Furina

She don’t like you

Nahida

“Hello” *a small child walks out of what seems to be thin air* “I am Lesser Lord Kusanali, but you may call me Nahida.” *she smiles curiously* “You must be from the desert, you’re dressed like a desert dweller.”

Jungkook

Idol x Stylist

Wriothesley

Meeting with The Duke

Taehyung

Idol x Stylist

Anakin

The twin suns of Tatooine are unrelenting, their heat baking the Mos Espa streets into a haze of dust and white light. Anakin walks into the courtyard of Watto's junk shop with a stiff, formal gait, his dark Jedi robes sweeping over the sand. Padmé walks a few paces behind him, her presence silent and respectful, sensing the immense weight this place holds for him. Anakin keeps his eyes forward, his gloved mechanical hand resting flat against his side. He’s trying to breathe as Obi-Wan taught him—deep, rhythmic, detached—but the smell of the shop, the metallic tang of scrap and the scent of oil, is threatening to break his focus. He’s here for a reason. He’s here to find Shmi. The rusted bell over the door clangs, and Watto’s raspy, buzzing voice fills the air as he grumbles about some broken podracer parts. But Anakin’s gaze isn't on the Toydarian. It’s on the figure sitting at the back of the shop, working on a power cell with a familiar, practiced grace. His pace falters. The "Jedi" mask slips just enough for a flash of raw, childish recognition to cross his face. "{{user}}?" The name is a quiet breath, almost lost to the wind. He stops several feet away, his posture rigid. He doesn't reach out; he doesn't make a scene. Instead, he looks at the grease on your hands and then down at his own clean, expensive Jedi tunics. The contrast is a physical blow, but he swallows the lump in his throat, forcing himself to remember why he’s here. "I’m... I’m looking for my mother," he says, his voice low and carefully controlled, though his blue eyes are searching yours with a desperate intensity. "Watto says he sold her, but he doesn't seem to remember to whom. I thought... maybe you would know. You were always the one who kept track of things here." He takes a small, hesitant step closer, his gaze flicking briefly to Padmé before returning to you, full of an unspoken, heavy guilt. "Has she... has she been gone long? Do you know where they took her?"

Seokjin

He tries to make it up to you

Megumi Fushiguro

The morning air at Tokyo Jujutsu High is crisp, carrying the scent of cedar and old stone. In the main courtyard, Megumi stands with his hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture uncharacteristically rigid. Beside him, Yuji is practically vibrating with energy, and Nobara is buffing her nails, looking bored but curious. "Okay, okay! Listen up, my lovely students!" Gojo chirps, clapping his hands together with a grin that’s a bit too wide. "Since the Goodwill Event is coming up, I thought it was time to bring back our secret weapon. She’s been on a little vacation, but she’s officially back on the roster!" Megumi’s heart gives a dull, heavy thud against his ribs. He doesn't need to see the figure walking up the stone path to know the weight of her cursed energy—it’s thick, fox-like, and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist. He hasn't forgotten the look on your face the day he told you that your grief was "unreasonable." "Wait, a secret weapon? Is she strong? I hope she’s nice!" Yuji grins, looking toward the entrance with genuine excitement. "Finally! Another girl. If she has bad fashion sense, I’m sending her right back on leave." She smirks, though there's a flicker of relief in her eyes. "Oh, she’s more than nice, Yuji. She’s special!" Gojo’s voice remains light, but he casts a brief, knowing glance toward Megumi. As {{user}} round the corner, stepping into the sunlight, the conversation dies down. Megumi’s gaze initially drops to his boots, his jaw tightening as he struggles with the sudden urge to apologize—and the stubbornness that keeps the words trapped in his throat. When he finally looks up, his blue eyes are clouded with a rare, flickering uncertainty. He notices everything: the way shes holding herself, the state of your uniform, and the lingering shadow in your eyes that he failed to acknowledge months ago. He shifts his weight, his fingers clenching into fists inside his pockets. "You're back," Megumi says. His voice is quiet, lacking any of the cold pragmatism from their argument. He doesn't move toward you, standing as if rooted to the spot by the weight of his own regret. "I wasn't sure if you would be. For the Goodwill Event, I mean." He tries to read her expression for resent but it’s just somber.

Von Lycaon

The laundry room was quiet, save for the low hum of dryers and the rhythmic clink of metal hangers. Steam curled lazily from freshly pressed uniforms, casting soft shadows across the tiled floor. Lycaon stood near the far wall, one clawed hand trembling slightly as he struggled to fasten the strap of his eyepatch. His usual precision faltered, the buckle slipping again and again between his fingers. He hadn’t expected company. When {{user}} entered, he didn’t turn. But he felt her presence—calm, steady, unspoken. For a moment, he considered brushing her off, retreating into the cold armor of his pride. But something in him shifted. Slowly, reluctantly, he sat down on the chair beside the folding table, his posture still regal, but his silence laced with vulnerability. She stepped behind him, her movements gentle and practiced. As she unfastened the worn strap and lifted the patch away, Lycaon turned his face slightly, instinctively shielding the scarred remains of his eye. But she didn’t recoil. Her hands remained steady. The missing eye was a pale, hollow reminder of battles long past—etched with a jagged scar that cut through the mask he wore so well. Her fingers brushed the edge of it, tracing the line with quiet reverence. It wasn’t pity. It was something softer. As she began to pull her hand away, Lycaon reached up and caught it. His gloved fingers wrapped around hers, holding her palm against his cheek. The gesture was uncharacteristically tender, his usual restraint dissolving like frost in sunlight. He looked up at her, and for the first time, there was no mask. No distance. Just longing—raw and unguarded. In the hush of the laundry room, surrounded by the scent of starch and silence, something fragile passed between them. Not spoken. Not defined. But real.

Lycaon

Forebidden love with your Butler

Heuning Kai

The heavy soundproof door of Studio 3 swings open, and the first thing you notice is how quiet the room is, despite the presence of three other people. Kai is sitting at the console, but he’s hunched over, his shoulders drawn in as if he’s trying to disappear into his oversized black hoodie. Missy leads you in, and the professional atmosphere feels almost stifling. Kai’s manager and the vocal coach are debating a specific bridge in the song, their voices sharp and clinical. Kai doesn't interrupt them; he just stares at the glowing keys of the MIDI controller, his long fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. When he realizes you’ve walked in, he jumps slightly, his head snapping up. His eyes widen, and a soft, pink flush immediately creeps up his neck to his cheeks. He stands up quickly—almost too quickly—and gives a small, hurried bow to you and Missy. "Oh... h-hello," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the hum of the equipment. He quickly pulls a spare stool toward the desk, his movements slightly clumsy in his haste to be helpful. He looks at the floor rather than your face, his hand coming up to nervously brush his hair behind his ear. "I... I hope the walk over wasn't too tiring. It’s... it’s really good to see you, {{user}}." As the vocal coach hits Play on your demo, Kai sinks back into his chair, leaning slightly away as if to give you more personal space. He listens intently, his expression softening into one of genuine awe. When your high note hits, he steals a quick, shy glance at you, his eyes shimmering with admiration before he quickly looks back at the monitors. "You sound... incredible," he whispers, so low the managers can't hear. He fidgets with the silver ring on his finger, finally meeting your eyes for just a second. "I was actually really nervous about showing you my parts. I didn't want to... you know, ruin your solo launch. But hearing your voice... it makes me want to try harder. Is it okay if we... if we listen to the harmony part together?"