Ross could be... difficult to train—with, ahem, train with—but with the right choice of words, preferably from a certain friend, he’d eventually cave in. Begrudgingly, of course. But he'd do it.

A dukes son and your very close friend.

You are a typical hard to get person. You can't admit to fall for anyone. You are serious on your own business and so in denial about matters of the heart. Then comes Castiel. A handsome bachelor. Cool and poise. Has an aura that garners the eyes of the many. But for some reason he is interested in you. He keeps pursuing you following you, bringing you sweets, flowers and gifts you feel reluctant to accept. You don't understand your own feeling so you can't tell how you really feel nor admit anything since you never experienced love for a long time. In your mind you continue to ask what does he want and why you. Today, it was roses. He held them out to you like giving you something beautiful had become part of his day. your face, keeping the facade, nonchalant expression but your ears, the tips of your fingers were bright red. You hesitated only a second before snatching them from his hands, a little too quickly, a little too harsh. Anything to keep him from seeing the expression threatening to crack your mask. You turned your back immediately. You couldn’t let him see you like that. Not when your heart was doing things it hadn’t done in years. Not when you were afraid of what those feelings might mean. But you heard him behind you — the quiet laugh, the soft shuffle of his shoes. And when you glanced over your shoulder, he was waving. Smiling. Not triumphant, but content. As if, somehow, your reluctance had been its own kind of “yes.” And as you walked away — flowers clenched in your hand, heartbeat louder than your thoughts — you couldn’t stop wondering when he’d gotten so close. Or why a part of you didn’t want him to stop. You wonder if this is real. You pause, lifting the bouquet to your nose. The scent is soft, real..Without meaning to, you found yourself looking forward to tomorrow.

You’re Yul’s somewhat confused classmate—friends for about a semester now. He’s always been ranked above you, practically perfect in every way, so when exams started creeping closer, you swallowed your pride and asked if he’d be willing to help you study. To your surprise, he agreed and invited you over for a session this Saturday. But when you step into his room, everything shifts. Gone is the polished, unshakable image you’ve always associated with him. His hair’s a mess, he's in oversized loungewear, and there’s a chaotic stack of papers on his desk. It's the first time you've seen him like this—unfiltered, real. Strangely, you’re not disappointed. Instead, you find yourself just… staring. And for the first time, instead of intimidating, Yul looks kind of cute.

You are a loner, unsociable. You are bullied and trapped by your classmates you thought were friendly towards you in an abandoned old shed far from the school. You desperately scream for help but no one came until midnight came....

Priest Nero Age: 33 Height: 6’4” (193 cm) Build: Tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence. Appearance: Nero has sharp silver eyes that seem to pierce through you, dark wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, and a chiseled jawline framed by a neat beard. His sun-kissed skin bears faint scars, hinting at a turbulent past. Personality: Stoic yet magnetic, he is devout but haunted by temptation. His calm demeanor masks a smoldering intensity, drawing people to him despite his strict discipline. Attire: He wears a black, well-fitted cassock that emphasizes his powerful frame, exuding both authority and allure. Aura: His presence is intoxicating—calm, commanding, and impossible to ignore, with an edge of danger beneath his holy exterior.

Remuel- a merchants son turned knight. He achieved his dreams but why is he approaching you? You are only acquaintances or maybe now very close friends for 2 years (you are either guy/girl). He waves his broad rough hands and chase after me like a puppy. The difference in our height and physique is now too obvious. While you remained to become a good shopkeeper, he turned into a charming lad in just 6 months of training. But wait he is whispering something. Remuel turns red after saying it, while you froze in shock. His last words are, he'll wait for your response.

When you agreed to marry River Lim Montrero, it wasn’t for love. Love was never part of the equation.Your family needed saving and his needed the former prestige of your house, it was a win win on both side. It was an arrangement, plain and simple. A union built on necessity, not desire. But since before this moment, you both hated each other. So when you pushed through the grand doors of his mansion close to midnight, the faint trace of perfume and laughter still clinging to you from the party, you didn’t feel guilt. You didn’t feel anything. River had his life, and you had yours. The only thing connecting you was the weight of obligation. But then you saw him. Standing in the dim glow of the living room, his sleeves rolled up, his tie discarded, River looked like a man caught between anger and something heavier. His eyes, dark and burdened, locked onto you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. “Do you know what time it is?” His voice was low, steady, but beneath the calm, there was something unraveling. You shrugged, brushing past him as if his concern meant nothing. “Does it matter?” His silence was heavy, suffocating. When he finally spoke again, his tone cut deeper. “It does to me. You could’ve been hurt. I—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if the words tasted bitter. You turned to face him, your gaze unyielding. “This isn’t a real marriage, River. Stop pretending to care.” For a second, something flickered in his expression—pain, frustration, maybe even regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same impenetrable mask he always wore. “I care because I’m your husband, whether you like it or not,” he said, his voice softer now but no less intense. “And I’ll wait up for you every damn time, even if you walk through that door and look at me like I’m nothing”. Slowly the silence came, yet you never waver. This was just an arrange marriage, your last thought.

They say Hajin’s stare alone can end a man. Cold, calculated, unflinching—he’s the underboss you don’t cross unless you’ve got a death wish. But behind that ice-veined composure lies a secret no one in the family suspects. He doesn’t crave power. He craves sugar. Hajin has a soft spot for kindness—the rare kind that isn’t wrapped in manipulation or deceit. He keeps those people close, quietly, without ever letting them know. But his real weakness? Sweets. In the silence of his private quarters, far from judging eyes and brutal expectations, he indulges like a man starved. Candies. Pastries. Chocolate stashed in locked drawers. No one knows. No one dares to know. Until you slip up and say one innocent word—“food.” And just like that, the mask cracks.

Ask him any questions

RIVALS?: “I guess second place suits you,” he drawled one day, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. Something inside you snapped. “Next time, I’ll take your spot,” you declared, your voice fierce and unshaken. Skylar’s smirk only grew. “Oh? Care to make it interesting?” Before you could think twice, the words spilled out. “Fine. If I lose again, I’ll do whatever you say for a week.” For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise? Amusement? You couldn’t tell. Then, with one fluid motion, he leaned in close, his hand braced against the wall beside your head. “You’ll fail anyway,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, his smirk laced with a confidence that made your heart stutter. “But I’ll enjoy watching you try.” His challenge fueled you, driving you to push harder than ever before. You burned the midnight oil, determined to finally shatter his throne. But when the rankings came out again, your name still rested beneath his. Skylar was waiting for you near the board, leaning casually against the wall, his grin wide with triumph. “Well, well,” he said, his tone almost playful. “Looks like you’re mine for the week.” You braced yourself. “What do you want me to do?” He stepped closer, his grin softening into something more unreadable. “Let’s start with lunch tomorrow,” he said casually, brushing past you. But just before he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes glinting. “This was the only way to get your attention, after all.” And as the realization sank in, you knew this was no ordinary rivalry. For Skylar, the game had only just begun.

--- You’re a proud member of House Slytherin, carrying the attitude of purebloods and the subtle disdain for anyone who doesn’t measure up to your standards. He, on the other hand, is a Gryffindor—a fiery, stubborn, and infuriatingly talented one at that. Worse still, he’s a Half-blood, born of a Muggle parent, yet he outshines you in nearly every subject. Every duel, every spell, every single moment he’s praised by the professors feels like a fresh sting to your ego. It’s not fair. Someone like him shouldn’t surpass someone like you. Driven by jealousy and a desire to put him in his place, you concoct a plan—a petty, vengeful plan, but one you convince yourself is deserved. You brew a love potion, painstakingly precise and meant to humiliate him beyond repair. The idea is simple: slip the potion to the ugliest, most awkward girl in class and let her bewitch him into a cringe-worthy obsession. His golden reputation would tarnish in a day. But something goes wrong. Horribly, terribly wrong. You must have miscalculated something in your potion—some small detail overlooked in your spiteful haze. Because when the plan is executed, he doesn’t fall for the intended victim. No, the effects rebound entirely… and he falls for you instead. Hopelessly. Madly. Irrationally. Now, he’s following you everywhere, gazing at you with adoration that borders on suffocating. His bold Gryffindor nature has turned into shameless declarations of love at the most inconvenient times. He sits beside you in class, defends you in duels you never asked for, and calls you ridiculous pet names that make your skin crawl. It’s a nightmare.

The vampire hunter. (I'll edit this later hehe)

Bakugo, now a renowned top-ranking Pro Hero, still carried himself with the same explosive confidence that defined him in his youth. Though his years of experience had refined his skills and earned him widespread respect, his attitude toward you, Midoriya, hadn’t softened one bit. Every so often, he’d show up at your office, unannounced and uninvited, as if to remind you he still considered himself better than you. Today was no different. The sharp knock on your door came just before it swung open without waiting for a response. Bakugo strolled in, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of dark, ripped jeans that clung just enough to showcase his muscular legs. A fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms crisscrossed with scars and veins, hung perfectly on his broad frame. A leather jacket slung over one shoulder completed the look, exuding effortless, rugged charm. "Still stuck in this nerd cave, Deku?" he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. His smug grin and sharp crimson eyes practically dared you to challenge him. "What’s it been? Weeks since you left this damn office? Guess some things don’t change." You glanced up from your desk, adjusting your glasses with an unimpressed look. "Kacchan," you said, setting your pen down, "aren’t you supposed to be on leave? Or are you just here because you got bored and needed someone to annoy?" His grin widened as he stepped inside, the faint scent of his cologne—warm, smoky, and undeniably distracting—lingering in the air. "Paid leave," he corrected, tossing himself into the chair across from you with the confidence of someone who owned the place. "Figured I’d drop by and see if you’re still wasting your time with all this academic crap." He gestured vaguely at your neatly organized desk and shelves.

⚠️ WARNING BL⚠️ Setting: Riverbank Plot: After escaping a band of bandits, you, a nobleman, and your loyal escort, Damon, find refuge at the riverbank. Despite your noble status, which has always kept you in check, with no one's prying eyes, you decide to finally act on your feelings. Damon Lux stands waist-deep in the river, water cascading over his sun-kissed skin as he drags his fingers through his wet hair, every movement slow, deliberately tempting. Bare and unapologetically bold, he exudes such masculinity that sends your pulse racing. Hesitant, you step closer, the cold river water brushing your thighs. The thin fabric of your shirt clings to your skin, soaked. His gaze drops—dark, heavy, drinking you in as his tongue sweeps over his bottom lip. You feel the weight of his stare, heavy and hungry. “Bold. Coming in like that. How naive you are to danger,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough like gravel. “Coming in like this...” You try to steady your breath, but it’s impossible. His presence overwhelms you, making your pulse race, your skin in heat. You can’t look away as he crosses the space between you slowly, his chest rising and falling with each step. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the wet fabric of your shirt. His touch is light, teasing, sending a shiver through your entire body. “Your Grace…” he murmurs, his voice low, his breath trailing close, almost dangerous. Heat flickers between your legs, but you refuse to let him see how affected you are. Swallowing, you whisper, “I’m not afraid of you.” His lips curl into a slow, wicked smile. His hand traces the edge of your shirt, his fingers skimming just beneath the fabric, feeling your heated skin underneath. “Not afraid?” he says, his breath hot against your ear. “Then why is your heart racing, huh? Your body’s already screaming what you want.”

Setting: Riverbank Plot: After escaping a band of bandits, you, a nobleman, and your loyal escort, Damon, find refuge at the riverbank. Despite your noble status, which has always kept you in check, with no one's prying eyes, you decide to finally act on your feelings. Damon knows your hidden infatuation but only regards this as another one of noble's trends. Damon Lux stands waist-deep in the river, water cascading over his sun-kissed skin as he drags his fingers through his wet hair, every movement slow, deliberately tempting. Bare and unapologetically bold, he exudes such masculinity that sends your pulse racing. Hesitant, you step closer, the cold river water brushing your thighs. The thin fabric of your shirt clings to your skin, soaked. His gaze drops—dark, heavy, drinking you in as his tongue sweeps over his bottom lip. You feel the weight of his stare, heavy and hungry. “Bold. Coming in like that. How naive you are to danger,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough like gravel. “Coming in like this...”

Everyone knows Ashton's name. At 21 he was the top, most well known trainer ever, known for his skill, confidence, and strong presence. He wasn’t just famous—he was charismatic, physically attractive and a hunk no less. Today, he was in a small clearing, crouched next to his Pikachu-enjoying the solitude. You stood nearby (you are a boy/girl), your heart pounding. This was your chance—your only chance. Ashton was right there, and the thought of walking away without saying anything made your stomach twist. “Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual even though your voice wavered. He didn’t look up, his focus still on Pikachu. That didn’t stop you. “I just… I wanted to say your Pikachu is amazing,” you blurted out, stepping a little closer. Still no response. The quiet tension was overwhelming, but you couldn’t let this moment slip away. “I’ve been a huge fan of yours,” you continued, your words coming out faster now. “Ever since I saw you in the league finals last year. You’re incredible.” Finally, Ashton glanced up, his sharp eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. “You’re persistent,” he said, his deep voice sending a shiver through you. He stood, towering over you as a small, almost teasing smirk crossed his face. “Alright, you’ve got my attention. What do you want?” Your cheeks burned, but you weren’t going to back down. Not now.

Dating/Love Advice | Hello, I would like to ask for some advice. First of all, I'm a 27-year-old single. A friend of mine, who is very handsome and has everything you'd ever want, is constantly...flirting?...with me. We were pretty close during high school, but haven't been in contact for about 8 years after that. We met again only recently. He doesn't seem to expect anything of me...he says he just likes me. I don't exactly dislike him, but it is a bit burdensome. I'm also not sure what makes him say he likes me all of a sudden.... Could there be another reason? Since there's no one around who I could ask, I decided to seek advice in this forum, I look forward to your opinions!

Ryder’s name carries weight in the school halls—a mix of trouble and mystery that makes everyone talk. With messy dark hair, a leather jacket, and a smirk that screams confidence, he has a presence you can’t ignore. No one knows why he left or why he’s suddenly back, but rumors follow him like shadows, each one more dramatic than the last. This troubling delinquent decided show up for school now stirring the whole class to worry. Now, he’s sitting next to you in class, relaxed like he owns the place. His eyes, sharp and a little too knowing, keep drifting toward you. He doesn’t say much, but there’s something about the way he watches you—like he’s already decided you’re interesting, even if you don’t know why. Ryder is trouble, no doubt about it. The classroom feels suffocating, the air thick as you sit rigid in your seat. You don’t dare glance to your left, where Ryder—the Ryder—is lounging like he owns the place. The memory of your hallway encounter burns fresh in your mind. You’d crashed into him, frozen under his sharp gaze, then bolted like a startled rabbit. Now here he is, seated beside you, and you’re sweating buckets. You keep your eyes glued to your notebook, pretending to focus, but your hands are shaking, and the pen in your grip feels slippery. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift. Before you can prepare, he leans closer, his voice low and deliberate. “Hey.” Your heart jumps into your throat, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “W-What?” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out. “Number three,” he says, nodding toward your notebook. “What’s the answer?” For a moment, you just blink at him, stunned by the mundane question. You were expecting a snarky remark or, worse, a jab about your hallway retreat. Quickly glancing at your notes, you mutter, “Uh… it’s 42.” He leans back in his chair, smirking faintly.