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(August x reader )

(August x reader)

(August x Reader)

Part 4 — “You Look Like Mine”

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.

(August x reader)

Part 2 — “Stand Still, I’m Having A IDEA”

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.”

August x Reader!

Part 1 — “You’re My Masterpiece Now”

(movie nightttt)

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.

“…10 outta 10 movie night,” he mumbles.

you raise an eyebrow. “because of the movie?”

he looks up at you.

grins.

(Wedding!)

The workshop is a disaster.

Not messy in a normal way.

Messy in an August Stilza way.

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 this isn’t just another design.

it’s yours.

and August Stilza loves making things…

(Play fighting and love ❤️)

The first mistake you make is shoving him.

The second is laughing after.

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.

Title: Soft Strength, Quiet Hands Pairing: Sakura Ogami / Aoi Asahina Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, Post-hopeful-arc vibes, Emotional vulnerability, Comfort, “strong girl falls for soft chaos girl energy”

(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.

~ Your favorite teddy bear~

(My first oneee)

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.

Then he’s gone.

And the bell rings a second time—