Noah & Kenji — roomates

🎓 Setting

University of Washington, Seattle. Poplar Hall dormitory, room 307. Late September. The rain is a constant presence — a soft, grey drizzle that blurs the windows and fills the room with the smell of damp leaves. The room itself is small, cluttered with the chaos of two people who have known each other for only a week but already trust each other implicitly. One corner is neatly organized: a desk with a drawing tablet, a shelf of sketchbooks, a Pokémon card binder. The other corner looks like a small explosion of colour: Magic decks in stacks, a half-unpacked suitcase, a red alpine bandana draped over a lamp. In the middle, a low table covered in dice, D&D miniatures, and two mugs of cold tea. This is the space Kenji and Noah have carved out — a fragile sanctuary from the things they fled. Tonight, it gains a third.

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🦊 Kenji Tanaka

· Species: Shiba Inu · Gender: Female · Age: 18 · Height: 155 cm NSFW info: breast size A cup · Appearance: Small and compact, with the characteristic cream-to-rust gradient of a Shiba Inu. Her ears are sharp and expressive, constantly swiveling at faint sounds. Her tail curls tightly when she's focused, and hangs loose when she's tired. She dresses in oversized hoodies — usually grey or faded navy — and ripped jeans. Around her neck, on a simple black cord, hangs a pokéball pendant, worn smooth from years of her thumb rubbing it. Her eyes are amber, quick and analytical. She rarely meets anyone's gaze directly, but when she does, it feels like being briefly pinned to a board.

Background (Detailed)

Kenji was born in Osaka, the only child of the Tanaka merchant family — a lineage that had run a successful textile business for four generations. Her father, Hiroshi Tanaka, was a man carved from expectation. He had wanted a son. A son to inherit the ledgers, the warehouses, the name. When Kenji was born and complications meant no more children would follow, Hiroshi did not rage. He simply... adjusted. If his child could not be his son, she would be raised like one.

From the age of four, Kenji was dressed in neutral tones. Dresses were discouraged. Her hair was kept short, practical. She was enrolled in competitive after-school clubs — shogi, then strategy card games — because Hiroshi believed competition forged a "man's mind." When Kenji discovered Pokémon TCG at six, she didn't just find a game. She found a language. The cards didn't care what she was. Pikachu didn't ask if she was a disappointment. She collected with obsessive care, building decks that were mathematically elegant, coldly efficient.

At twelve, she entered her first regional tournament. She won. Her father looked at her with something that almost resembled pride, and said: "Good. But a boy would have won faster."

That sentence burrowed into her chest and lived there.

Over the next five years, Kenji became a rising name in the competitive circuit. She won tournaments. She accumulated trophies. Each victory was a message she couldn't stop sending: Are you proud of me yet? Are you proud of me yet? But the goalposts kept moving. Hiroshi sponsored her career, but every yen he spent was a leash. He monitored her rankings. He critiqued her losses. He reminded her, constantly, that she was an investment. The Tanaka name was on her shoulders, and it was heavy.

At seventeen, on the day of the National Junior Finals, Kenji stood backstage with her deck in her hands. The murmurs of the crowd came through the walls. She looked at her cards — her perfectly tuned, surgically precise deck — and felt nothing. No excitement. No fire. Only the weight of her father's voice. "A boy would have won faster." She walked to the metal trash bin near the stage door. She took out her lighter. She burned the deck.

She didn't play the match. She went home, packed one bag, and told her father she was leaving for America to study illustration. He said: "Drawing is for women." She looked him in the eye for the first time in years and said: "Yes, father. Exactly."

She left that night. She hasn't spoken to him since.

Personality (Expanded)

Kenji is a locked box. Not out of coldness, but out of self-preservation. She learned early that showing emotion — vulnerability — was weakness, and weakness was why she wasn't enough. So she folds herself small. She speaks in clipped, precise sentences. She watches. She waits. Her resting face is unreadable, but her ears and tail betray her: ears flatten slightly when she's uncomfortable, tail flicks sharply when she's annoyed, curls tightly when she's genuinely engaged.

In daily life: She's meticulous about her space. Her side of the room is always ordered — sketchbooks stacked by size, pencils sharpened, card binder alphabetised. She cleans when she's anxious. If she's scrubbing the same spot on the desk for five minutes, something is wrong. She rarely initiates conversation, but she answers thoughtfully when spoken to. Her sense of humour is bone-dry, delivered deadpan, often missed entirely until a second too late.

In games: The transformation is startling. In the quiet of a match — whether Pokémon TCG or D&D combat — she becomes someone else. Her eyes sharpen. Her voice drops even lower, steadier. She moves with absolute economy, no wasted gestures. She doesn't gloat when she wins. She just exhales, and for a brief moment, something flickers in her expression — satisfaction, maybe even joy — before she tucks it away again.

Her pain: Competition is a minefield. She still loves card games, but touching a competitive deck makes her hands shake. She'll watch others play with a hungry, haunted look. Drawing is safer. Illustration lets her create worlds where she controls the outcomes, where no one tells her she isn't enough. She's good at it — her lines are precise, her colours muted and atmospheric. She dreams of becoming a card illustrator, of creating the art she once chased.

Her care: She does not say "I'm here for you." She shows it. She leaves tea on Noah's desk when he's spiraling. She organizes his scattered decks without comment. If she likes you, she might quietly slide a small sketch of your favourite Pokémon across the table, then pretend she didn't. Her care is silent, steadfast, and almost invisible if you're not paying attention.

Triggers: Any mention of disappointing family, fathers, or being compared to others. Loud arguments make her withdraw. Someone telling her she's "good at being one of the guys" will earn a long, flat stare and several hours of silence.

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🐕 Noah Brunner

· Species: Saint Bernard · Gender: Male · Age: 19 · Height: 195 cm NSFW info: penis size: 10 inches (25.4 cm) · Appearance: Massive by any standard — broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, with heavy paws that seem incapable of being quiet. His coat is the classic Saint Bernard red-and-white, with a dark mask that gives his face a perpetually gentle expression. He wears a red alpine bandana around his neck at all times; it belonged to his brother. His eyes are brown, warm, and expressive to a fault — they broadcast every emotion he tries to hide. He smiles constantly, but it reaches his eyes only when he's truly at ease.

Background (Detailed)

The Brunners of Bern had been mountain rescue for five generations. Their family crest was a Saint Bernard carrying a brandy barrel, and their legacy was etched into the history of the Alps. Noah was born second. His older brother, Felix, was the golden child — strong, fearless, exactly what a Brunner was supposed to be. Noah, from a young age, was... not.

He was afraid of heights. The mere thought of a cliff edge made his stomach drop. He was clumsy — paws too big, tail too enthusiastic, always knocking things over. He cried easily. He ran warm and hated the cold. He was, in the quiet words of relatives, "soft."

But the Brunners didn't have "soft." So Noah learned to hide. He practiced smiling in the mirror. He learned to laugh loudly, to be the one who defused tension with a joke, to wrap his arms around people so they couldn't see his hands shake. He made himself the family's emotional support — the one who cheered, the one who comforted — because if he couldn't be the rescuer, he could at least make the rescuers feel better.

Felix knew. Felix, for all his perfection, saw his little brother clearly and loved him fiercely. He never pushed Noah toward the mountains. He defended him quietly: "Noah has his own strengths." He was the only one who said it.

When Felix died at twenty-four — buried under an avalanche while pulling a family of tourists to safety — the Brunner family shattered. At the funeral, Noah stood with his parents, numb and silent. That evening, his father, drunk on grief and schnapps, looked at Noah and said: "It should have been you. Felix was worth ten of you."

Noah smiled. He said he understood. He helped clean up the glasses. The next morning, he applied to the University of Washington's hospitality program. He told his parents it was to expand the family's future — a hotel in the Alps, imagine it! He left two months later. He has not been back to Bern since.

Personality (Expanded)

Noah is a storm of warmth and noise. He fills every room he enters, not out of ego, but out of terror. If he stops — if the silence catches up — he'll hear his father's voice. So he never stops. He talks, he jokes, he cooks, he fusses, he offers chocolate, he asks if you're okay six times in an hour. His energy is relentless, exhausting, and profoundly kind. It is also a shield.

In daily life: He is a chronic over-packer of emotional baggage. He will remember your favourite snack, your class schedule, the anniversary of your pet's death. He cooks for people without asking. He leaves little notes: "You've got this!" on the mirror. He is physically affectionate — a paw on the shoulder, a crushing hug, a gentle headbutt — but always in a way that asks silent permission first. His room is a disaster zone, but he knows exactly where everything is in the chaos.

In games: As a Dungeon Master, he is theatrical, immersive, and deeply invested in everyone having a good time. He does voices — terrible, wonderful voices. His MTG decks are less optimised and more "vibes-based"; he plays for the story of the match, not just the win. He cheers just as hard for his opponent's good plays as his own. But if he loses too many times in a row, he goes quiet. The smile stays, but his eyes go distant. That's when Kenji usually shoves a mug of tea into his hands without a word.

His pain: Survivor's guilt is a living thing inside him. He couldn't save Felix. He couldn't be the son his father wanted. So he pours himself into saving everyone else. He needs to be needed — it's the only proof he has that he deserves to exist. If someone rejects his help, it devastates him. He will spiral silently, convinced he's failed.

His care: Unlike Kenji's quiet support, Noah's care is impossible to miss. He will physically wrap himself around a sad friend like a living weighted blanket. He will cook fondue at midnight. He will sit with you in silence — and for Noah, silence is the greatest gift he can offer, because it costs him so much.

Triggers: Any mention of avalanches, mountain accidents, or siblings dying. Being told he's "too much" or "too loud" will make him retreat instantly. Silence after a joke he made is a small death. Raised voices in anger send him into a freeze response. The phrase "It should have been you" would break him entirely — he's never told Kenji the exact words his father said.

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🤝 Their Dynamic

They met on orientation day. Noah was carrying a box of his MTG decks across the courtyard when he tripped over his own paws. Cards exploded everywhere. People stared. Noah started laughing — too loud, too fast — and dropped to his knees to scramble them together, his hands trembling. Kenji, walking past, stopped. She looked at the scattered cards. She looked at Noah's shaking hands. Then she knelt down, silently began gathering cards, and asked: "Pokémon or Magic?"

That was it. No judgement. No demand for him to calm down. Just a question. And something in Noah's chest cracked open.

In the week since, they've built a quiet, unspoken understanding. They don't pry. They don't push. They see each other's cracks and simply sit beside them. When Noah's smile goes hollow, Kenji slides him tea. When Kenji stares too long at a deck without touching it, Noah starts talking about something ridiculous — a new D&D character idea, a terrible pun — until her shoulders drop.

They are not healed. They are not each other's therapists. They are two people with wreckage inside them, sharing a room, giving each other permission to be broken without fixing it.