*He pulled into the parking lot of the conservatory, a building that looked like a fortress of limestone and tradition. To Ajax, it was a tomb for the elderly. He killed the engine and stepped out, still in his athletic shorts and cleats, feeling entirely out of place. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of lemon polish and old paper.* *The security guard at the front desk gave him a tired, knowing wave.* “He’s in the back today, Ajax. Room 4." "Thanks," *Ajax muttered, keeping his head down. He felt for the guy—imagine spending your life guarding a place full of "crinkled raisins" and violins. He hurried down the hallway, his footsteps echoing too loudly on the polished wood. He just wanted to grab his grandfather and get back to his own world of loud bass and fast cars.* *He reached the small practice rooms, expecting to hear the familiar, frantic sawing of his grandfather’s violin. Instead, he heard something that made him stop dead in his tracks.* *He pushed the door open inches at a time. The room wasn't occupied by his grandfather. Instead, a massive black grand piano sat under the glow of a single spotlight, and seated there was the most beautiful woman Ajax had ever seen.* *She wore a floral dress that seemed to flow like water over her frame. Her fingers were long and slender, hovering over the keys with a grace that looked almost supernatural. Her eyes were closed, her dark eyelashes casting long shadows against her cheeks, while stray strands of her hair drifted like silk as she moved with the rhythm.* *Ajax, who usually had a comment for everything, found himself breathless. Then, her hands fell, and the first notes of the music hit him.* *He had always hated classical music; it felt like a chore, a set of rules disguised as sound. He preferred the raw energy of pop and the heavy, rhythmic heartbeat of rap. But this was different. This was Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2.* *The melody was a paradox. It was haunting and delicate, sounding like the first snowfall in a city that had only known sun. Yet, beneath the sadness, there was a warmth—a feeling like a heavy blanket pulled tight beside a fireplace. It didn't feel like "old people music." It felt like a memory he couldn't quite grasp, something beautiful and fleeting.* *He watched her intently, the sweat from practice cooling on his skin, forgotten. He had always associated this level of sophistication with entitlement—the kind of people who looked down on guys like him. But there was no arrogance in her playing, only a deep, aching sincerity.* *The music swelled, filling the small room until Ajax felt it in his chest, vibrating more powerfully than any subwoofer ever could. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like the star quarterback or the guy with the fast car. He felt like a spectator to something sacred.* *As the final, lingering note faded into the silence of the room, she kept her eyes closed for a moment longer. Ajax stayed frozen by the door, his hand still on the handle. He had come here to escape a chore, but now, he realized he didn't want to leave. For once, the guy who always knew exactly what to say was completely speechless.*

**Your place, South Kensington, London, UK.** *The elevator stops with a jolt.* *Not dramatic. Not violent. Just a soft, mechanical thud—and then nothing.* *The lights stay on. The screen flickers between floors. Silence stretches.* *You swallow.* *Of all the people. Of all the times.* *Caleb Joyce stands beside you, arms crossed, leather jacket brushing yours. Up close, he’s worse—taller than you thought, tattoos disappearing under fabric, that calm, unreadable face. You can smell motor oil and something clean underneath.* *Neither of you speaks.* *Seconds pass. Maybe a minute.* *You clear your throat.* “Uh… I think it stopped.” *Brilliant. Pulitzer-worthy.* *Caleb exhales, slow. Amused, maybe.* “Yeah,” *he says.* “I noticed.” *Your stomach drops.* *It’s not just deep.* *It’s not just smooth.* *It’s that voice.* *The one that slips into your headphones late at night.* *The one that tells you to slow down.* *The one that makes you feel seen without ever being known.* *Your pulse spikes.* *He presses the emergency button, leaning slightly closer.* “These lifts are temperamental. South Kensington charm.” *The word charm—the soft roll of it, the faint warmth beneath the control—hits you like recognition snapping into place.* *Oh.* *Oh no.* *It can't be, right?*

“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.

*I saw you before you ever felt me. The club was loud—bass thudding like a second pulse, lights strobing red and blue—but you cut through it all like you belonged to a different rhythm. Sweat on skin, laughter caught in your throat, hips moving like the night owed you something. You danced without looking around, without checking who was watching. That was your first mistake. I leaned against the bar, glass in hand, and let my eyes follow you the way predators follow warmth. Not hungry. Curious. Interested in how unaware you were of the space you were taking up in my head. When you bounced over the bar, smiling like trouble wrapped in innocence, I almost laughed.* **Twelve dollars. That’s all you had.** *I watched you slide it across the counter, hopeful, reckless. The bartender winked. I didn’t like that. Something twisted low in my chest, sharp and unnecessary. When the drink hit the counter, I moved without thinking—my hand closing around the glass just as yours reached for it. Our fingers didn’t touch. Close, though. I looked down at you, slow, deliberate. Tall enough that you had to tilt your chin up. Cute. Annoyingly so.* “Tough luck, sweetheart.” *Your face fell instantly. Not dramatic—just honest disappointment. That stung more than it should have. I took the drink anyway, turned, and vanished into the crowd before you could decide whether to hate me or chase me. I drank it slower than I needed to. From the booth, I watched you sulk for exactly thirty seconds before the music claimed you again. You danced like nothing bad ever stuck to you for long. Like the world always gave back what it took. I wondered how long that illusion had lasted so far. When your eyes finally found mine, it felt like being caught stealing. I lifted the glass—your glass—and drank from it while holding your gaze. Not breaking it. Not blinking. A silent acknowledgment. Yes. It was me. Yes. I remembered you. And yes—I wanted you to know. Later, when I stood to leave with my men, I felt it immediately. I turned just in time to catch you with my coat in your hands, laughter barely contained, fingers already where they shouldn’t be. Bold. Careless. Brilliant. Bills fanned open like temptation—hundreds stacked careless and plenty. You took only one. A twenty. That made me smile. I stepped in close, caught your wrist, turned you gently but firmly until your back hit my chest. You froze. I leaned down, voice low enough to curl around your ear.* “Guess a thief can’t really resist?” *You spun, eyes wide, grin guilty and unrepentant. Adorable. Dangerous combination. I clicked my tongue, amused.* “You’re gonna hiss at me like that after robbing me?” *I slid the twenty from your fingers, slow, and tucked it into your blouse myself. Let my knuckles linger just long enough to make the point.* “Guess I did steal from you first,” *I murmured, arrogance heavy, unashamed.* “So keep it, sweetie.” *I stepped back, eyes sweeping over you like I was already memorizing how you’d look when you tried to run.* “I’ve got plenty anyway.” *And then I smiled—not kind, not cruel. Interested. Because now I knew something important. You weren’t just a random dancer in a club. You were a little thief with soft hands and sharp instincts. And you had just stolen my... what actually? My heart, If I had one.*

*Los humanos creen que los dioses son fantasía. Mitología antigua. Historias inventadas para explicar lo desconocido. Creen que no existe un mundo paralelo donde entidades eternas observan en silencio, donde el poder y la belleza no son conceptos… sino naturaleza.* *Tú jamás prestaste demasiada atención a esas leyendas griegas. Lo tuyo era la naturaleza, la vida salvaje, los misterios de la tierra.* *Documentabas bosques, fotografiabas criaturas, buscabas secretos ocultos entre raíces y hojas.* *Hasta que el bosque te respondió. Un paso en falso. La tierra cede. Caída. Pero no hay impacto.* *Despiertas entre pastos imposiblemente verdes, bajo un cielo demasiado puro para ser real. Tu cámara, tu equipo… tu ropa… han desaparecido. En su lugar, telas de terciopelo y seda blanca abrazan tu cuerpo adulto, joyas doradas descansan sobre tus caderas y una fina tiara reposa en tu cabeza como si siempre hubiese pertenecido allí.* *No estás solo.* *Figuras vestidas con la misma elegancia te observan con sonrisas satisfechas.* —Es perfecto… bellísimo. A los dioses les gustará. *Te conducen hacia una ciudad imposible. Columnas de mármol que tocan las nubes. Fuentes de luz líquida. Un paraíso llamado Olimpia. No entiendes nada. Preguntas. Nadie responde.* *Te colocan en el centro de un estrado monumental. El aire pesa. Entonces lo sientes.* *Miradas.* *No humanas.* *Al alzar la vista, el aliento se te corta.* *No son personas.* *Son dioses.* *Decenas de ellos, sentados en niveles elevados, observándote como si fueras una obra recién descubierta… o un tesoro por reclamar. Sus ojos brillan con interés, curiosidad… deseo contenido.* *Una voz retumba.* —Atención. Reciban a nuestro amado rey, Cydel. *Todos se ponen de pie al mismo tiempo.* *La luz del recinto se intensifica cuando él aparece.* *Alto. Imponente. Cabello dorado cayendo como ríos de sol. Ojos que no solo miran… pesan. Cada paso que da vibra en el mármol.* *Se sienta en el trono central, más alto que todos los demás.* *Y entonces te mira.* *Directamente a ti.* *El murmullo de los dioses se convierte en un susurro eléctrico.* —Tengo entendido… —*su voz es profunda, resonando en cada rincón del tribunal*— que no perteneces a este reino. *Sus ojos dorados recorren tu figura con una lentitud calculada. No hay prisa. Tiene la eternidad.* —Que eres un… humano. *Los murmullos crecen.* *Algunos dioses sonríen. Otros te observan con abierta intención.* *Cydel alza apenas la mano y el silencio cae de inmediato.* —Interesante. *Se inclina ligeramente hacia adelante en su trono, sin apartar la mirada de ti.* —Un humano que atravesó un portal prohibido… y cuya presencia altera la energía de mi reino. *Una pausa.* —Dime… ¿es ignorancia… o destino… lo que te trajo ante mí? *Tu corazón late con fuerza.* *Esto tiene que ser un sueño.* *Tiene que serlo.* *Pero la intensidad de su mirada no se siente como fantasía.* *Se siente como posesión anticipada*

}, can you 'please' help me with the baby?"

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.

Oh hey y/n long time no see isn't it?

} is going to wait for someone who might not exist anymore.*

“Meeting Pavitr in Mumbattan” The three of them land on a shimmering web‑bridge suspended above the chaotic beauty of Mumbattan. Neon signs flicker, rickshaws honk in the distance, and the whole city feels like it’s vibrating with life. A golden blur swings in from above. Pavitr lands with a flourish—one hand on his hip, hair bouncing like it has its own wind machine. He spots Miles and tilts his head, eyes sparkling with curiosity. Pavitr: “Hold on… who’s this stylish stranger?” Gwen: “Hey, Pav. This is Miles. And… yeah, he kind of showed up uninvited.” Pavitr’s jaw drops in theatrical shock. Pavitr: “You weren’t invited… and you still came? That’s confidence. I respect it.” Gwen laughs under her breath. Gwen: “Right?” Pavitr: “Let me guess—he followed you here because he’s totally into you.” Miles nearly trips over his own feet. Miles: “What—no! No, no, no!” His voice cracks, and even behind the mask, you can feel the blush. Gwen: “He’s really not.” Pavitr: “Oh, please. I’m excellent at reading people.” Gwen: “He’s really not.” Miles: “Okay, seriously—who are you?” Pavitr straightens up like he’s about to take a bow. Pavitr: “Glad you asked, mysterious newcomer.” Miles: “I’m not mysterious. Or new.” Pavitr grins, dazzling and proud. Pavitr: “I’m Pavitr Prabhakar. Spider‑Man of Mumbattan. Six months in, and already a legend.” Miles throws his hands up. Miles: “Six months? And you already have one of those fancy watches?” Gwen winces like she knew this was coming. Gwen: “Yeah… it’s a whole thing.” Pavitr flips his hair again—honestly, it should be illegal for hair to move that perfectly. Pavitr: “Being Spider‑Man here? Easy. I wake up, skip the gym—because look at me, I’m already sculpted—barely touch my hair, because it’s naturally flawless…” Miles: “You don’t use any product? At all?” Pavitr: “Just coconut oil, a quick prayer, and the blessing of my ancestors.” He swings around a streetlamp, continuing his monologue like he’s narrating a commercial. Pavitr: “Then I go to school, ace everything, stop a few villains, pet some street dogs, grab chai with Maya Auntie—” Miles: “Oh, I love chai tea!” Pavitr freezes mid‑air like someone hit pause. He drops to the ground slowly, eyes wide, horrified. Pavitr: “I’m sorry… what did you just say?” He steps closer, squinting. Pavitr: “‘Chai tea’? My friend… ‘chai’ means tea. You just said ‘tea tea.’” He throws his hands up dramatically. Pavitr: “Would you ask for ‘coffee coffee’? Or ‘cream cream’? No! So why—why—would you say ‘chai tea’?” Miles shrinks like a scolded puppy. Miles: “Okay… yeah. I deserved that.” Gwen is laughing so hard she has to hold her stomach. A few hours later Pavitr had been proudly showing Miles and Gwen around his school — pointing out the courtyard where he ate lunch, the lab where he always aced his exams, and the hallway where he once stopped a thief without even spilling his chai. He was mid‑sentence, hands flying dramatically as usual, when it happened. You stepped through the front gates. And for Pavitr Prabhakar, the world stopped. The noise of the school faded. The sunlight hit you just right. And in his mind — completely uninvited — little glowing hearts floated around your face like you were the only person in the entire multiverse. His breath caught. His smile softened. His eyes widened just a little, warm and starry. You looked up and smiled at him — that small, effortless smile that could knock the wind out of anyone. Pavitr forgot how to speak. Forgot how to breathe. Forgot that Gwen and Miles even existed. He just stared, dreamily, hopelessly, like he’d been waiting his whole life for that exact moment. Miles leaned in, whispering, “Uh… Gwen? Is he okay?” Gwen waved a hand in front of Pavitr’s face. “Pav? Hellooo? Earth to Mumbattan Spider‑Man?” Nothing. He was gone — floating somewhere in a romantic daydream with your name written all over it. Miles snapped his fingers. “Dude. You’re staring.” Gwen nudged his shoulder. “You’re drooling a little.” Pavitr snapped out of it with a sharp inhale, cheeks flushing. He swatted their hands away, irritated. “Stop—! I was having a moment!” he hissed under his breath, glaring at them like they’d just ruined the greatest love story ever told. Miles raised his hands. “My bad, Romeo.” Gwen smirked. “Should we leave you two alone?” Pavitr shot them both a look that said I will web you to the ceiling, then turned back toward you — softer now, almost shy. You were still there. Still smiling. Still making his heart do somersaults. And Pavitr realized, with absolute certainty: He was in love. Hopelessly. Completely. Beautifully. With his best friend. You stepped out of the classroom building, sunlight catching your hair, your bag slung over your shoulder. You were laughing softly at something on your phone, completely unaware of the chaos you were about to cause. Pavitr froze mid‑sentence. Time didn’t just slow down — it stopped. His heart did a dramatic flip. His brain short‑circuited. And in his mind, little glowing hearts floated around your face like a romantic anime scene. You looked up and smiled at him. Pavitr’s knees nearly gave out. Miles blinked. “Uh… did he just—pause?” Gwen waved a hand in front of Pav’s face. “Pav? Hello? You good?” Nothing. He was staring at you like you were the only person in the multiverse. You walked closer, curious. “Hey, Pav. Who are your friends?” Pavitr opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Miles whispered, “Oh wow. He’s broken.” Gwen snorted. “He’s in love. Look at him.” Pav finally snapped out of it, cheeks burning. He swatted their hands away. “Stop interrupting! I was— I was having a moment!” Miles raised his eyebrows. “A moment? Dude, you were staring like she hung the moon.” Gwen nudged him. “Introduce us, lover boy.” Pav shot them a glare, then turned back to you, trying desperately to act normal. “This—uh—these are my friends,” he said, voice cracking adorably. “Gwen and Miles. They’re visiting. From… uh… far away.” You smiled warmly. “Nice to meet you both.” Pavitr melted. He tried again, clearing his throat. “And this is—this is my best friend.” He gestured to you with a soft, almost reverent smile. “She’s… amazing.” You blushed. Miles elbowed Gwen. Gwen whispered, “He’s gone. Completely gone.” Pavitr ignored them, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. And honestly? You kind of were. Miles snorted. Gwen tried to hold in a laugh. Pav spun around. “Can you two NOT right now? Seriously.” He turned back to you, instantly soft again. You giggled. “Everything okay?” “Yes—no—I mean yes,” he said quickly, trying to look composed. Miles whispered loudly, “He’s struggling.” Pav snapped, “STOP INTERRUPTING ME. I AM TRYING TO TALK TO—” He cut himself off before he said something embarrassing, then turned back to you with a shy smile. You laughed, and Pav’s irritation vanished like it never existed. He tried again, brushing his hair back. “So… um… if you’re not busy… maybe you could walk with us?” You smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Pav lit up instantly. Behind him, Gwen whispered, “He’s so whipped.” Miles nodded, “It’s adorable.” Pav turned around one last time, whisper‑snapping, “Please. I’m begging. Don’t ruin this.” Then he looked back at you — and instantly softened again, walking beside you like nothing else mattered.