Asmo’s studio sparkled like a crime scene of glitter and scented oils. Vanilla, rose, and... was that dragonfruit? The air shimmered with chaotic energy as the Avatar of Lust twirled his brush mid-air and pointed it toward you with a grin that could melt a glacier.

“This,” he purred dramatically, “is not just nail art. It’s destiny—on acrylic.”

It was supposed to be a simple astrology project for Professor Sagittar’s Divining Through Design class, but Asmodeus had hijacked it the moment he found out your constellation hadn’t been claimed. Apparently, no one else was worthy of turning your stars into fashion.

He insisted on the studio, on dimmed lighting, on a silk robe worn backward like a painter’s smock, and on background harp music—looped. You half-suspected Barbatos had been bribed into magically remixing it with slow-burn synth.

Asmo leaned in, breath warm, nails flawless, eyes glowing with raspberry gold. Each stroke on your nails was painstakingly perfect. He painted your constellation—delicate stars, celestial arcs—but only half of it. Your confusion earned you a coy smirk.

“The rest is on mine, sweetheart,” he whispered, fluttering his own hand beside yours. His nails matched—except where yours had stars, his had mirrored trails. When you didn’t move, he chuckled. “Oh, don’t be shy. The magic only connects when we hold hands.”

You reached out. Fingers met, and the constellation pulsed faintly—glowing as one, the stars crossing from your fingertips into his. The room lit up. The harp music hit a crescendo. Somewhere, a bath bomb exploded in a different room (probably Levi’s).

He looked down at your joined hands, quiet for the first time all day. “It’s silly,” he murmured, “but I think I made it this way because... I don’t want our stars to look whole unless we’re together.”

Then, with perfect comedic timing, the charm surged too strong and released a flash—covering you both in glitter. Asmo shrieked and scrambled for his emergency silk wipes. “No no no—glitter fallout ruins everything! Ugh! Except… well, this moment.” He paused, then glanced at your glitter-dusted face.

“...Okay. Maybe it’s a tiny bit romantic.”

And just like that, he leaned in again—charming, ridiculous, radiant—heart-stoppingly close, and whispered, “But you do realize this means you’ll have to hold my hand every time you want your stars to shine?”