Lights everywhere. Music shaking through the venue walls. Crowds packed shoulder-to-shoulder waiting for the show to start.
And somehow, despite all the chaos—
August Stilza is calm.
Well.
Mostly calm.
Externally calm.
Internally he’s absolutely dying.
You can tell because he keeps fixing things that don’t need fixing.
For the fifth time in ten minutes, he adjusts part of your outfit backstage with intense concentration.
“August.”
“Hm?”
“You already fixed that.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You literally did.”
“…I’m fixing it spiritually now.”
You laugh softly.
And yeah.
That immediately ruins his focus.
August groans dramatically, forehead dropping briefly against your shoulder.
“You cannot keep doing cute things right before I send you onto a runway,” he complains. “I have a reputation as a tortured artistic genius.”
“You scream over missing scissors.”
“They were IMPORTANT.”
You grin.
His hands settle lightly at your waist afterward, grounding himself there for a second while the backstage chaos moves around both of you.
It still feels a little unreal sometimes.
Dating August.
Because somehow he’s exactly the same as before—loud, dramatic, emotionally unstable over fabric—
but softer now too.
More obvious.
He kisses your forehead absentmindedly while thinking. Pulls you closer without realizing it. Looks at you during conversations like he’s still shocked you said yes to him.
And honestly?
You think it’s adorable.
A stage manager calls out that your section is up next.
Immediately August stiffens.
You glance up at him. “Nervous?”
He scoffs automatically.
“No.”
Pause.
“…horrifically.”
You laugh.
He grabs your hands suddenly.
Not dramatic this time.
Just real.
“…hey,” he says quietly.
You blink.
August looks at you carefully, thumb brushing softly across your knuckles.
“When you walk out there…” he starts, then exhales slowly. “Don’t think about looking perfect.”
You tilt your head slightly.
His smile comes softer now.
Fond enough to hurt.
“…just be you,” he says. “That’s the whole reason the collection works.”
Your chest tightens.
Before you can answer, someone backstage yells:
“AUGUST! WE NEED YOU FRONTSIDE.”
He flinches dramatically. “THE VULTURES CALL FOR ME.”
You snort.
Then suddenly grab the front of his jacket and pull him down into one quick kiss before he can keep talking.
August completely freezes.
When you pull back, he looks genuinely stunned.
“…you can’t do that before a live event,” he whispers weakly.
“Why?”
“My soul just left my body.”
You laugh again.
And that’s the exact expression he ends up thinking about when the show starts.
The lights hit hard when you step onto the runway.
But weirdly?
You aren’t nervous anymore.
Because August was right.
The outfit doesn’t feel like a costume.
It feels like you.
Every movement makes the fabric flow perfectly. Silver accents catching the light exactly the way August planned. The crowd watches closely, cameras flashing everywhere—
but your eyes search for one person.
And immediately find him.
August stands near the front beside the other designers.
And unlike everyone else watching the show—
he’s only watching you.
Completely still.
Completely mesmerized.
Like he forgot there’s an audience at all.
One of the photographers nearby quietly says, “That designer is looking at them like they hung the moon.”
And honestly?
They aren’t wrong.
Because August looks halfway in love with his own creation—
until you smile at him from the runway.
Then his entire expression changes.
Softer.
Warmer.
Like he’s remembering the outfit was never actually the masterpiece.
You were.
After the show ends, backstage explodes into celebration.
People congratulating each other. Cameras everywhere. Designers crying dramatically.
August barrels straight toward you the second he’s free.
“YOU—”
He grabs your face instantly and kisses you before finishing the sentence.
Hard enough to make you laugh into it.
When he finally pulls back, he looks almost offended by how happy he is.
“That was insane,” he says breathlessly. “You looked insane. The crowd loved you. I love you. Everything’s on fire emotionally.”
You blink.
Silence.
August freezes too.
“…oh,” he says weakly.
You grin slowly. “Did you just accidentally say you love me?”
He covers his face immediately.
“THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE.”
You burst out laughing while he groans dramatically into his hands.
Then you pull him closer anyway.
And despite all his complaining—
August melts into you instantly.
(Thank you for reader my storyyyyyy! I don’t if should more like these let me know in the comments plz.)
People running around with makeup brushes. Designers having emotional breakdowns over hems. Someone in the corner actively crying over a broken zipper.
And August Stilza?
August is somehow the loudest person there.
“IF ANYONE TOUCHES THAT GARMENT WITHOUT MY PERMISSION I WILL BECOME A PROBLEM.”
A terrified assistant scurries away immediately.
You’re trying not to laugh while sitting in front of the mirror, already half-dressed in the outfit August made for you.
Honestly, it’s stunning.
The final version somehow feels even more you than before. Sharp in some places, soft in others, dramatic without swallowing you whole.
You catch August staring at you through the mirror again.
And again.
And again.
Finally you raise an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“No,” he says immediately.
You blink.
He gestures wildly toward you like he’s physically incapable of explaining himself normally.
“You keep standing there looking like that.”
“…looking like what?”
“Like the final scene in a movie where everyone in the audience starts crying.”
You laugh loudly.
August groans, dragging both hands down his face.
“SEE?? And then you do that too.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’M BEING HONEST.”
That shuts you up for half a second.
Because under all the chaos and yelling and constant theatrics…
August looks genuinely overwhelmed.
By you.
The room gets busier around you, people rushing past, but August barely notices anymore. He walks closer instead, stopping right in front of where you’re sitting.
“…stand up,” he says softly.
You do.
And suddenly he’s fixing tiny details that don’t even need fixing.
Adjusting the collar.
Smoothing fabric at your waist.
Straightening accessories that are already straight.
Just excuses to keep touching you.
You notice immediately.
Apparently so does he.
Because the second your eyes meet, August freezes.
“…oh no,” he whispers.
“What?”
“I think I’m having a character development moment.”
You burst out laughing.
He points at you dramatically.
“THIS IS SERIOUS.”
“You’re impossible.”
“No, listen,” he says quickly, suddenly nervous in a way you’ve never seen before. “I need to say something before I combust backstage like a tragic artist.”
Your smile softens.
August takes a breath.
Then another.
And for once—
he stops performing.
“…I like you,” he says quietly.
The words land hard.
Not because you didn’t suspect it.
But because August says it like it physically hurts to keep it inside anymore.
“I know I joke a lot and yell and act insane,” he continues, laughing nervously at himself now, “but every time I make something for you, or look at you wearing something I made, or even just…” he gestures helplessly. “…exist near you—”
He stops.
His cheeks are pink now.
Actually pink.
“…you make me feel creative in a way that scares me,” he admits softly.
Silence.
Then you smile.
Small at first.
Warm.
“…good,” you say quietly. “Because I like you too.”
August completely short-circuits.
“…what.”
You laugh softly. “I said I like—”
“I HEARD YOU.”
He’s staring at you now like you personally altered the structure of reality.
“…you’re serious?”
You nod.
And suddenly August grabs your face with both hands so fast you barely process it.
Not rough.
Just desperate.
“Can I kiss you,” he blurts immediately. “Because if I don’t I might actually explode before the runway starts.”
You laugh breathlessly. “That sounds medically concerning.”
“PLEASE.”
You don’t even get to answer properly before he kisses you.
And honestly?
It feels exactly like him.
A little messy from excitement. Warm hands holding your face carefully despite how overwhelmed he clearly is. The kind of kiss that starts too fast because he couldn’t wait another second.
Then softens immediately after.
Like he realizes you’re real halfway through it.
When you finally pull apart, August just stares at you.
Wide-eyed.
Silent.
Then—
“Oh my GOD,” he whispers dramatically. “I get why people write songs now.”
The closer the fashion show gets, the less August sleeps.
Which would be concerning if he wasn’t somehow becoming more powerful from it.
You walk into the workshop late one evening and immediately stop.
Fabric covers almost every surface now. Half-finished accessories hang from lamps. Music hums low in the background instead of blasting for once.
And August?
August is passed out at his desk.
Face buried in sketches.
One hand still holding a pencil.
You stare for a second.
Then smile a little despite yourself.
Carefully, you step closer.
The newest sketches are scattered everywhere—and every single one is still centered around your outfit.
Different adjustments. New detailing ideas. Notes scribbled messily in the margins.
“Needs more movement when they turn.”
“Silver lining catches light better on them.”
“The whole room should look darker beside them.”
Your chest tightens slightly reading that last one.
Because August doesn’t design clothes like they’re just clothes.
He designs them like love letters people can wear.
You gently touch his shoulder.
“…August.”
He startles awake instantly.
“THE FABRIC—”
“It’s okay,” you laugh softly. “Nothing exploded.”
He blinks blearily up at you.
Then immediately relaxes seeing it’s just you.
“…oh.”
His voice comes out rough from sleep.
Honestly?
It does something dangerous to your heart.
“You fell asleep working again,” you say.
“Counterpoint,” he mutters, sitting up slowly. “I was strategically unconscious.”
you snort.
He rubs his face before suddenly narrowing his eyes at you.
“…why are you looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m cute.”
You grin. “Maybe you are.”
August makes the most offended noise possible.
“I HAVE EYEBAGS.”
“And?”
“I look terrible.”
“You really don’t.”
That shuts him up immediately.
Silence hangs for a second.
Then August stands and walks toward you slowly, still sleepy enough that all his usual dramatic energy feels softer around the edges.
“…c’mere,” he mumbles.
Before you can ask what he means, he gently grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the mannequin holding the nearly completed outfit.
“There,” he says quietly. “Look.”
You do.
And honestly?
It’s stunning now.
Fully completed.
The details catch the low workshop lights beautifully. The silhouette feels dramatic without swallowing you whole. Every piece somehow balances strength and softness at the same time.
It feels like you.
August watches your reflection instead of the outfit.
“…you know what the worst part is?” he says softly.
You glance at him. “what?”
He sighs dramatically.
“You somehow made it impossible for me to imagine anyone else wearing this.”
Your stomach flips.
August notices immediately.
His grin returns slower this time.
Sleepy.
Fond.
“…there it is,” he murmurs. “That face again.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how warm your face feels.
But then his hands settle lightly at your waist from behind—careful, grounding, warm through the fabric.
And suddenly the teasing disappears completely.
“You’re gonna destroy people at that show,” he says quietly.
A pause.
Then even softer:
“…I almost don’t want anyone else seeing you in it.”
The confession slips out before he can stop it.
You feel him freeze afterward.
Then immediately groan into your shoulder.
“UGHHH,” he complains weakly. “That was SO vulnerable. I need to lie down.”
August’s workshop becomes your second home against your will.
Every surface is covered in fabric, sketches, thread, pins, and at least three energy drinks that absolutely should not still be open.
Music blasts constantly.
August claims he “thinks better under cinematic conditions.”
You think he’s just loud.
“TURN,” he says suddenly.
you blink. “what?”
“Dramatic spin. Right now.”
“…why?”
he gasps like you insulted his bloodline.
“WHY?? Because I’m constructing ART.”
you laugh while doing the spin anyway.
Immediately August points at you like he just witnessed divine revelation.
“THERE.”
“There what?”
“That movement!” he says, already scribbling violently in his sketchbook. “The fabric needs to trail when you move. Not too much though—we want elegant devastation, not curtain behavior.”
you walk closer to peek over his shoulder.
The sketches are beautiful.
Detailed.
And honestly kind of intimidating.
“…you’ve really been working hard on this,” you murmur.
August pauses mid-sketch.
Then shrugs dramatically like it’s nothing.
“Well obviously,” he says. “People are gonna look at you.”
The way he says it makes your chest tighten a little.
Not nervous exactly.
Just aware.
August glances up at you again.
And freezes.
“…don’t move.”
you blink. “why does everyone creative say that like a threat?”
“BECAUSE I’M THINKING.”
He jumps up from his chair and starts circling you like a mad scientist who discovered fashion instead of ethics.
“…the neckline needs adjusting,” he mutters. “And maybe silver detailing? Wait no—dark accents so your skin stands out more—”
“August.”
“No hold on this is huge.”
“August.”
“OH MY GOD.”
You grab his sleeve before he can start climbing furniture from excitement.
He looks down at your hand.
Then up at you.
For once—
quiet.
“…you trust me with this?” he asks suddenly.
The question catches you off guard.
Because underneath all the yelling and dramatic behavior…
August looks genuinely nervous.
You smile softly.
“Of course I do.”
And that?
That completely destroys him.
He turns away instantly, dragging a hand over his face dramatically.
“UGHHH,” he groans. “You can’t say heartfelt things while I’m working. It destabilizes me emotionally.”
you laugh.
He points at you accusingly.
“THAT TOO. STOP BEING ENDEARING. I HAVE DEADLINES.”
Movie night with August Stilza is less “calm relaxing evening” and more “surviving a highly emotional live reaction event.”
The second you walk into his workshop-turned-hangout-space, he’s already yelling.
“YOU’RE LATE FOR CINEMA NIGHT.”
you blink. “it’s been two minutes.”
“THAT’S TWO MINUTES OF PRE-MOVIE VIBES LOST FOREVER.”
August Stilza is sprawled dramatically across a couch that absolutely should not fit someone his size comfortably—but somehow does. Snacks are everywhere. Blankets are piled up like nests. One wall has a projector screen hanging crookedly because August apparently mounted it himself and then gave up halfway through fixing it.
music blasts in the background while he aggressively gestures toward the couch.
“HURRY,” he says. “THE TRAILERS ARE STARTING AND I NEED SOMEONE TO JUDGE THEM WITH.”
you kick your shoes off and drop beside him.
immediately he throws a blanket at your face.
“Comfort enhancement,” he explains.
“…you just assaulted me with fabric.”
“LOVE LANGUAGE.”
before you can argue, the movie starts.
for exactly thirty seconds, August is quiet.
then—
“OH THIS CINEMATOGRAPHY IS NASTYYYY.”
you jump slightly.
he points violently at the screen.
“LOOK AT THAT LIGHTING. LOOK AT IT. SOMEONE COOKED HERE.”
you start laughing.
he immediately whips around to stare at you instead of the movie.
“YOU GET IT.”
“you’re yelling.”
“I’M PASSIONATE.”
that continues for the entire film.
August reacts to everything like it personally happened to him.
fight scene? standing up on the couch.
sad scene? loudly pretending he’s not emotional while absolutely emotional.
romantic tension? grabbing your arm hard enough to nearly cut off circulation.
“THEY WANT EACH OTHER SO BAD,” he whisper-yells.
“August—”
“NO LOOK AT THE FRAMING. THEY’RE LITERALLY SYMBOLICALLY MIRRORING EACH OTHER.”
somehow he keeps ending up closer to you throughout the movie too.
first your shoulders touch.
then his leg presses against yours.
then halfway through, he just flops sideways dramatically until half his weight is on you.
you grunt. “you’re crushing me.”
“No I’m not,” he says instantly.
pause.
“…okay maybe a little.”
he does not move.
instead he grabs another blanket and throws it over both of you like he’s building a fortress against emotional vulnerability.
the movie keeps playing.
August slowly quiets down after a while, attention fully locked onto the screen now. the loud energy softens into occasional commentary muttered under his breath.
then there’s a really emotional scene.
you glance over.
and catch him staring at you instead of the movie.
he immediately points at the screen like he wasn’t.
“THAT CHARACTER’S OUTFIT SUCKS,” he says too fast.
you grin. “you weren’t even looking.”
“WAS TOO.”
“liar.”
he squints at you.
then suddenly grabs your face dramatically with both hands.
“YOU DISTRACT ME,” he accuses.
you laugh harder.
he groans loudly and drops forward until his forehead lands against your shoulder.
“…this is horrible,” he mutters. “I’m trying to experience art and instead I’m aware of you.”
you blink.
he freezes too.
slowly lifts his head.
“…forget I said that.”
“absolutely not.”
“TRAGIC.”
but he’s smiling.
really smiling now.
soft under all the chaos.
the movie ends eventually, credits rolling quietly in the dark room while the projector light flickers across his face.
August stretches dramatically, then immediately drops sideways again—this time fully laying against you like an oversized clingy cat.
Fabric draped over lamps. Pins held between his teeth. Half-finished masks hanging from hooks overhead while music blasts loud enough to shake the walls. Somewhere in the background, something metallic crashes to the floor.
August Stilza doesn’t even look up.
“DON’T STEP ON THE BLUE FABRIC!” he shouts instantly.
you freeze mid-step.
“…which blue fabric.”
his head snaps up dramatically.
“…fair point.”
there are at least fourteen different blue fabrics.
August drops his measuring tape around his neck and strides toward you, goggles pushed up into his hair, eyes bright with the kind of energy that usually means sleep has not occurred recently.
then he stops.
looks at you.
really looks at you.
and suddenly his entire expression changes.
“OH,” he breathes.
you blink. “what?”
he grabs your shoulders immediately.
“It’s happening,” he says, visibly emotional. “You’re becoming wedding-shaped.”
“…I’m WHAT.”
“THE VISION,” he says loudly. “IT’S MANIFESTING.”
before you can process any of that, he’s already dragging you deeper into the workshop.
rolls of fabric tower around you like buildings. sketches cover every available surface—some elegant, some chaotic, some clearly drawn at three in the morning during a caffeine-induced breakdown.
and every single one is of your wedding outfit.
your chest tightens a little at that.
“…you made all of these?”
August looks genuinely confused. “Well yeah. Who else was gonna do it?”
he says it so casually.
like there was never another option.
he sweeps an arm dramatically toward the largest sketch pinned to the wall.
“There,” he says proudly. “The final form.”
you look up.
and honestly?
it’s beautiful.
not overly fancy. not stiff or overly royal.
it looks you.
every detail somehow feels like something he noticed without you realizing he had.
August watches your face carefully the entire time.
“…well?” he asks, suddenly quieter.
you glance at him. “you were paying that much attention to what I like?”
he stares at you like that’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard.
“I’m making your wedding outfit,” he says. “Obviously I paid attention.”
then, immediately louder again to cover up sincerity:
“I GOTTA MAKE SURE MY FUTURE SPOUSE LOOKS INSANE.”
you laugh.
he lights up instantly at the sound.
“There it is!” he says, pointing at you dramatically. “That face! That’s the exact vibe I’m tailoring around!”
“you can’t tailor around facial expressions.”
“WATCH ME.”
before you can argue, he’s already looping the measuring tape around your waist with surprising focus.
and suddenly the loud chaos disappears.
not completely.
but around him, it softens.
August’s hands are careful as he adjusts the tape, muttering measurements under his breath. his usual energy narrows into something steady, intentional.
“…hold still,” he murmurs absentmindedly.
you do.
he steps back to look at you again, head tilted.
then groans dramatically.
“UGHHH,” he whines. “You’re making this too easy.”
“how is that a bad thing?”
“Because now I gotta make something worthy of you,” he says like it’s obvious. “That’s pressure!”
you smile slightly. “you’ll manage.”
that makes him pause.
really pause.
then his grin comes back slower this time. softer around the edges.
“…yeah,” he says quietly. “I will.”
a beat.
then suddenly he grabs your hands and spins you toward the mirror.
“C’MON,” he says loudly again. “I need to see the silhouette movement when you inevitably destroy everyone emotionally by walking down the aisle.”
you laugh while he rambles on about fabric layering and dramatic reveals and “visual impact.”
and the whole time—
he looks happier than anyone who’s ever made clothing before.
Because now he’s looking at you like you activated something dangerous.
Jabber Wonger stumbles back a step dramatically, hand over his chest like you mortally wounded him.
“Ough,” he groans. “Violence… from you… I’m in love.”
you snort. “it was barely a push.”
“That’s even worse,” he says immediately, grinning sharp enough to start problems. “Now I gotta prove I can hit harder.”
before you can react, he lunges.
not seriously.
never seriously with you.
but fast enough that you yelp when he grabs your wrists and nearly tackles you sideways into a pile of blankets and stolen jackets scattered around the Raiders’ hideout.
“JABBER—!”
he’s laughing already.
loud. unhinged. delighted.
“There it is!” he says. “That scared little noise you make—love that one.”
you kick at him.
he catches your ankle instantly.
“…rude,” he says, though he’s visibly having the time of his life.
you glare. “get OFF.”
“No,” he replies cheerfully.
then he flops more of his weight onto you on purpose.
you immediately regret discovering how heavy he actually is.
“OH MY GOD—”
he cackles right in your ear. “Weak.”
“YOU’RE BUILT LIKE A TRUCK.”
“Yeah,” he says proudly.
you try shoving him again, but all that does is make his muscles tense under your hands.
which is unfair.
actually criminal.
because Jabber looks lanky at first glance, all long limbs and chaotic energy—but underneath that? solid. lean muscle packed everywhere from all the fighting, climbing, and general feral behavior.
and he absolutely notices you noticing.
his grin gets worse.
“…what?” he asks knowingly.
you look away immediately. “nothing.”
“Nahhh,” he drawls, leaning closer. “You touched my arm all weird.”
“I did NOT.”
“You didddd,” he sings.
you try pushing him off again just to shut him up.
big mistake.
he catches both your wrists this time and pins them above your head with one hand like it’s effortless.
you freeze.
he freezes too.
for like half a second.
then his eyes light up in the most dangerous way possible.
“Ooooh,” he says softly. “Look at you.”
your face gets hot instantly. “shut up.”
“You’re squirming.”
“Because you’re HEAVY.”
he laughs again, shoulders shaking with it.
“You should fight back harder,” he says. “C’mon. Bite me or something.”
“WHAT.”
“I’m just brainstorming.”
you stare at him in horror.
he looks genuinely pleased by that reaction.
then suddenly he drops down beside you instead, still holding one of your wrists loosely while catching his breath from laughing so hard.
the room goes quieter after that.
not silent.
just softer.
Jabber glances sideways at you, pink eyes still bright with leftover adrenaline.
“…you’re fun,” he says.
you roll your eyes. “you say that every time.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it keeps being true.”
he nudges your shoulder with his.
then again.
like a cat demanding attention and refusing to admit it.
you sigh dramatically. “you’re annoying.”
“Mm,” he hums. “But you still play with me.”
before you can answer, he suddenly grabs you again and drags you halfway onto his chest with zero warning.
you yelp.
he immediately wraps both arms around you like a human trap.
“JABBER—”
“No escaping,” he says happily.
you struggle for maybe three seconds before realizing it’s useless.
mostly because he’s ridiculously strong.
also because he’s warm.
which is annoying.
his chin drops onto your head while he laughs quietly to himself, completely satisfied now that he’s won whatever invisible competition was happening in his brain.
“…you fit nice here,” he murmurs absentmindedly.
you pause.
he pauses too, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud.
then he grins again to cover it up.
“Anyway,” he says, squeezing you tighter just to hear you complain, “round two starts in five seconds.”
Moonlight spilled softly across the room, painting silver over tangled blankets and scattered fabric sketches Himora had forgotten to put away earlier.
Riddle Rosehearts sat at the edge of the bed, carefully removing his gloves after another exhausting day of meetings, rule enforcement, and dealing with absolute idiots across NRC.
Behind him, Himora watched quietly.
No teasing.
No jokes.
Just watching him.
Riddle noticed immediately.
“…You’re staring again.”
This time, her voice came soft.
“I like looking at you.”
His hands paused.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Riddle exhaled slowly and set the gloves aside before turning toward her. Himora sat cross-legged near the middle of the bed, oversized sleep shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder, dark hair messy from sleepiness.
Beautiful.
Dangerously so.
And looking at him like he was something precious.
Riddle still wasn’t fully used to that.
“You’ll ruin your sleep schedule waiting for me,” he murmured.
“I wanted to see you before bed.”
That ache in his chest again.
The quiet one.
The one only Himora could create.
She reached toward him lazily, fingers catching the sleeve of his nightshirt.
“Come here.”
Such simple words.
Yet Riddle obeyed instantly.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled beside her, and Himora immediately curled into him like it was instinct. Her head rested against his chest while his arms wrapped carefully around her waist.
For once, Riddle let himself relax completely.
No rules.
No expectations.
No housewarden mask.
Just Himora.
“You smell like roses again,” she mumbled sleepily against him.
“That would be the tea.”
“I like it.”
Riddle smiled faintly into her hair.
“You say that every night.”
“And I’ll say it tomorrow night too.”
Silence settled comfortably between them after that.
Warm.
Intimate.
Riddle’s fingers traced slow circles against her back beneath the fabric of her shirt, feeling her gradually melt further against him.
Then quietly—
“Riddle?”
“Yes?”
“I think you’re the only place I really rest.”
His breath caught.
Himora said things like that so casually sometimes, as if she had no idea what they did to him.
Riddle lowered his head slightly until his forehead rested against hers.
“You make it rather difficult not to love you,” he admitted softly.
For once, Himora had no teasing response.
Her expression gentled instead, eyes half-lidded in the dark as she reached up to touch his face carefully, thumb brushing beneath his eye.
“Then don’t stop.”
That was his undoing.
Riddle kissed her like something careful.
Like something treasured.
Slow and lingering beneath the quiet glow of the room.
And when they finally pulled apart, Himora smiled against his lips so softly it nearly ruined him.
Sakura Ogami doesn’t really “soften”—not in the way people expect. She still stands like she could move a mountain if she needed to. Still speaks carefully, like every word is weighed before it’s allowed out into the world.
But she starts… waiting.
Not in an obvious way.
Just small pauses. Slight turns of her head when Aoi’s voice echoes across the room. The way her eyes always seem to land where Aoi is before anything else.
Like she’s learned something important without saying it out loud.
Aoi pretends she doesn’t notice.
She notices everything.
“Hey, Sakura!” Aoi calls one afternoon, sliding into the room like she owns it. “You wanna come with me to the pool later?”
Sakura looks up from her position by the window.
“…the pool?”
“Yeah!” Aoi grins. “I’m training, obviously. And you can, like, supervise me so I don’t die or whatever.”
Sakura blinks once. “You will not die in a swimming pool.”
Aoi gasps dramatically. “Wow. Zero faith in my survival skills.”
A pause.
Then Sakura, very calmly: “I did not say that.”
Aoi beams like she’s won something anyway. “So you’ll come!”
Sakura hesitates.
It’s so subtle most people wouldn’t even notice.
“…If it is important to your training,” she says finally.
Aoi points at her like that was the correct answer. “Perfect. It is now extremely important to my training.”
The pool is loud in the way Aoi always is.
Water splashing, laughter echoing, everything bright and alive.
Sakura stands at the edge like she’s evaluating battlefield conditions.
Aoi is absolutely not evaluating anything. She’s just cannonballing into the water with the confidence of someone who has never once considered consequences.
When she resurfaces, hair sticking to her face, she grins up at Sakura.
“You’re not coming in?”
Sakura crosses her arms. “I am observing.”
Aoi squints. “That’s suspiciously boring of you.”
“…I do not require entertainment.”
Aoi stares at her for a second.
Then, without warning, she swims closer and reaches up, flicking water at Sakura’s face.
Sakura freezes.
Aoi laughs.
And for a split second—just one—Sakura looks… caught off guard.
Not angry.
Just surprised.
Like she didn’t expect the world to touch her so easily.
“…You are wetting the area unnecessarily,” Sakura says.
Aoi grins wider. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”
Later, when they’re sitting side by side on the edge of the pool, Aoi swings her legs in the water.
Sakura is quiet again.
But she doesn’t move away.
That’s new too.
Aoi leans back on her hands, looking up at the sky.
“You know,” she says casually, “people get kinda intimidated by you.”
Sakura hums. “That is expected.”
“Yeah,” Aoi says. Then softer, “But I don’t really get it.”
That makes Sakura turn slightly toward her.
Aoi shrugs.
“I think you’re… nice.”
A pause.
Sakura blinks once.
“…Nice,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word.
Aoi nods. “Yeah. Like, you don’t pretend. That’s rare.”
Sakura looks away again.
“…I do not know how to pretend,” she admits.
Aoi laughs softly. “Yeah, I figured.”
Silence settles between them.
But it’s not uncomfortable.
It’s… steady.
Like something that doesn’t need to be filled.
When Aoi eventually stands up to leave, she stretches and smiles down at her.
“I’m glad you came, Sakura.”
Sakura pauses.
Then, quietly:
“…So am I.”
Aoi freezes for half a second.
Then her grin comes back, softer than before.
“Cool,” she says. “We should do it again.”
Sakura nods once.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, a little more certain:
“…I would like that.”
And Aoi, for once, doesn’t say anything back right away.
(Stinky genshin player wins his 50/50 with a random non genshin player)
😭 :this is so bunssss
The room is dark except for the glow of multiple monitors, RGB lights pulsing like a heartbeat, and a very suspicious amount of empty energy drink cans that Idia absolutely refuses to acknowledge.
Idia Shroud is already spiraling before you even sit down.
“Okay,” he says immediately, voice cracking slightly, “before we do this—there’s a ritual.”
you pause. “a ritual?”
“YES,” he snaps, then shrinks back into his hoodie. “I mean—no. I mean… statistically optimized superstition-based input conditioning.”
you stare. “that’s just superstition.”
he points at you like that’s offensive. “DON’T DISRESPECT THE SYSTEM.”
you sit anyway.
he swivels his chair closer, already loading the banner like it owes him money.
“Alright,” he mutters, fingers hovering over the mouse. “So we do NOT pull immediately. That’s beginner behavior. We gotta… warm up the RNG.”
you blink. “how do you warm up luck.”
“YOU DON’T QUESTION IT,” he hisses, then lowers his voice. “First: we do one fake pull.”
“…a fake pull.”
“Yeah,” he says seriously. “Mentally. You click in your head. It confuses the gacha sensors.”
you stare at him.
he stares back.
“…you’re insane,” you say.
“THANK YOU,” he replies instantly, then coughs. “I mean—focus.”
he leans in.
“Okay. Imagine it. Three… two… one… click.”
you don’t move.
he clicks anyway.
the animation starts.
Idia immediately grabs the edge of his desk like it’s a lifeboat.
“NO NO NO NO WAIT—THAT WAS THE PRACTICE ROUND—”
you watch him panic as the pull resolves into something mid.
he slowly goes still.
“…okay,” he says flatly. “the game is mocking us now.”
you snort.
he whips his head toward you. “DON’T LAUGH. THAT’S HOW YOU ATTRACT BAD BANNER ENERGY.”
you lean back. “you sound like a conspiracy theory YouTuber.”
“those guys are RIGHT 40% of the time,” he mutters, already opening another tab like he’s doing forbidden research.
he types aggressively.
“Okay,” he says, leaning closer to the screen, voice dropping. “Now we do the real pull. But this time—no eye contact with the wish button. It’ll sense fear.”
you blink. “that’s not how code works.”
“IT IS IF YOU BELIEVE HARD ENOUGH.”
he slides the mouse toward you anyway like it’s a cursed artifact.
“…you click,” he says solemnly. “I can’t be seen doing it. It lowers crit rate.”
you sigh. “you are the worst co-op partner.”
“AND YET,” he whispers, “you are still here.”
you click.
the screen lights up.
gold animation.
silence.
Idia makes a sound that is not human.
“…no way,” he whispers.
you blink. “did we win?”
he slowly turns toward you.
his eyes are wide. haunted. offended by reality itself.
“…you are not allowed to touch my account ever again,” he says.
you grin. “why?”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE BUILT DIFFERENT,” he snaps, then immediately collapses back into his chair. “that’s illegal. that’s pay-to-win behavior. that’s literally unfair.”
you lean over. “so I’m lucky?”
he goes quiet.
“…yeah,” he mutters after a second. “…stupidly.”
then, softer, like he didn’t mean to say it:
“don’t log off yet.”
you pause. “why?”
he shrugs, eyes still on the screen.
“…just in case your luck sticks around a little longer.”
and for once, he doesn’t sound like he’s talking to the game.
just glad you didn’t disappear when the pull animation ended.
The Hunt has finally ended for the day, and the world feels… softer because of it.
Quieter. Less like something is always being watched.
Except, of course, you still are.
Rook Hunt is lounging like he was personally invented for dramatic resting poses—half on the couch, one arm draped behind his head, the other already reaching for you the second you enter the room.
“Ahhh, mon trésor,” he sighs happily. “You have returned to me at last.”
you pause in the doorway. “I was gone for like twenty minutes.”
“Time means nothing when you are absent,” he replies immediately, as if that’s just scientific fact.
you don’t even get to argue before he’s gently, but very decisively, pulling you down beside him.
not rough.
just inevitable.
you land against him and immediately realize two things:
he is warm
he is… surprisingly solid
like. not just elegant hunter vibes.
actual muscle. all that archer training did not go unnoticed.
you shift slightly. “you’re kind of… built.”
he gasps softly like you’ve just written him a love poem.
“Magnifique observation,” he says proudly. “The human form is a masterpiece of nature’s artistry.”
you squint. “that’s not what I meant.”
he ignores that completely, because he is already arranging you closer like you are part of his personal aesthetic composition.
one arm slides comfortably around you, pulling you in with practiced ease. his other hand rests behind his head again, relaxed—like he’s done this a thousand times and still finds it entertaining every time.
you end up half-cuddled into his chest without really deciding to be there.
and yes.
it is unfairly comfortable.
he hums softly, clearly pleased. “You are settling in beautifully.”
you mumble, “you say everything like it’s a performance review.”
“Because it is,” he replies.
then he tilts his head slightly, watching you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room again.
“…hm,” he adds thoughtfully.
you look up. “what now?”
his smile turns a little more playful.
“I was simply admiring how well you fit here,” he says, squeezing you lightly like he’s testing balance and finding perfection. “It is as though you were made for it.”
you roll your eyes. “you say that about everything.”
“Non,” he corrects softly. “Only the things I find worth keeping close.”
there’s a pause after that.
his hand smooths gently over your back once, slow and absentminded—more grounding than anything else.
then, quieter:
“…and I do enjoy when you stay.”
like it’s just another observation.
like it doesn’t matter that he tightened his hold on you a fraction when he said it.
you sigh, but don’t move away.
because honestly?
between the warmth, the steady heartbeat, and Rook acting like you’re his favorite discovery in the entire world…
The bell above the shop door doesn’t even finish ringing before the atmosphere changes.
Not loud. Not obvious.
Just… wrong in a way your instincts immediately notice.
You look up from your job—hands still mid-task—and there he is.
Pierrot is standing in the doorway like he’s part of a performance you weren’t told was happening. Still. Silent. Painted calmness over something that feels a little too focused to be casual.
For a moment, he just watches you work.
Not blinking.
Not moving.
Like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
“…you’re busy,” he says softly.
It’s not a question.
you swallow slightly. “yeah. I’m working.”
He tilts his head.
Slowly.
Curiously.
Then steps inside.
The bell finally rings properly behind him, but it sounds too loud now. Out of place. Like it interrupted something it shouldn’t have.
“I followed the path you take,” he says simply, glancing around your workspace like it’s unfamiliar but acceptable. “This is where you stay during the day.”
you blink. “you… followed me to work?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he walks closer to the counter.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Just inevitable.
“I wanted to see,” he says at last.
you shift a little. “this is kind of… normal stuff. it’s not interesting.”
That makes him pause.
Then he smiles faintly.
Not the playful circus smile.
Something quieter.
More intent.
“…you think I come for interesting things?” he asks.
That makes your stomach tighten a little, even if his tone is still soft.
He leans just slightly toward the counter, watching your hands move again like he’s memorizing the rhythm of them.
“I come because you are here,” he continues.
A beat.
“You are always somewhere,” he adds gently, like that’s the part that matters most. “But this place… makes you stay still long enough to observe.”
you glance around nervously. “you can’t just come into my job like this.”
He blinks slowly.
Then, almost politely:
“…do I disturb you?”
That question lands strangely.
Because he doesn’t sound offended.
He sounds like he’s genuinely trying to calculate the correct response.
you hesitate. “I mean… a little.”
“…I see,” he says.
And for a second, something flickers behind his eyes—quiet, unreadable, like he’s logging the information somewhere deeper than words.
Then he nods once.
“I will adjust,” he says calmly.
you relax slightly.
But then—
he adds, softer:
“…but I will still come back.”
You look up fast. “Pierrot—”
He’s already turning toward the door.
Still calm.
Still gentle.
Still wrong in a way you can’t quite explain.
Before he leaves, he pauses just long enough to glance back at you over his shoulder.
“…you are more interesting when you do not notice me watching,” he says quietly.
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