ananiel

[ananiel]

I think IT would be funny If stalkers tease their apprentices by calling them "stalkers without the s"

I can imagine Lea doing that. Like Carlo and Romeo talking while She tries to Tell them Something, or just talking a lot in general and her telling them "You two are stalkers without the s" and for Romeo maybe to ask "talkers?" Very confused and for her to Say "yes because You talk a lot"

And just in general older stalkers saying "the talkers are coming" when their respective apprentices come.

Just giving them a nickname that the apprentices think is mostly used to laugh at them when IT could also be like "i am here with my talker" which translates to, i have my apprentice here, so everyone better be Nice and not put them in danger.

The idea of this nickname could also have a ceremony too, like after they finish their apprenticeship for the stalkers that trained them to give them "s" shaped pins, or things in general, because they finally acquired the s they needed to be stalkers.

Bonus points If the "s" is passed down from stalker to apprentice over and over like a heirloom, making most of then very important in the stalker world.

Imagine p finding a box, wooden box somewhere Deep in the hotel and when opening it It's a very old and rusted S that for some reason also alters his humanity, with two Little notes in handwritting that started neat in the first one and one with a rather more loopy one because Lea started losing her eye sight. The first note talking about how happy She was receiving her s and how She would make sure someone worthy has It next, and in the next one for the hope to have vanished, the only thing written there Being how She hopes it doesn't get thrown away like a cheap trinket when someone finds it, if someone finds it.

P leaving the box as it was at first, after gaining humanity taking IT with himself as a luck charm.

Real boy!Carlo finding it and breaking it in his legion arm, destroying it after killing everyone in the hotel.

[ananiel]

have you ever watched the House of Dragon if you have, can you do this scenario you know how Alicent and Rhaenyra was best friend until Alicent married Rhaenyra father but now imagine

Older Yandere Deli Marry Raphael best friend and she a human girl how Raphael and Ui and Gerhard Fra reaction to that

Hello hello, sorry for the wait, i hope You didn't wait too long

And i hope You enjoy this, i hâd fun making this

Because for those that don't know, anything related to dragons is Something i really enjoy, i love those creatures!

This was maybe a bit rushed șo please Tell me If You want Something else! This story really flipped me, in a good kind of challange!

--------------------------------------------------------------

The announcement comes at dinner.

It’s an ordinary evening in the Delico household — or as ordinary as it can be in a place where velvet curtains shut out the night and candlelight glints off every silver utensil.

Raphael is in the middle of telling Ul about something he read when Dali clears his throat. A faint smile tugs at his mouth, and he raises his wine glass.

“I have some… delightful news.”

Both sons look up, expecting maybe a political alliance or one of their father’s eccentric purchases.

“I’m getting married,” Dali says, smooth as silk. “To your friend, Raphael. The lovely human girl.”

Raphael freezes, fork halfway to his mouth.

“You’re… joking,” he says flatly.

Dali doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies Raphael like a painter admiring a subject’s shock.

“Why would I joke about love?”

There’s a beat of silence. Ul’s eyes flick to Raphael, then back to Dali.

“She’s his friend,” Ul says quietly, but his voice is steel beneath the softness.

“She’s my friend,” Raphael snaps, finally setting his fork down. “And she’s human. And—” he exhales sharply, forcing his tone down, “—she’s younger than me.”

Dali waves a gloved hand lazily, as though brushing aside a trivial complaint.

“Love knows no such boundaries,” he says. “She already fits here. She understands us. Why not bring her fully into the family?”

Raphael leans forward, eyes narrowing.

“Because she’s not a prize you can just take.”

“You think I’m taking her from you?” Dali asks, voice calm, almost amused. “My son, I’m giving her a place beside me — which means a place beside you.”

Ul’s voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s sharp enough to cut.

“It’s not beside him she wants to be.”

.

.

.

Gerhard finds out two days later, and the manor feels like it’s about to crack under his fury.

He arrives uninvited, his boots echoing through the marble hall, and storms straight to Dali’s study.

“You’ve gone mad,” Gerhard says without preamble. “Marrying a human — and a girl who should be looking toward her own youth, not shackling herself to you.”

Dali, seated at his desk, doesn’t even look up from the papers he’s signing.

“You make it sound so sordid.”

“It is sordid,” Gerhard snaps, stepping closer. “And immoral. And a disgrace to your sons.”

Dali finally lifts his gaze, meeting Gerhard’s with that unshakable, infuriating composure.

“You think I haven’t considered them? They’ll come to understand. Especially Raphael — he’ll see the wisdom in this once he’s calmed down.”

Gerhard’s jaw tightens.

“He won’t. And neither will I.”

He turns sharply, coat flaring, muttering as he leaves,

“If you won’t protect your family’s dignity, I will.”

.

.

.

Later that night, Raphael finds her — the girl at the center of it all — sitting by the fountain in the garden. She looks troubled.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, sitting beside her. “Whatever my father told you, whatever… promises he made… it’s not worth it.”

She shakes her head.

“He says he loves me.”

Raphael’s laugh is bitter, short.

“He says that to things he collects. And once he has them, they stop being people to him.”

Ul appears from the shadows then, his voice soft, almost pleading.

“We just don’t want to see you hurt.”

The girl hesitates, looking between them. And in that moment, Raphael can see it — the doubt. But Dali’s voice, smooth and certain, still echoes in her mind.

[ananiel]

Delico's nursery dads (separated) reaction that there kids(+Ui) kissing the person they Yandere for

Hello hello!

I hope You like this and that i did justice to Your ask, and please enjoy!

And thank You for the fact that You accepted the fact that there are no more anon asks!

--------------------------------------------------------------

🦇 Dali Delico – “The Elegant Enabler”

When Raphael Kisses the Human:

Dali finds Raphael in a quiet corner of the estate garden, gently but possessively holding the human’s chin, lips brushing theirs in a soft but unmistakable kiss.

He doesn’t interrupt. He watches.

When they part and notice him, Raphael instantly tenses, worried his father might disapprove.

But Dali?

He claps. Softly. With a smile like dusk.

“Ah, young love. You remind me of... well, no one, actually. You’re far better.”

He walks over, placing a gloved hand on Raphael’s shoulder.

“You did well, my son. You chose. And in this house, that means something.”

He makes the human flinch by kneeling before them with mock grandeur.

“Do take care of his heart. I spent years sharpening it.”

Dali sees this not as a loss — but as a perfect continuation of his legacy. Raphael’s obsession is not only accepted... it’s celebrated.

When Ul Kisses the Human:

It’s Ul's first kiss — clumsy, emotional, tearful. He probably asks for permission first. When the human nods, he cups their face with trembling hands and kisses them, eyes watery.

Dali finds out through a servant. At first, he doesn’t believe it.

“My Ul?” (smiling faintly)

“My baby boy?” (glass of wine trembling slightly)

He appears beside Ul without warning, crouching to meet his son’s eye.

“You kissed them?”

Ul nods, nervously.

Dali smiles so brightly it’s almost gentle.

Then he suddenly hugs Ul — tight. Too tight.

“You’re growing up so fast…!”

He holds him like he’s afraid to let go. Then he looks at the human with quiet, eerie intensity.

“Break his heart… and I’ll teach you the meaning of irreparable.”

He supports Ul’s emotions, but treats it like precious glass. He’ll give his son everything — but he will also control the narrative. Always

--------------------------------------------------------------

⚔️ Gerhard Fra – “The Furious Purist”

When Angelico Kisses the Human:

Gerhard walks in mid-kiss. Angelico’s hands on the human’s cheeks, eyes glowing with need. The human looks overwhelmed. Angelico looks too eager.

Gerhard stops. Stares. His brow twitches. Then his entire face collapses into a furious snarl.

“ANGELICO.”

The shout rattles windows. Angelico flinches. The human whimpers.

“What do you think you're doing, mashing your lips on a human like that?”

“Is this what I raised you to do? Lower yourself to this… baseness?”

Angelico tries to argue: “I love them!”

Gerhard’s nostrils flare like a war horse.

“Then love them from a distance. Or in a coffin!”

He tries to physically separate them, lecturing for hours about bloodlines, pride, dignity, and how “lust is not love”. But deep down, he’s terrified.

Not of the kiss — but of losing Angelico to a world outside his control.

And that fear? It turns to rage.

He tries to make sure that Angelico always has someone to report back to him If this happens again, controls every aspect from the shadows.

--------------------------------------------------------------

🕯️ Henrique Lorca – “The Smiling Strategist”

When Elena or Lucia Kiss the Human:

Henrique walks in on the human being double-kissed — one twin on each side, giggling, playful, smothering them with affection.

He sips his wine and smiles.

“Ladies, how bold. You’ll scandalize the whole manor.”

The twins grin. The human looks pale and panicked.

Henrique waves off the moment like it’s adorable.

But when he looks at the human — just for a moment — the glint behind his eyes is razor-thin.

“You must be very special, to earn both their affections.”

From that moment on:

The human’s free time disappears.

Henrique begins hosting “family nights” where the human is always the center.

Guards begin quietly tailing them everywhere.

“We can’t be too careful now, can we?” (smiling)

He jokes. He plays nice. But make no mistake — that kiss was a claim, and he’ll tighten the noose in silk and smiles.

--------------------------------------------------------------

🎭 Dino Classico – “The Possessive Starfall”

When Theodore Kisses the Human:

Dino sees it from a balcony.

Theodore holds the human’s face like they’re a porcelain masterpiece, and kisses them with aching slowness.

Dino’s eyes narrow. His mouth twists into a sneer.

He storms down without warning, flinging open the garden doors, his coat flowing behind him like rage itself.

“So THIS is what you’ve been hiding?”

Theodore tries to speak, but Dino grabs his son’s wrist, forcefully dragging him back.

“You think love gives you permission? That you can touch what I hand-picked without asking me?”

He looks at the human like they're a blemish on his son’s soul.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t earn him. You tainted him.”

That night, Theodore is locked in a separate wing of the mansion.

The human?

They don’t leave their room again — Dino sees to it personally.

“You want to kiss someone, my dear Theodore? Try kissing your freedom goodbye.”

Because to Dino, that kiss wasn’t love.

It was defiance.

And Dino doesn’t tolerate defiance.

[ananiel]

Hello, Ananiel here with very important matters

For the people that follow me, i inform You that anonymus asks have Been disabled, maybe permanently, but for now they clearly will be, because of the constant hate and things i have Been receiving

I have gotten death threaths and other hurtfull things said to me, and i am more than sure that i know not only the people doing this but also the reason

If You are not so much of a coward, go on, send a message now, without the anonymus protecting You and Your stupid gang.

Go on, make it public what type of person You are.

I will not stop writing no matter how many messages You sent to me, writing is part of me and i won't stop writing

And no matter how many

You sent, or other hatefull things, i am not going to stop posting.

I thought we could be adults about it but i was clearly wrong .

So go on, type now, hate now, without the anonymus ask on You .

I am sorry for anyone i inconvenienced by stoping the anon asks, but i have received a lot of hate, and i want it to stop, or If it doesn't, for the person that does IT to take acountability, because such things are not to be said to real people

I hope everyone understands, and that You all have a good day

💌🐙 sending love to all that understand

I am a human too, i have emotions, i have ignored, not responded and let You all Say whatever, but this has to stop, i am a human too, i have feelings, and this constant mean things are annoying, respect yourself as people, as good human Beings and don't go so low If You don't respect me.

I hope You read this and know It's about You and Your gang of bullys M.

[ananiel]

Can you do Yan! Delico dads (seperately) in which reader ends up rejecting their confession? Thank you😚

Hello hello, thank You for the wait, i hope You have a good day and that enjoy this!

Hope You like it!

--------------------------------------------------------------

🦇 Dali Delico – The Velvet Web

Reaction to Rejection:

You tell Dali — softly, respectfully — that you don’t return his feelings.

He laughs.

At first, you think it’s relief, or denial. But he just smiles, long and slow, sipping his wine with gloved fingers and saying:

“Ah... adorable. You always had such a wry sense of humor.”

When you repeat yourself, serious now, he tilts his head.

“No? Oh, but I’ve already told the children. Raphael was overjoyed. Ul even tried writing your name.”

You freeze.

“You’re family to them. If you reject me, you reject them. Surely you wouldn’t break their hearts, would you?”

Dali doesn’t rage — he presses in gently. He starts sending you invitations from the children. Pictures. Gifts drawn in crayon. Requests for you to visit.

He becomes emotionally omnipresent: comforting, soft-spoken, and devastatingly manipulative. He wants you to associate his love with their innocence.

“You don’t have to love me, my dear. But please… don’t abandon my children. They love you so.”

And then?

He waits.

Until you’re so tangled in their lives that leaving means breaking more than one heart — and Dali watches, smiling from the shadows, until you stop resisting.

.

.

.

⚔️ Gerhard Fra – The Wrathful Commander

Reaction to Rejection:

You say, “I don’t love you,” and Gerhard freezes like a statue.

He doesn’t speak. His jaw flexes. His fists clench. For a moment, the air itself holds its breath.

Then the explosion hits.

“What?!”

“You DARE?”

“I offered you my loyalty. My name. My protection. And you think you can turn away from that?”

Furniture flies. Doors slam. He shouts into the sky like a soldier betrayed on the battlefield. But through all the fury, he never touches you — he’s still too “honorable” for that.

Instead, he begins a campaign of pressure:

He isolates you from mutual friends.

He demands your time “for discussion.”

He shows up outside your home at night, just watching, arms crossed.

“You need protection. Whether you want it or not.”

His rage doesn’t cool — it simmers into control, and his idea of love becomes a duty you can’t refuse.

You aren’t his beloved anymore.

You’re his responsibility.

And he never abandons those.

And one day You will see that, and see how worthy he truly is.

.

.

.

🕯️ Henrique Lorca – The Gentleman Snake

Reaction to Rejection:

You tell Henrique you don’t feel the same. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pause in pouring the wine.

“Ah, what a shame.”

“You’re quite charming when you’re naive.”

He doesn't protest — not outwardly. He smiles, brushes it off, and says he hopes you stay friends.

And then the trap slowly tightens.

The twins, Elena and Lucia, start visiting you daily.

Your favorite café? Booked by Henrique every morning.

Your mail? Bombarded with soft-spoken love notes from the girls: “We miss you. Daddy does too.”

Your time is stolen piece by piece. Your plans mysteriously fall through. Your alone time vanishes under “polite obligation.”

“You said you don’t love me. That’s fine. I’ll simply make sure you love our company.”

Every gesture is non-threatening, but constant. You feel watched. You feel drowned in kindness. You feel owned without ever being touched.

And one day, when you ask Henrique why he keeps sending you the twins, he simply smiles and says:

“I told them you were our future. It’s only fair they get to know you.”

.

.

.

🎭 Dino Classico – The Spiraling Star

Reaction to Rejection:

You reject Dino — gently, nervously, hoping he’ll understand.

He stares at you for too long. Way too long.

And then he begins to laugh. Loudly. Painfully. Manically.

“No, no, no — wrong script, darling. That’s not how this ends. Let’s try that scene again.”

When you insist, you see it — his entire mask shatter.

“You don’t get to say no to me. I rewrote entire acts of my life to make room for you.”

The next day, your world changes:

Your door doesn’t open.

Your family key to Your house is gone.

The windows? Bricked.

You’re not home anymore — you’re in a replica of your room inside his mansion. Carefully built. Frighteningly accurate.

Dino (through a the door):

“You don’t have to love me yet. But you will. We’ve got time. All the time in the world.”

He visits every day — dramatic, loving, deranged.

Sometimes he cries in your lap.

Sometimes he brings gifts.

Sometimes he screams at the wall.

But he never stops saying:

“Just say the words. And I’ll give you back the sun.”

Until then, you’re his star, locked in his sky, whether you want to shine or not.

[ananiel]

How will the Delico's nursery dads (separated) Reaction to they kids being Yandere for Human girl/boy that they kidnapped and they refused to listen to their parents, and they threatened their parents saying if you don’t let me keep them. I’m running away and you could forget having an heir

Hello hello, i am back from my trip that i can assure You was good, with some not so funny things that we got to laugh at after they happend, and that will make amazing inside jokes

Anyways me and @veronuc had a blast togheter, and i hope You enjoy this story just like i enjoyed my trip, have a good day and i hope You enjoy this story!

--------------------------------------------------------------

🦇Dali Delico — The Serpent’s Smile

Raphael's Threat: “Let me keep them or I’ll leave — forget having an heir.”

Dali, upon hearing this, chuckles lightly — an airy, musical sound that chills the air. He gently closes his book, eyes lidded but sharp.

Dali:

“What a spine you’ve grown, my little Raphael. How charming.”

There’s no anger, no surprise — only quiet pride masked in his usual cold elegance. He slowly approaches his child, fingers lightly brushing his chin in thought.

“You would renounce everything... for a mortal. Tsk, the tragedy. The romance.”

Then he leans in close, voice velvet-wrapped steel:

“Of course, you have my support. How could I not encourage such... intoxicating devotion?”

But there’s a catch. Dali offers his resources — cleaner hiding places, minders to keep the human sedated or docile, methods of manipulation. He sees this as a twisted rite of passage.

“If they die, you’ll suffer beautifully. If they stay, you’ll suffer differently. Either way, you’ll bloom.”

He allows it, but he watches. Always. If the human truly breaks, Dali will be the first to whisper, “Perhaps it’s time for another.” Now, yes, Dali wants to see his son happy, and he doesn't see anything partcularly wrong on a human lover, but he would also try to down play the situasion in a way that he can control IT.

What i am trying to Say is that Dali would try to pull some strings to calm down raphael, to prepares raphael for a missfortune happening, because If he is so ready to do Something like that, to lose Something like that, then that's a big problem, but not one that can't be fixed. A bit of a comment here and there and he will want the power of Being an heir and his darling at the same time, that's dali's plan.

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🎭Henrique Lorca — The Lavish Enabler

Threat: “Let us keep them, or we’ll leave you with no heirs.”

Henrique bursts into laughter, clapping his hands in delight like someone watching a particularly juicy play.

Henrique:

“Leave? Oh, my precious, ridiculous flowers — there’s absolutely no need for such dramatics!”

He strides up to them, grandly throwing his arms around both daughters.

“Why would I deny you this beautiful madness? To love so deeply — so destructively — it’s art!”

Henrique doesn’t just allow it — he glorifies it. He arranges for the human to be kept in the most decadent chambers, with music, silks, and attendants (who never help them escape).

“Their fear will become fascination, and fascination, devotion. Trust me, my darlings.”

He even visits the human, flamboyantly introducing himself as their new father-in-law.

“You should feel honored, little one. You’ve captured hearts that are rarely so... fixated.”

To Henrique, this is not a scandal. It’s a family tradition of passion. He's more amused of the threat, or so he shows, because in reality both his daughters threthening like that is rather concerning for him, so his strategy is to befriend the human and get them on his side, or at least for the girls to see how he acts with their love interest so that they know he is on their side.

--------------------------------------------------------------

⚔️ Gerhard Fra — The Raging General

Threat: “Let me keep them or I’ll leave and you’ll have no heir!”

Gerhard is speechless at first, fists clenched, eyes blazing. He confronts Angelico with a soldier’s fury — storming into the chamber where his son keeps the human.

Gerhard:

“You dare speak of abandoning your bloodline — for this? This... fragile, whining thing?”

When Angelico stands his ground, eyes wild and desperate, Gerhard seethes.

“You would spit on everything I’ve built — our legacy, our power — for a human that despises you?!”

His heart wants to drag Angelico away, to rip the human apart just to end this humiliation. But there’s fear too — fear of his own child walking away forever.

He growls, fists trembling:

“You shame me. But if you think I’ll let you run off and disgrace us without me knowing where you are... think again.”

So he concedes — begrudgingly. He places guards around the estate, not to free the human, but to ensure Angelico doesn’t vanish.

“You may keep your prize, son. But when they ruin you — don’t expect me to pick up the pieces.”

Still, he watches, disgusted, yet incapable of cutting his son off. There's a lot of fights coming, a lot of screaming matches and stares. Sometimes, when Angelico let's the human walk out with him in the Gardens, Gerhard would watch from a window and not Say anything, he's furious with his son, but there's Something else too, Something he can't name, in his chest, maybe the feeling is Why he got in the manor a doctor that could Treat a human too.

--------------------------------------------------------------

🕯️ Dino Classico — The Tyrant Unmasked

Threat: “If you don’t let me keep them, I’ll leave. You’ll have no heir.”

Dino is not simply angry — he is incandescent with rage. He storms into Theodore’s wing of the mansion like a thunderstorm, his coat billowing, eyes molten gold.

Dino (shouting):

“You DARE threaten me — your creator, your mentor, your father — over a common, bleeding thing?!”

He slaps the nearest vase off a table, shards raining like glass rain.

“I made you worthy of the world’s stage, and THIS is your rebellion?! A human who trembles when you touch them?!”

Theodore doesn’t back down, clutching a locket with the human’s photo, his eyes blazing defiance. Dino’s voice drops to a chilling growl.

“Then hear me well, boy. If you ever take a step to leave this house, I will make sure your beloved never sees sunlight — nor starlight — again.”

Dino sends his elite enforcers to shadow the human constantly, making escape impossible. He visits the human himself, smirking coldly.

“Run if you like. But you’ll never escape this stage. You’re part of the act now.”

Still, for all his fury, Dino refuses to sever ties with Theodore — because deep down, his son is still his most perfect creation. And Dino will be damned before he loses him to a human. So he just prefers to keep the human as levrage, a quiet remark about food that will make theodore taste everything before them to make sure It's not poisoned, a stare here and there, everything, everything to keep them both in their toes, especially Theodore.

[ananiel]

Buna āñèiñiǎl! Doresc o poveste cu un personaj care sa aiba un nume cu inițiala M x spitalul de nebuni. O zi frumix. Multimesc!

Here She is my dear followers and people that read this, the person who makes me Smile and who will be the one that i will go on my trip with.

The kindest, funiest, most honest and most suportive person that i thank the gods everyday for Being in my life.

Your coments keep me motivated, they make me want to write even more and they keep maria's almost weekly reports to my stories not matter and everytime i see You liked or comented i feel my heart bloom with flowers .

You make flowers bloom in my heart—beautiful, rare, and unlike any others, just like you. Every petal whispers your name, and every color reflects your warmth. You're the brightest star in my sky, lighting my world in ways words could never fully capture. 🌸✨

[ananiel]

Could I request Angelico Fra meeting and falling in love with someone who's distantly related to royalty?

Hello hello

This is such an unique and lovely idea, and i hope i did it justice!

Have a good day or night, and please enjoy!

--------------------------------------------------------------

When Gerhard Fra mentioned to his son that this year’s Clan cohort would include someone with ties to royalty, Angelico barely lifted an eyebrow.

“Royalty is just another word for expectations,” he said coolly, brushing a wrinkle from his uniform sleeve.

“All the more reason you should make them feel at home,” Gerhard replied, voice measured. “You are still the head of the Pureblood Club. Show them why.”

Angelico didn't argue. He rarely did — not when it came to duty. But in his mind, he was already imagining the type: proud posture, stiff words, some glittering emblem always on display. Easy to spot. Easy to charm. Easy to forget.

And yet, when the year began… no such person emerged.

No tiaras, no exaggerated courtesy. No ceremonial attitude.

Just new faces. And among them, you.

You with your quiet gaze and easy posture, never scrambling for attention, never dropping names. If anything, you blended into the room too well for someone of supposed “importance.”

He first noticed you in the library, carefully tucking books back onto the shelves after a bored student had abandoned them. Not many nobles did that sort of thing. You hadn’t seen him watching, but even if you had, you wouldn’t have made a show of it. That was what intrigued him most.

It wasn’t until weeks later that Angelico found himself frustrated — because he couldn’t tell which one of them was the hidden royal.

“Has anyone claimed noble lineage beyond the usual houses?” he asked Gustav during one of their evening meetings.

“Only those who usually brag about it,” Gustav said, tapping a report. “No one... new. At least not obviously.”

Angelico’s eyes flicked across the names again.

But he kept circling back to you.

It started slow.

.

.

.

A shared seat. A silent walk back from a lesson. Moments when you’d speak and your voice was calm but never dull, your opinions sharp but never performative.

He noticed how you gave praise only when it was deserved, and how you never sought it yourself. He noticed how you treated others the same, regardless of bloodline or title — and how even he, Angelico Fra, was not immune to your cool politeness.

And then came the night you laughed at something he said. Really laughed. Not because of his name. Not because of fear.

Just him.

He blinked.

And Angelico realized something deeply, viscerally annoying:

He wanted to hear that laugh again.

Later, it was Gerhard again who stirred the puzzle.

“I trust you’ve welcomed our distant royal guest properly?” his father asked, sipping tea across from him.

Angelico stared, still puzzled. “There is no one who matches the profile.”

“Not by profile,” Gerhard said with a glint in his eye. “By blood. There’s no throne waiting. Just a quiet title, far removed.”

Angelico frowned. “Then why send her here?”

“Because it’s safer to hide in plain sight,” Gerhard replied. “Especially when the only thing she’s ever wanted is peace.”

And suddenly — everything made sense.

Your demeanor. Your distance. Your refusal to climb social ladders. Your choice to keep your crown buried beneath humility.

The mystery royal… was you.

The next day, he didn’t confront you. He didn’t expose it. He simply sat beside you at the garden fountain, silence blooming like the petals around you.

“You’re different,” he said quietly.

You looked at him, mildly amused. “That’s vague.”

“I mean it as a compliment.”

“…Good.”

He hesitated. Then added, “You don't like being looked at. Not in that way.”

“No,” you admitted. “Not when people are trying to find a title in my face.”

Angelico nodded slowly. “I think… I’m just trying to find you.”

You paused.

Then, your gaze softened. “That’s rare.”

He smiled — only for you. “So are you.”

.

.

.

Angelico was, by nature, a planner.

He didn’t fluster. He didn’t ramble. He certainly didn’t “scheme.”

Except… perhaps… this once.

“You should consider joining the Pureblood Club,” he said one morning, as casually as someone suggesting a walk. “You qualify.”

You gave him a sidelong glance over the book you were reading. “Since when do you recruit?”

He blinked. “I don’t. But… I think you’d be a good fit.”

“…Right.”

Angelico crossed his arms. “It would be beneficial. You’re educated, intelligent, your background—” He cut himself off, realizing that he had nearly exposed what he knew.

You raised an eyebrow. “My background?”

He cleared his throat and looked away. “You’re… versatile.”

“That’s not a word people usually use for me.”

“It should be,” he muttered, a little quieter, then added quickly, “Besides, you’d be helping me.”

You leaned in. “Helping you? How generous of me.”

His ears turned just the faintest shade of red. “I meant… The Club would benefit from your insight. Obviously.”

You smirked. “So it’s about the club.”

“Entirely.” He nodded stiffly. “Completely professional.”

You didn’t press him. But the glint in your eyes told him you weren’t fooled. And yet, you said softly, “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Angelico’s posture straightened just a bit.

In the following days, Angelico became something the Pureblood Club had never seen before:

Distracted.

And almost cheerful.

He arrived early to meetings, then got annoyed when you were late. He organized club outings and conveniently made sure he was always next to you. He asked for your opinions on ridiculous matters — uniform cut options, the arrangement of the book archives, even which seasonal flower arrangements looked least pompous.

No one said anything outright, but the whispers grew.

“She’s not even officially in the club yet.”

“Has Angelico Fra ever asked anyone for advice before?”

“…Why does he look nervous when she speaks?”

Angelico ignored it all.

Except when he was alone.

In the mirror, fixing his collar, he’d find himself wondering:

Is she laughing at me when I’m not around?

Does she know she could do better than someone like me?

His pride flared — how dare he think that? He was Angelico Fra, son of Gerhard, one of the most promising nobles in the clan. His posture was perfect. His grades, impeccable. His bloodline, unshakable.

And yet…

She was kindness wrapped in patience. She didn’t need power to command presence. And she saw through him in a way that unsettled — and moved — him.

So he did what he always did: kept pushing forward.

One afternoon, he lingered by the Pureblood Club bulletin board, waiting. When you approached, he turned, trying to appear casual.

“I… had a thought,” he said, then corrected himself, “A proposal.”

You tilted your head, amused. “A proposal?”

His brain short-circuited. “…For an event. A club one.”

“Mhm.”

He pressed on. “We’re hosting a seasonal gathering soon. More formal. You should attend. As a member-in-consideration.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And if I say no?”

“I’ll… pester you.”

You laughed. “Now that I want to see.”

He flushed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re transparent.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just want you there. Is that so awful?”

Your gaze softened. And finally, you nodded. “Alright, Angelico. I’ll go.”

His expression didn’t change much.

But later — alone in the hallway — he allowed himself a small smile.

.

.

.

Extra :

The ballroom was dressed in all its predictable finery: gold-leafed trim on the windows, a chandelier threatening to outshine the moon, and nobles pretending their gossip wasn’t louder than the violins.

Angelico stood beside his father, looking dangerously bored. He swirled his blood glass without drinking it, nodding absently at Gerhard’s words but with his green eyes clearly elsewhere—searching.

Gerhard narrowed his eyes. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m multitasking,” Angelico replied smoothly, scanning the crowd. “You were talking about the mystery royal again, yes?”

Gerhard scoffed. “The girl is rumored to be here tonight. No name, no formal announcement. She could be anyone. And if you’re smart, you’ll keep an eye out—”

“I am keeping an eye out,” Angelico interrupted, gaze locked somewhere behind Gerhard now. “Very closely.”

Gerhard turned his head, frowning. “At what? There's no—”

The doors opened.

You walked in.

Regal without effort, wrapped in a gown that glimmered like dusk and secrets. A knight escorted you, expression neutral, and the ballroom shifted—conversations quieted, posture straightened, and necks craned.

Angelico didn’t move.

He didn’t need to.

His smirk was hidden in the rim of his glass.

Gerhard was still trying to piece together who you were when you leaned toward your escort and murmured something quietly. The knight gave a small bow and departed—your eyes already fixed on Angelico like you had been waiting for him too.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crossed the floor, ignoring the curious gazes, the noble whispers. You stopped in front of father and son, gave a perfectly royal curtsy… and then, without missing a beat, reached for Angelico’s arm.

“Shall we?”

Angelico didn’t even answer. He set the untouched drink aside and let you take his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Gerhard blinked. “Wait. Hold on.”

“Hmm?” Angelico asked, glancing back.

“You—! You knew?”

“Of course I knew,” Angelico said, deadpan. “She’s mine.”

Then, with the perfect elegance of a practiced rogue, Angelico let you guide him straight out onto the balcony, leaving behind one stunned father, who stared as if his entire kingdom had just been usurped by a smug son and a very self-assured noblewoman.

Gerhard’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

He sighed.

“Why do I even bother…”

From the balcony, Angelico glanced once over his shoulder and gave a lazy wave.

Gerhard narrowed his eyes.

“Oh no. He planned this.”

[ananiel]

How will the Delico's nursery dads (separated) to they kids being Yandere for a Human girl/Boy that show no interest in them

Hello hello!

Here is Your request, i hope You are having a good day and that You are enjoying this, because i hâd fun thinking about this

If You have anymore requests please let me know!

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🦇 Dali Delico – The Velvet Advisor

- Dali’s Reaction to put it lightly is - Cold amusement, quiet mentorship

Dali is not surprised when Raphael — tightly wound, emotionally volatile beneath his elegance — falls for a human. Nor is he particularly bothered. He watches from a distance, reading his book while Raphael spirals in slow agony over unanswered letters and ignored glances.

Rather than dissuade him, Dali is entertained. A little heartbreak will refine the boy. And if it doesn’t? Then it will at least shape his obsession into something more dangerous, more interesting.

Dali (calmly sipping tea):

“Ah, humans. Curious little creatures. So delicate — and so oblivious to devotion. My boy, if you truly want them, make them need you. Strip away every comfort but your presence. It’s an old method, but effective.”

He offers tips — nothing overtly threatening, but deeply manipulative. Emotional starvation. Isolate their friend group. Create dependency.

Even Ul, if he fixates on someone, receives the same calm counsel.

“The secret to keeping something fragile... is never letting them realize you’ve caged them.”

Dali’s concern is not about morality — it’s about efficiency and elegance. If the human still resists? Then they are simply weak. Replaceable. But useful for his sons’ emotional growth.

.

.

.

⚔️ Gerhard Fra – The Moral Fortress

Gerhard’s Reaction, again is Something to be expected : Righteous fury, direct refusal, nothing not to be expected

Gerhard finds out when a soldier reports Angelico leaving roses under a human’s window — daily — along with love letters covered in chaotic declarations like “You’re my light! I’d kill a thousand immortals for you!”

He calls his son into the war room like he’s committing treason.

Gerhard (pacing):

“A human? A human? Angelico, do you understand the difference in lifespan? In strength? In honor? You are a vampire! You do not give your loyalty to something that will wilt in less than a blink of our existence!”

He delivers a stern, military-grade lecture, invoking legacy, bloodline, moral superiority, and practicality. He doesn't yell — but his voice is thunderous.

“They will never understand you. They will fear you. And you will ruin yourself trying to keep their fragile world intact.”

When Angelico begs (“But I love them, Father!”), Gerhard narrows his eyes.

“Then you will forget them. Or I will make them disappear. I will not see you degraded by something that cannot stand beside you on a battlefield — or in eternity.”

His opposition isn’t from jealousy — it’s from strict discipline and fear of emotional vulnerability. He won’t tolerate it. And Angelico, for once, backs down.

.

.

.

🎭 Henrique Lorca – The Eloquent Torment

Not sure If it makes sense but Henrique’s Reaction: Conflicted, indulgent, yet fragile

Henrique notices something is off when Elena and Lucia start bringing up the same human child in every conversation.

Elena: “They looked at me when I handed them the ink.”

Lucia: “But they said thank you to me first.”

Henrique (smiling uneasily): “...Is that so?”

Soon after, the human begins avoiding the estate. Henrique, ever the dramatic romantic, understands forbidden love — but he’s also not blind to how intense his twins are. He walks in on them embroidering matching handkerchiefs with the human’s initials and quietly sits down.

“My lovely girls… you’re turning a soul into a symbol. That’s dangerous. Even for hearts like yours.”

Still, he doesn’t forbid them. Instead, he tries to redirect:

“Invite him to dinner. Let me meet the boy. If he runs screaming from our home, perhaps that will resolve the matter.”

Henrique’s approach is one of soft, slightly manipulative tolerance. If it hurts them, he’ll intervene. But a part of him admires the intensity — they got that from him, after all.

If the human tries to run, Henrique ensures the guards let them almost escape, then brings them back “for safety.”

“We can’t have you hurt. The girls would never forgive me.”

And he smiles as the human trembles in silence.

.

.

.

🕯️Dino Classico – The Firestorm Director

Dino’s Reaction, of course : Explosive, controlling, ruthless

Dino loses his mind when he finds out Theodore — his carefully raised, emotionally intense, beloved (in theory) son — has fallen in love with a human.

He doesn’t find out from Theodore. He finds out from a spy who witnessed the boy kissing the human’s hand behind the rose garden wall.

The reaction is theatrical — and dangerous.

Dino (slamming his wine glass):

“A HUMAN?! My son — MY SON — lowering himself to beg for scraps of attention from something that bleeds like fruit?!”

He calls Theodore in and gives a devastating monologue about pride, shame, and betrayal.

“I built you to be divine. And now you grovel for the attention of someone who flinches when they see your teeth.”

Theodore defends the human. Bad move.

“Then I will burn their village to ash. I will erase their name from every registry. You think I won’t? Try me.”

Dino forbids it utterly. Places guards. Sends veiled threats to the human’s family. If Theodore sneaks out, Dino retaliates with emotional punishment:

Cancels all performances.

Locks him out of the library.

Publicly humiliates him at social gatherings.

All the while whispering:

“I am not your enemy, Theo. I am the only one who will ever love you completely.”

And the worst part? Theodore still loves both of them — his father and the human — and that tears him apart.

[ananiel]

I got revived and I’m alive again🪩

Honestly not much to say other than that i’ve been stalking your page and starstruck by how many stories there are.

Read all of them this afternoon bc i’ve been busy packing for a trip. Earlier this morning i tripped on a bunch of luggage and ended up colliding with the corner of a table. There’s now a massive bruise on my hip and i limp everywhere but i now have an excuse to lay in bed and read fanfics hehe

Anyways, love your work! Stay safe and healthy :)

Hello hello sweet🪩!

I was thinking about You yes, i hope that You are okay now, and i hope that You enjoyed yourself, i myself am going on a trip with my Best friend, and i am excited about it, so i moved my writing day a bit sooner than what i always post,

I hope You have a wonderfull day sweet one, Stay safe and eat and remain helathy because there are people that love and care for You i am sure!

Stay alive ah ah ah!

💌🐛

[ananiel]

100 posts!

Hello hello!

I am so happy, i can't believe we got this far, i want to thank You all for this and for always supporting my ideas, i love You all and i wish to write a thousand more!

Thank You all again, i am so gratefull for You all

Sending You all big big love ♥️♥️♥️

[ananiel]

Hello Ananiel! How are you doing? I hope you're getting all the rest you need!

I've recently just finished re-reading TRUMP and I can't stop thinking about Banri/Nome. So if its no trouble could you write a Banri x vampire reader who he falls in love with despite his hatred for vampires? Additionally, could you write it where their relationship is a secret and maybe its revealed (in this scenario he never dies) when he nearly dies but somehow escapes death and reader (who is maybe expecting his child ) gets really worried?

Sorry if its complicated, feel free to change it up! Thank you and have a lovely day!!

Hello hello, knowing my other fic i will try to get the same vibe and for IT to be a bit of a backstory so that i could focus more on the essence of this one

I hope You like it!

Please enjoy and always feel free to ask for some more!

This might be a bit short but i hope i got all the emotions right!

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Banri Ga had sworn to himself — and the gods above — that he would never fall in love with a vampire.

Not after what he had seen.

Not after what he knew.

He had walked into the Clan with clenched teeth and clenched fists, carrying the weight of a mission and a lifetime of disgust. His job was clear: observe, infiltrate, and gather information. That’s it. Keep his cover. Hate quietly.

But you — you ruined that resolve.

You with your quiet laugh, your sharp mind, and your maddening way of always knowing when he was about to storm off and saying just enough to stop him. A noble vampire, yes, but one who lived with a strange kind of humanity. Who healed with gentleness. Who never drank from the unwilling. Who smiled like you knew Banri's walls weren’t as impenetrable as he claimed.

And somehow, you got in.

.

.

.

Their love was a secret forged in fire and stolen moments. Between battles. Between his mission and her training. Between heartbeats. You met him where no one else could — in the truth of who he was, not what he represented. And despite his every stubborn thought screaming otherwise, he fell.

He fell hard.

He was learning to love, to feel, he was starting to accept his life, yearn for it everyday, more and more

Barni left his guard down, and of course, that's when tragedy tried to struck

.

.

.

The fire came suddenly.

Explosions shook the Clan halls like a beast awakening. Screams echoed through the corridors. Smoke bled from the windows. Vampires, nobles, everyone — all running, scattering, calling out names swallowed by the inferno.

You were outside the compound, waiting.

Banri had made you promise to stay out of danger. You had, but the moment you saw the smoke, you ran.

You knew he was still inside.

Your hand clutched the side of your stomach—flat still, but not for long. You hadn't told him yet. You didn’t know how. Not until now. Not until the world began crumbling.

The gate burst open.

You turned just in time to see him—Banri, burnt around the edges, bloodied and limping, a long tear in his coat and a nasty gash on his side. But he was alive. Alive.

Your breath caught. You didn’t even feel your legs move.

“BANRI!”

He barely had time to look up before you threw yourself into his arms, sobbing as though the earth had broken.

“I—I thought— I thought I lost you before I could tell you—” your voice cracked between breaths, choked on relief and tears— “I’m pregnant. I was going to tell you, I swear, but then the fire and—”

Banri froze.

The world stilled, except for the smoke and the sound of your trembling voice.

His arms wrapped around you—strong despite the pain, tight despite the bruises. He winced, and you tried to pull back, but he wouldn’t let you go.

“You’re pregnant,” he whispered, as if saying it louder would break the moment. “With mine?”

You nodded against his chest. “Yours. Always yours.”

He let out a breath like it was the first he'd taken since the flames began.

“I’m not dying,” he said, voice hard. “I can’t die. Not now. Not when I’ve got you—and a kid on the way.” His arms tightened, jaw clenched, and despite the blood drying on his cheek, he kissed your temple with a kind of desperate reverence.

“I hate this place,” he whispered. “I hate everything it did to me. But I love you.”

“And if I’ve gotta burn through the whole damn world to protect you both, then that’s what I’ll do.”

You cried harder into his neck.

He stood taller.

Broken, bloodied—but whole.

Because love, even between a vampire and a human sworn to hate them, can survive even fire.

[ananiel]

Hi Ananiel (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

Could i please request Angelico falling with a time traveling reader that came from the future? thank you! :⁠^⁠)

Hello hello!

What a funny Little idea !

I hope You enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writting this, have a good day or night!

Now my interpretation for this was someone from the close future, someone from the fall of the clan let's say, but if You would like it any other day, please let me know!

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The first time Angelico Fra saw you, he didn’t believe you were real.

You arrived cloaked in confidence, striding through the gates of the Clan like you had seen it before—no hesitation, no awe. Just knowing. You carried yourself like someone who had memorized every turn of these stone halls, whose feet stepped with the muscle memory of a hundred future days.

It unsettled him immediately.

He wasn't alone in his observations. The Pureblood Club whispered, half amused and half wary. Hoyle muttered something about your “strange energy,” and the others exchanged speculative glances behind crystal glasses and evening smiles.

“She said the chandelier would fall before it did,” one murmured, eyes wide.

“She looks around and then looks at her watch and bang, Something happens and she's always unharmed,” another said.

Angelico narrowed his eyes across the room as you laughed softly at something a younger noble said. That laugh had the taste of certainty. You weren’t guessing. You knew.

A stranger among vampires was rare. A stranger who felt older than any of them, despite your youth, was nearly unheard of.

And so, he watched.

Every class you attended, he was there. Always lounging in the same corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Every stroll you took through the courtyards, he was on a nearby balcony, pretending to read. You never looked startled to find him, never surprised. If anything, you seemed amused. As if you expected him.

He hated that.

He hated you.

Or so he told himself.

.

.

.

Weeks passed.

You weren’t showy. You never offered knowledge outright. But you always had the right answer when it mattered. You never drew a weapon in class—yet Angelico had seen the way your hands twitched when Ul sparred. As though you’d trained with him. As though you'd seen him fight before.

He tested you.

Once, he "accidentally" dropped a delicate Pureblood family heirloom—something impossible to catch.

You caught it.

He blinked. So did Hoyle.

You just shrugged. "Fast reflexes."

Another time, he asked you if you liked vampire literature.

“I prefer stories that haven’t been written yet,” you replied without blinking.

Cryptic. Maddening.

And so very intriguing.

Angelico had every reason not to trust you.

So why did he find himself watching the door until you entered a room?

Why did he pretend to nap in class, only to listen to the sound of your pen as you wrote?

Why did he memorize the little things—how you always touched the corner of the desk before sitting, or looked at the sky five minutes before rain?

Why did your smile seem private, like a memory shared only between you and time?

The day it snapped was simple.

You had stopped to speak to a young servant outside the eastern wing, helping them adjust a heavy tray with a kind word and a tired joke. Angelico had been passing, pretending he wasn’t trailing behind you, as always. But he stopped when he saw the way your shoulders sagged for just a moment.

Exhaustion. Familiarity. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d done this. Like it was the hundredth.

And without thinking, he said, “Who are you?”

You turned, slightly startled. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not what you say you are,” he said, voice quiet and sharp. “You know this place too well. You know us too well.”

You looked at him, and for the first time, you looked tired.

“Would you believe me,” you asked, “if I told you I’ve lived all of this before?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. He couldn’t.

Because suddenly, a memory flickered in the back of his mind—of Ul describing a dream, nit to him of course, but his Voice was loud enough to hear, he told himself, one where you warned him not to take the left staircase. Of Raphael grumbling that you always knew which day the library would be locked. Of Hoyle muttering, “That girl gives me déjà vu.”

“You’re from the future,” he said, barely a whisper. It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t deny it.

“Why are you here?” he asked again. “What do you want?”

And you, in the calmest voice he’d ever heard, replied:

“I’m here to protect what matters. That includes you.”

.

.

.

Angelico should have pushed you away after that.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he lingered longer after classes. He sat beside you during shared readings, elbow brushing yours. He stopped mocking the commoners when you were around. He listened when you offered your thoughts on diplomacy or war—because somehow, you always knew which side would win.

And when you laughed, he felt it in his chest.

He began to notice the little ways you looked out for others—how you guided students away from weak stonework or hinted softly that someone might want to skip breakfast.

And when you looked at him, he felt like he was standing still in a world spinning too fast.

One day, when the sky turned amber and the Clan glowed with quiet dusk, he found you standing in the garden. Alone.

“You knew I’d come here,” he said.

You smiled, tired but warm. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because… you always do. When you want to think.”

He stared at you. “And what am I thinking now?”

You stepped forward and tilted your head gently. “That maybe I’m not the threat you thought I was.”

He let out a breath. “You're still a mystery.”

“And you still don’t know whether to kiss me or interrogate me.”

He blinked. You were right.

He leaned forward, slowly, the shadows dancing across his face. “What happens if I kiss you?”

You smiled.

“You’ll fall in love with me.”

He didn’t stop.

He kissed you.

And he didn't want to stop.

He opened his eyes for a second...yes... He would've returned in time for this too.

[ananiel]

I am working on the requests and some will be delivered tommorrow, but for now my dear mythology enthusiasts, please look at this idea!

And enjoy!

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We have talked about hermes!reader, lively, lovely, someone that mortals and gods alike love, but who was She before She became a messager too, what was the life before She learned the tricks from her father, Hermes himself.

Even the strongest were once kids, even the strongest were once frail, and that's how fate comes and goes.

.

.

.

In the shadowed hours before dawn, the air shimmered softly as Hermes crossed the veil between the immortal realm and the mortal world. Gods were forbidden to tread where their mortal children drew their first breath—an ancient law to keep the fragile threads of fate untangled. But Hermes, the fleet-footed messenger, the god of boundaries and secrets, could not resist.

His heart hammered against his chest as he slipped quietly into the dim room where she lay. The flickering light of a single candle cast trembling shadows on the walls. There, swaddled in thin cloth and silence, was his daughter—so tiny, so impossibly frail.

Hermes knelt beside her cradle, his gaze falling first on the faintest hint of wings at her temples—tiny, translucent, so delicate they seemed woven from moonlight and breath. Wings like his own, but smaller, weaker, like fragile leaves barely clinging to a branch in a storm.

The god who had outrun time itself felt a cold knot twist in his stomach. Here was his blood and breath, and yet she seemed to hover on the edge of the world, quiet as a whisper, as still as the dawn itself. He reached out with a trembling hand, cradling her fragile form against his chest.

In that moment, the might of Olympus, the cunning of Hermes the trickster, the speed that bent the wind—all seemed useless against the frailty of a single mortal child.

He held her close, feeling the rapid, faint beat of her heart beneath his fingertips. A flicker of fear, deep and raw, gripped him—the helplessness of a god facing the mortal fragility of life. Would she make it through the night? Would she live to run free beneath the skies he so loved?

His breath hitched, and for the first time, the messenger of gods was silent, his usual mischief and lightness replaced by a heavy, trembling stillness.

"Please," he whispered, voice breaking, breathless as if the very act of speaking would drain him of strength. "Give me... a sound. A flutter, a cry, anything. Show me you’re here. I need you to live."

He pressed his forehead against her soft temple, where those fragile wings fluttered faintly, barely there. "You have to live. You must live—not for the gods, not for the mortals, but for me. So you can help me deliver the messages no one else can carry. So your wings, small as they are, will carry the weight of the impossible."

His fingers trembled as he wrapped his arms tighter around her, the god of transitions and boundaries feeling the unbearable weight of hope and fear all at once.

"For you, I will break the rules, cross the lines I am forbidden to cross. I will be here, silent and unseen, until you can fly on your own."

And so, in the stillness before dawn, Hermes, the swift-footed god, held his daughter close, trembling with the fragile, fierce hope that she would survive the night—his first and most precious secret, delicate as the wings at her temples, fragile as life itself.

.

.

.

The candle’s flame danced low, as if it, too, was holding its breath. Outside, the wind whispered against the shutters, carrying with it the hush of a world not yet awake. But inside the quiet room, time seemed suspended—held still by a god’s arms and a child’s shallow, fragile breaths.

Hermes sat on the edge of the cot, still cradling his daughter as if she might vanish into mist if he let go. His fingers, calloused from centuries of carrying staff and scroll, were now trembling, barely brave enough to touch the warm, too-small curve of her back. She hadn't moved, not once, since he had arrived—not a cry, not a stir, not even a twitch of her tiny, translucent wings.

He rocked her gently, not even noticing the rhythm in his own motion. The words that slipped from his mouth were barely words—just sounds, scraps of prayer not meant for Olympus.

“You can’t go,” he murmured against her hair. “Not yet. You haven’t even seen the sky. You don’t know what the wind feels like on your face, or how fast we can run together. You haven’t laughed yet. You have to laugh, little one. That’s the rule. You can’t go until you laugh.”

And then he felt it—that sudden stillness in the air, colder than before. No rustle, no sound, just absence. A silence so clean and deep it scraped across the bones.

Hermes didn’t stiffen.

He didn’t turn.

He simply pressed his daughter closer to his chest, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head, and whispered, voice raw and near-breaking:

“Thanatos, please.”

Behind him, the shadows shifted, deepened. The air seemed to draw itself inward, holding its own breath. The god of death had come.

Thanatos had entered countless rooms, dim and sorrowful, but none where a god had already arrived ahead of him. None where the air clung not with despair, but with trembling hope. And never had he seen Hermes—clever, quick-tongued, ever-smiling Hermes—like this.

Hermes didn’t look back at him until that moment.

When he did, it wasn’t with defiance or fury.

It was something far worse.

It was pain.

Unmasked. Unhidden. The pure, sharp ache of a father staring into the face of the inevitable.

Thanatos faltered.

Not out of fear—death does not fear gods or men—but from something else. A quiet understanding passed between them, wordless and heavy. This wasn’t a soul ready for passage. This wasn’t a life finished. This was a thread barely spun, and already fraying.

Hermes closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again, and with a voice like wind through autumn leaves, he spoke once more:

“Just… not tonight.”

Thanatos lingered.

Then, without a word, he stepped back into the darkness—and was gone.

Hermes let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and it came out shaky, broken.

He held his daughter tighter, rocking her again, gently, as though movement alone could keep the silence from stealing her away.

The candle’s flame flickered once, and steadied.

And far away, above the clouds, not even the stars dared speak.

.

.

.

The sun had not yet risen when Hermes appeared at the threshold of Apollo’s sanctuary. The god of light and prophecy sat in stillness, golden eyes half-lidded in the half-light of early dawn. But even before Hermes spoke, Apollo knew he had come not as a herald, not as a brother of Olympus, but as a father.

Hermes stepped into the chamber, his arms still wrapped protectively around the bundle of cloth and quiet breath, as if the act of letting go would undo her completely.

"Apollo," Hermes said, his voice stripped of its usual quicksilver charm. It was hoarse, hollow. "Tell me what to do."

Apollo looked at him, and then down at the child in his arms—so small, so pale, and nearly motionless, save for the faint flutter of translucent wings at her temples. Even Apollo, healer and god of the sun, felt a twist of unease in his chest.

"She won’t last the day,” Hermes said, almost choking on the words. “I’ve held her all night. I… I don’t know what else to do."

There was a pause—long and ancient, like the silence before an oracle speaks.

“I could give her ambrosia,” Apollo said quietly, stepping forward. “A draught of the purest kind. It would change her. Burn away the mortal weakness. She would become one of us.”

Hermes stiffened.

“That’s not always how it works.”

Apollo didn’t deny it.

“She’s half-mortal. If her body rejects it—”

“She’ll die,” Apollo finished for him.

Hermes stared at his daughter, rocking her slightly, as if the movement alone could stall the choice. Her breathing was shallow, barely there. Even the soft flicker of her wings seemed to weaken.

“And if I do nothing,” he whispered, “Thanatos will take her anyway.”

And suddenly, he felt it again.

That chill in the air.

That impossibly still silence.

Thanatos was near.

He didn’t see him—didn’t need to. His presence was like a shadow behind the heart, never touching, but always near.

Hermes turned back to Apollo, desperation etched into every line of his face.

“Do it,” he said. “Now.”

Apollo nodded solemnly, retrieving a crystal vial glowing faintly with a pale golden light—the essence of the gods, the blood and breath of divinity.

Hermes took it with hands that shook. He hesitated only a second longer, cradling his daughter close and brushing his lips against her temple.

“Little one,” he breathed, “I hope you forgive me.”

He tipped the vial gently to her lips.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then she stirred. The faintest twitch of her fingers. A flutter of wings at her temples like sparks catching wind. Her eyes squeezed shut—and then her mouth opened—

And she wailed.

A loud, full-throated cry, wild and clear, the sound of life bursting into the world.

Hermes nearly collapsed.

He dropped to his knees, pressing her against his chest, his tears hot and unashamed as they spilled down his cheeks.

She was alive.

She was alive.

The sound of her crying filled the chamber like music, like prophecy fulfilled, like the wind rushing through the heavens after a long, dry silence.

Apollo stepped back, allowing the moment its space.

Hermes clutched her close, tears falling freely now.

“Thank you,” he whispered, to her, to Apollo, to the stars, to no one and everyone at once.

The god who once danced between realms and laughed at fate now wept for joy like a mortal man.

And behind them, unseen and silent, Thanatos turned and vanished—for now.

.

.

.

Before anyone loved the daughter of the messager god, before anyone knew of her existence and her heart, there was a father, with a love so big he just couldn't bare the thought of never hearing his Little girl's laugh.

[ananiel]

Hello hello

Here is the Romeo fic i promised, please enjoy

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Romeo had expected this assignment to be dull.

Another spoiled heir, another porcelain doll to trail behind, to nod politely at, to keep alive while she fluttered about the city like she owned the air.

He’d done this before — not officially, of course. Still in training, still a “sweeper,” not yet licensed to kill without permission. But everyone at the Academy said the same thing: this job would make or break him.

What he hadn’t expected was you.

You didn’t walk like royalty.

You didn’t dress like them.

You didn’t speak the way rich girls usually did — all affectation and polished boredom.

There was something—off. In a good way.

Like music played on a slightly wrong instrument: recognizable, but always laced with something sharper underneath.

Romeo had seen you for the first time in the garden behind the house — sitting under a dead tree with your coat open, one shoe dangling from your fingers, watching the sky like it might answer back.

He was sent to escort you to a meeting.

You hadn’t even glanced at him.

Just sighed.

“You’re new.”

“Romeo,” he said, standing too straight.

“Sweeper in training. Assigned to you.”

“Hm.” You finally looked at him, but your eyes didn’t stay.

“That’s unfortunate.”

And just like that, he knew he was in for it.

She didn’t ask for protection.

She didn’t act like she needed it.

She didn’t speak much when others were around, but when she did, it was in quicksilver phrases — soft, vivid, barbed. And sometimes, even funny.

Romeo had never met someone who made silence feel like a challenge.

So, of course, he talked too much.

He told stories from the Academy — most of them exaggerated, half of them flat-out lies — because when he got you to snort or smile, it felt like a victory more precious than praise.

“We had to run through fire once. Blazing corridor. They didn’t tell us it was fake until after we’d all burned our eyebrows.”

You blinked.

“Your eyebrows grew back weird.”

“They grew back stronger. Like vengeance brows.”

You had looked at him, blinked once, and then laughed. Really laughed.

Romeo smiled like a fool for the rest of the day.

He’d never say it aloud — not even to himself — but there was something about how you existed that made him feel like a boy again. A boy who hadn’t been carved into a weapon yet.

You walked barefoot when no one looked.

You snuck off to places you weren’t meant to be.

You lit candles in rooms that were already bright.

And yet, somehow, the moment someone else entered, you folded yourself up — composed, unreadable, perfect.

Romeo noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

One night, it rained during a formal event.

Everyone else crowded under parasols, whispering complaints.

You stepped out alone into the garden in your evening shoes, let the downpour soak into your skin. You didn’t dance or pose or twirl like girls in movies.

You just stood there.

Still.

Like a part of the storm.

Romeo followed, of course. He didn’t say anything. Just watched. His black coat heavy with water, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know if he should stop you or protect you from lightning.

You turned your head slightly and spoke without looking at him.

“You always follow orders this blindly?”

“No,” he answered.

“Just you.”

“You think I’m worth the effort?”

“No,” Romeo said, quickly.

“I think I’m already in trouble.”

You tilted your head then — barely — and smiled without teeth.

And somewhere in the garden of stone statues and soaked roses, Romeo forgot every reason he had not to fall.

.

.

.

The ballroom shimmered with gold and false smiles.

Crystal chandeliers bled warm light across the faces of the old money, the new money, and the desperate ones pretending they were either. Violin strings trembled through the air like fragile glass, and gowns rustled like gossip across the polished floor.

You hated these nights.

Too many eyes. Too many shallow questions.

You stood near the long table of champagne flutes and sliced fruit, sipping something that tasted vaguely expensive, wearing a dress you didn’t pick. Around you, conversation bloomed like weeds—boring, brittle.

And then he appeared.

He had that glint.

That rich-boy boredom behind the eyes.

Tailored silk. Arrogant smirk. The type that called girls “darling” and meant “property.”

“You must be the heiress with the tragic little pet bodyguard,” he said, circling like a vulture.

“I was expecting… colder.”

You didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. You just tilted your head.

“And I was expecting a man with less perfume.”

He grinned. Tried to touch your arm.

And then he wasn’t there anymore.

Romeo’s hand closed around the boy’s wrist with casual precision — not hard, not soft, just enough to say something. Something with sharp edges.

“She’s not interested,” Romeo said, voice low, polite, final.

The boy scoffed. Until he saw Romeo’s eyes.

Stalkers had a look.

A way of standing like shadows with weight.

A way of not blinking.

The boy swallowed, muttered something about “overstepping,” and disappeared with his cologne in tow.

You opened your mouth — maybe to scold him, maybe to tease — but you didn’t get the chance.

Romeo stepped forward. No hesitation. No permission asked.

One hand found the side of your jaw. The other, your waist.

And then he kissed you.

Slow. Certain.

Like he’d been waiting.

Not for a green light.

Not for a perfect moment.

Just… for the right reason.

And this — you being his — was reason enough.

The kiss didn’t feel like a ballroom kiss. It felt like a forest fire snuck into a palace.

Messy. Hot. Too real for the room full of glass masks.

When he pulled back, his voice had dropped to something gravelly and close.

“Don’t let boys who smell like money talk to you like that.”

You blinked. “You’re my bodyguard.”

“And apparently your problem, too.”

“...You kissed me.”

“I know.”

He was too calm. Too smug. Too close.

“I’m going to yell at you later,” you muttered, cheeks flushed.

“Later,” Romeo said, grinning.

“But right now, I’d like to enjoy the fact that I just kissed you stupid in front of everyone you hate.”

You stepped back, almost breathless, glaring.

But your lips curved upward all the same.

“Oh You want to tease? Fine by me…two can play this game”

.

.

.

The party was long behind you.

But its whispers lingered, sticky in the folds of your dress, in the ache of your feet, in the way your shoulder still carried the ghost of someone’s entitled hand.

The carriage rocked gently as the two horses trotted through the city’s stone-veined streets. Lanterns passed like dying stars.

Romeo sat across from you at first. Silent. Watching.

The space between you crackled.

His jaw was tight. His arms folded. And even without looking directly at him, you felt it — the way his mood rolled like thunder just under his skin.

You leaned back against the plush seat, your head cocked, your voice laced with knowing mischief.

“So quiet, mon garde. Did something happen?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

But you saw the twitch in his brow. The way his eyes flicked briefly to your shoulder — where someone’s hand had lingered too long during that last waltz.

You smiled sweetly.

“Was it the third dance partner? Or the fifth? Or the red-haired one who asked if I liked poetry—”

“Don’t.” His voice was low. Clipped.

That made you laugh. And stretch your legs. You tilted your head to the side and met his gaze — the kind of look that teased and tested, all in one.

“Are you pouting?”

“You think this is pouting?”

“Well, you’re brooding. Dark eyes. Arms crossed. Lips tight. I’ve read novels, Romeo, I know the signs.”

He stood in one smooth, sudden movement — the kind you didn’t see so much as feel — and crossed the carriage in two steps, stopping directly before you.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet.

But his knee pressed between yours as he leaned down, crowding your space, his voice a notch above a whisper.

“You let every boy in that ballroom ask you to dance.”

“I didn’t say yes to every one.”

“You didn’t say no either.”

You looked up at him, completely unfazed.

“Why would I? I had fun watching your eye twitch every time someone bowed.”

He exhaled through his nose. A humorless sound. A warning.

“You think this is a game?”

“No,” you said softly, letting your finger trail up the edge of his sleeve.

“I think it’s very serious. So serious that my bodyguard forgot himself long enough to kiss me in the middle of a thousand eyes.”

He finally touched you. One hand on your knee. The other lifting your chin just slightly with a thumb under your jaw.

“I haven’t forgotten a single second since.”

And then he kissed you again — slower this time. Less performance. More possession.

The kind of kiss that rewrote territory.

By the time he pulled away, your heart was thudding like a war drum, and your lips were parted just slightly — breath caught somewhere in your chest.

“You're mine," he said simply. "They can look. Ask. Wonder. But they won’t touch you again.”

“So dramatic,” you murmured, though your voice had gone husky.

“You don’t like that?”

“I never said I didn’t.”

He sat back again, but this time beside you. Not across. His arm settled along the top of the seat, fingers brushing your shoulder, his thigh pressed against yours — warm and solid and unmoving.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

But it was a silence thick with everything unspoken — with the electricity of a storm building behind calm skies.

You didn’t mind it.

And from the soft smirk that curved Romeo’s lips as he watched you out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t either.

[ananiel]

Could I request Raphael falling deeply in love with a seamstress who designs clothes for everyone regardless of class?

They met when she's delivering an absolutely stunning suit to his father, Dali.

Hello hello, this is a very sweet and funny idea for me, and i hope i did it justice and that You will enjoy it!

If You have any more ideas please let me know! I will gladly write them

🪺

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The sewing room smelled of pressed linen, faint lavender, and warmed thread—home to her discipline, her patience, and her perfection.

You had worked without rest, your fingers steady and eyes keen, adjusting a final golden cuff on the collar of the ceremonial suit meant for Dali Delico himself. The silhouette was precise, clean and elegant, made to flow with his signature flair without sacrificing authority. The deep blue velvet drank the light around it, and the custom embroidery along the collar shimmered subtly with each turn under the lamplight.

Your team had begged you to let the couriers deliver it. After all, it wasn’t your job to make deliveries.

But you wanted to see it handed over. You had poured your name into the threading, and if the patriarch of the Delico family was going to wear it, you wanted to see his eyes when he did.

So you went.

The Delico estate was palatial. Cold halls swept wide and high, but you walked them with your head high, suit bag held in one gloved hand. The butler ushered you wordlessly into a sitting room where the man himself was already waiting.

Dali Delico turned from the fireplace, his usual coat draped over his shoulders, wine in hand.

“Ah, finally,” he smiled, voice casual as if greeting an old friend. “Is that the masterpiece?”

You held it up, bowing politely. “I hope it meets your expectations, Lord Delico.”

He walked forward, undoing the clasp and examining the velvet with practiced eyes. A low whistle left him. “You do good work. No wonder everyone’s been whispering about the Lorca seamstress.” A beat. “You're Henrique's little terror, aren't you?”

You blinked, startled that he knew your father. “Yes, sir.”

“Ha! I knew it. You stitched that arrogance right into the hem.” He threw a look toward the hallway. “Raphael!”

Footsteps approached—composed, deliberate, unhurried.

Raphael Delico entered the room with his usual frigid elegance. Tall. Regal. His long coat swayed with each step, his gaze sharper than steel, uninterested in all things save the important. He gave his father a curt nod, but his attention locked briefly—then tightly—on you.

His breath caught.

He did not expect you.

“Raphael,” Dali grinned, clapping a hand on your shoulder, before pulling you forward and wrapping an arm around you like some doting uncle would a favorite niece. “This is the one who designed your old man’s suit. Smart fingers, sharper tongue. Don’t let the pretty face fool you.”

Raphael stood still, staring, blinking once—twice. The controlled mask on his face rippled as if struck. You felt the faintest tension in his jaw, as if he'd meant to say something… anything.

But he said nothing.

His mouth parted slightly. A breath, half-formed words

And then, his brows furrowed just enough to be human.

“…I see,” he finally said, the syllables quieter than intended.

It wasn’t much. But for someone like Raphael, it was a fracture in the marble. A split in the cold.

Dali narrowed his eyes, sensing it. Smirking. “What? Cat got your tongue, boy?”

Raphael turned his face slightly, gaze narrowed, but not in annoyance—not quite. “You could have warned me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dali chuckled.

You, meanwhile, remained still, your heart skipping faster than you liked. You hadn’t expected Lord Raphael Delico to even look your way, much less stare. The coldness of his posture didn’t match the heat in his gaze.

He looked at you like something unexpected had just walked into the only predictable part of his world.

You cleared your throat. “If that’s all, I’ll take my leave, my Lords.”

But before you could go, Raphael finally spoke again.

“Wait.”

You stopped.

He stepped forward, slowly. Still composed, but more careful now. His eyes dropped to your gloved fingers, then back to your face.

“…You’ll be working on future designs for my father?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to consider working on one for me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you wore anything that wasn’t tailored by the royal court's designers.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Dali, behind him, smirked like the devil.

Raphael glanced back at him. Then, lower—his voice dropped an octave, more to himself than anyone else.

“…I like the way you thread your seams.”

You said nothing, but smiled.

He’d been composed for most of his life. Until you walked in with velvet and quiet poise. And now, he wasn’t sure how to put himself back together.

.

.

.

The Lorca boutique was nestled in a cobblestone corner of the old quarter, surrounded by cafes and soft-voiced florists whose open windows perfumed the streets. The sign above the shop read “Maison Lorca”, elegant but unpretentious, much like the woman who ran it.

Raphael Delico stood at its threshold in the morning mist, gloved hands folded behind his back, a deep navy coat falling neatly around him. He looked out of place—too polished, too quiet—but his eyes were sharp as ever, scanning through the glass windows at the people within.

Children were having their hems adjusted. A retired soldier was being fitted for a vest. A noble’s daughter giggled behind a curtain, and a farmer in patched boots waited patiently with a request for a festival sash.

And you—there you were.

No embroidery on your sleeves today. No velvet or gemstones. Just a simple pin-cushion bracelet, your hair tied back as you bent over the shoulder of a client, nodding gently as he explained the repairs needed.

You smiled the same way to everyone. Genuinely. Equally.

It stirred something deep in Raphael's chest.

When he finally stepped inside, the shop bell chimed once, soft and silvery. Heads turned. His presence was like a shift in the weather.

You straightened slowly from the counter, surprised. “Lord Delico.”

His voice, low and even, replied: “Raphael is fine.”

That drew looks. Even from the noble daughter.

You walked toward him, hands folded in front of your apron. “I wasn’t expecting you to come in person.”

“I wanted to see the work,” he said, casting his gaze across the boutique. “And the one who makes it.”

You tried to hide your smile. “Well, as you can see… we serve anyone who has a need.”

He nodded. “I see that now.”

You guided him toward a quieter corner, one where the light from the tall front windows poured in gold. A small desk stood nearby, covered in sketchbooks, thread wheels, and swatches of material. It smelled faintly of cedar and ink.

“So,” you said, handing him a sheet of rough paper and a pencil. “Let’s talk about what you want.”

Raphael stared at the paper as if it were a riddle in an unfamiliar language.

“…I’m not sure,” he admitted, glancing away.

You tilted your head. “Not sure about what? The style?”

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze lingered on the smudged edge of a charcoal sketch nearby—an unfinished coat for a baker’s son.

You stepped a bit closer, your voice softening. “Or not sure about what suits you?”

“…No,” he said slowly. “I’ve always known what suits me. But I’ve never thought about what expresses me.”

His voice surprised you—low, thoughtful, and edged with something almost vulnerable.

You smiled again, this time smaller, gentler. “Then let’s start there.”

He turned to look at you fully now, and for a rare moment, Raphael Delico looked disarmed. Not cold. Not distant. Simply—quiet. Curious.

“Do you always take so much care with every client?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “Everyone has a story. I just help them wear it.”

He stared at you.

And for the first time, Raphael realized that maybe… he wanted someone to read his story too.

Even the parts he kept pressed under layers of silence and silk.

.

.

.

It started innocently enough.

He returned for the first fitting precisely three days after his visit, punctual to the minute. You were ready, of course. But he arrived an hour earlier than expected.

"I thought I'd observe the process," he said, not quite meeting your gaze.

You raised a brow. “Observe?”

“Yes. I have... time.”

So, you let him stay. And when he noticed a spool rolling toward the back of the room, he fetched it. When a student assistant dropped a swatch book, he picked it up. He handed you scissors before you asked. And by the time you were smoothing fabric against his shoulder, chalking in the lines of the suit, he had already folded three lengths of ribbon and passed you the right buttons without being told.

The second time, he arrived even earlier.

This time, you caught him by the window, carefully sorting silk threads by color—completely stiff, like someone who’d studied how humans behave and was trying his best.

“Are you… helping?” you asked gently, holding back a laugh.

“I was under the impression your apprentice was behind schedule. I’m merely assisting. Efficiently.”

You smiled. “You’re helping like a deer caught in candlelight.”

His hands paused over the thread basket. “...Deer are known for grace.”

“But not for sewing,” you teased, touching his hand lightly as you passed by. “Still, thank you.”

That earned you a glance. He didn’t smile, but something in his shoulders loosened. Just slightly.

By the fifth visit—long after the suit was practically done—Raphael wasn’t pretending anymore.

He arrived early, every time.

He sat on the bench near the back room, long legs crossed neatly, cloak draped behind him like a royal shadow. He handed out pins and thread, passed you a measuring tape before you asked, nodded quietly to regulars, and even offered an opinion or two.

(“That shade of blue doesn’t suit her complexion.”)

(“The collar needs a sharper line—it’s swallowing his shoulders.”)

And though his voice never lost that cool poise, you noticed how he always looked toward you when he spoke. Always.

One rainy morning, as thunder rumbled faintly outside, he was watching you fit a shawl onto an elderly merchant’s shoulders when you heard him murmur, as if to himself:

“You make it look effortless.”

You turned. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, eyes flicking away. “I was… thinking aloud.”

You narrowed your eyes, stepping closer once the client had left. “You were admiring my work.”

“…I was observing.”

“Observing with admiration?”

He blinked. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned. “You’re staying late again, aren’t you?”

Raphael looked toward the window, where evening had begun to cast golden shadows across the floor.

“…I’ll help clean.”

And he did. Folding fabric. Winding ribbons. Organizing fasteners with the same precision he used to wield a sword.

Not because he needed to.

But because being here felt like shedding a heavy cloak—one he hadn’t even realized he wore every day.

And when you brought him tea, pressing the cup into his hands, he looked down at you like he wasn’t sure how someone could feel so warm… even to a vampire.

He didn’t say it yet.

But he was falling.

Stitch by stitch.

.

.

.

It started with Raphael pacing.

The halls of the Delico estate echoed with the crisp click of his polished shoes as he walked a neat rectangle for the seventh time. He adjusted his gloves. Smoothed back his hair. Took a breath.

Then turned around and paced again.

Finally—finally—he stopped in front of Dali’s study, hand hovering at the door.

He knocked once.

The door swung open before the second knock landed, revealing Dali Delico lounging across his chaise with an orange between his teeth and a gleam in his eye that could only mean trouble.

“Raphael,” Dali said cheerfully, “I was wondering when you’d come crawling in to ask for advice.”

“I am not crawling,” Raphael snapped, walking in with the air of a man pretending he had not lost sleep over this.

Dali tilted his head. “Oh? Then do tell me why you’ve been haunting the corridors like a romantic ghost.”

Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I…” He cleared his throat, voice dangerously low. “I need to impress a woman.”

Dali nearly dropped the orange.

“Oh-ho! My son seeks romantic counsel? Should I notify the family historian?!”

“Father—"

“She must be spectacular.” Dali leaned forward. “Is she tall? Fierce? Is she the type who'd threaten to stab you if you drink from her cup of blood?”

“She’s a seamstress,” Raphael muttered. “She makes clothes for nobles, commoners, children, anyone. And she’s…” His voice dropped further. “...She’s extraordinary.”

Dali smirked, fully basking in the moment. “Alright. You want the Delico way? You go big. Flowers. Speeches. Charm. Sweep her off her feet.”

“That sounds—”

“—like something you’ll do perfectly, I’m sure.”

The next day, your boutique was bustling. A few customers loitered near the front, discussing materials. The small crowd barely noticed the quiet ring of the doorbell—until it was overshadowed by the arrival of Raphael Delico, dragging behind him what could only be described as a flower hydra.

A bouquet. The size of a carriage wheel.

You blinked from behind your counter. So did everyone else.

He stood in front of you, jaw tight, eyes locked onto a spot slightly to the left of your face.

“I,” he began stiffly, “have come bearing—gestures of admiration.”

Someone near the silk bolts snorted.

You arched an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Gestures?”

“Yes. My father said flowers are symbolic. So I brought you some. Many. Possibly… all of them.”

You reached up to accept the bouquet, hiding a smile as it nearly knocked over a mannequin.

“Raphael, are you—”

“And I was told to emphasize the honor of the Delico name,” he continued—louder now, too far gone to stop—“and how any association with a member of our house should be considered a privilege by all standards of noble etiquette.”

“Right…” you said slowly.

“But,” he blurted, face turning an alarming shade of crimson, “I don't care about any of that. Because you’re—you’re brilliant, and you treat everyone with the same kindness and care and patience, even when they’re difficult or stupid or noble. Which is also stupid. Not you. Nobles.”

You blinked.

Raphael looked like he wanted to disintegrate.

“I’ve never met someone who works with such joy,” he continued in a panicked rush, “or who listens so closely to what others need, and I—” His voice cracked. “I’d spend every day here, honestly. Just watching you work. I wouldn’t mind. You wouldn’t even have to talk to me. I could hand you needles.”

The room was dead silent.

“…You’re amazing,” he added, barely audible.

You smiled, finally walking forward and gently placing your hand on his.

“Raphael.”

“Yes?”

“You’re rambling.”

“I am.” He nodded. “This is going terribly. I wanted to ask for a dinner and i-you're amazing, really,i messed IT up”

“No,” you said, stepping close. “It’s going just fine.”

And before his brain could catch up, you pressed a kiss to his cheek and whispered, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

His spine straightened. His ears turned scarlet.

One of the seamstress apprentices squealed quietly behind a bolt of velvet.

He looked at you, dazed. “Really?”

“Really.”

“…Can I still bring flowers?”

“Please bring fewer.”

Extra:

Raphael walked into the Delico estate with the calm composure of a man who had just successfully navigated a war zone — and won.

There was a faint smudge of color on his pale cheek, barely visible, but undeniable: lipstick.

And it wasn’t from a kiss on the hand.

He stepped past the butlers and staff without a word, chin slightly lifted, gloves tucked neatly under one arm. His stride was lighter than usual — not a dramatic change, just a touch of satisfaction in the way his boots clicked on the floor, as if the world finally made sense for once.

Dali looked up from a settee near the window, raising an eyebrow as Raphael passed.

“Is that…” He squinted. “Lipstick?”

A pause. “My son—has a lipstick stain?”

Raphael didn’t break stride. “I nailed it.”

“You nailed it?” Dali repeated, leaping to his feet like a cat ready to pounce. “You? Cold, stiff, emotionally allergic Raphael ‘I’d Rather Read Than Flirt’ Delico?”

Raphael turned, and to Dali’s shock, offered a smug little smile. Not a wide grin, but a subtle, self-satisfied curl of the lips. The kind that said: Yes, Father. I won. Bow before me.

“She said yes. We’re having dinner again tomorrow,” he said calmly. “Also, she kissed me.”

Dali beamed, proud enough to burst. “She kissed you? My boy!”

Then, in true Delico fashion, Dali grabbed him by the shoulders and inspected the lipstick like it was a royal medal.

“We need to step it up. Next time, flowers. Not the kind you could knock over a cow with, though. I taught you subtlety. Somewhat. What’s her style? Does she like wildflowers or more symbolic ones? We could do roses, but those scream cliché—unless they're black. Or maybe peonies. Or orchids—orchids are seductive and mysterious, like your mother—”

Raphael blinked. “Why do you know so much about flower symbolism?”

“I've loved once, too, you know.” Dali wagged a finger. “Your mother once told me she'd marry me if I stopped delivering roses in the shape of wolves. I did not stop. We married anyway.”

“…I’ll pretend that was heartwarming.”

Dali flopped back into the couch and waved dramatically. “Now, go on, Romeo. Tell me everything. What did you say? How did she look at you? How did you hold your face when she kissed your cheek?”

Raphael finally rolled his eyes, just barely, as he removed his gloves with more flourish than usual.

“I panicked, rambled like an idiot, and she still said yes.”

Dali let out a proud sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes like he was overwhelmed with emotion.

“My son. You’re finally deliriously stupid for someone. I’m so proud.”

Raphael stared at him. “…Thank you?”

“Now,” Dali said, sitting up again like a strategist before battle, “what are we sending tomorrow? Should we go full floral arrangement or something subtle in her favorite color? What are her favorite colors? Do we need espionage? Should I interrogate someone?”

“Father—”

“Do we still own that artist who makes flower-shaped sweets? What if we send those instead? It’s like saying ‘I admire you’ and ‘eat something sweet while thinking of me.’ Brilliant!”

Raphael just sat down, uncharacteristically indulgent, watching his father ramble like a manic wedding planner.

He touched his cheek, right where your lipstick had kissed his skin, and for a moment, the smug composure flickered — replaced by something softer, something real.

He was still figuring out what he wanted to say, still unsure how to put into words what it meant to meet someone like you. But he’d get there.

And until then… he supposed flower-planning with his overenthusiastic father wasn’t the worst way to spend the evening.

[ananiel]

A very birthday special lies of p fic, for my dear 18 year old cat Rosey! She's the mother of my other crancky boy, lucky! Please enjoy this story, and i am still waiting on a bit of feedback for the Romeo story!

Also this story is based on a real life event!

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The new apartment smelled like dust and freshly painted walls. Carlo dropped his bag with a dull thud against the corner of the living room and straightened like a soldier finishing parade rest.

You stood across from him, one brow arched.

“Rules,” he said curtly, already ticking things off on his fingers.

“Separate bedrooms. Don’t touch my files. Don’t move my things. Don’t talk to me unless necessary.”

You opened your mouth.

“And don’t get comfortable. This is just temporary.”

He turned toward the hallway, the sound of his boots dragging into silence — just as a weak, ancient meow echoed from the open front door.

He paused. You turned around, calm, unfazed, and stepped back into the hallway with a small, warm hum under your breath.

When you reappeared, you were carrying a box.

And in it — or more accurately, enthroned inside a nest of crumpled blankets — sat what Carlo could only describe as a creature in slow-motion decay.

A black and orange cat, mostly fur, bones, and tired spirit, blinked sluggishly in your arms. Her head wobbled faintly when she looked around — not with alarm, but with the lazy confusion of someone who hadn’t processed a new location in over a decade.

One milky eye. A permanently downturned mouth. Ears folded slightly like a forgotten dumpling. And her tail? A limp, fluffy noodle curled over your wrist like it was unsure whether it still had muscles.

Carlo stared.

“...What is that?”

You looked down fondly. The cat let out another croaky mrrp, barely audible. You adjusted the blanket around her like she was made of glass and shamefully expensive silk.

“Her name is Rosey.”

“Rosey looks like she’s made of taxidermy and arthritis.”

“She’s eighteen. Be respectful.”

“I’ve seen corpses move more fluidly.”

You smiled, slow and sharp.

“She’s my baby.”

Rosey blinked again. Her head did that faint waver as her eyes adjusted, then landed directly — unshakably — on Carlo.

And she stared.

Not menacingly. Not magically. Just… slowly. With the gaze of a retired librarian judging your choice in font sizes. It lasted for five solid seconds. Unblinking. A judgemental ooze of ancient cat consciousness.

Then she made a small snort through her nose and closed both eyes.

Carlo actually shifted on his feet.

“She— Did she just fall asleep mid-glare?”

“She’s delicate.”

“She’s haunting.”

“She’s perfect.”

That night, he heard you through the too-thin apartment walls.

You weren’t loud, but your voice came gentle and mumbled in a rhythm meant only for the half-alive creature curled in your arms. You were humming. Talking about windows and sunbeams and tuna water. How you’d set up her bed near yours. How you’d found her old crinkle mouse.

He stared at the ceiling.

Later, when he passed your doorway, he caught a glimpse: you tucked under a light blanket, one arm crooked protectively over Rosey, who was curled into your side like a plush half-deflated pumpkin, legs out, one ear twitching.

He didn’t believe in soft things. Or comfort. Or warmth.

But he didn’t sleep well that night.

Not because of you.

But because part of him kept wondering how a half-dust cat managed to claim an entire queen-size bed like a kingdom.

Next morning, he poured coffee and turned around to see Rosey — wobbling slightly — sitting beside her food bowl.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

She sneezed once, coughed like she was swearing, and flopped back onto the rug like she’d completed a triathlon. Her tail slapped the floor exactly once.

“You’re... horrifying.”

She blinked.

You appeared moments later, robe half-tied, bedhead glorious, whispering something only Rosey could hear as you scooped her up like a newborn.

Carlo hated that she purred like a broken fan motor the second she was in your arms.

.

.

.

Carlo woke to silence — the kind that doesn’t feel peaceful, but suspicious. He blinked up at the ceiling, rolled out of bed, stretched once, and walked into the kitchen.

A note sat on the counter, written in your elegant script:

“Gone to the farmer’s market. Don’t wait for me. Might be gone a while.

Love, Your wife”

He scoffed, crumpled the note, and tossed it into the bin.

“Not like I was gonna wait.”

He made coffee. Ate toast. Enjoyed the rare stillness of the apartment.

Until he turned and saw her.

Rosey.

She was halfway out of the hallway, having clearly made the difficult pilgrimage from your room to the living room. Her body leaned forward like an old accordion, hips slow to follow. Her left ear twitched. Her right eye stayed shut.

And she was staring directly at him.

Carlo blinked.

“No.”

Rosey wobbled forward, step by determined step. Like a war general crossing a minefield.

“Don’t come over here. I don’t— I’m not your person.”

She walked past her own food bowl. Ignored her cushioned cat bed.

She had one destination. Him.

The blanket on the armchair next to the sofa was where she aimed. It took her four tries to hook her front claws on the fabric.

Carlo groaned.

“Fine.”

He crossed the room, muttering the whole time, and gently — so carefully — picked up what felt like a warm, vibrating bag of bones and air. Rosey went limp in his arms, like you’d flicked her power switch off.

He placed her on the blanket.

She nestled down instantly. One eye opened. Looked at him.

Judgmental. Grateful. Ancient.

He sat back on the couch and, for the next hour, tried to pretend her presence meant nothing.

Until she didn’t move.

Not for water.

Not for food.

Not even to reposition herself.

She was... still.

Too still.

“Hey.” He leaned over the armchair. “Hey.”

No response. Not even a twitch.

"That cat really sleeps good huh?" He told himself not really caring

Yeah, that's probably IT.

.

.

.

Carlo approached cautiously, like the floor might explode. He crouched beside the chair. Rosey’s face sagged into the blanket like someone had put a sock full of potatoes in a bonnet.

He snapped his fingers by her ear.

Nothing.

He clapped.

Still nothing.

He whispered: “Rosey?”

Still.

He did not know what pure fear was until that exact moment.

That was when the door swung open and Romeo’s voice rang out, bright and chipper:

“Carlo! How’s married lif—what is that.”

Carlo spun. Wild-eyed. Sweating.

“I think I killed the cat.”

Romeo stopped halfway into the room. His eyes locked onto the creature in the chair.

“That’s a cat?”

“That was a cat, Romeo. She’s not breathing.”

Romeo took one step closer and made a noise like he’d swallowed a bug.

“She looks like she was born in a fire and got burned by time.”

“I KNOW! But she was alive earlier!”

Romeo leaned in, squinting.

Rosey didn’t move.

Not an ear flick. Not a sigh. Nothing.

Romeo took one step back.

Then another.

Then whispered:

“She’s going to haunt us.”

“She’s not dead yet!”

“You said She was and If not She’s dead inside, Carlo. Look at her. That’s the face of something that’s seen the invention of the wheel and gave up on humanity right there.”

“I PICKED HER UP FOR THREE SECONDS.”

“Well clearly you broke her.”

“She was trying to climb the couch! She looked like she was collapsing like a flan in a cupboard! I just helped!”

Romeo walked in a circle, hyperventilating.

“She’s like a black and orange purgatory rat. Oh my god, oh my god.”

Carlo ran a hand through his hair.

“I can’t tell if she’s just sleeping... or if rigor mortis hasn’t kicked in yet.”

Romeo tried snapping. Then clapping. Then whistling.

Nothing.

They both leaned closer.

She did not twitch.

Romeo slowly whisperd “Should we poke her?”

“You poke her.”

“She’s YOUR wife’s demon plush.”

Carlo rubbed his temples.

“Okay. Okay. We don’t panic. Maybe she’s... in a deep nap.”

“She’s in a coma, Carlo.”

“Cats take deep naps.”

“Cats don’t take death simulations.”

They both crouched in front of her.

Rosey remained perfectly still. A squashed ancient loaf of fuzz and shadow. Her fur glinted like old ink, her limbs arranged delicately like she died reciting poetry.

Carlo groaned. "She’s going to think I hated her.”

Romeo blinked at him.

“You did hate her.”

“Yes, but not in the murderous way! In the ‘please don’t hiss at me from the bookshelf’ kind of way!”

Romeo pinched the bridge of his nose.

“She’s going to think you stressed her out so badly she passed.”

Carlo stared at the floor.

“...i didn't close the Windows. Maybe she was cold and I didn’t fix it.”

“YOU FROZE HER TO DEATH?!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!”

They both looked at her again.

Rosey’s head hung at a slight angle, giving the impression she was judging them even in death.

Romeo slowly backed up until his spine hit the door.

“She’s going to come home, see her like this, and then turn us both into toads.”

“I didn’t DO anything, Romeo!”

“You picked her up!”

“SO SHE COULD BE COMFY!”

“Maybe she wasn’t meant to be comfy, Carlo! She was built to suffer! To glare and hiss and waddle and survive on vinegar!”

Carlo dropped to the floor, head in hands.

“I’m going to jail. I killed her childhood companion.”

“She’s going to say you have no soul.”

“Maybe she’s right!”

“She’ll cry. That’ll be worse than being hexed.”

“Maybe I fake a robbery.”

“You think someone broke in, stole nothing, and just smothered the cat?!”

“IT’S MORE BELIEVABLE THAN A CUDDLE KILLING HER.”

They were mid-hysterics when they heard the key turn in the lock.

Both men froze.

Romeo whispered: “We’re dead.”

Carlo whispered back: “Act normal.”

Romeo blinked. “Define normal.”

“NOT STANDING NEXT TO THE CORPSE.”

They scattered like rats.

Rosey didn’t move.

The door creaked open, letting in warm afternoon light and the scent of fresh herbs, tomatoes, and the rain you’d walked through to get to the market.

“I’m back,” you called, kicking the door closed with your heel, arms full of bags.

There was a pause.

Too long of a pause.

Then a chorus of—

“Hello!”

“Welcome back!”

“You look amazing!”

“Did you get… uh… vegetables?”

Romeo's voice, and then Carlo’s—way too smooth. Like two bad actors in a school play. Both of them sat stiffly on the couch, suspiciously close to each other. Carlo stood quickly, rushing to take the bags from you.

“Let me—yeah, you’ve carried enough,” he said, smiling too much. Way too much.

He even kissed your cheek.

You blinked. “That’s… new.”

“You deserve affection,” he said. “You’re beautiful. Smart. Talented. Merciful. Generous. Not likely to overreact.”

You paused mid-step. “Are you okay?”

Romeo jumped in from the couch:

“He’s been wonderful. All day! Reflective. Empathetic. Definitely not a cat murderer.”

“ROMEO.”

You stopped cold. Eyes narrowing.

Your arms crossed slowly, and your eyes tracked them both as they practically boxed you out from the living room like a team of panicking thieves.

“Where’s Rosey?” you asked calmly.

They both flinched.

Romeo coughed.

“She’s… resting.”

“Resting?”

Carlo was already pushing you toward the kitchen. “Let me make you tea! You’ve been on your feet—don’t you want to rest? Not everyone should be upright all the time. Some beings deserve to lie down. Very still. Quietly.”

You stopped dead.

You squinted over Carlo’s shoulder.

There, in her armchair, swaddled in a throw blanket you hadn’t left her in, was your scrunchy, orange-and-black old lady. Still as a statue. No rise or fall of breath. No blink. Not even a flick of a tired tail.

You turned back to them slowly.

“How long has she been like that?”

“...A few hours.” Carlo murmured

“Tops. Like—one. Hour. Maybe." Romeo added

“We fed her.”

“I warmed the food.”

“He said ‘m’lady’ when he gave it to her. I was there, i swear”

Carlo, turned to Romeo eyes wide

“Why are you sabotaging me?!”

“Because I’ve seen how you cry, and I don’t want to be alone when it happens!”

You walked past them.

You leaned over Rosey, brushed your fingers across her spine.

She didn’t stir.

Carlo audibly gulped behind you.

“You didn’t sit on her, did you?”

“NO?! I placed her down gently!”

Romeo added, whispering: “It was more like lowering a relic onto velvet.”

You turned to them slowly.

“Did you try to wake her?”

“We... clapped. A lot.”

“I think she flinched once. Or maybe her bones shifted.”

Carlo took a step forward.

“Look, I genuinely didn’t mean to—she looked tired, I thought she’d be more comfortable in the chair, and now she’s just—like this! And I like her! I mean—not in a I-want-her-to-live-on-forever way—”

“He tried CPR.”

“I DID NOT.”

You exhaled, dropped to one knee beside her, and very gently placed your hand on her back.

Silence.

More silence.

Then… the faintest squeaky wheeze escaped her nose.

Carlo dropped onto the sofa like a man who’d seen death.

Romeo fell to his knees.

“She’s ALIVE.”

You stood, turned slowly, and said:

“...You two tried to cover up Rosey’s nap with a full psychological operation.”

“We panicked.”

“You should’ve seen her, she looked like a painting of an obituary.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And how long were you planning to keep this from me?”

Carlo hesitated.

Then he stepped forward and kissed you again. A long one.

You pulled back, staring at him.

He blinked innocently. “It’s called a distraction.”

Romeo collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “This cat is going to be the death of all of us.”

From the chair, Rosey let out another small wheeze-sigh, repositioned by approximately 3 millimeters, and returned to her thousand-year-old coma with the serenity of an immortal being.

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Based on a real event, this is my Rosey and She did in fact freak many people with her naps!