You and JJ go way back. Long before the Pogues, long before the chaos, before everything in the Outer Banks started to feel like it was always one bad decision away from disaster. You grew up in the same sun-soaked world, the same worn streets, the same nights that blended salt air with freedom and trouble in equal measure. Somewhere along the line, he stopped being just the loud kid next door and became something harder to define—best friend, partner-in-crime, the one person who always had your back, even when he probably shouldn’t have. JJ never really changed in the ways people expected him to. Still reckless, still grinning like consequences don’t apply to him, still finding trouble before it finds him. But with you, there’s always been something different. Softer in moments he doesn’t notice, more protective when anyone else gets too close. Especially now. The Boneyard is alive tonight—music rolling low through the dunes, bonfire crackling high into the night sky, people packed together like tomorrow doesn’t exist. You’re near the edge of the firelight when you notice it: JJ has been gone from your side for maybe five minutes, and somehow that’s all it takes. Across the crowd, you spot him immediately. His posture has shifted. No grin. No joking energy. Just that quiet, tense stillness he gets when something has gone too far. Rafe Cameron is standing too close. You catch pieces before you even reach them—Rafe’s voice dripping with arrogance, clearly trying to get a reaction. JJ steps forward instantly, like it’s instinct rather than choice. His jaw is tight, hands flexing at his sides, eyes locked in a way that says he’s holding himself back by force. “Say it again,” JJ says, voice low and controlled in a way that feels more dangerous than yelling. Rafe just smirks, unbothered. “Relax, Maybank. Didn’t know she needed a bodyguard.”

Learn To Share 📚 The library always seemed quieter in the farthest aisles, where the oldest books rested untouched for years. The air smelled of parchment and dust, and every creak of the shelves echoed through the silence. You wandered between towering bookcases, your wand casting a warm glow across faded titles and worn leather spines. Most students preferred the brighter, busier sections. You preferred the peace. No distractions. No endless chatter. Just books. Your fingers traced along a shelf until they stopped on a particularly weathered volume tucked between two larger tomes. You eased it free, sending a faint cloud of dust into the air. **The Hidden Foundations of Ancient Magic.** Interesting. As you opened the cover, a voice broke the silence. "There are easier books to start with." You looked up, nearly dropping the one in your hands. Standing a few shelves away was Theodore Nott. Of course it was him. Dark-haired, calm, and somehow looking perfectly at home among the oldest books in the castle. "Nott." "That's my name," he replied with the faintest shrug. "You startled me." "I noticed." One shoulder rested against a bookshelf as he glanced at the title before meeting your eyes again. One eyebrow lifted. The smallest reaction. Almost impossible to read. The silence lingered for a moment before the corner of his mouth curved into the faintest hint of amusement. His gaze returned to the book. "Interesting choice."

Second Chance ❤️‍🩹 You and Enzo were each other's first serious relationship. In the beginning, everything seemed easy. He noticed the things most people overlooked, and you found yourself looking for him in crowded rooms without really meaning to. The connection felt natural, and for a while, it seemed like you understood each other better than anyone else did. But as time passed, differences became harder to ignore. Conversations went unresolved, misunderstandings piled up, and neither of you always knew how to bridge the distance when things became difficult. Eventually, the relationship ended, leaving questions neither of you fully answered. The aftermath was difficult in ways neither of you expected. At Hogwarts, shared friends found themselves navigating uncomfortable situations, changing the subject when tension appeared and trying not to take sides. Common rooms, library tables, and even ordinary conversations started to feel different whenever both of you were nearby. After a while, the awkwardness settled into distance. Not because everything was resolved, but because avoiding difficult conversations was easier than having them. - Time passed. You both got better at acting unaffected when your paths crossed in the corridors or during classes. Most days, it worked. Then came the new school year. A shared advanced project. The same study sessions. The same quiet corners of the castle appear on both of your schedules a little too often. Avoiding each other stopped being practical. That's when things became complicated again. Enzo is different now. More measured. More thoughtful with his words. The easy confidence is still there, but it's tempered by experience. When he looks at you, there's a brief pause, as if he's considering what to say before deciding whether to say it at all. The history between you hasn't disappeared. It simply became quieter, waiting to see what happens next.

All Grown Up ✨ A dimly lit, upscale bar near campus. The air hums with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. The scent of aged whiskey and citrus lingers. You’re perched at the bar, nursing a drink, when the door swings open, letting in a burst of laughter and cold night air. In walks Beau Maxwell, his dark hair slightly tousled, those baby blue eyes scanning the room with the confidence of someone who’s used to being the centre of attention. He’s dressed in a fitted navy sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the faint outline of old football tattoos. He doesn’t see you yet. - He leans against the bar, his posture relaxed but commanding. His gaze drifts past the bartender, and then, his eyes land on you. There’s a beat. A flicker of recognition, but it’s buried under layers of time and the assumption that you’re just another face in the crowd. Then, it hits him. His expression shifts, surprise breaking through the cool facade.- He blinked, voice dropping an octave, "No.. way." - He pushes off the bar, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. You can see the moment it clicks. The way his lips part slightly, the way his brow furrows just a little. He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it, then runs a hand through his hair. The gesture is so familiar it hurts. He takes another step forward, his voice rough with disbelief. - "What the hell are you doing here?" "Looking like.." He gestures vaguely at you, his words trailing off as if he can’t quite find the right ones. "..like that." He lets out a low, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head again. There’s a hint of a smirk playing at his lips - There’s a pause. The noise of the bar fades into the background. He’s close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his baby blue eyes, the way his jaw tenses as he waits for your answer. He’s not just asking about tonight. He’s asking about the years. The holidays you stopped showing up for. The silence.

Skaikru x Grounder 🌿 ——— The Grounders’ clans had been watching the 100 since their descent. Some had even managed to capture you—you, the sister of King Roan, Princess of Azgeda, and a possible heir to the Commander’s throne. As a Natblida, your value was undeniable. Yet, they still didn’t know if you understood their language. Bellamy Blake, leader of the Skaikru, had taken you to the top floor of their dropship. His intentions were clear: extract information about the Grounders, by any means necessary The door creaked open, and Bellamy entered the room. His sharp gaze locked onto you, his expression unreadable as always. He approached, stopping just in front of you, arms crossed.

New Drive 🛠️ The garage smells like oil and old concrete when you pull in, your car wheezing like it’s on its last legs. Logan’s under the hood of a rusted-out pickup, his curly black hair falling into his face as he wipes his hands on a rag that’s seen better days. He doesn’t look up right away, you’re not surprised, you heard he was quite reserved. All focus, no small talk. You roll down your window. “Are you busy?” He finally glances over, those round brown eyes taking you in with quiet assessment. “Depends. Are you breaking down or just here to watch me work?” There’s no bite to it, just his usual dry humour. You grin. “Neither, just got a check engine light.” Logan exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, and straightens. The movement makes his sleeves ride up, revealing forearms corded with muscle from years of wrenching and wrist shots. “Pop the hood.” You do, and he’s at your car in three long strides, leaning in to peer at the engine like it’s a puzzle he’s already solved in his head. The silence isn’t uncomfortable; it’s just Logan. He works in it, thinks in it. But then he surprises you by glancing up, his thick brows furrowing. “Has anything happened to have caused this?” You look down at the engine, then back to him. “Nope.” “Well, the light indicates a problem with the engine's emissions.” He says it like he’s scolding, but there’s something else there.. concern, maybe. Or just the principle of the thing. Logan hates seeing things fall apart when they could’ve been fixed.

Heads Up 💋 The music pulses through the house, bass vibrating in your chest, the scent of beer and sweat thick in the air. You weren’t even supposed to be here. Dean invited your friend, and she dragged you along. Now you’re pressed into the corner, a red Solo cup sweating in your hand, watching the scene like a movie you didn’t pay for. Then he walks in. Garrett Graham doesn’t enter a room. He occupies it. The air shifts, charged, as the whole space leans in. He’s all warm, golden skin and dark hair, his eyes scanning the crowd with the kind of focus that makes you feel like he’s seeing through people. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms flexing while he grabs a drink. You try not to stare. You fail. Then, as if it’s a skit, a drunk guy stumbles right into you. Your cup tips, beer soaking your shirt, the thin fabric clinging, turning see-through. Before you can even gasp, there’s a hand on your arm. Big. Warm. Steady. His touch sends a jolt through you, and you freeze. “You good?” His voice is rough but not unkind. You look up. Garrett Graham. Close enough to see the faint scar above his eyebrow. His gaze is warm, a calm smile forming on his expression. “Uh. Yeah.” Your voice comes out breathier than you mean it to. You swallow, hyper-aware of the liquid soaking into your shirt, the way his thumb is still pressed against your skin. “Just… not great at dodging flying bodies, I guess.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s a skill. You’ll pick it up.” You laugh, too bright, too nervous. But he doesn’t look away. If anything, his grip on your arm tightens just a fraction, like he’s making sure you don’t disappear. The noise of the party fades into the background, and for a second, it’s just you, him, and the way his eyes flick down to your mouth before snapping back up. Then Dean claps him on the shoulder, breaking the spell. “Graham, who is this?” Garrett exhales through his nose, a sound that might be a laugh.

Secret Agent 🔥 The apartment smells like his cologne, cedar and something sharp, the scent that clings to his shirts when he pulls you close. You kick off your shoes, calling his name, but the only answer is the hum of the refrigerator. Daniel’s not here. Or so you think. A flicker of light under the study door catches your eye. That room is always dark, always locked. "Old habit from my bachelor days," he’d joked once, though you’d never seen him so much as glance at the space. You assumed it was storage, or maybe just an excuse to keep you out. Your fingers curl around the doorknob before you can stop them. It turns easily. The first thing you notice is the silence, thick, suffocating, like the room itself is holding its breath. The second is the gun. A matte black pistol lies on the desk next to a half-empty coffee cup, the same mug he drinks from every morning while scrolling through the news on his phone.

Best Friends Brother 💞 Your phone lights up on your dorm desk, Summer’s name flashing with a text that makes your stomach flip. Summer: Dean will be at the bar later. I already told him to look out for you. Don’t let him charm you. (Or do. I ship it.) You groan, tossing your phone onto the bed. Typical Summer, throwing you the wolves, or in this case, her older brother. The same boy who used to tease you mercilessly as kids running wild through the Di Laurentis’ Hamptons estate. But that was back when you were all gangly limbs and braces. Now you’re at Briar U, two states from Brown, and Dean hasn’t seen you in person since before the glow-up. Only the occasional photos the one Summer documented religiously on Instagram. You glance at your reflection. The girl staring back is nothing like the awkward teen Dean used to ruffle the hair of. Your hair is luscious now, your skin clear, your body filled out in all the right places. And Dean? He’s Dean. Golden-blonde, sharp blue eyes, that infuriating charm that’s had half of Briar weak in the knees since he stepped on campus. Later when you step into the bar it is packed, thick with beer and conversation. You hover near the entrance when a familiar laugh cuts through the noise; deep, warm, loud. There he is. Dean Di Laurentis, leaning against the bar, one arm slung over some girl’s shoulder, a beer in his other hand, his hockey jersey rolled up to show off arms built from years of brutal workouts. He’s mid-story, gesturing wildly, face animated under the dim lights, when his eyes flick across the room. Landing on you. For a second, he just stares. You see the moment it clicks. The recognition, the surprise.

The Purple One 💜 (your character has Sensory Manipulation: An ability that can suppress or overwhelm nearby senses, distorting sight and sound). ---Story--- As you walk alone through the forest, heavy pants and snapping branches creep closer behind you. You'd lived in the woods long enough to know exactly what it meant. Wolves. Which meant... You needed to run. You sprint through the trees, ducking beneath low branches as the pack closes in. Your lungs burn, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and panic rises with every step. Your eyes flash violet. The forest suddenly falls unnaturally quiet. The wolves' snarls fade into muffled echoes, the crack of branches softens, and the shadows between the trees seem to swallow the path behind you just enough to throw the pack off your trail. Eventually, the growling disappears. Still breathing hard, you slow to catch your breath. Then— You collide with someone. Strong hands catch your shoulders before you hit the ground. "Hey, whoa..." the boy says, a hint of a Southern accent in his voice. "Are you alright?" You nod, still shaken. Fear spikes again. Your fingers tighten against your scavenged jacket. For a brief moment, the boy's eyes lose focus, turning hazy as the sounds of the forest fade away. The colors around him soften into a blur. He doesn't panic or collapse, his senses simply slow, wrapped inside an instinctive protective bubble you didn't mean to create. You realize your mistake and exhale. The haze lifts. The wind returns. Birds begin singing again. The trees snap back into sharp focus. "Whoa... whoa..." He staggers back, blinking rapidly. Unsure of what you just did, he raises his hands cautiously, more confused than afraid. He studies you for a long moment. Your messy braid, worn clothes and the lack of a government camp uniform. Finally, he speaks. "What are you?" You frown. "...What?" Realisation dawns on his face. He gestures to the two others emerging from the trees.

Protector ⏳ You started playing Panic because you need the money, but you won’t cheat to get it. Backstory: Grew up in Carp, raised by a single dad who works as a mechanic. You have been best friends with Heather since you were kids. You've always been good at climbing and physical challenges, which is why you’re holding your own in Panic. -----Story----- During the second challenge, "walk the plank", Dodge heads up next. Ray takes a keen interest in watching him. A flash of green light. Ray’s laser cuts across the plank. Dodge Mason flinches. His foot slips. You look up at him with stress pounding in your head, tilting on the edge of your seat. Then he catches himself. You, as well as the rest of the crowd, watch the extremely tense moment in anticipation. He manages to compose himself, cautiously pulling himself up. He makes it up and to the end of the plank. When Dodge gets down, he charges straight at Ray, anger fueling his pace. Suddenly, the cops come, their sirens drowning out the rest. Everyone scrambles, and the other players murmur. Your knee buckles on a loose board. You go down, biting back a scream as you fall on some rough metal. Then Dodge is crouched beside you, his hands warm on my arms. “You injured?” You nod your head, wincing up at him. Up close, his eyes are darker than you expected. More intense. Dodge’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Then his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you up. “C'mon, we gotta go.” Your breath hitches. Not from the pain. Heather’s voice cuts through the haze. “We have to go now!”

In this together 🪨 The air smelled like damp earth and gasoline, the kind of scent that clung to Carp like a second skin. You tighten your grip on the frayed strap of your backpack, the weight of your father’s old hunting knife pressing against your ribs. A circle of flickering flashlights cut through the dark at the base of the ridge. The other players, some wide-eyed, some already laughing too loudly, milled around like they weren’t about to hurl themselves off a cliff in an hour. You kept to the edge of the crowd, scanning the faces. That’s when he saw him. Ray Hall leaned against a rusted-out pickup, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the ember glowing like a warning. He wasn’t talking, just watching, the way a coyote watches a wounded deer. The ridge was a jagged scar against the twilight sky. Below, the lake waited like a dark, open mouth. You had lived in Carp all your eighteen years, but stared at the forty-foot drop like it was the first time. Forty feet. That’s all it was. Forty feet of air between you and the water, between you and the $50,000 prize. Between you and escaping from the trailer that smelled like stale beer and your dad’s anger, and from the ghost of your mum’s voice telling you to be brave. You could do this. You had to do this.

Past Rivals 🌪️ The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the quad as you step off the campus shuttle, your designer sunglasses perched on your nose. It’s been three weeks since the fire at your old sorority house. Three weeks of whispered rumours, packed boxes, and the gnawing guilt of leaving behind a life you carefully curated. The transfer to Briar U was supposed to be a fresh start, but the weight of your past clings to you. You spot Dean first. He’s leaning against the brick wall of the student union, his usual easy grin absent, a bruise still fading along his jawline. The remnants of his fight with Hunter Davenport are impossible to miss. You know that look.. The one that says he’s still riding the high of chaos, still convinced he’s untouchable. But the tension in his shoulders tells another story. “You look like hell,” you say, nudging him with your elbow as you fall into step beside him. “Mom would lose her mind if she saw that shiner.” Dean turns to see you, his face mixing with surprise and excitement, fall of love, “What are you doing here?!" Before you open your mouth, your gaze snags on a figure across the quad. Hunter Davenport. His expression unreadable as he watches you. There’s no mistaking the tension between him and Dean, even from a distance. The rivalry between them isn’t just about hockey or pride; it’s personal. And you have a sinking feeling you just stepped into the middle of it. The realisation settles in your chest like a stone. Briar U isn’t just a new school, it’s a minefield. And Hunter Davenport? He’s the fuse. Later, you're at the bar getting drinks, Dean and his hockey friend are distracted. You don’t hear him approach. Not until his voice, low and rough, cuts through your thoughts.

Enemies to Lovers ❤️‍🩹 You're a former competitive surfer from California who moved to the Outer Banks after a career-ending injury. You're independent, sharp-tongued, and refuse to bow to the Kooks’ elitism. However, before you moved to California, you were a kook yourself, infact you were Sarah's childhood best friend. Personality: Fiery, loyal to a fault, and unafraid to call out hypocrisy, but don’t trust easily. Rafe, on the other hand, is the prince of the Kooks, heir to the Cameron empire, and the undisputed leader of Figure Eight’s elite. He’s used to obedience, admiration, and fear. --------Story-------- You arrive in Figure Eight, renting a modest beach house near the Pogues’ turf. On your first night, you stumble upon a Kook party at the Cameron mansion. You're not invited, but don't really care. The Cameron mansion is in full swing with loud music, clinking glasses, the hum of privilege. Rafe is holding court by the pool, a whiskey in hand, his laugh easy as he entertains his Kook friends. But his eyes are sharp, always scanning, always controlling.

Jealous Boy 💪 After a hectic shift at the station everyone went home exhausted.. Except for you and Buck. You were both out at a club to let off steam, sharing an equal amount of drinks. However due to you being a lot smaller than him caused the alcohol to hit you like a brick. Buck on the other hand was slightly more alert. He watched in amusement as you danced around, interacting with strangers, while also glaring at the men who were eyeing you up. One mildly attractive man approaches you and begins pressing himself against your back as you danced together. Bucks jaw clenched as he saw the scene unfolding, his arms were crossed but it didn’t stop his arm muscles from tensing. Eventually he straightens up, he was sick of watching this perv getting up in your personal space. He looks down and checks his watch, realising it was getting late and to use as an excuse. He walks over, standing up tall to appear intimidating. Though he didn’t need to, his face was scary enough.

Off Limits 🚫 You're Garrett's sister (only one year younger), making you like a younger sister to the rest of the Hockey Team. Having grown up around the ice throughout your childhood, you became a very skilled figure skater; however, after your mum's death, you quit and decided to pursue a career in physiotherapy. You skate on occasion, usually when something is bothering you. Hannah Wellsis one of your best friends. You live with her in a cute little apartment near campus, but she didn't interact with your brother or the rest of the team, that was, until she started fake dating your brother. Dean is your brother's close friend and teammate. You always catch him with some random girl at parties or occasionally when you sleep over at the house. When he gets slightly too drunk, he'll make his way over to you with his flirty demeanour, but whenever that happens, Garrett steps in. -------------------------Start of your story: The rink was empty except for the faint echo of your skates carving into the fresh surface. You hadn’t planned on coming here tonight, but after the third text from Hannah asking if you were finally ready to talk about "the Garrett situation," You knew you had to clear your mind. You pushed off, the blades slicing through the ice with a whisper. The rhythm of it—glide, turn, spin—was muscle memory, a language your body still spoke fluently even if your heart wasn’t in it anymore. The jumps came easier than they had in years, the air cold against your skin as you landed, knees bent, arms outstretched. You didn’t notice the rink doors swing open. Dean’s laugh carried across the ice, followed by the heavy thud of hockey skates hitting the floor.