with a "do no harm" oath is suddenly piloting the body of Autumn Court's resident psychopath—think "Florence Nightingale trapped in Bellatrix Lestrange" but with more awkward attempts at being evil.

There's something deliciously ironic about a healer having to pretend to be a torturer. More chapters coming soon! 🫡😶‍🌫️

#azriel x oc #acotar #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #feyre acotar #nesta acotar

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