Chapter Text
In the resplendent heart of Versailles, where grace is measured by posture and reputation is everything, lives Augustin Prosper de Belfort—a name he’s never particularly liked, and one his wolf is far too fond of teasing. As the only son of Duchess Diane, Belfort is raised to carry the full weight of his late father’s legacy: to walk with dignity, speak with elegance, and never, under any circumstances, track mud through the main corridor.
Which is why it was such a shock to Versailles when he fell in love with a wolf who does all three.
Lupin was supposed to be just another passerby—just another charming stranger Belfort encountered one rainy afternoon in the market square. But this wolf, with his unruly purple fur, sharp tongue, and eyes full of mischief, left an impression no etiquette book could prepare him for. Where Belfort followed rules, Lupin questioned them. Where the spaniel bowed, the wolf winked. And, to absolutely no one’s surprise, Belfort was hopelessly enchanted.
But Lupin, too, was caught off guard.
At first, he thought Belfort was just another pampered noble pup—prim, perfumed, and probably too delicate to walk on cobblestones. But then came the dry wit, the way Belfort wrinkled his nose when someone said his full name, the subtle rebellion hiding under all that velvet and lace. And underneath it all, Lupin found a brilliant mind—sharp, curious, and far too observant for someone so polite. Belfort remembered every detail, noticed when Lupin was limping before even he did, and always managed to say the right thing without making a fuss. Lupin saw not a noble, but someone aching to live freely, to laugh without a chaperone, to love without permission. And just like that, the wolf found himself chasing after one ridiculous, radiant spaniel like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Duchess Diane, of course, was horrified. A commoner? A wolf? Her only son consorting with someone who didn’t even own a cravat? She was not amused. But Diane wasn’t the only voice in the palace.
Gazette, Diane’s sharp-as-a-quill royal advisor and longtime friend of Belfort, saw what others didn’t. Lupin, rough edges and all, had a noble heart. She offered him an equal footing in conversation, treating him with honest warmth, and slipping kind words about him into her daily briefings with Diane. Lupin, in turn, respected her deeply, always addressing her properly.
Then there was Lady Ariane, Belfort’s childhood friend and a duchess-in-the-making herself. Graceful, poised, and always ready with a remark that cut just shy of scandalous, Ariane was both confidante and co-conspirator. She often covered for Belfort’s absences or “accidentally” misplaced the guard schedule. And while she never said it outright, she was clearly on Lupin’s side—even if she made a sport of teasing him for his lack of manners and unbrushed tail.
Time and again, Lupin stood by Belfort’s side: protecting the estate from political missteps, rescuing Diane from a poisoned drink at a royal banquet, and navigating noble drama with surprising finesse.
Despite herself, Diane began to take notice. What began as suspicion turned to reluctant tolerance, and—over many shared silences and one near-disastrous garden party—quiet admiration. Eventually, it wasn’t noble blood, but a noble heart that won her over.
Now, Lupin is no longer a scandal whispered behind fans in candlelit salons. He walks the palace freely, though Tane and Ponne, Belfort’s ever-critical younger sisters, continue to look down on him with theatrical sighs and carefully crafted insults. The staff have grown fond of him. Gazette ensures he has a proper seat at the table. Ariane continues to tease him with a knowing smirk. And Diane… well, Diane no longer pretends to frown when she sees her son happy.
This is not a story of forbidden love. This is what comes after—the mischief, the missteps, the shared mornings, and the undeniable warmth of a duchess’s son and the purple-furred wolf who became his home.