This is just an idea but have you ever considered a soft angelico fic with a touchstarved reader?
Three stories in a day people i surprised myself dare i Say, but to actually answear Your question, yes i did, and i have Been intending to make one but wasn't Exactly sure in which au IT would fit Best and i was thinking...
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I like danger, i like suspance, and also, i write for myself as much as i write for others and as my blog is not new to crossovers, i had decided to do this, a lies of p and True of vamp crossover, specifically with a p, reader that's learning about emotions and touches and loves them
I hope You enjoy and that You have a good day!
No warnings this fluffy!
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The bed wasn’t small—but it sure felt like it lately.
Ever since she started curling up beside him, little by little, like she was sneaking into his shadow and then decided to stay. The mechanical weight of her legion arm had once made him roll his eyes. The way she always pressed just a little too close, clutched just a bit too tight. The way she hovered, like she needed permission to breathe his air.
Angelico huffed as her fingers—delicate, warm, trembling slightly—crept over the fabric of his shirt and splayed across his chest.
“You're like a needy cat,” he muttered under his breath. “Always in my lap or hanging off me like I’m your goddamn favorite perch.”
She didn’t respond. She never really did. Not with words.
Instead, her body spoke for her. Tension slowly leaving her limbs. The tight grip she had on her own hands loosening as she finally gave in to sleep, her head pressed just beneath his jaw.
He should’ve pushed her off. He should’ve reminded her that he was a Fra. He was supposed to maintain boundaries—dignity—distance. But he didn’t. He never really did.
His hand found the back of her head, soft strands of hair slipping between his fingers. He rubbed slow circles there, tracing the base of her skull, down to where the curve of her neck met her collar. Her breath hitched, then evened out again. That small whimper she gave when his hand returned to her hair was like a damn arrow to his chest.
“Touch-starved puppet,” he whispered, voice almost fond. Almost. “You’re lucky I like you.”
She made a soft sound—barely there. Something like a sigh and a hum mixed together, and her arm curled tighter around his waist.
Angelico exhaled, lips brushing the crown of her head. His other arm slipped around her without thought now. Always had to be touching her. Her waist. Her hand. A knuckle down her spine. He told himself it was to calm her down. But if she ever stopped leaning into him like that—so easily, so desperately—he wasn’t sure he’d sleep right again.
She whimpered again in her sleep, lashes fluttering. He stilled her with a hand smoothing down her back, whispering nonsense under his breath until she calmed.
“Shh… I’ve got you. I’m here.”
And he always would be.
Even if he pretended to grumble about the way she stole the covers, or how she made his shirts smell like her oil-sweetened skin, Angelico was the one who kept his arm around her all night. Who kissed her forehead when she twitched in her sleep. Who needed her pressed to his chest like he’d fall apart without it.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time, lips curved in something quiet and private.
She shifted again in her sleep, nuzzling into his neck. One of her legs tangled with his.
His heart did a stupid thing.
“…Just stay here,” he whispered. “You always want to cling to something. Fine. Let it be me.”
And with that, he let himself drift too, curled around her like a shield and a home all at once.
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Sunlight filtered through the high windows of his room, glancing off the pale stone walls and softening the sharp silhouettes of antique furniture. It was early, but Angelico was already awake.
Or, more accurately—he hadn’t really slept. Not deeply. Not when she was there, curled up on his chest like he was something safe. Like he wasn’t who he was. Like he hadn’t snapped at her yesterday for bumping her cold mechanical fingers against his wrist one too many times.
Now, her fingers were tangled in his shirt like a vice.
He stared at the ceiling with an expression that could only be described as deeply inconvenienced.
And yet… he hadn’t moved. Not once.
She shifted in her sleep, nose brushing against the hollow of his throat, soft breath warm on his skin. Her lashes fluttered, and she whimpered quietly, pulling herself impossibly closer.
He groaned. Not out of irritation. Something else. A sound like he was being strangled by feelings, not limbs.
“I swear, you cling like I’m your last wire,” he muttered, his voice rough from disuse.
No answer. Just another sleepy sigh. He glanced down.
Her face was slack with sleep, cheek pressed flat to his chest, one leg draped over his hip. She was a mess of limbs and warmth, even the mechanical arm curled protectively near his ribs. He hated how endearing it looked. Hated how his heart did a thing when her hand shifted and brushed the skin of his waist under the hem of his sleep shirt.
“Touch-starved menace,” he whispered.
Still no response. But he didn’t move. He even—absently—ran a slow hand down her back, then circled it to press flat between her shoulder blades, just to feel her breathing. His other hand moved up to card through her hair, soft and cool under his fingers.
And then—just because she was here and no one could see him—he whispered, “I like it when you hold on.”
She stirred slightly, a faint hum in her throat, as though his voice lulled her deeper into sleep. She clutched his shirt tighter.
“Of course you do,” he muttered again, though this time, it was more amused than annoyed.
Minutes passed.
She finally blinked up at him, still sleepy. Her lips parted, and a soft, breathy noise escaped—like she might try to say something.
He froze.
But all she did was bury her face back into his chest, nuzzling deeper. Clinging. Holding.
His mouth twitched.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured into her hair, voice lower now. "And if you ever tell anyone I said this, I’ll set the whole clan on fire, but... you're staying right here, understood?"
He pressed a long, slow kiss to her hairline.
“And don’t you dare let go.”
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Breakfast at the clan was usually quiet. Refined. Expensive silverware clinking against porcelain, hushed voices, unread newspapers folded crisply at the edge of long tables.
Today, it was dead silent.
Because Angelico Fra, heir of House Fra, perfectly-pressed collar slightly rumpled and hair clearly touched—was sitting at the head of the table. With her in his lap.
Not beside him. Not across from him. In his lap. Like a lap dog. Like furniture. Like his.
And worse?
He was feeding her.
Fork to lips. Quiet chewing. A hand on her thigh, casual as anything. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, still sleep-warm. She looked completely relaxed—her mechanical arm moving now and then to tuck against her stomach or adjust the edge of her shawl.
And he was acting like this was completely normal.
"Did she sleep there?" George whispered, eyes wide.
"On him," murmured Morrow, fanning himself. "She slept on him."
“Are we being punished for something?” growled one of the others.Fred.
Angelico, not bothering to look up, fed her another bite of soft egg, a kind of food the clan rarely sees since they only consume blood, and finally said, dryly, “Yes. You’re being punished with the image of perfection.”
“You’re not even ashamed!” Hoyle said, scandalized. “You’re bragging!”
She blinked at Angelico as he absently wiped the corner of her mouth with his thumb. Her eyes flicked toward the plate in her lap, then to the warm cup he kept nudging toward her hand.
She didn’t say a word. Just leaned more of her weight into his chest, like she’d done it a thousand times before.
Angelico’s smugness was radiating.
“She clings like static,” he told them. “What am I supposed to do, shove her off in her sleep?”
“Yes,” said Morrow “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do"
Angelico narrowed his eyes. “Touch her and I break your fingers.”
They all went silent again.
Then Hoyle leaned forward, his gaze narrowing.
“Wait. She’s been sleeping with you every night?”
Angelico raised one brow. “I don’t sleep with just anyone. Don’t insult her by thinking she’s a casual affair.”
"You're the one feeding her eggs like she’s a spoiled cat."
"She is spoiled," Angelico muttered, pressing a kiss to the side of her head when no one was looking. “Mine.”
The table went still.
She finally lifted her head, sleepy still, but alert enough to give them all a faint smile.
George stared.
“Oh gods,” he whispered. “She’s starting to look smug too.”