NyankoChan

kimetsu no yaiba

fairy tail

twisted wonderland

Gachiakuta

♥︎ —special events

Kinktober 2025 — master list

♥︎ —au series (18+)

Billionaire’s Club — master list

Cuffing Season — master list (summer 2026)

♥︎ —random ones written

Mature 18+

Blue Lock — Mr. Worldwide (nsfw)

Obey Me — King of Sin (nsfw)

Safe for work

And wish that you may, love stories like those just didn’t happen in reality. No matter how many gatherings or balls you attended, no one who had ever tried to court you captured your heart. While you weren’t desperate for love, you had no desire to rush into a marriage for the sake of being married.

As you neared your thirties with no real prospects of a suitor, your stepmother grew increasingly worried that you’d die alone or become an old maid. You weren’t quite sure why those were the only two options in her mind. Not to mention, there were several other women in your position, so you didn’t understand why she felt the need to single you out specifically.

Then again, your poor step-sister, Tomme, also has been subjected to her mother’s incessant fretting over neither of her daughters having found a suitable husband. You just got the worst of it cause you were older than she.

The problem with your stepmother, though, was that she was unrealistic with her expectations. If she had it her way, one of her daughters would be married to the Crown Prince of the kingdom. Given that idea in and of itself was preposterous, she had made it very clear she wants you and Tomme to marry one of the Dukes of the neighboring provinces.

No matter that the Duke of the Southern Isles was rumored to be a violent brute or the Duke of the Eastern Province had one foot in the grave. Your stepmother had her eyes set on marrying both of her daughters to a wealthy man, love or age be damned. You’re convinced your father’s wealth was the only reason why she married him before he passed a few years ago due to illness. Although your family wasn’t extremely rich by any means, you were more comfortable than most with your late father’s status as Baron of the small town of Andio.

Subsequently, since she had taken over as Baroness, your stepmother has continued to move among elite circles and has managed her role as governing authority quite well, building up quite the reputation for herself. She knows all the gossip. She knows who’s courting whom and who is looking for marriage. So it’s no surprise to you that she managed to snag an invitation to this year’s upcoming Spring Social.

“You both will be attending tomorrow night’s gathering at the palace,” your stepmother, Lady Mima, announced at breakfast. No good morning or anything of the sort. You hadn’t even had your morning tea yet. And Tomme is still blinking the sleep out of her eyes while dressed in her night clothes.

“Mother, what are you even talking about?” Your stepsister yawns. She nods politely to one of the housemaids who plates her breakfast of eggs and fruit with a side of roasted boar from last night’s dinner.

“The Spring Social begins tomorrow at dusk. Word is, this year, Their Majesties are even more insistent on looking for a potential bride for His Highness now that he is past the coronation age.” She gives her daughter a knowing look, one riddled with an underlying sense of ambition. “You two are close in age, Tomme. Now is your chance.”

“Um…” Tomme nervously laughs, looking to you with eyes pleading for help.

“Stepmother, the Spring Social occurs every year, and His Highness has never shown an interest in courting anyone,” you say with a sigh. Lady Mima frowns in distaste as you reach across the table for the bowl of fruit. She was always a stickler for proper table manners. “What even is the point of going to these silly gatherings? Once you’ve been to one, you've been to them all.”

“You wouldn’t think of it as such if you finally settled down like I’ve been telling you to. And elbows off the table!”

You roll your eyes.

The Spring Social was a yearly week-long celebration to commemorate the beginning of Spring. Hosted by the King and Queen, it served as the most elite gathering of the entire year, drawing high and low-ranked nobles from across the kingdom. Usually, it included some sort of ball, a banquet, festivities, and performances. It was actually at the Social where your father met your mother, his first wife.

Most people use the event as an opportunity to present their sons and daughters to the rest of society for the first time when they reach of marrying age. A debut, if you would say. Five years ago, when the prince turned eighteen, he participated in the Social for the first time, which officially marked his debut as an eligible bachelor.

Of course, knowledge of this had many, your stepmother included, scrambling to try and polish their children’s appearance and manners to see if they could potentially sway the prince. You were in your mid-twenties at that time, and you outright refused to court someone who had just turned eighteen. And with Tomme being two years younger than the prince himself, she couldn’t participate in the Social yet.

Luckily (or unluckily for your stepsister), by the time she made her debut, the Prince had still been single. Three years since then, that has still been the case with no one seemingly able to thaw the notoriously cold Prince’s icy heart.

It still seems like your stepmother has yet to give up hope on marrying her youngest into royalty.

“We will go into town today to get you both fitted for dresses,” Lady Mima declares. She points her spoon at you with a glare. “You’re going to the ball tomorrow night, and you will attempt to mingle with the suitors this year. No hiding out in the garden again. Especially because the Duke of the Eastern Province’s son plans to attend for the first time.”

“Isn’t his son well into his thirties?” You ask. When her frown deepens, you sigh. Knowing better than to continue to argue with her, you mutter a snarky “yes ma’am” under your breath before continuing to dig into your breakfast. This does seem to appease your stepmother, who eagerly shifts the discussion to the ball and the theme for the year. Apparently, it would be a masquerade.

You supposed that could be entertaining.

To be honest, you hated the Spring Social and tried to avoid the gatherings that came with it like the plague. Last year, you hid out in the palace gardens the entire time, and the year before that, you feigned illness to leave early.

It wasn’t that you hated the gatherings or balls themselves—after all, even you loved a good new dress or fancy pair of jewelry. It was just, to put it frankly, the men were at best idiots and at worst, downright misogynistic pigs.

Unfortunately, many young men and women, yourself included, have been indoctrinated to believe and follow stereotypical gender roles where men have wealth and women play the role of obedient, quiet wives. Granted, women did hold high-ranking roles, your stepmother included, but they were few and far between. And more often, the woman didn’t own the role outright. She inherited from her husband and then became a widow.

This meant that ever since your debut, you’ve been subjected to the nonsensical rhetoric of your male peers. However, many of them hadn’t expected or liked that you talked back.

“A good wife should obey her husband.”

“You need to watch that mouth of yours.”

“No man will put up with a woman as vulgar as you.”

That was your favorite thing that’s ever been said to you after you kindly told the son of another nobleman to go fuck himself after he told you that you would be prettier if you smiled more.

You’ve since developed quite a reputation for yourself as being stubborn and “untamable.” Although you weren’t quite fond of the notion of people acting like you were an animal to be domesticated. You were your own individual with your own hobbies and interests. Sure, things like love or motherhood didn’t completely turn you off, but you didn’t want it to be your sole identity.

Due to your difficult personality and frank lack of cooperation, year after year passed without you finding a suitor. And the older you got, the fewer options there were as younger individuals began making their own debuts. By now, most of your choices were either some immature boy ten years younger than you or some widowed asshole ten years your senior.

Two sides of the same coin, but you didn’t know which was worse.

You supposed, with the Masquerade theme this year, you could fly under the radar. If everyone’s identity were hidden, that would mean they wouldn’t be looking for you specifically, and no one would question a thing if you conveniently disappeared for most of the event. As long as your stepmother was too busy trying to weasel her way into the inner aristocratic circle to notice your departure.

Once breakfast wrapped up, with conversation shifting from the ball to Lady Mima’s complaints about one of the governor’s wives and her behavior at her last tea party, the maids ushered you and Tomme to your rooms to dress for the day.

You suck in a breath as the corset is tightened, the maid tying it in a way that nearly restricts your movement. “I actually like my ability to breathe, and I don’t think my lungs can properly expand at this rate,” you lightly jest. The maid apologizes and loosens the strings just a bit.

“My apologies, Miss. Lady Mima instructed that we prepare you and Lady Tomme in a fashion that flatters all your assets.”

Of course she did.

“Mother just wants us to look our best,” Tomme says kindly, a surprise squeak leaving her lips as her own corset is suddenly pulled tight. She must’ve read the annoyed look on your face.

“She’s meddling in my love life, and I don’t quite appreciate it,” you mutter. You step into your dress, a simple gown in your favorite color with lace on the front.

“She truly means well. I know she’s a bit…”

“Eccentric?”

“Well, I was going to say ambitious, but I suppose that works too,” Tomme chuckles. “Just go along with it to placate her. If you at least act like you’re playing the game, she tends to back off.”

“But it’s not fair, is it not?” Your attendants tie up your dresses. The silly garments have far too many buttons and ties to be considered practical. You dismiss them when they try to do your hair. “Ultimately, it’s our life to live, and stepmother shouldn’t be able to just dictate whom we get to be with,” you huff in frustration.

Tomme’s smile softens in her reflection in the mirror, not quite pity but something akin to sadness. “It’s just how tradition works. Most people our age are in arranged marriages. My father and mother were by the time they were twenty.”

“Well, tradition can go to hell.”

Your stepsister laughs. She takes a seat on the stool in front of her vanity. You take a brush to her hair, running the bristles through to detangle it.

“Listen,” Tomme says gently. “Trust me when I say I understand the frustration. I have no desire or interest in marrying the prince either, but arguing with my mother is a moot point. Maybe instead of fighting her so much, why not just let your heart be open to the potential for love? I think she’d be happy to at least see you trying.”

“I may be almost thirty, but it’s not the end of the world. She makes it seem that I’ve gotten a late start compared to others,” you grumble under your breath. “I'm an adult and am more than capable of picking a proper suitor for myself.”

“And I don’t doubt that,” your sister agrees. “It will just take a certain type of man to win you over.”

You shoot her an incredulous look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tomme shrugs, a teasing grin on her face. “It means, dear sister, that you require a man who puts up with your stubbornness without stifling your independence, and he must be okay with your inability to cook a meal that’s not burnt. And I do wish the poor lad luck with that. Even the mules aren’t as hardheaded as you.”

At that, you playfully thwack her with the brush.

Despite being stepsisters, you honestly had a pretty good relationship with Tomme. Her mom and your dad were widows when they met. Tomme’s father passed away from an unexpected illness, and your mother died during childbirth.

You were young when they married. You were 12, and Tomme was even younger at 4. Since she was so young, she had taken a liking to you right away, and you never had it in your heart to be mean to a child, especially one who had just lost her father.

On the other hand, your relationship with your stepmother was cordial. Although you’d never met your biological mother, you were not jumping at the idea of trying to replace her. And you had a slight suspicion that your stepmother only married your father for his money, no matter how many times he tried to reassure you that he truly loved her.

When he died when you were sixteen, you were thoroughly surprised to see how she wept for him at the funeral and continued to grieve for him long after the mourning period ended. You weren’t sure if it was just for appearances' sake or not.

Ever since Lady Mima assumed the role of baroness, she has governed her land with a firm, though not completely unkind, iron fist. Of course, rumors have speculated about her potentially killing her second husband for his position and wealth.

But they were merely rumors. And, over the decade after his passing, Lady Mima has yet to remarry. To many, however, it’s because a woman twice widowed was not marital material. You think it’s because she’s more preoccupied with maintaining her status and meddling in the love lives of her two daughters.

“Come on, you two, enough dallying,” Lady Mima yelled from the hallway. “I want us to get to the tailor right when they open so we get the first selection of their new dress collection.”

As you rolled your eyes, Tomme laughed. “Coming mother.”

You take the carriage into town from your manor.

The kingdom had four major provinces: the Eastern Province, the Northern Territories, the Western Province, and the Southern Isles. Each province had its own major cities, but in the Eastern Province, Mono was the most notable. Other well-known cities included Penta and Tori.

Andio was a small town within Mono that your father, and now stepmother, governs. It was a rambunctious town not too far from the Southern Isles that often held festivals for the arts, and street performers weren’t uncommon. In fact, each year in late autumn, the town hosts its annual Doll Festival, a celebration completely dedicated to fashion and craftsmanship. Usually, it is hosted by August Stilza, a well-known tailor who has even made clothing for Her Majesty.

August was an interesting character, to say the least. He was close to Tomme’s age but didn’t act like most of the men you were accustomed to. For starters, his grandmother was a renowned doctor, yet he essentially renounced his stake in his inheritance and pursued tailoring instead. Although he has become quite successful in his own right, many were appalled that he would take on such a “feminine hobby.”

His younger sister has also been subject to scrutiny for pursuing medicine like her grandmother, but most people know better than to say that in the face of Alice Stilza. If people thought you could be vulgar, the woman can be downright venomous with her words if anyone spoke ill of either of her precious grandchildren.

Undeniably, August gets his boisterous personality from his grandmother, but he was funny, and you generally liked being around him. While kind and great at his craft, he unfortunately had one volume: loud.

“The Mima family has arrived!” August exclaims the moment you all walk into his shop. Your stepmother’s face scrunches in disdain.

“Good day to you, Lord Stilza,” she says gruffly. “We have appointments for 10.” She never liked the man, but you think it’s simply because he doesn’t follow most societal standards.

He wears his hair long, for starters. And in addition to being a tailor, August’s own fashion tastes run quite peculiar, with him often dressing more casually than expected. His own clothing often is patched up or wrinkled, as if he slept in it. Most of the time, he probably does because he works long hours. August once told you that his best inspiration hits after midnight.

“I’m well aware!” August says eagerly. “I’ve pulled out a few pieces I’ve recently made, including things from the last season. Who’d like to go first?”

Your stepmother butts in before either you or your sister can. “We’ll start with Tomme. After all, she needs to look her best for His Highness.”

Tomme strains a smile, letting out an uncomfortable laugh at being put on the spot.

“Very well.” August ushers her and your stepmother toward the back, where a few dressing screens have been set up. He looks over his shoulder, shooting you a smile. “Feel free to look around until I’m ready for ya!”

“Thank you. I will.”

You walk around the small store. On the outside, one wouldn’t think Stilza’s Threads would be much. As eccentric as August was and hailing from wealth, he was relatively modest in how he ran his business, with simple decor and a small building he called his shop. You make your way through the racks of clothes, glancing through the newest Spring collection before venturing to the remaining Winter items.

“August really is a magician at what he does,” you mumble, pulling out a lilac colored gown with more tulle and ruffles than one could ever dream of wearing. You set it back.

You didn’t want something that drew too much attention, nor would be too hard to move in. Last year, the dress you had was so long that you kept tripping. And one year, you got stuck wearing a gown from a different tailor than August, and the fabric had been so itchy, you broke out in a rash. After learning from that mistake, you’ve been consistently wearing August’s work ever since.

The bell on the front door chimes as it opens.

“Hey, August, are you busy?”

A tall gentleman enters the store. He’s dressed impeccably in a navy suit jacket with elaborate gold detailing and embroidery. Just underneath, he has on a white ruffled shirt with a caravat. The trousers appear to be light-coloured. Possibly cream, but they appear more off-white. His blond hair is slicked back, and sleek black shoes complete his look. Dare you say the man was quite attractive?

But you wouldn’t, and continue to browse through the clothes while pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Lord Rubion,” August replies, a hint of surprise in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I figured you’d be on the way to the palace by now for the Social.”

His overly polite tone was unlike him. Your curiosity couldn’t help but pique. August was never one to be overly formal, so who was this gentleman?

“I should be. You’re right.” The gentleman heaves out a frustrated-sounding sigh. He holds up something for the tailor to see: it’s a pair of buttons and a grey suit jacket. “Unfortunately, one of the seams split on my nephew’s suit. If it’s not too much of a hassle, would you mind fixing it and the buttons that popped off? It’s his debut tomorrow night, and his mother is insisting it has to be this suit.”

“Oh, not at all. Let me finish with my current client, and then I’ll be right with you.”

Gris nods. “Much appreciated.”

The blonde nobleman had quite literally been having the world’s shittiest day. His role as Count has him busy on most days, but with the upcoming Spring Social, his work seemed to have tripled in the last forty-eight hours. Between the work he had to do on behalf of the Eastern Province’s Duke, coupled with his elder sister’s fretting to ensure that his nephew, Follo’s, debut went perfectly, Gris was half tempted to lock himself in his office and drink just so he could get a break from all his responsibilities.

Honestly, he didn’t give a damn about attending the Social himself at this point. But it would reflect quite poorly if a high-ranking nobleman didn’t attend without a valid excuse. And given that he himself, at thirty years old, was still single, people would begin to talk more if Gris didn’t settle down within the next few years.

Setting Follo’s jacket down on the rack, Gris began to browse the store. He personally didn’t frequent Stilza’s Threads often, but the store was well enough known. Although August primarily designed women’s dresses, he had a fair selection of men’s suits. But it wasn’t the fine garments that caught his attention.

Gris realized he wasn’t alone in the shop. Well, August had just said that he was helping another client, but the blond hadn’t expected to see another young woman browsing through the dresses with a rather bored expression on her face.

His immediate thought was that she was cute.

He figured she had to be nobility, given her exquisite dress and the shiny, yet subtle, jewelry adorning her neck. A delicate pair of lace gloves covered her hands, and her hair was pinned out of her face, a common style. Perhaps the daughter of a nobleman?

“Staring is quite rude, My Lord,” the woman quips without looking up from the rack. She pulls an orange dress out, scans it, before setting it back.

Gris snaps out of his daze. A smile softens across his face. “My apologies. I was merely taken aback by how beautiful you are.”

You scoff, ignoring the way heat burns your cheeks. “Flattery will get you nowhere, sir. I’m not swayed by suave words.”

“Then perhaps I shall have to be more creative with my charms.” Though clearly teasing, Gris couldn’t ignore the strange flutter in his chest. You were not impressed by his flirtatious attempts, even rolling your eyes as if his presence bothered you, but oddly enough, that only drew his intrigue more. “Are you going to the ball tomorrow?” Gris asks. He oddly found himself wanting to talk to you more.

You make an impassive-sounding hum. “Just about everyone in the kingdom is, no?”

Gris chuckles. “Fair point. Perhaps I’ll be seeing you then?”

“It’s a masquerade, My Lord,” you remind. “Our identities will be a mystery the whole night.”

Damn. Gris forgot.

He had been having coffee with the Duke of the Eastern Province’s son when he first learned of the theme. When Arkha initially mentioned that the theme of the upcoming ball would be a masquerade, Gris had thought the idea was a bit silly. What was the point of having a costume party, essentially, when the whole point of the Social itself was to eventually get to know people? A masquerade kind of defeated that purpose if you didn’t know who you were interacting with.

But, Gris supposed he could see the appeal. It was a new concept that could be exciting if executed correctly. And not to mention, there was less pressure to impress or maintain appearances if people couldn’t immediately tell that he was Gris Rubion, Count of Mono.

If he were to be honest, one of the reasons why Gris hadn’t jumped to get married was that nothing ever felt authentic. Given that he was a high-ranking nobleman, he always felt like people were trying hard to get on his good graces because of his wealth, not to actually know him for himself. Most women he ever interacted with were clearly trying to overcompensate by being overly polite to the point it was awkward, or being a complete yes woman to whatever Gris asked.

Perhaps that’s why he was acutely intrigued by you. You were one of the first women who didn’t become a stuttering, blushing mess while talking to him. And thankfully so.

“I suppose I will have to do my best to pick you out in the crowd,” Gris finally says with that charming smile of his.

“I’d like to see you try, My Lord. I can assure you that I wouldn’t make it easy.”

“Oh, is that a challenge?”

Your brow raises. This man had to be teasing you. That's what it was. But when you turn to meet his gaze, he’s regarding you with a somewhat stern look. And you take note of how pretty his blue eyes are. Intense, though not unkind.

“I…uh…” You’re losing your train of thought, and under the heat of his stare, you feel yourself becoming flustered.

What was wrong with you? You were not the type to let yourself be affected by a mere man’s flirtatious advances. After all, he probably spouted the same nonsensical words to other women he’s come across.

So why was your heart stuttering like crazy?

“If you want to take it as such, be my guest,” you say smoothly, trying your best to mask your nervousness.

“Hmm. A tempting offer,” Gris muses. He takes a hand to his chin in thought. “Will I receive a reward if I successfully find you?”

You look at him aghast. “I am not a prize to be won, My Lord!” You snap.

“No, but your company is.”

You laugh, more so in disbelief than in shock. You were completely convinced he was messing with you at this point. This all had to be a game to him.

“Very well,” you concede, deciding to play along. “Try to find me at the ball tomorrow night, My Lord. If you do, I shall agree to an outing of your choosing. Sound fair?”

Gris smiles. “I shall look forward to it.”

You pick up a dress from the rack that suddenly catches your eye. It’s a soft blue, the color of the sky. You hold the fabric up to Gris, a sweet smile tugging at your lips. “Hm. Not bad. It matches your eyes.”

Your smirk widens watching a deep red flush make its way across his cheeks, and he is rendered speechless, his mouth falling open with no words coming out.

The sound of a throat clearing draws your attention. Tomme, whose presence you hadn’t noticed before then, stares at you with a suspiciously sly grin you don’t like. “August is ready for you now,” your stepsister says. She holds up a couple more gowns. “I thought you could try on these pieces as well. Since you seemed partial to blue, after all.”

“If this will make the process pass faster,” you sigh, choosing to ignore her sly comment as you take the two dresses from her. You give the gentleman one last polite smile with a kind courtesy. “Good day to you, My Lord.”

Gris clears his throat, still slightly flushed. “R-right.” Taking your hand, he brings your gloved knuckles to his lips, dipping down into a polite bow of his own. The warmth of his kiss floods your body, and you’re rendered speechless for a second time.

“I hope we meet again, My Lady.”

“I still can’t believe that you were flirting with the Count yesterday,” Tomme reminds you for what seemed like the hundredth time since leaving the tailor yesterday. “I knew you had high standards, sis, but I didn’t think you had your eyes set on one of society’s most esteemed gentlemen.”

“For the last time, I was not flirting with him,” you insist, heaving out an annoyed huff. “And I am not interested in him! I didn’t even know that I was talking to Count Rubion to begin with. I’m more mortified at the idea of having possibly offended him.”

The dress fitting could’ve gone worse. Your stepmother had spent most of the time fretting over Tomme, so selecting your dress had gone rather quick by the time it was your turn. It was actually August who had selected more dresses than you could stand to try on, but the amount had quickly been cut down, because the tailor had his sights set on a particular style and color for you.

You now stand before the bedchamber mirror while your stepsister fusses with the ribbons at the back of your gown, swearing in the most unladylike manner as they tangle. The dress feels impossibly grand, its black corseted bodice fitting perfectly to your frame and embroidered with silver patterns that glitter like stars against a midnight sky. Soft blue sleeves rest on your shoulders, and layers of shimmering ice-blue fabric, reminiscent of a certain Count’s eyes, billow beneath black overskirts trimmed with delicate silver lace. Every movement sends the skirts rustling around you.

It wasn’t until after you left that Tomme “kindly” asked you what your relationship was with the gentleman, because she wasn’t aware that you were on friendly terms with the Count.

You weren’t.

You didn’t even know that he was the Gris Rubion.

Granted, you probably would know if you paid more attention to the social circles, like your stepmother wanted. Then maybe you wouldn’t have been quite so short with him. You did try to maintain some semblance of class, and you knew better than to outright disrespect one of the high-ranking nobles.

But you had only reacted the way you did because you figured he was just another flirtatious nobleman. What you hadn’t expected was for him to entertain your sarcastic quips. Hence Tomme was now convinced that the two of you had been flirting.

“Trust me. I’m positive Count Rubion was enjoying the banter.” Tomme lets out a victorious cheer when she finally secures the straps to your dress. Her own attire consisted of an extravagant coral colored gown that complemented her skin tone and deep brown hair, which was curled for the occasion. “You should make sure to look for him tonight.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But why ever not?”

“Because—“ Any excuse you could’ve come up with gets lost under her expectant gaze. You truly didn’t have a valid reason not to seek the Count out, and Tomme knew it. “I’m sure Lord Rubion will be busy.”

“At a ball?”

“Yes. And I’m sure he’s already courting someone, given his status.”

“Really?” Tomme asks incredulously. “Last I heard, his Lordship is still single.”

Your jaw ticks in annoyance. She laughs. “I really do not like you right now.”

“Come on.” Tomme playfully nudges you. “What do you even have to lose? You’ll be wearing a mask, so you can loosen up a little and flirt around tonight. No one will know it’s you. And who knows, it might even blossom into a romance if you let it~I like to think that the Count even fancies you already.”

She hands you your black and blue mask, the accessory adorned with gems and features. “You read too many romance novels,” you say with a shake of the head. “Love doesn’t work like that.”

“But it could,” Tomme counters. Her expression softens, a certain sadness underlining her smile. “You just have to give it a chance. What are you so afraid of? Hm?”

Your chest constricts ever so slightly. The familiar twang of pain wrenches your heart tight as unpleasant memories flood your brain. It’s too late to completely mask the emotion, Tomme no doubt seeing beneath the facade you desperately tried to maintain. But you school your expression, set your shoulders, and put on your mask.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” you assert. “I merely stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.”

The carriage your stepmother has arranged is one of the most extravagant. The body of the coach is painted entirely white, drawn by two horses whose coats are as black as the night, yet there is a sheen to them. It takes help from the driver for you to ascend the stairs with how heavy your gown is, and the combined ruffles from yours and Tomme’s elaborate dresses all but fill the entire space.

Lady Mima slides into the seat next to her daughter, her peacock green gown a vision of elegance. “To the palace,” she instructs the driver, who closes the door. “And make haste with it. We need to arrive early for Tomme to make the best first impression for his Royal Highness.”

“Mother…” Tomme sighs. Her mother waves her off with her hand fan dismissively. Your sister sulks in her seat, but you catch her sad gaze in the window.

“Of course, My Lady,” the driver responds. He snaps the reins, and the carriage takes off in a steady trot through the city.

You couldn’t help but feel for your stepsister. She had a good heart and just wanted to make her mother proud. But you knew deep down she had no desire to marry the prince, let alone any major nobility. Tomme was as much a hopeless romantic as you were, but storytelling had always been her love. Though you and she both knew that Lady Mima would never accept her daughter’s dreams of being an author.

If it were up to your stepsister, she’d travel, leave Andio and Mono behind to see the world and gain inspiration for the novel she had been secretly working on since her teenage years. If you had the money to do so, you’d fully support her endeavor. But your late father had stipulated that your inheritance was on lock and key until you were married. Tomme was stuck under her mother’s thumb until then, lest she marry herself.

Arriving at the palace was a grand affair. You could only count on one hand the number of times you’ve been to the capital city, and it never ceased to amaze you. Flowers in every color seem to be the main decoration. They adorn many young ladies’ hair and gowns and have been strewn about light posts or hung outside on window sills. And it’s undeniably evident that guests were taking the masquerade theme quite seriously.

You saw masks in every variation. Full face. Half masks. One eye. Feathers. Beads. Gems and ribbons. Some were extravagantly decorated, while others were simple accessories that hardly obscured one’s identity. Some were less refined, more cartoonish in nature. A particular gentleman startled you with his wolfish mask that mimicked the canine’s muzzle.

“People really went all out this year, didn’t they?” Tomme says in awe. Her own mask had been fitted against her face, covered in pearls that matched her necklace.

“Hm, I don’t see His or Her majesty yet,” Lady Mima comments, sounding a tad disappointed. The ballroom was a rainbow of colorful dresses and suits. Guests mingled about, while a few had already begun dancing along with the live orchestra. “Oh, I see the Countess of Penta. Poor thing just recently lost her husband of five years, you know. And it seems the Duke of the Southern Isles is here as well.”

Even with the mask, the Duke of the Southern Isles, Zodyl Typhon, is unmistakable based on his presence alone. He’s a tall and attractive, yet slightly intimidating, gentleman who has garnered a reputation for being cold. Hardly any woman dares to approach him, and according to your stepmother’s gossip, he has yet to seriously court anyone. If it wasn’t for the entourage of equally intimidating bodyguards that always flanked his sides, the Duke’s reputation alone would make most steer clear.

Zodyl himself appears less than interested in the whole affair. He keeps off to the side, observing the scene, as if he were looking for something. But that is none of your business, and the last thing you want to do is get involved with him of all people.

“Oh, there’s His Grace,” Lady Mima exclaims upon seeing the current Duke of the Eastern Province. An elderly gentleman enters the room with a much younger man accompanying him. “I must go say hello to him and his son. Come, Y/n, I’ll introduce you two—“

“Look, it’s Lord Stilza!” Tomme suddenly points toward the dessert table where the eccentric man was. His mask was as boisterous as he, so there was no mistaking the tailor for someone else. Yet, it was so uniquely him that it was charming. “Let’s go show him how our gowns look all put together. We shall meet with you later, mother!”

“Wait—“

But Tomme ushers you off in a hurry, without letting Lady Mima finish her sentence.

“Thank you for that,” you whisper.

Tomme smiles. “It’s what sisters are for. Though the Duke’s son isn’t all that bad looking, you know.”

You wave her off with a dismissive hand. “Not interested.”

“Right. My apologies. You have your eyes set on a certain Count~” Tomme teases. Thankfully, your mask hides most of your flustered expression.

After briefly catching up with the tailor, Tomme ends up encountering one of her old schoolmates from boarding school. You think you remember her vaguely. What was her name again? Meriege, you think? You’re pretty sure she moved to the Southern Isles after they graduated.

Not wanting to intrude by being the third wheel, you excuse yourself, but you don’t think that Tomme even noticed your departure.

Weaving your way through the crowd, you make it to the refreshment table and snag one of the champagne flutes. Most of the other patrons were engrossed in their own conversations, and you could hardly tell who was who from all the masks. Perhaps the mature thing to do would be to make an effort to mingle, but you were hardly interested in needless small talk.

“Maybe, I’ll sneak out and visit the gardens like last time,” you think to yourself as you down your drink. “I wonder if Lord Rubion made it.” The thought startlingly crosses your mind before you can squander it. Whether the nobleman attended or not was none of your business! And surely he had to be jesting about your earlier little “game” so you had no reason to believe he’d spend the whole ball looking for you.

You were no one important, for that matter. Just another faceless young woman amongst the sea of masks.

Still, a small part of you had hoped he’d seek you out like he promised.

“Not one for dancing?” Someone asks, startling you slightly.

You take in the tall gentleman before you. He’s dressed in navy, with a mask of silver to match. Behind it, you catch a glimpse of the most striking blue eyes, but because the mask obscures most of his facial features, you aren’t completely certain if you know the man or not.

“Not particularly,” you answer. “I much rather be in bed by now with a good book.”

He laughs, and the sound has your body warming in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Believe me when I say I understand the sentiment. These kinds of things are a bit gauche, don’t you think?”

“Well, when else are all the peacocks of society supposed to showcase their feathers?”

The gentleman’s smile doesn’t wane. “Fair point. Is that why you’re over here in the corner hiding by yourself? Are you avoiding trying to show off or…”

The insinuation of his tone makes you square your shoulders. You regard him with a relatively annoyed look as you scan him over once then twice.

“I would think that you were the one showing off, My Lord. You sought me out when I was the one minding my business.”

“Guilty,” he admits with a shrug. “Forgive me for being charmed by the sight of a beautiful woman.”

“I’m sure you tell that to every woman.”

He makes an impassive-sounding hum, so you’re not sure whether to take it as confirmation or denial. This gentleman was certainly an odd one, but his demeanor and charm felt familiar.

The music changes. The orchestra switches from a slow rhythm to a more upbeat waltz that has guests rushing to pair up. The masked gentleman extends a gloved hand out, and you regard him skeptically.

“Come on.”

“Oh, no,” you politely decline.

“Just one dance.”

He takes your empty glass and sets it on the nearby table while you try to stammer out another excuse. “I-I assure you, My Lord. I have as good as two left feet and—“

The man gives you a cheeky grin, making your heart flutter.

“Humor me, My Lady.”

You’re whisked away before you can further protest. As you predicted, you stumble over your feet and the fabric of your dress like a clumsy foal, but the man makes no comment when you step on his expensive shoes for the third or fourth time. You’re pretty sure your face is aflame, but the embarrassment was more from how poor a dancer you are than from being seen with the stranger.

“Instead of focusing on your feet, follow your partner’s movements,” the gentleman whispers softly. One of his hands is in a respectable position on your hip while the other guides you around with him. He is unable to hide his wince this time as you accidentally jab your heel into his toe.

“I told you I wasn’t good at this,” you mumble. “I’m going to ruin your nice shoes at this rate.”

“Shoes are replaceable, and between you and me, I’m not particularly fond of this pair to begin with. My elder sister insisted I wear them.” He playfully winks. “Don’t tell her I said that. She gets quite offended when I judge her fashion choices.”

“But—“

He spins you, dipping you back suddenly, and you gasp. “Are you always in your head this much? I don’t think I’ve met a woman who overthinks a simple waltz as much as you, My Lady.”

You huff, settling one of your hands back on his shoulder. “And I’m not sure I’ve met a man who stubbornly insists on dancing with such a poor partner, My Lord.”

“Hmm. I personally find your inability to stay on tempo rather charming.” When you glare, he laughs. He pulls you in close, your noses just a breadth away. “Relax. Just follow my lead.”

With time, you find your footing, slipping into the dance as though you've known the steps all along. Somehow, the two of you keep pace with the other couples circling the floor. To your surprise, you begin to enjoy yourself.

More than that, you begin to forget about everything else.

The gentleman proves to be an exceptional dancer, his movements effortless and confident. You surrender to his lead before you even realize you're doing it, allowing him to guide you across the floor with an ease that feels natural.

Another thing you notice is that from the moment the dance began, his attention has never once strayed from you.

You can't explain the way he looks at you.

Those soft blue eyes remain fixed on yours. There is something warm and tender in his gaze, but beneath it lingers an intensity that makes your pulse stumble. Each time your eyes meet, heat creeps higher into your cheeks, and looking away somehow feels just as impossible as holding his stare.

As you move together, the ballroom fades into a blur of color and sound. The laughter, the music, the countless other dancers. They all become distant, insignificant.

There is only him.

The weight of his hand against yours. The warmth of his touch at your waist. An invisible thread pulling you closer with every turn.

It feels like you’re a moth standing too close to an open flame, continuously drawn to it knowing you should step back. Create some distance. Break whatever spell has settled between you when every instinct urges you closer to him.

The realization makes your chest tighten.

“You know,” you admit, “I haven’t danced like this since my father passed when I was a young girl.” The confession leaves your lips before you can stop it. “After he died, dancing lost its appeal. I know he wouldn’t have wanted me to stop, but it never felt the same without him.”

For a moment, his expression softens. His hand tightens ever so slightly around yours.

“I cannot nor do I wish to replace your father,” he says softly, “but I hope this dance gives you positive memories worth remembering.”

"You seem determined to leave a lasting impression, My Lord," you say, attempting to joke despite the way your erratic heart rate has begun to betray you.

A quiet chuckle escapes him. "Have I succeeded in making you fall for my charms?"

The question is simple enough, yet something in the way he asks it makes it feel like more than idle conversation. It’s not like the light banter from earlier. There’s something more serious under that playful tone.

You force your attention to the passing dancers around you. You think you manage to catch Tomme from afar, and the encouraging grin and thumbs up she gives you doesn’t help. The rest of the ballroom remains a distant blur beyond the circle he seems to have drawn around the two of you.

When you finally meet his blue eyes again, you find him already watching you.

The realization makes you flush.

"Perhaps," you reply softly.

One golden brow arches. That damn smirk.

"Perhaps?"

A reluctant smile tugs at your lips.

"I have not decided yet."

Something flashes across his features beyond the mask: amusement. The corner of his mouth lifts further. "Then I suppose," he says, guiding you through another turn, "I shall have to continue trying."

You laugh softly. "Persistent, aren't you?"

"Only when something is worth pursuing, and your company is certainly so.”

The response sends a flutter through your chest. As he draws you through another step, bringing you closer so that your chests touch, face inches from each other, his gaze remains fixed on yours. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how close he was and the way his warm touch seems to seep through the fabric of your gown, impossible to ignore.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly, he says, "after all, I told you I'd find you, My Lady."

Your breath hitches.

The words send a jolt through you, immediately pulling you back to your encounter the other day. The challenge. The promise.

“I am not a prize to be won, My Lord!” You had snapped.

“No,” he responded earnestly. “But your company is.”

Your eyes widen as you stare at him, trying to see beyond the mask. His smile widens slightly, as though he can see the realization beginning to dawn.

"You—"

"Miss!"

The voice cuts through the moment like a blade, shattering it completely.

You turn sharply to find one of the household servants, the head butler, weaving through the dancers, his face pale with concern.

"There you are," he says, breathless. "I've been searching everywhere for you."

"What is it?" You ask, slightly irked at being interrupted.

"It's your stepmother, Miss." He lowers his voice. "She's taken ill."

A knot forms in your throat. The ballroom seems to tilt beneath your feet. A surge of dread floods your body, making nausea churn within your stomach. Your stepmother being ill in and of itself was rare. Not to mention, with how insistent she was about attending this ball, the last thing she would do is let any ailment hinder her attendance.

You glance back at the masked gentleman, torn between panic for your stepmother’s well-being and the selfish guilt of not wanting to leave.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. Whoever does so means that the moment you had shared seconds ago officially ends. But eventually, familial duty wins the war in your heart.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, reluctantly releasing his hand.

The gentleman inclines his head, his expression soft. His grip tightens around your hand to keep you from pulling away completely. He then raises it, pressing his lips to your knuckles.

"We shall finish this another time. Go see to your stepmother.”

The certainty in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can apologize or question his identity, the servant gently urges you onward.

And just like that, the fantasy is broken.

The invisible thread that had held you together snaps.

You cast one final glance over your shoulder, only to find those familiar blue eyes still fixed upon you.

Morning arrives far too quickly, and last night’s ball feels like a fever dream.

Sunlight streams through your curtains, and the birds’ morning song drifts in from the gardens. Though it’s long past breakfast at this point, you continue to lie in bed and stare at the canopy above your bed; your thoughts remain firmly trapped in the previous evening.

You should be relieved.

Your stepmother was perfectly fine. Thankfully, Alice Stilza had been present, and she looked over Lady Mima, who had suddenly fainted during the event. The doctor had assured everyone that her sudden dizziness was nothing serious, likely caused by a mixture of heat and a corset tightened a tad too much. But, for an extra precaution, your family left early for her to rest.

Of course, Lady Mima put up a fuss. You all but had to drag her out kicking and screaming. But, as you learned later from Tomme’s friend Meriege, Prince Tamsy hadn’t even made an appearance that night. His Majesty was beyond frustrated that his son didn’t show, but in order to save face, the event continued on as if nothing was amiss.

You were relieved, of course, that your stepmother’s condition wasn’t serious. Yet another part of you could not help dwelling on what had been interrupted.

The dance.

The conversation.

Those blue eyes.

Him.

A frustrated sigh escapes you as you turn over in your bed.

“I told you I'd find you, My Lady.”

The memory sends a flutter of giddiness through your chest.

You had been so close. Every instinct told you it had been Count Rubion. Who else could it have been? Sure, he never admitted directly, nor had you seen his face beneath the mask, but every instinct screamed it was him.

Tucking your hand under your pillow, you turn to look out the window.

A nagging part of you was concerned you were wrong, though. There were plenty of other gentlemen with blue eyes and stupidly charming wit. But then you’d be lying to yourself, because no one had made you feel giddy before like he did at the tailor shop.

And partially, your pride just wanted to confirm that you were right.

Had he known you were beginning to realize?

There had been something like amusement in his expression right before you were interrupted by the butler. As though he had been watching you slowly assemble the pieces while knowing the answer all along. Like this was a secret game just the two of you were playing.

You groan, smooshing your face into the pillows.

It was frustrating.

And perhaps even more maddening was the fact that you found yourself wishing for another chance to see him. That, and the subsequent teasing you had been subjected to by Tomme.

Just one more chance.

Just to confirm your suspicions and nothing more.

Or that’s what you kept telling yourself.

A knock sounds against the door before it swings open. Tomme pokes her head inside. "Still moping in bed, are we?”

You don’t pick your face up from the pillow. “I’m not moping.”

“Yes, and Count Rubion is not in our drawing room.”

That immediately makes you sit up. “Excuse me?!” Your stepsister grins, and you sigh. “Please don’t jest about something like that. I am not in the mood for games at the moment.”

“But I am not. Unless there is another Count Rubion that I’m not aware of. And he has actually specifically requested you.”

It takes two seconds to register her words before you’re throwing yourself off the bed. “How long has he been here?! You’re now just telling me! Oh, gosh, I’m still in my night clothes!”

Tomme laughs as you stumble across your room, trying to pull your nightgown over your head. “In my defense, I told him that you were still in bed.”

“As if that’s any better!”

You pick out just a plain casual dress to throw on. There's no time for makeup or jewelry, so you simply smooth down the bed head as much as possible. Your heart races, pounding in your chest so hard you think it’s going to come out of your throat.

Why would he come here?

In your home, nonetheless.

You hadn’t even fully confirmed whether or not he was the one you danced with last night, so why would he be looking for you? You could understand if he was here for the Baroness, your stepmother. But why you? You didn’t want to get your hopes up for something that could ultimately be a misunderstanding.

Tomme follows as you step into the corridor. “Do I finally get to have a brother-in-law?”

“No,” you say automatically.

“Come on, dear sister.” She playfully jabs you in your side. “Remember what I told you? Be open.”

A servant passes in the hall and dips his head. “Miss. The Count is waiting in the drawing room.”

“Ok, thank you,” you manage.

Tomme leans in as you move past her. “Make sure to plan for an autumn wedding. I’m much more partial to the colors.”

Your face warms instantly. “Tomme.”

She laughs, and you stride past her without further comment.

Each step toward the drawing room feels heavier than the last. Your palms grow sweatier as you approach the closed doors, your nerves weighing you down.

You reach out for the handle, hesitating briefly. With an exhale, you push open the door and enter the room.

Gris is already there, standing near the tall windows, light spilling over him. Today, he’s dressed in grey. No mask now.

Those blue eyes turn to you immediately.

And something in your chest tightens at the familiarity of it.

“Good morning,” Gris says, as if this encounter were the most natural thing in the world. “I apologize for coming so suddenly and unannounced. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

You dip into a polite curtsy. “My Lord. This is quite an unexpected visit.”

“Is it?” A faint smile. “I thought I was expected.”

You raise a brow. “By whom?”

He shrugs, playful. “By fate, perhaps.”

You look at him with a confused look until a faint glint of something metal in his hand catches your gaze. Gris notices your attention and lifts it slightly.

Between his fingers rests a delicate piece of jewelry—an earring, or what remains of one. The clasp is bent, and the chain holding the two pieces together is separated. A tiny blue gemstone glints in the light.

“That’s…”

A memory from the night suddenly hits you.

The sudden brush of movement too close, too fast. Your hair caught between motion and his hand. The faint pull at your ear you had dismissed in the moment of everything else.

You didn’t even realize one of your earrings had fallen until you returned home and were undressing, but you hadn’t been sure at what point in the night it was lost. So, you just had to sadly accept you’d never see it again.

“I found it on the floor of the ballroom,” Gris says, taking a step closer. “After you left.”

“It belonged to my mother…” You breathe out. Gris takes your hand, placing the earring in your palm and curling your fist closed. “You came all this way,” you say carefully, “to return a broken earring?”

His gaze holds yours for a beat too long. Then, softly, he says, “No. Not only for that.”

The air in the room shifts. It is so subtle it’s almost imperceptible.

But suddenly you are aware of everything. The distance between you. The silence of the house beyond the doors. The fact that there is no dance here to hide behind, nor crowd to dissolve into.

It’s just you and him.

You force your voice to remain steady. “Then why are you here, My Lord?”

He pauses. He wasn’t hesitating, but rather thinking.

“I came,” Gris says after taking a breath, “to do this properly.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Properly?”

“I should have just come clean last night,” he continues. “Or rather, if I am being honest with myself, I should have been direct from the start when I met you at the shop.”

You regard him with a perplexed look. “Direct about what?”

That charming, familiar smile returns, but softer now. Less playful. More sincere.

“About you.”

Gris steps closer, just enough to shorten the space that has been carefully maintained since you entered. You feel your heart rate spike.

“I did not come simply to return what you lost,” Gris says quietly. “I came because I intended to ask your stepmother for permission to court you.”

The room seems to still. Even the air feels heavier.

You blink once. “You…what?”

His expression does not waver.

“I did not want it to be misinterpreted as I approached you carelessly. Or that I treated you as a passing fascination from a single dance.” Gris’s voice lowers slightly. “You are not that. I meant what I said before that your company was a gift.”

“Y-you’re just saying that,” you whisper. Your throat tightens, causing you to choke the words out. Your vision suddenly becomes blurry. “You don’t possibly want to court someone like me. I-I cannot be the obedient wife, n-nor am I good at any housework like cooking. And—“

“None of that matters,” the Count interrupts.

“But—“

“I would spot you over and over again, My Lady,” Gris says. “In every crowded room, in every gathering, in every moment when the world tries to distract me I would still find you. There is no other woman who could capture my heart or attention like you.” Gris smiles. He reaches out, pausing slightly to look into your eyes for permission before he gently cups your cheek. “And I would not want you to change for the sake of appeasing society. Otherwise, you would be changing the very thing that initially attracted me to you.”

You should respond. You should move. You should say something sensible, but your thoughts scatter under the weight of his words.

This wasn’t a game to him. It had never been.

“Lord Rubion—“

The door behind you creaks open.

For the second time, your moment is shattered, and you’re convinced fate is laughing at you.

“Well.” Your stepmother stands in the doorway. “I do hope I am not interrupting something important.”

For perhaps the first time since you have known him, Gris looks uncertain. “Not at all,” he says, straightening up confidently. “In fact, you have arrived at precisely the right moment.”

Your stepmother’s eyes narrow. “Have I now?”

The Count glances at you before returning his attention to her. “There is a matter on which I wish to speak with your daughter, but propriety requires that I first seek your permission, Lady Mima.”

Lady Mima’s brow raises, her arms crossing over her chest. “My permission?”

“To court her,” he says simply.

Silence stretches onward after his proclamation.

You see someone poking their head around the corner, trying not to be suspicious. Tomme and one of the maids.

Your stepmother stares at the Count as though she is waiting for the rest of the sentence or for him to say he’s merely jesting. When nothing follows, she slowly looks back and forth between you and Gris. You could see the gears in her mind beginning to work.

“You wish to court her?”

“I do.”

Her skepticism is immediate and fierce. “Properly?”

“Yes.”

“With honorable intentions?”

“Entirely.”

“And not as some passing amusement?”

Gris’s expression hardens. “Lady Mima, I assure you my intentions are very serious. That is why I wished to ask you first as her mother figure.”

For another moment, she studies him. Then, suddenly, her face breaks apart into a grin so wide it nearly seems painful.

“Oh.” She clasps both hands together. The grin becomes a laugh. Your stepmother’s delight fills the room so completely you’re convinced she might float away with happiness. “Oh, I thought this day would never come!”

“Stepmother,” you huff, growing embarrassed by her dramatics. “You’re making a scene in front of Lord Rubion.”

But your pleas seem to fall on deaf ears as she’s already halfway out the door. “Oh, this is wonderful! I’ll have to get on Lord Stilza’s schedule to design the dress, and we must pick out a color scheme—oh, this is far too exciting to waste time standing here talking about it! Tomme! Help me with the invitations!”

“Stepmother—“ you try again.

But she is already gone, calling for preparations down the hall as though a wedding has already been signed into existence.

You sigh, then turn back to the Count to apologize. But Gris is watching the doorway with faint amusement, entirely unbothered by the whirlwind he has just caused.

“You look as though you’re considering your escape,” he says.

“I am,” you reply.

A laugh leaves him. He steps closer, still maintaining a somewhat respectable distance.

“Well, that’s unfortunate, because if I recall, you agreed to an outing of my choosing if I found you at the ball,” Gris reminds you.

Right. You forgot about the deal you made.

“I did.”

“Then I intend to collect.” He extends his gloved hand, offering his arm for you. “If that is all right with you, My Lady.”

Gris, at that moment, looks oddly bashful. Like a young lad with a little crush, scared of potential rejection. It was cute.

You give a small nod. “Very well.”

At your approval, his demeanor relaxed. “Good,” he says simply.

And you take his outstretched arm.

The carriage ride is quiet, and no amount of space between the two of you can mitigate the suffocating feeling of being so close to the Count.

Gris sits across from you, watching you with a certain fondness you try hard to ignore.

Before you left, your stepmother insisted you change. She claimed you must look proper for your first official outing, and she had the maids throw you into the bath, scrub your skin raw, and dress you in a new dress that was acceptable by her standards. Tomme offered to keep the Count company while you dressed, but you didn’t like the mischievous look on her face as she dragged Gris away for tea.

You truly hoped they wouldn’t ruin what hadn’t even officially started yet. Nonetheless, when you emerged nearly an hour later, Gris seemed to be in oddly good spirits. And when asked, he only said that your family was lovely company.

You made a note to grill Tomme later about what she told him.

Outside the window, the city begins to soften into green. Stone gives way to winding stretches of flat land common in the Eastern Province.

You sneak a glance at Gris. He is watching you already.

You look away too quickly, flushing at being caught.

A faint smile tugs at his lips, as if he noticed anyway.

“You look very beautiful,” Gris says. You fold your gloved hands in your lap, trying to quell their trembling. “I’m increasingly liking the look of blue on you.”

“O-of course you would,” you huff, bashfully.

The carriage slows to a stop. Gris hops out first, before extending a hand to help you down like the gentleman he was. You cover your head to keep the hat your stepmother insisted you wear from flying away when the air suddenly whipped up.

The gentle sun warms your skin. You only faintly hear Gris dismiss the carriage driver, because you’re immediately left in awe at the sea of flowers that surrounds you both. A cobblestone pathway leads to what seems like a large manor in the distance, but it diverges into several smaller paths around the garden.

Hedges have been cut into deliberate shapes, framing secret paths that wind deeper into the greenery. Roses in shades of red and white climb trellises in careful rows, and you hear the faint murmur of a fountain somewhere out of sight.

“What do you think?” Gris asks, pulling you out of your admiration.

You turn to look at him. “This is your idea of an outing?”

The Count steps beside you, offering his arm again out of habit. “Yes,” he answers sincerely. “You know, I don’t take just anyone around my private gardens. They’re quite dear to me.”

“And you thought this was appropriate courtship?” You tease. “I’m sure my stepmother made it clear we were not to be surprised, as it is improper.”

A playful grin tugs at his lips. “I thought you might prefer somewhere you wouldn’t be interrupted again.“

That damn charming smile makes your heart skip a beat. You smile. “I love it. Will you show me around?”

Conversation comes easily between the two of you as Gris shows you around the garden. You learn a lot about him. His family and bits of his upbringing. He attended school mostly in the capital and inherited the role of Count from his grandfather, who, despite having an older granddaughter, insisted his grandson take on the role when he died. Not that Gris’s sister seemed to care, because she was married already and happy with her life. Though he complains about her antics, it’s evident Gris has a soft spot for her and his nephew, Follo.

At the same time, the Count cares to ask a lot about you. He listens intently as you speak about your likes and dislikes, shares your hobbies, and the like. Gris doesn’t rush the pace. He lets you take the reins to guide the conversation and ultimately your walk around the garden. You don’t realize how much time truly has passed until you’re approaching the manor and a path of lilies catches your attention.

You slow without meaning, and ever perceptive, Gris notices.

“Do you like them?” he asks. “My grandfather had them planted when he was trying to court my grandmother.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Your breath catches despite yourself. “Flattery will get you nowhere, My Lord. You’ve repeated that several times already today.”

“Because it’s the truth.” Gris carefully pulls you to him, hand on your waist like at the ball. “And I will tell you a hundred more times until it’s ingrained in your memory.”

He’s so close. Much closer than what is to be considered proper, but you don’t hate it. This time, it’s just the two of you. No audience. No interruptions. Just you. Just him. The garden is your only witness.

It is why you move without thinking.

Gris’s reaction is instant.

He pulls you closer to him until your bodies are pressed firmly against one another. You groan at the taste of his mouth on yours, your knees slightly going weak as he cups your cheek to deepen the kiss. You grip the front of his cravat tightly, not wanting to let him go until your lungs begin to protest.

“Well,” Gris pants. “That was certainly a surprise, though it wasn’t unwelcome. And here I was, trying to be a gentleman.”

Feeling slightly emboldened, you tug him to you. Faint pink blossoms across his cheeks. “It’s just us two now, right. No one will interrupt us.”

Gris swallows thickly. “Are you certain? I meant by what I said to your stepmother earlier that I intended to court you properly with honorable intentions.”

“I am certain,” you assure. “But let’s keep our little tryst a secret from my stepmother. She will lose it if I jeopardize a prospect for marriage.”

At that, he chuckles. “The courtship is just a formality,” Gris says. “I’ve had every intention from the start of taking you as my wife.” He kisses you again, this time gently, almost as if he were sealing the promise with his lips. And you melt against him.

Somehow, the two of you stumble back into the manor amidst stolen kisses and soft touches. You can hardly admire the decor or the lavishness of the place. Gris whisks you off your feet, carrying you up the stairs in his arms with an evident hurry that makes you laugh. Despite his claims of wanting to be a proper gentleman, he couldn’t deny his own desires.

You aren’t sure which of the many rooms you enter. You think they might be Gris’s private chambers for the bedsheets smell faintly of his cologne.

Oh, how your stepmother would kill you if she found out you were alone in a man’s bed while unwed. Tomme would probably encourage it. But you can’t bring yourself to care about any of that, only focusing on the handsome Count before you.

Gris takes his time undoing the laces on your dress. The ribbons loosen, giving way to more exposed skin. Even with the gloves on his hands, his gentle touch across your back and your shoulders as he removes your corset next sends goosebumps crawling down your arms. He’s hardly touched you, but your body feels aflame.

“Lord Rubion…” you stammer, growing bashful as he drops to his knees to remove the garter around your leg.

“Now, My Lady, I think we’re quite past formalities at this point,” Gris teases. He runs his hand down the expanse of your thigh. “I want you to call me by my name.”

“B-but, oh!”

Gris drags your lacy panties down your calf next. He pulls you closer so that your legs can settle around his shoulders. Your grip on the edge of the bed tightens, anxiously waiting for what he would do next. You let out a squeak of surprise when his breath fans against your pussy.

“A-ah, Gris~” you whimper. He places tantalizing, slow kisses up your inner thigh, working his way towards the sensitive place you want to feel him most. And when he finally does place his mouth on you, you gasp. The feeling’s foreign, but all your nerves are electrified.

You find purchase in his blond hair, curling your fingers into it as your body bows back. He lets out a groan as you tug harshly. But his mouth stays firmly pressed against your cunt, his hands gripping your thighs and waist as he greedily tries to taste you more. His tongue is wicked, delving through your folds with tantalizing strokes that have your legs feeling weak.

You gasp as he delivers a harsh suck on your clit, his teeth teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves until tears fill your eyes. His nails dig into your thighs as he grips them to bury his face deeper between them.

“God. You’re so addicting,” Gris slurs. He doesn’t think he’d ever get tired of the sounds of your pretty moans or the sweet taste of your release on his tongue. “Give me more, sweetheart.”

“G-Gris, please~” You whimper, writhing against his hold as he drags his tongue across your pussy’s lips. “Fuck!” You swear, not caring how unladylike it was to do so.

Your head spins as the overwhelming pleasure overloads your senses. Dots spot your vision as your orgasm rolls through you. But even as your high rocks your body, Gris continues to drink up your arousal as if it were the last thing he’d ever get to taste.

“A-ah, wait!” The overstimulation brings tears to your eyes, your body aching from how sensitive you were. Your clit throbbed, puffy and swollen from Gris's teasing it with his teeth and tongue. His grip on your trembling thighs tightens. And when you try to twist away, gripping the sheets, the strong man merely drags you back with ease. Not letting you escape his mouth.

“Where are you going?” Gris mumbles. “I’m not done savoring my treat yet.”

“Gris~” you whine. “S’too much. I-I already came and—shit!”

Despite your pleas, your body portrays the exact opposite. Your cunt continues to weep for his touch, gushing messily onto his greedily awaiting tongue. And Gris is all but eager to continue drinking you up until you’re crying his name over and over.

“Too much?” Gris mumbles coyly. “You say that, but look how much your pretty pussy’s makin’ for me.” He presses a kiss against your inner thigh, his lips wet and coated with your arousal, which he licks clean. “Just one for me and I’ll stop. I know you got it in you.”

This time, he’s gentler when he presses his mouth back to your cunt. His touch is soft and fluttering. The sensation makes your breath hitch. Gris groans, trying to savor the moment, to slowly work you up until you break. He doesn’t even realize how hard he’s gotten. The firm bulge of his erection strains against his slacks, desperately trying to break free, but he’ll address his own needs later. You were first.

The slow buildup hits you all at once. The second time you cum, you do so with a cry, tears leaking down your cheeks. And Gris swears he could become addicted to the sound of his name on your tongue.

Lifting you with ease, he tosses you onto the center of the bed. Before you could find the words to speak, his mouth was on yours hungrily. You groan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him close.

“You doin’ okay, sweetheart?” Gris asks breathlessly. “We can stop if you’ve had enough.”

“But…you haven’t…” Heat creeps across your cheeks as you trail off. The hardness of his arousal presses against you, yet Gris makes no move to address it.

A smile softens across his face. “Worry not about me. I do not wish to push you more than what you’re comfortable with.”

But you shake your head. “Please,” you insist. “I want to continue.”

Heat flares in his eyes, warring with his hesitation. “Are you certain?”

You tug him forward by his tie. “I need you fully, Lord Rubion. Do not keep me waiting.”

“If that is what My Lady wishes for, then who am I to deny her request?”

Gris quickly sheds his clothes, and you can’t help but stare when he’s completely bare in all his naked glory. His twitching length stands at attention, the sensitive, blushing head smearing pre cum against his abdomen. He holds his cock as he aligns himself at your entrance, pressing the tip against your slick folds.

“Relax for me.” Gris gently kisses your jaw. “I promise I’ll try to be gentle.”

You suck in a breath as he inches forward, which melts into a shared moan as Gris’s cock slowly stretches you out.

“Fuck,” the Count swears. “You feel better than I could’ve ever imagined.” Kissing you once more, Gris grips your hips and bottoms out the rest of the way with a single thrust, making you squeal. “S-sorry. Let me know when you want me to move,” he grunts.

You didn’t expect to feel so impossibly full. Gris hardly has to move for the stretch of him to fill you completely, and it slightly steals your breath, your brows furrowing. Sensing your discomfort, Gris takes a nearby pillow and helps settle it underneath your hips. It immediately gives some relief.

“Is that better?” He asks. You nod.

“Yes, thank you.” You wrap your arms tighter around his neck. Gris hikes one of your legs around his waist. “You can move.”

At your insistence, he does. His initially slow, deep thrusts give way to increasingly harder and faster strokes that fill you to the brim over and over. His breathy groans quickly fill your ear as he traps you under his body weight, one hand gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Forgive me, sweetheart,” Gris pants, eyebrows furrowing as if he were straining for control. “I-I said I’d be gentle but, fucking hell I don’t think I can hold back.”

You squeal into the pillows as Gris suddenly rams into you hard, gripping your hips with bruising strength so that the mushroom tip bullies against your cervix. Your fluttering walls quiver in response.

“Ah! Gris!” Each time his hips snap against yours, your toes curl. The delicious stretch of his length, causes a budding pressure of pleasure to coil within your stomach. Each deep trust steals your breath, leaving you desperate for more of him.

And your needy cunt only continues to suck him in each time Gris ruts into you. His length drags against your gummy walls, massaging where you’re most sensitive. And the throbbing ache of his cock and tightening in the pit of his stomach warns Gris that he’s close.

“Shit. Can’t wait to—hah—officially make you mine with a ring on your finger,” Gris is nearly breathless when he talks. A slight hiss leaves his lips as you rake your nails down his back, leaving red marks in their wake. Sweat makes his strands of hair stick to his forehead, and his blue eyes are clouded over with hazy desire. “All mine. You’ll be all mine, my pretty wife? Yeah?”

“Yeah—“ You gasp when he tugs your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Tell me again,” it comes out as a command, needy and desperate. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Fuck—I’m all yours, Gris.”

That’s what ultimately breaks him.

Gris groans your name. He squeezes your hips, driving himself deep as he cums thick ropes into your womb. The intensity rocks his body. His hips stutter forward, pressing you into the mattress. Your eyes roll back, the coiling pressure winding in your stomach so taught it finally snaps.

Gris swears under his breath, feeling your cunt spasm around him. Your fluttering walls squeeze his cock so tight that he thinks he’ll cum a second time. He drops his head into the crook of your neck, heaving as a shudder runs through him.

“Gris?” You whisper when he doesn’t move. “Are you okay?”

“Just give me one second.” Exhaling a breath to compose himself, otherwise you two would never leave the bed, Gris finally rises to pull away.

“Wait—“

“I shall only be but a moment.”

You barely mourn the loss of him before he comes back into the room with a warm towelette. As Gris takes care to clean you up, you could and honestly would have fallen asleep had he not gently shaken you awake.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but if I don’t have you home before nightfall, your stepmother will have my head,” Gris chuckles.

“Awe,” you groan. “I want to stay.”

“And believe me when I say I would like you to.” Gris helps you sit up. Your hips ache deliciously as you do. He bends down to gather the first garment of your discarded clothing, dressing you delicately. “But we must follow this courtship properly for appearance sake, so I’m afraid I must take you home. I promise to make it up to you.”

You pout childishly, but your frustration melts away when he kisses you again. “Fine. I shall hold you to your promise, My Lord. After all, I’m not sure how you will be able to top today.”

“Worry not, my love,” Gris reassures with a smile. “Today is only just a glimpse of the life I intend to have with you when I can officially call you my wife.”

Return to Invitation— Here

Zodyl is a little more lowkey. Fancy dinner on some rooftop restaurant that he’s made a reservation for months in advance. He buys a new outfit and accessories for her to wear the day of as part of the gift. Claims Valentine’s Day is a dumb consumer holiday yet he is over the top with his own gifts. Lmao. Zodyl honestly doesn’t really like recieving gifts. Doesn’t want his partner spending money on him, and will “begrudgingly accept” anything only to get mad if she threatens to return it.

Enjin is a wild card. If his girlfriend wants to do fancy dinner, he’ll do it, but honestly, he’s planned a chaotic day instead. Go Karting. Laser Tag. Arcade. Amusement park. Anything in that realm. Even wins his gf a stuffed animal at the crane games after spending too much money trying to get it to begin with. Any present he receives, he treats it like it’s worth a million dollars even if it’s cheap. Don’t let it be something homemade and he may cry lol

Bro is another sweet boyfriend who showers his gf with gifts. She wakes up to breakfast in bed and a bouquet of roses. In the morning, they do family friendly activities and lunch to include Dear and Guita. For dinner, Bro and his gf opt for a lowkey dinner at the izakaya they had their first date at. It’s not luxurious but intimate for them. As for gifts, Bro doesn’t care much about expensive things. He’s happy with most of the homemade stuff the kids make.

Corvus is planning a vacation for Valentine’s Day. It didn’t matter if they can only go for a weekend, he’s planning for them to leave Tokyo, whether that’s going to Sapporo to go to a ski resort or to the Caribbean to escape the cold. He doesn’t even tell his gf where they’re going until they’re already on the way to the airport. Corvus is another one who doesn’t really care for receiving gifts, but it’s merely because to him, his gf is the best gift

Tamsy goes with what his gf wants. He doesn’t want to come across as controlling, so she can literally ask for anything and he’ll do it lol. Because of how hard she works, he’ll gift her a spa day to get pampered and relax. But they actually do dinner at home and spend the evening cooking together rather than going out. Whenever he gets gifts, though, he’s pretty playful about it, the type to shake the box and spend more time trying to guess what’s inside than open it.