My ire, My misfortune, My burning desire
Summary: As a lady in waiting, you were brought to the heart of the Autumn Court for a single reason: to find a husband that will keep you comfortable for the rest of your days. But upon meeting the youngest Vanserra son, your world is turned on its axis.
Warnings: Explicit language, enemies to lovers, sexual content (18+ only!), pre-acotar setting (Lucien is only 100), mentions of an arranged marriage
Golden threads of sunlight pierce through the browning tree leaves, the ocean breeze from the east rupturing any stillness in the Autumn castle’s gardenscapes. Ladybugs floated between rose bushes, whilst foxes snoozed in flattened patches of grass.
It was an early morning on the sixth moon when most Lords and Ladies broke their fasts or began their early promenades. Maids were stripping bed chambers, cooks were preparing the evening supper, and knights swapped shifts.
All was the same; all was in order—except for one ladybug and one fox.
Unlike most mornings, you awoke after the sun did. Perhaps that was because you were still settling into a place you’re now to call home. Autumn’s capital fortress, you have discovered, was a far cry from all that you were used to. Where you once resided near the border of Winter in a small stronghold, there was a little luxury in freedom—able to roam where you please, not bound to the responsibilities of a lady in waiting for the Lady Autumn.
So, in an hour before you’re to be called upon, you slip from your chambers to the courtyard gardens. The air still smelt thick of smoke and damp soil, mist permeating the earth around you.
You breathe easier beyond the stifling walls of the Forest House.
As you wander down a cobbled path, willow trees and strings of ivy floating overhead, you come across another. You pause before sliding yourself behind the protection of a thick trunk. Taking a peak, you realise who you’ve stumbled across.
A Vanserra son. The youngest—Lucien—a male who stood out compared to his brothers by his tan skin. He appeared not to notice your intrusion, still wholly engrossed in the book he was reading as he relaxed against a large oak tree.
He almost appeared to be glowing in the pale morning light—russet hair tied back into a loose braid, expression lax and content. You’ve seen him once before in passing. He appeared tense; lips curled into a small frown. But here, in this hidden world, he looked at peace with himself.
But while Lucien had yet to notice you, his companion certainly did.
The hound stared into your soul as it raised its nose, analysing whether or not you were a threat. Lucien soon noticed the hound’s distraction and snapped his gaze to you.
You press back into the trunk, knowing hiding was now futile—childish if anything. Laying a hand over your thrumming heart, you swallow the sudden burst of heat beneath your skin the moment you made eye contact with the Vanserra male.
“I know you’re there, my Lady,” Lucien calls, his voice making you feel all the more ashamed. “Come out, before I’m reduced to making you.”
You let out a small huff, feigning an ounce of courage before peeling away from your only source of protection. There was something disarming in the way Lucien stared at you—full of that young arrogance and amusement.
Lucien hums as he drops his book into his lap, soothing the hound beside him with a simple touch to its scruff. “You’re my Mother’s new lady in waiting, aren’t you?” He asks, surprising you by the fact he knew who you were. “You’re not supposed to be out here, unattended. If someone were to catch us together alone, you can be assured no upstanding male will take your hand.”
You had to bite back a scoff, almost forgetting the rumours that proceeded this male. Handsome, yes, but far too proud and untamed in spirit for the rigid formality of the Autumn Court.
Smoothing a hand down your skirts, you raise your chin. “Well, I can assure you that you needn’t concern yourself with my reputation nor what I do with my free time,” you retort, much to Lucien’s apparent vexation.
“I wouldn’t say I’m concerned. Merely giving warning,” Lucien quips back, his grin only growing. “It would be a shame to see you gone so soon.”
You feel your eyes roll. Seems like the stories were true—the Vanserras burned everything that drew near. “I didn’t expect to see you, of all people, out in the gardens,” you say, turning the focus onto the Autumn male. “Let alone find a prince that sits in the dirt whilst he reads poetry.”
Lucien’s grin sharpens, eyes narrowing onto you. “Well, we’re all filled with contradictions, aren’t we?” He drawls back.
You return his sentiments with a sarcastic smile. “Good day to you, my Lord,” you state before picking up your skirts to continue on your trail, storming past the aggravating male. So much for good first impressions.
“The House is back the way you came,” Lucien calls back to you, making you pause and tense further. And, to just add salt to the wound, he adds an entertained, “My Lady.”
You don’t deign Lucien with a response as you stride past him again, rushing away before you can embarrass yourself further. You could hear Lucien’s laugh following you out of the gardens.
Like a stain you couldn’t ignore, you seem to find Lucien everywhere—in corridors, in your Lady’s parlour and chambers, in drawing rooms and dining halls. The male was an ever present fixture in your life—purely put on this earth to aggravate you into arguing back.
It was almost shameful how quickly Lucien was able to reduce you to a terrible version of yourself, sarcastic and mean, biting back when you were taught to remain silent and demure in the face of adversity.
But with a single mocking taunt and wholly amused grin to boot, and any and all perfected masks you’ve been taught to craft shatters, leaving you to snarl back any smart retort you could come up with. It saddened you, you’d comment after a heated debate about something you’ve long forgotten, that for such a pretty face, it was unfortunate the mouth it accompanied.
Lucien would retaliate with another foul-mouthed comment. No Lady has complained about my mouth before.
If it weren't beyond your physical capabilities or the fact you’d be tried with treason, you’d have Lucien strangled by now.
For all of Beron’s viciousness and tyranny, the High Lord certainly knew how to put together a banquet for all to remember. Although, perhaps not, with the amount of fae wine that is supplied to all those invited. A masquerade ball. There was something ironic in nobles and rich men wearing a mask—as if hiding their faces would absolve them of their sins and indiscretions.
But, maybe for one night with your face concealed behind black and red lace, you could too experiment with such indiscretions.
The ballroom was a whirlwind of colour and movement, a haze of velvet and silk, where the flicker of candlelight danced across jewelled masks and glittering gowns. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, mingling with the musk of freshly polished oak. A thousand voices murmured, laughter and secrets spilling from behind silk and satin, as the guests of the grand masquerade floated like shadows across the dance floors.
Among them, you hid between pompous skirts and overly powdered wigs, going against two of your Mother's rules: drinking more than two glasses of wine and eating from the dessert tables. If you were going to attend an event that forced you to wear a mask that made you feel close to claustrophobic, you would at least reap the benefits.
Circling the room, you manage to dodge four requests to dance and two pulls onto the floor. However, your luck was soon to run out—and that came in the form of one misstep that landed you in the dance circle. You were like sand in a wave, unable to battle against the current pushing you to shore.
And pushed you were—into the arms of another unlucky soul, a collision of fate or perhaps something more deliberate. The moment your eyes meet with your dance partner, a tall male fashioned to mask a fox, you’re jolted by the recognition—faint, yet unmistakable.
Lucien Vanserra. His lips curl into a smirk, and your hackles rise. The hands clutching the small of your back and your gloved hand felt like they were burning through fabric and into your skin.
Before either of you could speak, a plump fae in a large wig began to call out—a master of ceremonies, no doubt—the music of a waltz swelling in the background. "Partners, if you please!" he called with a flourish, his voice a booming command.
And before you could protest, you were swept into the swirling mass of dancers. Lucien’s hand closed over yours with a firmness that startled you, the heat of his touch sending a ripple of something both unfamiliar and unwanted through you. You spun in time with the music, your body pulled with surprising force, yet you found yourself following his lead.
"Do not think for one moment that I am pleased to be here," you hissed, your voice low, barely audible over the crescendo of violins.
Lucien’s lips twitched. "Neither am I," he replied, his tone laced with an edge of mockery. "But we are both here, are we not?”
The waltz carried you both in circles, each step a careful balance of control and surrender. Your hand rested lightly in his, though you felt the tremor of unease beneath the surface of your cool composure. Lucien’s movements were fluid and practised, but there was something unnervingly possessive in how he held you, as though the dance was a way to tether you.
Your eyes flickered to the edges of Lucien’s mask, where a glint of something sharp—something far too familiar—made your heart stutter. You had seen that glint before. You had seen it in his eyes, a heat that had passed between them the last time you went toe to toe.
"You…" you began, your breath catching in your throat, but before you could say more, Lucien leaned down to press his lips dangerously close to your ear.
"Don't say anything vicious," Lucien warned, his voice low, just above a whisper. "Not yet.”
You’re spun out as the music reaches its crescendo—once and then twice—before you’re pulled back in for the final bow. You inhale a sharp breath when you catch your balance, meeting Lucien’s wicked grin as he lifts you into him, close enough that you can feel his breath fanning your cheeks.
How easy it was to tred between the fine line of hatred and passion.
“You are the utter bane of my existence,” you ground out, feeding your fingers into Lucien’s doublet coat, exploring the taut terrain of muscle and skin.
Lucien smirks into your open mouth, pressing you into the wall of the closest unoccupied space you could find—the cloakroom. “Likewise,” he murmurs back between the teeth and tongue he slid down the slope of your neck.
His hands were everywhere—roving down your back, palming your hips and ass, before bunching up your skirts to snap the garter at your thigh. You retaliate by pulling his hair and rolling into his crotch, eliciting a heavy groan.
“You don’t seem to care about being caught now,” you pant out as Lucien finds your centre, running a hot thumb through your slick before mercilessly pressing into your clit. Your head slumps back into the wall, and he catches your high moan beneath his hand.
Lucien snarls into your shoulder, releasing your heat in favour of unbuckling his belt. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls, and you let out a breathless laugh in return. “Maybe fucking some sense into you will make you more tolerable.”
You bear your teeth and force his hand away—pulling him back into a passionate kiss. You meet Lucien with equal force, wanting to bruise and stain his lips pomegranate red so he’ll never forget being the first to give in. He was the one to drag you into this cloakroom.
Lucien’s pushing your legs apart with a knee and moving his hand to your throat, giving an experimental squeeze. It was as disarming as it was liberating; taking and taking when you were only ever made for giving.
You were likely to be married off by the end of the year—likely to a Councilman or Commanding Officer—someone just as likely to be unforgiving and selfish.
“I hate you,” you whisper in Lucien’s mouth the moment his cockhead breeches you.
Your mouth falls open, but nothing else comes out, and by Lucien’s returning grin, he’s finally achieved what he wished to do. You wrap a leg around his waist and Lucien holds you steady, dragging himself into you in a final fluid motion. A shudder crawls up your spine as Lucien rolls in and out for a second time—and then again, again, again.
You call his name, you think. It ran through you; hollowing you out. Lucien presses his face into your neck again, gritting his teeth to fight against every modulated groan that reverberates up your flushed skin.
Lucien let go of your throat to return to your centre, finding your engorged clit once again. It sends fire through your nerves, and he has to put his mouth against yours to swallow every sound he pulls from you.
Your lower muscles begin to tighten, and the world around you begins to bleed away, dropping into yourself at your emerging orgasm.
The pleasure then rose and overflowed, flourishing a gratifying euphoria through every inch of your body. Lucien soon follows after you, pulling out in time to spill across the lace of your skirts.
You attempt to catch your breath, your mind slowly coming back into the present, becoming more aware of the Autumn male laying his body into you. From this proximity, you allow yourself to appreciate his russet eyes for just a moment in weightless bliss.
“I hate you too,” Lucien finally replies, and then he’s pulling away, taking with him all of your heat and burning desire. He hardly wipes himself off before he tucks himself back into his britches. “We should do this again,” he proposes as if what you just did wasn’t something that would ruin the both of you.
It has you sneering at him. “In your dreams, you prick,” you retort, hurriedly fixing your costume dress.
Oh, who were you kidding? You’ll be in the same position again by the end of the week.
And by Lucien’s wicked grin, he already knew that. It was now just a matter of who will crack first.
