staccarto

[staccarto]

"I wouldn't have been angry. I would've been grateful. Because you would've given me something better than blind support. You would've given me truth."

— ☕

[staccarto]

Your f/o's remembering the littlest details about you, the smallest things that make you happy. Not because you reminded them, but because they truly listen to you and what you have to say.

[staccarto]

[staccarto]

Selfshippers who draw their f/os here is a little reminder that it doesn't have to be perfect! It's ok if you draw them and it doesn't exactly look like them. It's ok if you had to change a few things for them to fit into your art style. It's ok if your art style makes them look more soft or more scary. It's your art and your f/o so draw them how ever you desire! Make them cute! Make them terrifying! Draw them with your headcanons! Draw them in different outfits! Have fun! Be creative! Be messy!

They love how ever you draw them! They literally are staring at that drawing you just did of them! They are amazed by your gifted talent! They keep it under their pillow or on their wall <3

[staccarto]

🎬☕ Shark

[staccarto]

Reminder: your f/o hates the people who have hurt you and done shitty things to you just as much as you do (if not more… actually yes more because the mere thought of someone being awful towards you is enough to make their blood boil)

[staccarto]

New Years

🎬 Next year, lanterns and fireworks—same time?

☕️ Same time. And I’ll bring the stars.

[staccarto]

Family photo!

Staccarto ft. Zumwalt.

[staccarto]

GOOD DAY STACCARTO NATION, IT IS MAY NOW.

[staccarto]

He leaned over, picking up the mini plush and handing it back to her. "Promise me one thing?"

She accepted it, looking up. "What?"

"That you'll keep me… in plush form," he said, voice a shade softer than usual. "When you need proof I exist."

Her chest tightened. She set the plush on her chest and reached out to lace her fingers with his. "I'll keep you close," she said quietly. "Even if you're made of fabric."

[staccarto]

"what's 4+4?"

the highly educated and intelligent Bach:

[staccarto]

☕ I didn't know you could carry me.

🎬 You should’ve just asked me to carry your ideas instead. They weigh about the same.

☕ WHAT THE FU-

[staccarto]

🎬☕ 3rd Anniversary (12 March 2025)

The late afternoon sun spilled lazily through the wide windows of Bach’s mansion, painting the living room in warm, golden tones. It was quiet—peaceful—the way they both liked it.

Cathe sat curled up on the couch, a little more relaxed than usual. She wore one of Bach’s oversized white sweaters, the sleeves falling well past her hands. Her legs were tucked up underneath her, and a familiar, almost shy warmth lingered on her usually reserved face.

Bach, seated next to her, wore a beige and brown flannel shirt that somehow made him look even softer, his usual cold, reserved demeanor eased by the cozy setting. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, smiling faintly.

It wasn’t a huge, extravagant celebration. It didn’t need to be.

Three years of their QPR — their quiet, unconventional bond — deserved something simple, something real.

Cathe fidgeted slightly with the sweater’s sleeve before mumbling, "I got you something."

Bach raised an eyebrow, curious. "You got me something?"

"You always get me stuff," she said, her voice quieter than usual, a bit more vulnerable. "I figured... I should even it out. Just this once."

He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a sudden small whine from the hallway.

Bach's expression shifted immediately into confusion, his body stiffening slightly as he turned toward the noise.

Moments later, padding into the room with an awkward little stumble, came a tiny German Shepherd puppy—ears too big for its head, paws oversized and clumsy, tail wagging wildly.

Bach stared.

Cathe watched him carefully, chewing lightly on her bottom lip, suddenly second-guessing herself. "If you don't like him, I can—"

Bach's reaction cut her off.

He leaned forward slowly, hands almost trembling as he scooped the puppy into his arms. The puppy gave a little bark and licked his chin eagerly.

For a long moment, Bach just held the wriggling ball of fur against his chest, an expression crossing his face that Cathe couldn’t quite place—something raw and unguarded, something warm.

"What’s his name?" he asked, voice low.

Cathe shrugged. "You get to pick."

Bach looked down at the tiny creature, who immediately tried to chew on his sleeve.

“…Zumwalt,” he said softly. “He looks like a Zumwalt.”

Cathe snorted lightly. "Sounds like a battleship."

"Exactly."

Zumwalt barked again, happy just to be held.

Cathe pulled the too-long sleeve over her hand and brushed a piece of lint off Bach’s shoulder, acting casual. But her heart was full seeing the way he held the puppy so tenderly.

"You’re ridiculous," she murmured under her breath, a small, fond smile flickering across her lips.

Bach, still cradling Zumwalt like a precious treasure, glanced over at her—the girl in his sweater, the one person who understood him without him ever having to explain himself—and said, “Yeah. But you’re the one stuck with me.”

Cathe rolled her eyes and shifted closer, letting her head lightly bump against his shoulder.

"Guess I am."

And neither of them would have had it any other way.

[staccarto]

🎬☕ Cathe's apartment

The soft glow of Cathe’s bedroom lamp painted the room in a sleepy, golden hue.

It was well past midnight, but neither of them seemed ready for sleep yet. The laptop sat closed on the nightstand, forgotten after a few half-hearted episodes of an old anime.

Bach sat on the floor, back comfortably resting against the bed frame, one leg stretched out, the other bent casually. In his hand was a mug of coffee, half-empty, fingers tapping against the side in a slow, absent rhythm.

Above him, Cathe was sprawled out on her stomach, buried into the soft covers, a large Gyouna-kun plushie squished against her chest. Her chin rested lazily on top of it.

“...You have a problem,” Cathe mumbled into the plushie, her voice muffled but direct.

Bach glanced up, amused. “What kind?”

She lifted her head just enough to glare at him, half-hearted but clear. “You keep buying me stuff. Stop it.”

He tilted his head slightly, pretending to think. “But you like Gyouna-kun.”

“I do,” she grumbled. “But that's not the point.”

“Then what’s the point?”

She flopped her face back into the plushie dramatically before muttering, “I don't like people spending too much money on me. Makes me feel... guilty.”

Bach set his mug down with a soft clink and leaned his head back against the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

“You shouldn't feel guilty,” he said simply. “I’m not buying you these things to make you owe me. I just thought you'd smile.”

Cathe huffed into her plushie, voice small. “You could just send me a meme. It's free.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You’re the only person I know who would seriously choose memes over merch.”

“Because memes don’t come with a price tag attached to my soul.”

Bach smiled faintly to himself, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Alright,” he said eventually, a small hint of mischief sneaking into his voice. “No more plushies.”

“Good,” she said, satisfied.

“I’ll just buy you memes now.”

She squinted down at him suspiciously. “How do you even buy a meme?”

“Custom commissions.”

“Bach.”

He laughed softly—a rare, full laugh—and Cathe, despite herself, smiled into her Gyouna-kun.

After a while, the conversation faded into the easy quiet that only true friends shared.

Gyouna-kun remained squashed under Cathe’s arms like a tiny, squishy hostage. And for once, she didn't feel bad about the gift.

Because it wasn't about the plushie. It was about the thought behind it.

And she guessed... maybe that wasn’t so bad after all.

[staccarto]

🎬☕ Breakroom

Bach stood by the coffee machine, waiting as it sputtered out a slow, steaming cup. His posture was relaxed but tired, one hand casually tucked into the pocket of his slacks. His navy-blue tie hung a little loose at his collar, a rare sign that the day had worn him down too.

He didn’t hear her footsteps.

He only felt it—the sudden, quiet weight of arms wrapping around his middle from behind.

Cathe.

She said nothing. No sarcastic comment. No tired sigh.

Just the simple press of her forehead against his back, her smaller frame fitting easily against his taller one.

Bach blinked, startled for only half a second. But he didn’t move away.

He didn’t ask if she was okay. He didn’t tease. He just let the moment settle.

The coffee machine dinged softly, signaling the end of its job. Neither of them moved to grab the cup.

Bach placed his hand lightly over her arm, steady and warm. No pressure. No questions.

Minutes passed... or maybe just moments, stretched out in that sleepy silence.

Finally, without looking back, he spoke, his voice a low murmur. “Long day?”

Cathe gave a faint hum in response, barely audible, like the distant roll of thunder.

Bach smiled softly to himself. Not the kind of smile meant for anyone to see.

He stayed like that with her, letting her hold on as long as she needed, the steam from the forgotten coffee swirling around them like a small, unseen shelter.

[staccarto]

If I am the beauty police I would arrest him for being too gorgeous.

[staccarto]

🎬☕ Cathe's Studio

The door to the art studio at Arkhe was slightly ajar. The lights were dimmed—odd for Cathe, who normally kept the space bright and efficient when working. Bach noticed it as he passed during his evening rounds, a quiet pause in an otherwise long day of meetings and deadlines.

He stepped in without knocking.

There she was, sitting on the floor against a low cabinet, knees drawn in, sleeves of her hoodie tugged over her hands. Her eyes were red, face calm but damp with tears. Silent sobs. Not the loud kind. The kind you don’t want anyone to notice.

Cathe didn’t look up when he entered.

Bach crossed the room wordlessly and lowered himself beside her. Without a single word, he reached out and pulled her gently into his arms.

She didn’t resist. Just leaned in, letting her forehead rest against his chest. His cloak smelled faintly of bergamot and cold rain.

They stayed like that for a while—no questions, no pressure, just the quiet rhythm of breath and warmth.

When she finally stopped sniffling, wiping her face with her sleeve like nothing happened, Bach gently asked, “What happened?”

Cathe’s voice was hoarse. “I watched a video.”

Bach waited.

“…It was two elderly people at a hospital. One was dying. The other was saying goodbye.”

He blinked slowly.

She added, “The one left behind held their hand the whole time. Said something about seeing each other again. Then the monitor flatlined.”

Bach nodded in silence.

Then, after a beat, “…You’re crying at strangers on the internet again.”

Cathe groaned and buried her face into his chest again. “Shut up.”

He chuckled softly, wrapping his arms tighter around her. “You terrorize interns daily and this is what takes you down?”

“I’m allowed to have a soul.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I’m just surprised it’s that soft.”

She gave him a light punch to the side, muffled by his cloak. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not. I’m impressed.”

They sat in the soft light of the studio, the whirring of distant printers and office hum behind them. No deadlines. No pressure. Just the shared silence of two people who understood each other, even in the most ridiculous reasons to cry.

Bach rested his chin lightly atop her head.

“Next time, at least cry over a sad song. You work in a music agency, for god’s sake.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…No. I don’t.”

And that was enough. The script revisions, meetings, and deadlines could wait.

This was more important.