Hello, how are you doing? Can I please request an hurt/comfort angelico x reader in which a reader that is usually stoic and cold to people in public suddenly cries after an event happens in which they thought they would lose him? As in, reader just walks up to him and starts sobbing in the middle of a hallway. It would be interesting to see his reaction to an action so out of character, considering this reader usually dislikes showing affection unless in private. Perhaps after this event, the reader could start suddenly showing affection and clinginess towards him openly for the first time. The bafflement of other characters (pureblood club, teachers, etc) could also be added.
Lose” may refer to either a grievous injury or simply a possible breakup, the choice is yours.
Hello hello, i am feeling good, thank You for asking, how are You feeling sweet thing?
Your idea is amazing and i hope i did it justice, and that You like it!
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No one ever saw you feel.
Not the students who whispered in awe and fear as you passed with your unflinching gaze. Not the teachers who noted your silence and precision in everything you did. Not even the Pureblood Club, who had long theorized you might be a statue someone enchanted with sentience.
You were quiet. Cold. Impossibly composed.
Except with Angelico Fra.
Even then, it was in shadows. Private corners. Hidden glances. A brush of fingers when no one was watching, a murmur against his throat when night wrapped you both in secrecy. He understood the boundaries, never pushed. He liked the way you broke apart just for him.
Which is why the sight of you running—truly running—through the marble halls of the Clan Mansion with eyes wide and frantic, nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.
He had barely stepped past the medical wing’s threshold. A shallow wound from a cursed blade. Nothing fatal. Inconvenient at worst. But word had traveled fast, and somehow, you’d believed the worst.
You spotted him and stopped.
Then, with that same terrifying composure, you walked. Slow, measured steps. But your hands trembled.
“Hey—” Angelico’s voice was rough with exhaustion and surprise.
And then you collapsed into him.
There was no grace in it—just desperation, your arms wrapping around his torso so tightly it hurt. Your face buried in his chest. And then, without warning, your cold, perfect mask shattered into raw sobs.
It silenced the corridor.
Hoyle, Murrow, even Fred had been mid-conversation nearby. Every Pureblood Club member froze. Teachers paused. One student dropped their book.
Angelico stiffened for only a breath.
Then his arms folded around you immediately, protectively, like instinct. His hand came to the back of your head, and his voice softened in a way no one had heard before.
“I’m here,” he murmured. “Hey—shhh, I’m okay.”
You didn’t answer. You just held him.
Pressed into him like you could anchor your soul there. You trembled, breath hitching, and he realized that nothing about this moment aligned with the you he thought he knew—and yet, somehow, it felt exactly right.
It was as if your heart had decided the rules no longer mattered.
When your sobs quieted into quiet tears against his shirt, Angelico pulled you aside, into a darker alcove, shielding you from the stares. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away what he could.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I thought—when they said you’d gone down—”
“I didn’t,” he promised. “I wouldn’t. I told you. I’m too annoying to die.”
That made you let out a wet, broken laugh against him, and he kissed the crown of your head, still holding you like you were something sacred.
But the aftermath was almost stranger.
Because from that day forward… you changed.
Gone were the walls, at least around him. You started to link your arm with his in hallways. Let your fingers rest against his shoulder in meetings. Sat beside him without the usual three inches of calculated space. You even—gasp—laughed in public when he teased you.
And every time someone stared, baffled, you simply looked back, unbothered, as if daring them to say something.
The Pureblood Club had theories. Many.
“Has she been possessed?” Murrow whispered.
“No,” Hoyle said grimly. “Worse. She’s in love.”
Angelico, of course, basked in it.
He kept his arm around your shoulders at all times now. Called you “my cold little tempest” with a pleased purr when you rolled your eyes and leaned into him anyway.
And sometimes, when you passed by the hall where it had happened, your grip on his hand would tighten just a little.
And he would squeeze back.
Because he remembered that moment too.
Not the shock, not the tears—but the way you had broken, completely, utterly, for him.
And he would spend forever proving to you that he was worth every fractured piece.
The quiet had settled in long ago. The kind of hush that only comes when the world is asleep, or when two people choose stillness over words.
You lay against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath his skin. His arm was curled around you, fingertips tracing absent shapes along your spine. You could feel it—his thoughts, churning quietly, always buried deep behind that smirk and polished charm.
But tonight, there was no teasing in his voice. No performance.
“You know…” he murmured, voice low and oddly vulnerable, “I always thought… if someone ever saw me like that—wounded, weak—it’d be my father. Or Raphael. Or maybe Hoyle, by accident.”
His fingers paused against your back.
“But it was you. You were the first.”
You didn’t move, but your breath caught.
“I didn’t think you’d cry for me,” he admitted. “I didn’t think… anyone would.”
You slowly lifted your head, propping yourself on his chest. His green eyes didn’t meet yours right away, as if afraid of how soft he’d become under your touch.
“I grew up learning how to wear masks,” he went on, quieter now. “Not just for my father. For the world. For everyone. You love me, you love the mask. That’s how it usually goes.”
Your hands cupped his face gently, coaxing him to look at you. When he finally did, you leaned in, resting your forehead against his.
“I don’t love your mask,” you whispered. “I love you. The one underneath. The one who talks too much when he’s tired, who pretends to be annoyed when I hold him too long, but secretly melts into it.”
A breath of a laugh escaped him.
“You're not supposed to figure that out.”
“And you’re not supposed to carry everything alone.”
He closed his eyes, forehead still pressed to yours, like the weight of your words had cracked something inside him.
“I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “Being cared for.”
“Then I’ll show you,” you promised softly. “Every day. No matter who’s watching. I don’t care if the world stares, Angelico. I’m not going to hide how much I love you.”
There it was again—silence.
But not the hollow kind. This was a fullness. A promise. A shared breath between hearts no longer hiding.
He pulled you into him again, tighter than before. His voice brushed against your ear, tender and just a little raw.
“Then I guess I’ll have to get used to it,” he murmured. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not after that.”
And that night, beneath flickering candlelight and silent stars outside the window, Angelico Fra—the pureblood noble, the golden heir with sharp eyes and sharper wit—let himself be vulnerable in the arms of the one person he could finally trust with his truth.
Angelico stood like a statue beside his father, arms behind his back, the perfect portrait of nobility. His posture was rigid, jaw set, the slight downturn of his lips the only visible crack in his polished, carefully constructed mask.
Gerhard Fra, seated beside him, had been droning in that calm, low tone of his about Clan politics, minor border disputes, and noble expectations. Angelico nodded at the right moments, gave the expected “Yes, Father,” and hadn’t blinked once in ten minutes.
The hall was quiet — too quiet — and the sound of your heels echoed, soft and deliberate. You wore something new, a dress tailored for both grace and danger. It didn't neceserly clung in all the right places, It was Simply You, Something usual, that looked beautiful, because You were wearing It.
Angelico’s breath hitched. Barely noticeable.
He didn't even try to recover. Not when his father subtly glared at him
The perfect son, the heir, the gilded vampire prince turned to putty before your very eyes. His shoulders lowered, tension melting. That practiced indifference in his expression shattered like glass.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he breathed, almost reverently.
Then Angelico crossed the room in three long strides, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you in flush against him. He buried his face against your neck, his voice lowering to a velvet murmur.
“Do you have any idea what that dress is doing to me, angel mio? I’m about to make a scene that will put shame to Clan diplomacy—”
You laughed softly, hand resting on his chest. “And what would your father say?”
“I don’t care,” he said, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “He can close his eyes.”
Gerhard Fra, still seated at the table, blinked again, slowly.
“...I see now why you’ve been useless in meetings lately.”
Angelico didn’t even look up. “Busy,” he said into your shoulder, trailing kisses up your neck.
“Clearly,” Gerhard muttered, rubbing his temples.
“Distracted,” Angelico added smugly, kissing your cheek now, hands absolutely not where they should be in a formal hall.
You smiled sweetly at Gerhard. “Sorry, Lord Fra.”
Gerhard gave a long-suffering sigh, stood up, and left without another word, muttering under his breath:
“I trained a strategist, not a slave to silk and perfume…”
Angelico barely noticed. You were in his arms, and the rest of the world could burn.
