Carson Blake

❝ Your Dads Enemy ❞

Clyde

❝ Your Mafia Boss Husband ❞

Tyler Rojas

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Football Players | SFW

Parker

❝ Older Brothers ❞

Carlos

❝ Silent Treatment ❞

Andre

❝ Piercings ❞

Max

❝ The New Student ❞

Xander Coxx

ᯓᡣ𐭩 College Parties | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ⭑.ᐟ

Nate

❝ Life Saver ❞

Wyatt

❝ Enemies Son ❞

Gabriel

❝ Your Assassin Husband ❞

Ethan

❝ Your Race Car Driver Boyfriend ❞

Santiago

❝ Mysterious Motorcyclist ❞

Axel

❝ Sneaking In ❞

Mr Thompson

❝ Bad Mornings ❞

Daniel

❝ Something.. Different ❞

Chris

❝ Your Childhood Best Friend ❞

Perstephani Beaumont

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Velvet Room | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

August

❝ An Artists Muse ❞

Jaylynn

❝ Just Your Friend ❞

Amir

❝ Late Night ❞

Maleek

❝ Automotives ❞

Vivienne Cross

Vivienne had been driving for six hours straight, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against the steering wheel in rhythm with the latest pop hit blaring from her speakers. The scholarship letter sat on her passenger seat—full ride to Westmore University, with their elite dance program basically rolling out a red carpet for her arrival. Of course they did. She was Vivienne Cross; people didn't say no to her. The drive had been boring as hell, nothing but highway and her own thoughts, which kept circling back to the fact that her boyfriend couldn't even be bothered to come see her off. Whatever. His loss. She was about to become the prima donna of an entire dance program, and he was back home working some dead-end job. She'd outgrown him months ago anyway. Then the car started making this weird grinding noise. At first she ignored it—probably just some random sound, probably nothing. But then the engine sputtered. And then it died completely, coasting to a pathetic stop on the side of the highway like some kind of sick animal. Vivienne sat there for a full minute, staring at the steering wheel in disbelief, as if sheer force of will could make the engine restart. It didn't. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" she snapped, as if the car could hear her. She tried the ignition again. And again. Nothing but an ugly grinding sound that made her wince. Her perfect arrival timeline was already crumbling, and her new university was expecting her to move into the dance studio dorms by tonight. A tow truck showed up forty minutes later—forty minutes of Vivienne sitting in her car scrolling through social media, watching all the posts of other dancers getting ready for their new semesters, watching them celebrate their opportunities. The tow truck driver was older, weathered, and didn't seem particularly impressed when she climbed out of the car in her designer athleisure wear and oversized sunglasses. "Engine's probably shot," he said, barely glancing at her as he hooked up her car. "We'll get it to the shop, they'll figure it out." The auto shop was small and grimy, the kind of place Vivienne would normally never set foot in. The waiting area smelled like motor oil and stale coffee, and the magazines on the table were from like 2019. She sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair, one leg bouncing with agitation, checking her phone every thirty seconds. Her brother had texted asking if she'd made it safely. Her best friend had sent three selfies from some party. Her boyfriend—nothing, as expected. "Vivienne Cross?" A guy emerged from the back, wiping his hands on an already-dirty rag. "Finally," she said, standing up sharply. "I've been waiting forever. I need my car fixed immediately. Like, today immediately. I have a scholarship waiting for me at Westmore—I'm a professional dancer, actually—and I cannot miss my move-in date because some piece of shit car decided to break down in the middle of nowhere."

Hunter

❝ Stressful Nights ❞

Nia Long

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Briar Cliff | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Leilani Monroe

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Phantom Pains | N/SFW

Jonathan

❝ Farmer Boy ❞

Dorian Morrison

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Dealbreaker | N/SFW

Aeliana Toussaint

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Country Skies | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Armani Malverez

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Desert Rose | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Sophia Volkav

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Courting Night | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Alvin Draven

Alvin had never been one for meetings, especially not the pretentious clusterfuck that was the Student Government Association's leadership summit. But here he was, trudging through the corridors of Draven Hall—yes, his family literally had a building named after them, which only made everything worse—with a stack of meticulously organized papers that represented his father's expectations wrapped up in bureaucratic form. Vice President. Not President. His father had made his displeasure abundantly clear during their last phone call, something about "disappointing the family legacy" and "lacking the killer instinct required for true leadership." As if running an organization at a college full of supernaturals was the same as maintaining centuries of vampire nobility. The thing was, Alvin didn't even want to be Vice President. He'd been nominated by some well-meaning classmates who apparently thought his cold demeanor and natural authority made him "leadership material." What they didn't understand was that his coldness was armor, and his authority came from centuries of blood and privilege, not actual competence at planning student events. But refusing would've sparked questions, and questions led to his father finding out he'd declined something, which led to lectures about duty and legacy and all that suffocating aristocratic bullshit. He was dressed impeccably for the meeting, of course. Black designer suit tailored to perfection, his long dark hair swept back with practiced elegance, the spike bracelets on his wrists catching the fluorescent light of the hallway. He looked every bit the SS-Class vampire royalty everyone expected him to be. What they didn't see was the way his fingers kept fidgeting with those bracelets, betraying the irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior. The meeting was supposed to start in ten minutes, and he'd been almost there when he realized—with the kind of internal curse that only centuries of existence allowed—that he'd left the printer room without the stack of papers. The ones his father had personally reviewed. The ones with notes in the margins about "proper organizational structure" and "maintaining standards." He couldn't show up without them. His father would somehow know, would sense the incompleteness like a bloodhound on a trail. So back he went, moving with the supernatural speed he usually kept carefully restrained in public spaces. The hallways were mostly empty at this hour, students either in class or lurking in their dorm rooms. He made good time, his black boots echoing faintly against the tile as he navigated back toward the administrative wing. The printer room was a utilitarian space—white walls, the low hum of machines, the vague smell of toner and paper that always made him slightly nauseous. He stepped through the doorway without looking up, already reaching toward the printer tray where he'd left his stack, and then— He walked directly through someone. It wasn't a collision in the traditional sense. It was more like walking through a wall of ice water, a sudden shock of cold that made his entire body shudder involuntarily. For a split second, he felt *them*—the presence of another being, their essence rippling through his supernatural senses like a stone dropped in still water. Then they solidified back into physical form, and he was suddenly very aware that he'd just committed the cardinal sin of walking through what appeared to be a person. "Fuck," Alvin muttered, more out of surprise than anything else. His dark, hollow eyes focused on the figure in front of him, taking in details with the preternatural speed of a vampire's perception. The moment stretched, that initial shock of contact still tingling across his skin in a way that was distinctly unusual. He steadied himself, one hand instinctively reaching for his spike bracelet as a grounding mechanism. His demeanor shifted into something more measured, more controlled. "I apologize," he said, his voice carrying that carefully modulated tone he used in formal settings.

Maverick Downey

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Late Nights Melancholy | ANGST/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ .

Vivienne Cross

Vivienne had always hated the mandatory general education requirements. Dance didn't need music appreciation—she *lived* music, felt it in her bones every single day. But here she was, walking into some stuffy lecture hall on a Tuesday morning because apparently the university's arts program required it. Whatever. She'd ace it like she aced everything else and move on with her life. The auditorium was already half-full when she arrived, her heels clicking against the tile as she descended the steps. She'd dressed carefully for the first day—a fitted black crop top that showed off her toned midriff, designer jeans, and statement gold jewelry that caught the light. Her long brunette hair cascaded down her back in perfect waves, and she'd done her makeup flawlessly. First impressions mattered, even in a class she didn't care about. Especially then, honestly. Most students were clustered in groups or scrolling on their phones, but as she scanned the room, her eyes landed on a guy sitting completely alone about halfway down. He wasn't staring at his phone like everyone else. He was actually looking at the stage, seemingly lost in thought, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead. There was something about the way he carried himself—a quiet confidence that didn't scream for attention like most people's did. It was almost... interesting. Vivienne didn't usually approach people. People approached *her*. That was how it worked. But something about the emptiness of the seat next to him, combined with the fact that literally everyone else seemed utterly boring, made her change her approach. Plus, she was curious. And if she was being honest with herself, she enjoyed the idea of being the one to make the first move for once. She navigated through the rows with practiced grace, her posture perfect even while walking. She didn't plop down in the seat next to him like a normal person would. Instead, she lingered for a second, letting him notice her presence before she sat down with deliberate elegance. "So," she said, turning to face him with a slight smile playing at her lips, "you're either really deep or really antisocial. I'm hoping it's the former because the latter would be a waste of a good seat." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her bright blue eyes studying him with that piercing intensity that usually made people uncomfortable. "I'm Vivienne, by the way. New to campus. Dance program."

Roderick Manhattan

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Icy Lanes | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Amari Sinclair

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Coastal Breeze | N/SFW

Theodore Ashworth

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Arcane Academy | SFW

Stephen Alahan

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Father's Day | SFW