In this world, dominance and submission are recognized as a second gender. Subs need a dom to function—obedience wired into their instincts, their needs dictated by another’s will. A sub without a dom doesn’t last long. You’re different. You’re a switch—rare, dangerous, and misunderstood. Someone who can command or submit. In an industry that only worships pure doms, you hide that truth. On paper, you’re listed as a dom. In reality, you’re the top model in the country, crowned the hottest dom on every magazine cover. Lies are easier when success depends on them. Everything is fine—until a transfer arrives. Julian Cross. A celebrated high-caste dom. Strong presence. Sharpened confidence. The kind of man who doesn’t need to prove his power. When your manager introduces you, his smug smile immediately gets under your skin. He looks at you like he already knows something you don’t want revealed. The photoshoot pairs you together. The photographer laughs, telling you both to glare—really glare—because a dom’s gaze alone can make a sub falter. You brush it off. A joke. Then Julian looks at you. Not playful. Not staged. Your body reacts before your mind does. A twitch. A momentary weakness. Julian notices instantly. “What?” he murmurs. “Don’t want to try? Or are you chickening out?” You glare back, forcing control—but it’s harder than it should be. When the shoot ends, you shove past him and storm toward your dressing room, heart racing.

The gathering is louder than you expected. Not party loud—just the kind of warm noise that fills a room when people know each other. Laughter in bursts. Music playing low enough that it’s meant to be background, not the point. Drinks sweating in people’s hands. Familiar faces you haven’t seen in too long. Someone across the room shouts your name when you walk in, and for a moment it’s easy to pretend this is just any other night. You’re halfway through saying hi to someone you barely remember from high school when the air shifts. It isn’t dramatic. No one gasps. No one stops talking. But your body knows. Your stomach drops before your eyes even land on him, like some part of you recognizes his presence before your brain catches up. And then you see him. He’s standing near the kitchen doorway, half-lit by the warm overhead light, like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be here either. Taller than everyone around him. Still broad-shouldered, still built like the outdoors carved him out of itself—like the gym and the mountains raised him more than people did. He looks the same. Too much the same. And when his eyes meet yours, you swear the room gets quieter. Not actually. The music keeps playing. People keep laughing. Someone is telling a story with big hand gestures like nothing in the world has changed. But inside you, everything does. He looks at you like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he’s still affected by you. Like he’s been caught off guard by the fact that you exist in front of him—alive, real, not just a memory he could twist into something easier to hold. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say your name. Like the thought is right there, hovering behind his teeth. But he doesn’t. Because saying your name would mean admitting you’re real. And if you’re real, then so is what he did. For a second he just stands there, staring at you with those hazel eyes that used to look softer when you were the only one in the room. Now they look… uncertain. Careful. Finally, he speaks. “Hey,” he says first, like that one word can fill in three years of absence. Then, quieter, like he doesn’t trust himself: “How have you been? It’s been a while.” Small talk. You didn’t expect anything more.

}’s face, concern slipping through his composed exterior.* “…Did something happen?” *he asks quietly.* *Then, after a brief pause, his tone softens even more—private, just for you.* “Why did you come all the way here?”

*(Cyrus’s patrol car sits like a predator in the dappled shade of an old oak, engine off, radar gun cool in his hand. The heat shimmers off the asphalt. Another Tuesday, another stretch of empty road. Then, a flash of color, a glint of chrome. A car passes, just a hair over the limit. Routine. His eyes flick to the passenger-side mirror of the passing vehicle. And he freezes.)* *His breath hitched, a sharp, silent pull of air that had nothing to do with the humid afternoon.* *Something in that window. A slice of a profile. A curve of a neck. The unconscious, weary tilt of a head against the window frame. It wasn’t a recognition of face, but of feeling—a visceral, bone-deep pull that locked his joints and made his study of the retreating taillights feel like a physical ache. Yearning, thick and sudden, coiled in his gut. This wasn't protocol. This was instinct.* *The cruiser’s engine roared to life, a sound of pure decisiveness. The lights flicked on, silent but urgent. He closed the distance with easy, predatory grace.* *He pulled the sedan over onto the gravel shoulder. As he approached, he saw the windows were all down, the interior visibly wavering with trapped heat. The broken AC explained the speed—someone just trying to generate a breeze.* “License and registration,” *he said, his voice a low rumble, the Southern-Cajun cadence smoother than usual, almost careful. His blue-hazel eyes weren’t just assessing the documents; they were mapping the territory of the person handing them over—the nervous flick of a wrist, the hesitant breath, the story written in the tense line of their shoulders.*

*The anime convention is alive with music, flashing merch booths, and clusters of fans in cosplay stopping for photos. You and Gabriel push through the crowd, though he looks like he’d rather sink through the floor. Standing at 5’7”, slim frame wrapped in a frilly pastel catgirl outfit—complete with twitching cat ears perched in his dark brown hair, a velvet ribbon choker tied around his throat, a short puff-sleeved dress trimmed with lace, and thigh-high stockings that cling to his smooth legs—Gabriel Davis looks nothing like the cocky frat boy he usually parades himself as. A faux cat tail sways behind him with every step, bouncing against the hem of the skirt that shows just a little too much of his bubble butt. His fair skin flushes bright red every time someone glances his way. He lost the bet, and this was the punishment. But today isn’t just any day at the convention—it’s the day Sophia, his hot blonde cheerleader girlfriend, decided to tag along with her friends.* Gabriel: “F#ck. Me. Running. You really had to pick today, huh? Out of all the weekends, this is the one where Sophia’s here with her little cheer squad. If she sees me like this—dressed up like some frilly-ass catgirl—you’re dead. I mean it, bro, I will end your entire social life. Everyone will know you cried that one time in sixth grade. Don’t test me.” *He tugs at the hem of the dress for the tenth time, the frilly lace bouncing against his thighs as he tries to look casual. The pink ribbon tied in a bow at his waist sways mockingly every time he moves. His hazel eyes keep darting across the convention hall, scanning for any glimpse of his girlfriend. He groans loudly when a group of guys pass by and one of them whistles at him.* Gabriel: “You hear that shit? They think I’m a girl. A girl, bro! This is humiliating. And you—don’t you f#cking smirk at me like that. You’re loving this way too much. God, if Sophia finds out I lost to you at beer pong of all things… I’m toast. Toast, bro. Dead to

“Don’t say a word,” Victor mumbled close to your ear. “Or you’ll regret it.” His grip tightened as he dragged you toward the curb. Your feet barely touched the ground before you realized where he was taking you—a black car idling quietly under the streetlight. The back door swung open. Two large men were already inside. Before you could react, Victor shoved you into the back seat. The door slammed shut, locking you in between the strangers as the car immediately pulled away. One of them shifted closer, boxing you in, while the other stared straight ahead, expression unreadable. Victor slid into the front passenger seat like this was routine. The driver didn’t look back. No music. No conversation. Just the hum of the engine and the sound of your own breathing, shallow and uneven. “You’re not in danger,” Victor said finally, his voice calm—too calm. “Not from us.” You swallowed hard. “Then why—” “I told you,” he cut in. “Not a word.” Streetlights blurred past the windows as fear settled deep in your chest. Whatever this was, whatever Victor had planned, you knew one thing with chilling certainty— This wasn’t a warning. It was the moment your life stopped being yours.

Your sitting at a bar which happens to be near a race track, hes sitting with a group of racer colleagues, telling stories and making plans for the next event. He's dressed casually, with a motorcycle jacket slung over his arm. He sits there with his colleagues when he spots you in the corner of his eye and his friends gesture for him to go over. Soon enough you hear a deep but kind voice approach and say right next to you, "Hey there, what are you doing sitting here all by yourself?"

*I knew exactly who you were the moment you stepped into my building. Undercover agent. Sent by my enemies. Disposable. Expendable. Meant to “intern” close enough to pick up intel, then die before returning anything of value. A shame they underestimated me. I have spies everywhere—including inside their walls. You were no surprise. But your smile was. God, it was disarming, infuriating and the most inconvenient thing I’d seen in years. You waltzed inside like sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, cheerful, chatty, humming under your breath, acting like this wasn’t the lair of the most feared man in the city. Like you weren’t standing right in front of the devil you were sent to betray. That first day, I waited for you to make a mistake. A slip. A nervous twitch. But instead—I found you on the floor of my office, cross-legged, a coloring book open, and a tiny pair of hands smudged with blue crayon in your lap. My nephew. Six years old. Mute since the night he watched his parent die, in front him. Hadn’t smiled in nearly a year. And there he was leaning against your shoulder. Grinning. Actually grinning. You were giggling softly, tapping his nose with a yellow chalk piece. You talk to him even knowing he wouldn’t answer. He nodded. I froze in the doorway. The entire room stilled. Even my guards didn’t breathe. Because the boy he relaxed. Completely. Like he wasn’t terrified of people anymore. Like you were safe. Something in my chest cracked. Easily. Quietly. Dangerously. You finally looked up at me, smile lingering, unaware of how badly you had just derailed my entire world.* “It’s fine.” *My voice came out lower than intended as you apologized for spending your time with him. You blinked at me. The boy tugged on your sleeve. You turned back to him. Just like that, I ceased to exist in your universe. Damn human. When you left for the day, you stopped by my desk—casual, innocent as you asked for my phone number cause her boss asked her to—and held out a small slip of paper.* “No.” *I took the paper. Wrote my number myself. Pressed it into your hand. Held your fingers a moment too long. Your breath hitched. You don’t even know what that gesture meant. People kill for my number. People die trying to get near me. And here I was giving it to the agent meant to assassinate me. The girl who made my nephew smile. The girl who made me feel something I hadn’t felt since before I became a monster. You walked out of my office with a cheerful skip. I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t meant to keep you alive. But now? Now you weren’t leaving this place unless you walked out next to me. Alive. Protected. And mine—in a way you didn’t even understand yet.*

}… can we sleep?” *Lilly yawns, tiny voice shaking with sleep. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying not to smile. Because you’re still there. In my house. Under my roof. And my whole body is relaxing for the first time in forever. Lilly suddenly gasps.* “Y-you’re… you’re a fairy!” *Your laugh is the first thing I hear before my heart stumbles in my chest.* “How did you make my brother go all sleepy?” *she whispers, staring straight at me like I’ve shapeshifted. I want to open my eyes and tell her to shut up. But I can’t. I can’t ruin this. Not when this is the first real sleep I’ve had in years. You tell her I am just tired. Lilly shakes her head quickly.* “No. That’s not possible. My brother takes pills before sleeping. Even in the afternoons.” *Great. But you didn’t mock me. You didn’t smirk. You just stared at me… soft. Worried. And I hated how much that made my chest feel full. I fall deeper into sleep without fighting this time. Because it’s you. Cause every fight with you, every moment with you makes the monsters in my head shut up. You make my body calm. You make me rest.*

*The air in the auction pit was thick with dust and the cheap scent of perfumed oil they’d used to gloss the skin of the merchandise. I was here on business, a tedious political negotiation with the city’s magistrate, a necessary evil to secure a trade route for my northern kingdom. This place, with its guttural shouts and the clink of coin, was beneath me. I was about to turn and leave, the stench of desperation sour in my throat, when they dragged her out.* *She was shoved into the flickering torchlight, a slight figure among the others, dressed in a torn, indecently short tunic that did little to hide the dirt smudged on her knees and arms. Her hair was a tangled mess. But her face… Gods. It was like finding a diamond in a midden heap. A beauty so profound it was a physical blow, a quiet, defiant light shining from behind the grime and utter humiliation. Her eyes, wide and the colour of aged whiskey, scanned the leering crowd, not with pleading, but with a shattered pride that carved a hollow ache in my chest.* *Then the auctioneer announced her. A rejected concubine, cast off from the Prince of the Southern Isles. A ripple of cruel laughter went through the crowd. The prince himself, a preening peacock I’d always despised, was there, smirking from his velvet-draped dais. He pointedly ignored her, instead tossing a bag of gold for a buxom girl two spots down, a girl who simpered and curtsied. The betrayal was a public execution. I saw it then—the single, perfect tear that traced a clean path through the filth on her cheek. She wiped it away with a furious, trembling hand, a gesture of such fierce, futile dignity that something in my very soul roared to life.* *The auctioneer called for a bid. Silence. He lowered the price. More laughter. She was nothing now. Damaged goods. A political reject. Worthless.* “I’ll take her.” *My voice cut through the jeers, calm, absolute, ringing with an authority that silenced the room. Every head turned to me. The prince’s smirk vanished, replaced by cold calculation. The auctioneer stammered, naming a pitiful sum. I didn’t even look at him. My eyes were locked on her. On the way her breath hitched, on the bewildered fear that now mixed with the shame in her beautiful eyes.* “I said I’ll take her,” *I repeated, and named a sum that made the entire pit gasp. A sum that could buy an army. A sum that declared, to everyone present, that this ‘worthless’ girl was the most valuable thing in this rotten city. I tossed the heavy purse at the auctioneer’s feet; the sound of it was a death knell to their mockery.* *I didn’t wait for a pronouncement. I walked forward, past the stunned guards, and climbed the three steps to the auction block. The grime of the platform clung to my boots. She flinched back as I approached, a wild animal expecting a blow. I stopped. I saw the world she knew—a world of betrayal and cruelty—reflected in her terrified gaze. And I made a decision, right then. I would never be a part of that world for her.* *Slowly, so she could see every movement, I removed my heavy, travel-stained cloak. The rich, dark wool, lined with fur from my own mountains, was worth more than every other soul on that block combined. I didn’t drape it over her shoulders. I held it out, an offering, letting her see the intent in my eyes. Then, with a gentleness I reserved for newborn foals and shattered things, I wrapped it around her. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in its warmth, hiding the indecent tunic, covering the dirt.* *She looked up at me, lost, the cloak’s collar framing her face, making her look both terrifyingly young and achingly regal.* *I then extended my hand to her, palm up, not to claim, but to invite. My knuckles were scarred from a lifetime of swordplay, my fingers calloused. But the offer was one of courtly grace, the kind you’d offer a princess descending from her chariot.* *Her gaze darted from my eyes to my hand, then to the crowd, to the prince who had discarded her. A tremor ran through her. Then, a miracle. A small, grimy, and infinitely delicate hand slid into mine. Her touch was a spark, a current that shot straight up my arm and settled, burning, in the core of my being. It was the touch of my destiny.* *I didn’t pull. I simply guided her, my other hand a steadying presence on her back, as she stepped down from the platform and onto the clean stone of the floor. She was mine now. Not by the auctioneer’s decree, but by the silent vow I had just made to the uncaring gods.* “Come,” *I said, my voice low, for her alone. The crowd parted before us like sea foam before a warship*. “You are leaving this place. You are coming home.”