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-> this list will be updated if i find more + let me know if you have any that i can add !! (can be any character of age)

Who would’ve thought that someone as sleepy as Yoongi would actually kidnap you?

It wasn’t as if he was lazy, per se. He just didn’t bother to do physical activity unless it was necessary. Yoongi was a subtle man, with a subtle passion and a subtle ambition.

Maybe that was why you never expected him to do this. He was subtle. Too subtle. And it was always the quiet ones who were dangerous. You knew that, and yet, you still got blindsided by your own best friend, anyway. Was it your fault, then? His? Both? Nobody’s? Yoongi wasn’t one to act without a reason, but even you weren’t prepared to hear it.

“I don’t want you to suffer any longer.”

It was sweet. It should’ve been sweet. Despite his piercing eyes and lingering touches, Yoongi had always been a caring guy. He regularly asked about your day, and he truly listened to it. Such a question was never hollow if it came from him, because he disliked small talk. That was why his questions tended to be thoughtful. Meaningful. Purposeful. You’d been so glad to know that someone was willing to hear your complaints, no matter how small or big it was. Very soon, he’d become someone to talk to whenever you had any minor inconvenience. And very soon, he’d become someone special to you.

But not for long, fortunately. And unfortunately.

“No, Yoongi. I’m not… I’m not suffering, I swear!”

The said man shook his head stubbornly. The action reminded you of those times when he persisted in his conviction to make you stay at home every time you complained about feeling a bit under the weather. During those moments, he’d never failed to visit you and nurse you back to health, even if it came at the cost of his sleeping time. He’d pin you down on the couch or the bed whenever you tried to leave without his permission, because he knew you often pushed yourself to the brink. You’d blissfully and loudly wondered about how lucky his future woman would be if she had him as her partner, oblivious to the lasciviousness in his eyes when you looked up at him from beneath him. Or the happiness in his lips when you ate his cooking. Or the darkness in his face when you said that.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever imagined your best friend falling for you, anyway. Life wasn’t a cliché teenage movie, and you believed that women and men could be friends with each other without any romantic feelings.

But, apparently, life was indeed a cliché teenage movie. With a twist. And in your case, women and men couldn’t be friends with each other without any romantic feelings.

You and Yoongi couldn’t be friends with each other without any romantic feelings, regardless if it was one-sided or not. If it was healthy or not.

“No, you’ve been so busy nowadays. You barely have time for yourself and…” he paused, bowing his head deeply. The darkness that concealed his face through his bangs was just as unnerving as the silence that enveloped the room. And then, he murmured. “For me.”

You gaped, resisting the urge to yell. If you did, you would get panicked and he would get panicked as well. And if he did, who knows what would happen.

So, you swallowed the desperation that constricted your throat and chose the calmness that hurt your chest.

“Yoongi… You know it’s normal to be busy, right? I need money to survive and–”

“That’s why you don’t need to do that anymore.” Yoongi interjected, leaning forward to caress your sweaty face. “I’ll take care of you, something that you rarely do for yourself. I’ll give you anything you want and need, so you just stay inside. Make me happy.”

You stared fearfully at his serene face. Yoongi had always derived enjoyment from serving you, but you’d never thought it’d be this severe. Who even expected this, anyway?! Friends worried about each other all the time. It was normal. It was natural. But Yoongi took this a step further. Silently. Slowly. Subtly. Like a predator stalking its prey, he observed your grievances and would make his presence – his obsession – known by tending to you.

You just hadn’t realized it until now, too busy soaking in his supposedly platonic affection. Because who else would care about your condition if not him? Who else would think about your condition if not him? Who else would know about your condition if not him?

“What?! No, you can’t do that! I’ve worked so hard to get to my current position, and now you expect me to just drop everything and live with you?! You’re my best friend, Yoongi! You should’ve known tha–”

“Shut the fuck up!”

You flinched, tugging the handcuff that bound you to the bedpost accidentally yet vainly. Yoongi gripped your jaw and glowered at you, gritting his teeth so hard you could see the veins in his neck straining against the pale skin.

It wasn’t an impulsive anger, you knew. It was the kind of anger that had been festering for a long time.

Like a dam that burst, the sleepy and subtle Yoongi finally snapped at you.

“Stop saying those words, goddammit! Can’t you see that I don’t want to be your best friend anymore?! I want to be more! I want to be your lover, hell, your husband! You said that my future woman would be lucky to have me as her partner, but have you ever thought that it’s you all along?! I want you! Only you! But you’ve always been so fucking dumb and thought that everything I did was because I love you as a friend! It wasn’t, okay?! It never was!”

You trembled under his glare, because what else could you do? What else would you do? Trapped in this room, in his room, you were as helpless as a wingless butterfly. Yoongi had clipped your wings because he thought you were more vulnerable with them, and now you had to crawl your way out.

If you could crawl, that is.

Yoongi glanced at one of the big obstacles in your journey to freedom and relaxed his face slightly.

“Until you learn to love me back, to stop thinking of me as your best friend and more as a lover, the handcuff stays.”

You choked on your spit.

“No, no, no. Yoongi, get back here! Please! I promise I’ll behave! Yoongi!” you screamed, trying to grasp even the hem of his shirt. But despite his obsessive concern for you, he calmly left as if there was no care in the world. The door closed shut right in front of your eyes, and you were left to slump on the bedside. “Yoongi, please…!”

Yoongi was a subtle man, with a subtle passion and a subtle ambition.

You

It’s 9:30 P.M., you’re deep in the evening shift, hauling platters of wings and six-pound burgers when Jeon Jeongguk sits down at one of your tables.

You almost drop your tray of cocktails.

Jeongguk cuts such a striking figure that almost everyone at the sidewalk tables stares at him. Women within a hundred-yard radius are suddenly compelled to smoothen their hair and check their lipstick. Even your boss, Jim, squints and frowns, asking the hostess if someone famous just sat down.

Jeongguk has that effortless off-duty model look. He’s tall, muscular, and elegantly dressed in clothes you know cost well over five figures. But what really tops it off is his careless arrogance. You’ve convinced yourself that if you were hit by a semi-truck going ninety on a sidewalk, he wouldn’t even notice.

He sees you long before you see him. He’s already smirking, his dark eyes glittering with malice under the dimmed light of the restaurant. He’s so stunning that it increases your distrust of him. Nobody that beautiful could be good, it’s impossible, you've seen enough movies to differentiate between good and evil.

“Bring me one of those sparkly cocktails,” he orders.

You think you hate him. A wave of anger surges inside of you at the sight of his godly face. Jeongguk’s expression doesn’t change as you turn your attention to him.

“You’re supposed to wait for the hostess to seat you,” you mutter, resisting every possible urge to not roll your eyes.

“I’m sure you can handle one more table,” Jeongguk says, looking around the surprisingly empty bar to push you just one button further.

You might as well have taken that idiotically expensive tie around his neck and strangled him with it. Instead, you tightly smile and ungraciously thrust a menu into his hands.

When you return a few minutes later with his cocktail (extra edible glitter), he says, “I want you to eat with me.”

“I can’t. I’m kind of in the middle of my shift, y’know, like my job.”

“I’ll wait.”

“No, you won't,” you snap. “You can’t sit here that long.”

“I doubt Jim will mind. Should I go ahead and ask him?”

Jim? Since when was he on a first-name basis with your boss? How did he even know Jim's name? “Look,” you hiss. “I don’t get what you’re trying to pull, giving me the grant for my research. But, you can’t buy me off that easily.”

“I’m not buying you off,” Jeongguk says, deadly black eyes fixated on yours. “I already told you what I had to say, I don’t care what you think of it.”

“Then why’d you give it to me?”

“Because your's was the best.”

His compliment hits you like a slap. He sounds completely matter-of-fact. And god, you’d like to believe it. But, you don’t trust him, not one fucking bit.

You're a third-year Ph.D. student at one of the best theoretical physics departments in the world, one that housed more than one hundred grads and what sometimes felt like an infinite amount of undergrads.

It’s been three weeks since Jeongguk— a Professor in your said department— granted your research project to be fully funded by no one other than him. Granted, you did submit your paper to his office (along with quite literally all of the other ambassadors) but that’s because you were almost certain he’d outright deny you.

Jeon Jeongguk, more infamously known as Dr. Jeon was the reason behind an abundance of late graduations; the sole culprit for half of the students in the department being forced to postpone their thesis. Not to mention, he forced your roommate, Jimin, to scrap two of his research projects and completely start from scratch—mid-semester.

You vividly remember Hyuna, Jeongguk’s assistant stopping you three weeks ago. “I have good news for you,” she said, running up to you.

“You do?”

“Yes, Dr. Jeon and his team have reviewed all of the research proposals… and you’ve been chosen for the grant!”

You stared at her, dumbfounded.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all, congratulations!” She passed you a slim envelope with your name neatly handwritten on the label. “There’s your check. You’ll accompany Dr. Jeon at his conference in one month to propose your research to a panel. I’ll email you the details for making use of his building.”

A week later, Jeongguk, showed up at your job for the first time ever, staring daggers into your direction. At the time, you hadn’t even known it was him. You assumed he was another hotshot coming in to pick up the bartender, Krystal. You nearly threw your entire tray of various drinks at him until he introduced himself.

“Finish your shift,” Jeongguk says, dismissing you. “Then we’ll talk.”

You finish your evening shift, feeling his eyes on you everywhere you turn, every move you move. Your skin burns and you fumble through tasks you usually could perform in your sleep.

He was mental. There was no reason for someone like Jeongguk to be hauled up at this run-down bar of all places. You could count six much more lavish bars that would be way more fitting for him.

“What’s with him?” Jim asks you, nodding in Jeongguk’s general direction.

“Sorry— he’s waiting to talk to me. He’s funding my research.”

“Like your Professor?” Jim questions, peeking around the corner to get a better look at Jeongguk.

“No, well yes— he is a Professor, but not mine. He funds like half of the school and somehow granted my proposal.” You toss your head, irritated that Jeongguk has invaded all aspects of your academic and now personal life.

“He looks rich as hell,” Jim snickers. “You should ask him out, Professor and his student, eh?”

“No fucking way.”

“He is rich though, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” you admit.

“Knew it.” Jim nods, wisely.

“He’s wearing Alexander Wang, you’re not exactly Anna Wilson here.”

Jim gasps fakely, placing his hand on his chest as though someone just shot him. “You better drop the attitude or he’ll never date you, missy.”

You wish you could slap Jim and Jeongguk at the same time, with both hands.

“Well, go ahead on to your Prince Charming, I’ll finish your stuff off,” Jim says.

“Thanks,” You respond, not actually grateful. You’d much rather deal with drunk-off their ass old men and frat boys for another two hours than sit and talk to Jeongguk for five minutes.

You take your apron off and plop in the seat opposite to Jeongguk.

“Listen, whatever the hell you’re trying to pull—“

You’re interrupted by Jim, who apparently has decided tonight would be the night to wait a table for the first time in a decade so he can have the pleasure of observing your annoyance up close and personal.

“Good evening!” he sings. “What can I get for this fine couple?”

Jeongguk turns to Jim with a smile of such sincerity that you could only gape at him. His entire face has transformed, suddenly animated. Even his voice softens, becoming warm and humorous. You pinch the flesh of your hand to make sure you’re not dreaming, you wince at the jolting pain reminding you that you are very much awake.

“___ was just telling me how hungry she is,” Jeongguk says. “I want to treat her to all her favorites— I’m sure you know what she likes.”

“How incredibly generous,” Jim says, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

Your hand brushes the full glass of water before you, itching to swing it directly at Jim.

“I am quite generous,” Jeongguk says, grin widening. “Thank you for noticing.”

Jim laughs. “And to think she didn’t want to spend her evening with you.”

“Is that so?” Jeongguk questions, patting your hand in a way that makes you feel murderous. “She never knows what’s good for her.”

Jim is enjoying this ordeal so much he doesn’t want to leave to punch in your order. You clear your throat several times, sending him daggers until he decides to finally get the memo.

As soon as he’s gone, you snatch your hand back from Jeongguk.

“I don’t need you,” you inform him.

Jeongguk snorts.

“The fuck you don’t. You’re broke, barely can afford to pay off your shitty apartment. You have no connections and no cash. I don't think you understand how grilling this field can be. You absolutely need my help, sweetheart.”

You wish you had a counterargument to that.

All you can do is scowl and say, “I’ve gotten quite far with what I have now.”

Jeongguk lets out a long sigh of annoyance.

“I think we both know that’s not true. Let's be honest, you're not doing so great in the real world. But now you’ve met me. In a few weeks, you’ll be joining me at my press conference. I could recommend you to the best Physicists in the world with my connections. You have no idea how many doors I could open for you, darling…”

You cross your hands over your chest. “In exchange for exactly what, Dr. Jeon?”

Jeongguk smiles. Now, this was his genuine smile— not the one he put on for Jim minutes ago. There’s nothing warm or friendly about it. In fact, it’s fucking terrifying.

“You’ll be my protégé,” he says.

“I’m sorry. What does that even mean?”

“It means we’ll get to know each other. I’ll give you my outstanding advice, mentorship. You’ll follow that advice and you’ll flourish.”

The words he’s telling you sound perfectly benign. Yet you can’t stomach the feeling that you’re about to sign a devil’s bargain with a hell of a hidden clause.

“Is there some kind of sexual implication here that I’m completely missing?” You say. “Are you the Epstein of the Physic’s world?”

Jeongguk sits back in his chair, sipping the sparkling cocktail lazily. This new position shows off his long legs and his powerful chest flexing beneath his cashmere sweater, a display that was beginning to suffocate you.

“Do I look like I need to bribe women for sex?”

“No,” you admit.

Half of your roommates and colleagues would fuck Jeongguk in a heartbeat. Actually, all of them would, except maybe Seokjin.

You bite the edge of your thumbnail, considering it.

“Don’t bite your nails,” Jeonnguk snaps. “It’s disgusting.”

You bite the nail harder, scowling at him.

He’s going to be bossy and controlling, you can already tell. Is that what he wants? A puppet dancing on his strings?

“Can I see your lab?” You ask.

It was an audacious request. Jeon Jeongguk doesn’t show his lab to anyone. Especially not when he’s in the middle of conducting experiments to solve yet another world-renowned theory. You have no right to ask— but you have just the strangest sense that he might agree.

“Already making demands?” Jeongguk says. He stirs his straw through his ice with a cold clicking sound.

“Surely a protégé gets to see their master at work,” you test.

Jeongguk smiles. He likes being called “master.” Sick fuck.

“I’ll consider it,” he says. “Now…” he leans forward on the table, steepling his tattooed, tan hands in front of you. “We’re going to talk about you.”

Is he serious? This happens to be your least favorite topic.

“What do you want to know?”

He looks at you hungrily. “Everything.”

You swallow hard. “I’ve always had a passion for Physics. I lived out in Arizona for a while, until Princeton accepted me for my Ph.D.”

“What about your family?”

Come to think of it, that tops the cake for your least favorite topic.

You put your hands down on your lap so you don’t start chewing your nails again.

“I don’t have any family,” you say.

“Everyone has a family.”

“Not me.” You glare at him, lips pressed together, stubborn.

“Where’s the alcoholic father?” Jeongguk says.

To you, the conversation at his office was a blur of shouted accusations and utter confusion. Jeongguk apparently remembers every word, including the part you blurted out and now fervently regret.

“He's still in Arizona,” you reluctantly mutter.

“What about the stepmother?”

“As far as I know, she lives in California. I haven’t talked to either of them in years.”

“Why?”

Your heart is hammering and you feel that sick, squirming sensation in your stomach that always arises when you’re forced to think about your father. You like to keep her trapped behind a locked door in your brain. He’s emotional cancer—if you let him out, he’ll infect every part of you.

So what if you had daddy issues?

“He’s the worst person I’ve ever met,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “And that includes my stepmother. I ran away the day I turned eighteen.”

“Where’s your actual mother?”

“Dead.”

“So is mine,” Jeongguk says. “I find it’s better that way.”

You look at him sharply, wondering if that’s supposed to be a joke.

“I loved my mother,” you say coldly. “The day I lost her was the worst day of my life.”

Jeongguk smiles. “The worst day so far.”

What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Him.

“So Mommy died, leaving you alone with Daddy dearest and not a penny between you,” Jeongguk prods you, wrinkling his nose as he can still smell those awful years on your skin.

“There are worse things than being poor,” you inform him.

“Enlighten me, then,” Jeongguk says, one dark eyebrow raised.

“No,” you say flatly. “I’m not your evening entertainment.”

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” he says. “Have you ever tried cooperating?”

You laugh. “In my experience, when men say ‘cooperative’, they mean ‘obedient’.”

He grins, leaning closer. “Then, have you ever tried being obedient?”

“No.” You lie.

You have tried it. And all you learned from it is that no amount of submission is ever good enough for a man. You can rollover like a dog, beg for mercy, apologize profusely and they’ll keep beating you.

Jeongguk’s dark eyes rove over to your face, giving you an uncomfortable sensation that he can see through every thought you try tirelessly to keep hidden.

Thankfully, you’re saved by Jim depositing several familiar platters of steaming food in front of you two.

Only after Jim leaves you does Jeongguk examine the food with his usual critical glare.

“What is this?” he demands.

“That’s the bacon sampler platter,” you say, nodding toward four marinated strips of premium pork belly labeled with a fancy script like each is a guest at a wedding.

Jeongguk frowns. “It looks . . . intense.”

“It’s the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth. Look,” you cut off a bite of the rosemary balsamic bacon. “Try this one first.”

Jeongguk takes a bite. He chews slowly, his expression melting from skepticism into genuine surprise.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“I told you—try this one now. Brown sugar cinnamon.”

He takes a bite of the second strip, eyebrows rising and an unwilling smile tugging at his mouth.

“This is so good.”

“I know,” you snap. “That’s why I work here. It’s the literal best food in the city.”

“Is that really why you work here?” Jeongguk asks, watching you closely.

“Yes. The smell of food—I can’t stand it if it’s not good. The food here smells incredible because it is incredible. Here, try this now—take a sip of the cocktail, then eat one of the spicy-sweet potatoes.”

Jeongguk does exactly what you said, taking a small sip of his drink, then quickly biting into the potato.

“What the fuck,” he says. “Why is that so good?”

“I dunno.” you shrug. “Something about the sour citrus and then the pop of salt. They amplify each other.”

Jeongguk is watching you as you eat your own food, taking a small bite of one thing and then another, cycling through your favorite combinations.

“Is that how you eat?” he says.

You shrug. “Unless I’m in a hurry.”

“Show me more combinations.”

You show him all your favorite ways to eat the magnificent brunch spread Jim laid before you both—lemon curd layered with fresh strawberries and clotted cream on the scones, blueberries between bites of maple bacon, a dash of hot sauce mixed in with the hollandaise . . .

Jeongguk tries it all with an unusual level of curiosity. You’d assume somebody as rich as him has eaten at a million fancy restaurants.

“Don’t you eat out all the time?” You ask him.

He shakes his head. “I don’t spend much time on food. It bores me.”

“But you like this?”

“I do,” he says, almost as if he hates to admit it. “How do you come up with all this?”

You shrug. “I never tried most foods until I started working at restaurants. I’d never tasted steak, cilantro, or avocado. I wanted to try everything—it was like discovering a whole new sense.”

“But there was a time when you weren’t poor,” Jeongguk says, harrying that point like a dog with a bone. He’s really not gonna fucking drop it.

“Yes,” you say testily. “When we lived with Melissa.”

“That’s your stepmother.”

“Yes.”

“What did you eat then?”

“Not fucking much. She used to scream at me if my spoon clinked in my cereal bowl.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

Jeongguk’s relentless . . . and hypnotic, the way he fixes you with those deep, dark eyes, never looking away for a moment. The way he absorbs everything you say with none of the usual displays of sympathy or irritating commiseration. He just soaks it in and demands more, like he plans to drill down to the core of you, strip-mining your soul.

He insisted on paying for the meal, leaving an extra hundred-dollar bill as a tip for Jim— something you’ll never hear the end of.

You can already see how he uses his money to manipulate people—including me. You cashed that seven-thousand-dollar check because I had to. You were not only late on rent but you owed Jimin somewhere around four hundred dollars for spotting you the past two months.

Jeongguk knows exactly how much leverage he has over you, and he isn’t shy about leaning on the lever.

And yet, despite the fact that he’s clearly callous and manipulative, you still find yourself walking with strange lightness down the campus streets to your sparkling new lab in his building.

Maybe because he wasn’t trying to make you feel better. In fact, it’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned this topic without hearing the words, “But it’s your dad . . .”

Jeongguk offered no sympathy. He also offered no excuses. No fucking platitudes. No lies.

You spend the afternoon working on studying light. You’ve never felt such confidence in your work. You bend over the display of water and turn on the main lamp above it, you then take the wooden dowel to your left and make indentations in the water.

The idea is already there, inside the depths of your brain. Perfect and whole—all it needs is to be unveiled.

You spot something in the reflection that you hadn’t noticed before: a camera mounted above the door, pointed into the lab. You frown, turning your face away from the lens.

Why the hell is there a camera in here?

Is it recording all the time?

Something in the back of your brain tells you yes, it most definitely does.

You suddenly feel self-conscious, replaying your behavior all afternoon. Did you talk to yourself? Scratch your ass? Pick your nose?

You’re suddenly paranoid that Jeon Jeongguk is watching you.

He unnerves you, and you don’t fucking trust him. Your talk at the bar didn’t help to ease what his intentions were. Sure, he said that you’d be his protege. But, when a man takes a special interest in you, it’s never good.

As your leaving, you stop at the cafe on the ground level, treating yourself to one of the iced lattes Hyuna promised were so good. She’s not wrong—the coffee is rich and perfectly prepared.

Hyuna herself comes through the front doors as I’m leaving.

You kind of wish she hadn’t caught sight of you, since she’s dressed in a stylish scarlet pantsuit, her hair freshly blown out and her lipstick immaculate. Whereas you look like you spent the night riding around in the back of a garbage truck.

“Oh, ___!” she says, “You’re here early.”

“Hey,” you say nervously. “Just leaving, actually. I came in extra early—I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay.” She smiles. “That’s why you have twenty-four-hour access.”

“Yeah . . .” you say. “Actually I was curious . . . I noticed a camera in the lab. Right above the door.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “All the studios have them. It’s for security purposes only—we’ve had issues with theft in the past. Don’t worry, no one has access to the feed. It would only be reviewed in cases where an incident has occurred.”

“Sure.” you nod.

You don’t believe a word she’s saying. Jeongguk owns this building, and those cameras are there for a reason.

A week after granting your proposal | Jeongguk

Jeongguk takes his stalking of you online.

Like most people, you’ve splashed your life all over social media for anyone to see—both on your own accounts, and your friends.

You and your friends are a smart bunch, so the photos you share are less eclectic than average. Jeongguk has to wade through any number of sepia-toned lab photos, aesthetic campus photos, and landscape shots to find something useful. Once he does, he finds endless portraits of you.

He spends a long time examining your face. You’re an interesting conundrum. Vulnerable yet fierce. Damaged yet stubborn.

You do not make personal posts—no long, rambling dissertations on your inner feelings under a mirror selfie, and no vague captions intended to elicit a flood of comments begging for more details.

Jeongguk’s already decided that you and he will inevitably cross paths—the Physic’s world is too small to avoid it.

He intends to choose the time and location of that meeting. He’ll control all the elements, arranging the players like pieces on a chessboard.

It’s unlike him to fixate on a woman like this. Jeongguk finds most people horrifically boring. He’s never met anyone as intelligent as him, or as talented. Other people are weak and emotional—slaves to their impulses. Constantly making promises they can’t keep, even to themselves.

Only Jeongguk seems to have the power to control his own fate.

Whatever he wants to happen, happens. He makes it so by his own cunning, his determination.

Everyone else is a victim of chance and circumstance. To arbitrary rules set up by people who died a hundred years ago. To their own pathetic ineptitude.

He does what he wants. He gets what he wants. Always. Every time.

If there’s a god of this world, it’s Jeongguk.

But even Zeus found mortals interesting from time to time.

He desires to see you again, to speak to you. Jeongguk wants to manipulate you and see how you react.

And if Jeongguk wants something . . . that means it’s good.

Jeongguk breaks into your room later that afternoon.

You’re working at that sleazy shit bar, something that usually takes you until 10:00 P.M.

It’s almost impossible to find a point in the day where none of your roommates are home, so Jeongguk doesn’t bother waiting. The apartment is so crowded, with so many people coming and going, he doubts that any of them will notice a few extra creaks from a room that ought to be empty.

It helps that your room is on the topmost floor. It’s easy to scale the trellis of the neighboring house, drop down onto your deck, and force open the flimsy lock on the glass door.

The attic room is certainly not to code. The ceiling is so low that he can’t stand upright, even in the center of the peaked space. Your bed is a futon mattress on the floor, your clothes folded in plastic milk crates because you have no closet or dresser.

This is the sort of cramped, chaotic space that usually disgusts him. The dusty air and stacks of battered secondhand Physics books next to the bed—no bookshelf to hold them—reek of poverty.

Curiosity staves off his repulsion. He’s drawn to the obviously used cover of his very own book. It’s his research paper from when he was a Ph.D. Student, “Fundamentals of Physics” laid prettily in your room.

He smiles to himself.

Of course, you had good— no, great taste.

He sets the book down.

He can smell your perfume on the sheets, stronger than when he followed you a week prior.

Jeongguk lays down in your bed, his head on your pillow. He turns his face so his nose is pressed against your crumpled sheets and he inhales.

Your scent is layered and complex. Warm notes of vanilla, caramel. A botanical scent—mandarin, or maybe black currant. Then something exotic, spiced—perhaps a jasmine soap. Under that, the light scent of your sweat arouses him far more than any of the others. Jeongguk’s cock swells until it’s no longer comfortable within his trousers.

He enjoys the trespass of laying in your bed. Knowing that you may catch a hint of his cologne lingering there tonight. It may confuse or frighten you. Or arouse you, if his chemical composition calls to you as yours does to him.

The idea of your heart beating fast, of you startling awake, searching your room for evidence that someone else was here, amuses him.

Deliberately, he rearranges the order of the books next to the bed making sure to put his on the very top.

Then he looks through your clothes.

You wear cheap nylon underwear, thin and transparent, in shades of black, gray, and purple. How colorful.

Most of your clothes are dirty, stuffed in a drawstring bag to be hauled down to the laundromat.

A single pair of black briefs lies abandoned next to the bed. Jeongguk assumes this is the underwear you shucked off this morning.

Lifting it to his face, Jeongguk inhales the scent of your warm morning pussy.

It’s similar to the smell of your sheets but musky.

His cock is raging now. Jeongguk unzips his pants, allowing his thick dick to spring free. He strokes it gently while he breathes in the scent of your cunt. He even puts out his tongue and tastes the cotton strip that is nestled between your pussy lips.

He remembers the picture of you laying on the ground from two weeks ago, tightly bound, arms behind your back and breasts thrust forward. Your knees pulled back, your bare pussy exposed. He could have shoved his cock in you.

If he had smelled this scent, he would have done it.

Jeongguk’s never experienced anything like it. It’s addicting. The longer he spent in your room with your sheets, your half-empty shitty perfume bottle, your dirty laundry, the more it fills his lungs, surges through his blood.

The more he wants it. Fresh from the source.

Jeongguk’s jerking his cock harder, taking deep breaths.

He imagines you tied down, this time on your back with your legs pulled apart. He imagines burying his face in you, thrusting his tongue all the way inside you while you thrash against the ropes.

His balls are boiling, his cock throbbing with every heartbeat.

Jeongguk wraps the panties around the head of his cock and he thrusts into them, right against the crotch. His cock erupts, pouring cum into your underwear.

He uses your panties to catch every last drop, squeezing them around the head.

That skimpy black fabric feels better around Jeongguk’s cock than any actual pussy he’s ever fucked. Maybe it’s the novelty, or maybe it’s the way your scent still clings to his fingers, lingering in his lungs.

It’s not enough. The orgasm was rapid, powerful as a rifle shot. Jeongguk’s not satisfied.

He wants to watch you in this space. Want to see how you walk around your room, how you undress, how you behave when you think you’re alone.

Jeongguk looks out your window.

The adjoining row houses offer no line of sight into your room. But the house behind hers—the tall Georgian with the black shutters—offers a perfect view from its own attic space.

You have no curtains on your windows. You’re so high up, you feel as safe as a crow in its nest.

Crows forget about hawks.

Jeongguk drops the panties back on the floor where he found them.

Then he leaves the way he came, already planning to call his estate agent.

You

By the time you get from your night shift, you’re already late for your meeting with Minho.

He’s good-looking, decent at sex, and better at conversation, though he has a tendency to get preachy. He’s judgmental as fuck about you bartending at Hybe because he says half the regulars are alcoholics and you’re fueling their addiction. Never mind that you met him at Hybe, and he’s hardly a teetotaler.

You hurry into the house, knowing Minho will be annoyed if you’re late again.

Seokjin passes you on the stairs, likewise hurrying to a date with his long-term boyfriend Taehyung, as you jog up the three flights to your attic room.

“You look gorgeous!” You tell him.

“You too!” he lies.

You laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m about to change.”

You strip off your clothes, sweaty from skating around the park with the dogs. Even though you’re well into October and the sky was cloudy, it was close to eighty degrees, muggy and humid.

You consider rinsing off in the shower, but you don’t really have time. Instead, you pull a black mini dress out of the closet, along with pair of thigh-high boots.

Shimmying into the dress, you look around for some clean underwear. It’s been two weeks since you hauled your clothes down to the laundromat, and you’re in short supply.

Desperate and late, you snatch up the panties off the floor, pulling them on.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, as wetness presses against your pussy lips.

Hooking your thumbs on either side of the briefs, you lower them to knee level.

You examine the crotch of the underwear, trying to figure out if you got your period without noticing. It’s hard to tell on the black material.

Stepping out of the panties, you rub your thumb across the strip of cotton sewn into the crotch. It feels distinctly slippery. Raising your fingers to your face, you smell a faint bleachy scent.

You drop the panties on the floor, heart racing.

You know what cum smells like.

Don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself. You’ve lived in this house for two years. Nobody comes up here.

Three of your roommates are male, and all three of them are gay.

It’s possible some asshole could have come up here and poked around your stuff. You sweep the room, wondering if you would notice if anything had been moved.

Your copy of “Fundamentals of Physics” by Jeongguk is still right next to the bed, open to the same spot as before.

Other than that . . . how the fuck would you know if someone had been in here?

Your heart hammers against your sternum, your hands trembling as you set down the theory once more.

You’re being paranoid. So your underwear was wet. It’s probably just . . . you know, discharge or some shit.

You don’t want to be this person. Jumping at shadows and thinking everybody is out to get you.

You can’t live like this, terrified and paranoid.

You take several deep breaths, trying to slow your racing heart. You look at your new phone, bought with a credit card.

10:14.

You’re really fucking late.

Snatching up your purse once more, you leave the underwear on the floor and hurry out of the room commando. No underwear is probably better than dirty underwear anyway.

Jeongguk

Jeongguk had a dinner for the Theoretical Physicist Embassy he was supposed to attend, but he skipped it in favor of further reconnaissance.

He found the house directly behind yours listed on Airbnb for eight hundred dollars a night. After messaging the owner, Jeongguk convinced him to cancel his next three bookings so he could take the place for a month, starting immediately.

So intense was his desire to spy on you that he probably would have bought the damn thing.

Jeongguk drove over to the townhouse early in the evening, parking his Tesla at the curb.

The three-story Georgian wasn’t nearly as nice as his own house, but it’s ten times more habitable than yours. The pale oak floors look freshly polished, and the host left a bowl of foil-wrapped chocolates on the kitchen island, as well as stocking the fridge with bottled water.

As long as the house is clean, Jeongguk doesn’t give a fuck about anything else. Strike that—it’s the view he cares about.

He climbs the creaking stairs to the third floor, which includes an office, a small library, and a sitting room.

The library window is the one that looks across the back garden to your house. The beveled glass offers a watery view into the protected alcove of your balcony.

You could be forgiven for thinking that you have complete privacy in that space. The library window is small, set high up on the wall, divided into a dozen diamond panes.

Jeongguk cuts out the entire window with his glass cutters. Then he covers the space with black paper, leaving only a hole for his telescope.

From a distance, it will look like nothing more than a dark window into an empty room.

His efforts are rewarded when you rush into your bedroom only twenty minutes later before he’s completed his preparations.

You rush everywhere you go, running from job to job, always late.

He respects the hustle, but your existence is tawdry and depressing. The thought of waiting tables, taking people’s orders, and serving their food is offensive to Jeongguk.

Jeongguk’s interest in this hectic, desperate girl baffles him.

His desires have never been mysterious to him. In fact, they’ve always felt rational and natural.

Jardin—his mentor— irritated him, so Jeongguk removed him from his sphere. He put his bones inside the sculpture in his apartment as his own private joke.

This is the first time in Jeongguk’s life that he’s desired something without understanding why.

Out of all the thousands of women, he’s encountered, how did you catch his attention like a hook through the gills of a fish?

Jeongguk noticed you the very first moment he saw you when you spilled wine on your dress. You hardly even flinched—just marched into the bathroom, emerging with that makeshift tie-dye that was creative and beautiful.

You had Jeongguk wondering what it would take to break you. To shatter you into so many pieces that you could never put them together again.

The view through the telescope is so clear that he could almost be standing in the room with you.

He watches you strip off your clothes, revealing a lean, taut body with average breasts and wide hips. He’s intrigued to see that you haven’t removed the piercings from your nipples—the twin silver rings remain in place.

As you hunt for clothes, a cold bead of excitement runs down Jeongguk’s spine. He already knows you have no clean underwear.

Sure enough, you spot the discarded panties on the floor. Jeongguk’s heart stops and he can hardly breathe, riveted in place, eye to the telescope, watching . . .

You pick up the underwear and step into it.

Blood rushes to Jeongguk’s cock so fast that he’s lightheaded.

You’re wearing panties soaked in his cum without knowing it. The most intimate part of him pressed up against the most intimate part of you.

You hesitate, standing still in the center of the room.

You’re feeling the wetness of his cum against your cunt.

Jeongguk’s cock is so hard it tents out the front of his trousers.

He loves the thought of his cum on your bare flesh. How long does sperm survive? He wonders if those desperate, minuscule swimmers are trying to wriggle inside you right now.

You yank down the underwear, examining the material.

Jeongguk watches the panic and confusion on your face, his cock harder than it’s ever been.

You touch his cum. Smell it. Then rips off the underwear and flings it away from you.

His whole body is warm and throbbing. Jeongguk can’t remember when he last felt this level of excitement. He’s been so fucking bored lately. Nothing impresses him. Nothing interested him. Until now . . .

Tormenting you without even touching you is so stimulating that Jeongguk can hardly imagine what it would be like to put his hands directly on your flesh . . . to circle them around your throat . . .

You shift your weight back and forth, trying to decide what to do.

You’re wondering if you felt what you think you felt.

You don’t trust yourself.

Finally, you snatch up your purse and exit the room.

Jeongguk’s already heading down the stairs. You’re not dressed for work—he wants to see where you’re going.

A date, he suspects.

At the thought, Jeongguk’s pupils contract, his throat tightens, his heart slows. He’s cold and focused.

Who do you date? Who do you fuck?

He wants to know.

He exits the townhouse, not bothering to lock the door behind him. He cut across 96th Street, catching sight of you walking ahead in your tight black dress and thigh-high boots. You don’t wear heels often. Jeongguk like how it hobbles you, slowing your pace.

It’s easy for him to track you, walking along the opposite side of the street like a disconnected shadow. Jeongguk follows you to a trendy little restaurant a few blocks away, where you meet some scruffy-faced hipster in a too-tight t-shirt.

Unlike you and your date, Jeongguk doesn’t have a reservation. A hundred-dollar bill pressed into the hostess’s palm solves that problem. He probably could have convinced her just by holding her gaze and letting his fingers trail across her wrist. The hostess giggles and blushes as she heads him to a table he requested, tucked away in a corner.

Jeongguk has no problem attracting women. In fact, it’s too easy. The wealth, the fame, and the looks suck them in before he says a word. There’s no challenge.

He wonders if you will fall at his feet as easily as that hostess.

You don’t seem particularly enthralled with your date. In fact, you twitch irritably as he rests his arm across the back of your chair.

Your date yammers on about something, oblivious to your expression of boredom. He doesn’t seem to notice how you angle your body away from him, only rarely meeting his eye. When he tries to tidy your hair, you jolt away from him.

Jeongguk feels a strange sense of satisfaction in your rejection of this buffoon. It would have lessened you in his eyes if you were besotted with someone so . . . pedestrian.

His pleasure evaporates as your date reaches under the table to fondle your pussy.

In its place: a sharp spike of fury.

Jeongguk wants to rip that hand off his arm, leaving a ragged stump with a bare glint of bone.

Even in Jeongguk’s most extreme moments, when he’s slit the throat of someone he hated and watched their blood run down his arm, his heart rate barely rose.

The feeling of that lump of muscle pounding in Jeongguk’s chest is something new to him—something that makes him sit back in his chair, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists on his lap.

What the fuck is happening.

He almost feels. . . jealous.

He’s never been jealous before. Why would he? No one on this planet has anything he envies.

Yet he’s already decided, with absolute certainty, that no one should be touching that sweet little cunt except him.

He’s smelled your scent on his fingers.

He wants it fresh from the source.

As if obeying his command, you jump up from the table, shoving back your chair. Jeongguk hears your hasty apologies as you throw cash by your plate. Then you leave, abandoning your disgruntled date before you’ve even ordered your entrées.

Lucky for him—Jeongguk was already planning how he’d cut off his balls with a box cutter.

Luckily for hipster boy, he's saved by the expedient of Jeongguk's urge to follow you instead. He's left his own folded bills tucked under his unused fork.

The sky is fully dark, thick with clouds. The wind is colder than before.

He walks back to 96th Street, feeling a curious elation at the prospect of watching you alone in your room.

Jeongguk likes you best in your private space. It’s a look inside your mind—your comforts and preferences.

Settling himself behind the telescope once more, he sees you pacing your room. You are a skittish horse. When you’re calm, you move with grace. But when you’re frustrated or uncomfortable—and you were certainly both in the company of your incompetent date—you become stiff and withdrawn, hypersensitive to irritants.

You haul your mattress out on the small deck attached to your room.

This is all the better for him. He can see you as clearly as a figure in a diorama.

You lay down on the futon, a pair of headphones over your ears. It takes a long time for your breathing to slow, for you to settle deeply into the mattress. Your lips move in time with the lyrics of the song.

You’re so still now that Jeongguk wonders if you fell asleep. Your chest rises and falls with metronome regularity.

The breeze whispers through the hedges in the garden between him and you. It slides across your skin, making you shiver. Your nipples are hard, visible even through the black dress.

Jeongguk hears the soft rumble of thunder.

A few scattered raindrops hit the black paper covering the library window.

You stir, feeling the rain on your skin.

He expects you to rise, to pull your mattress back inside.

But you seem determined to surprise him at every turn.

You sit up. Lift your palm. Feels the rain pattering down.

Then you pull your dress over your head and toss it aside.

You lay down on the mattress once more, fully nude.

Jeongguk lets out a soft sigh, his eye pressed against the telescope.

Thunder rolls and the rain falls harder. It shatters all across your naked skin: on your thighs, your stomach, your bare breasts, your upturned palms, your closed eyelids. It falls in your partly opened mouth.

You’re soaking it in. Feeling the delicious coolness and the tiny impact of each droplet breaking on your skin.

Your expression is dreamy, floating. Soaked in pleasure. Fully relaxed for the first time since Jeongguk has been watching you.

Again he feels that strange, squirming feeling in his guts.

Jealousy.

The rain falls harder, soaking your hair, drenching the mattress, chilling your skin.

You don’t give a fuck.

You reach between your thighs. You begin to stroke your fingers back and forth across your pussy lips. Touching yourself lightly, delicately.

Your lips part wider, allowing more rain into your mouth.

The rain beats against the side of the house. A bolt of lightning sizzles across the sky, illuminating your shining body like a camera flash. Every detail stands out in sharp relief: the long column of your throat, the divot of your collarbone, the points of your nipples, the long, flat expanse of your abdomen, the delicate bones of your hands, the slender fingers slipping inside of yourself.

Jeongguk’s never seen anything so beautiful.

Your bronze as a statue in the purplish light. If he could sculpt you exactly like this, it would be his greatest work.

He wants to pour molten metal over your, freezing you in time forever.

Jeongguk puts his own hand down the front of his pants, feeling the thick rod of his cock, painfully hard.

His skin feels feverish.

He wants to be out where you are, drenched in rain, touching that cold flesh . . .

Jeongguk pumps his cock in time with the motion of your hand.

Your pace quickens, back-arching, head thrown back.

He fucks his hand harder and harder, imagining he’s about to explode over your body, hot cum raining down on you harder than the storm.

Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, your cries drowned out by the rain. Your thighs clamp around your hand, your body shaking.

Jeongguk’s cumming for the second time today, a hot flood that pours over the back of his hand, dripping down onto the floorboards.

He can’t tear his eyes from the telescope.

You

It’s 9:30 P.M., you’re deep in the evening shift, hauling platters of wings and six-pound burgers when Jeon Jeongguk sits down at one of your tables.

You almost drop your tray of cocktails.

Jeongguk cuts such a striking figure that almost everyone at the sidewalk tables stares at him. Women within a hundred-yard radius are suddenly compelled to smoothen their hair and check their lipstick. Even your boss, Jim, squints and frowns, asking the hostess if someone famous just sat down.

Jeongguk has that effortless off-duty model look. He’s tall, muscular, and elegantly dressed in clothes you know cost well over five figures. But what really tops it off is his careless arrogance. You’ve convinced yourself that if you were hit by a semi-truck going ninety on a sidewalk, he wouldn’t even notice.

He sees you long before you see him. He’s already smirking, his dark eyes glittering with malice under the dimmed light of the restaurant. He’s so stunning that it increases your distrust of him. Nobody that beautiful could be good, it’s impossible, you've seen enough movies to differentiate between good and evil.

“Bring me one of those sparkly cocktails,” he orders.

You think you hate him. A wave of anger surges inside of you at the sight of his godly face. Jeongguk’s expression doesn’t change as you turn your attention to him.

“You’re supposed to wait for the hostess to seat you,” you mutter, resisting every possible urge to not roll your eyes.

“I’m sure you can handle one more table,” Jeongguk says, looking around the surprisingly empty bar to push you just one button further.

You might as well have taken that idiotically expensive tie around his neck and strangled him with it. Instead, you tightly smile and ungraciously thrust a menu into his hands.

When you return a few minutes later with his cocktail (extra edible glitter), he says, “I want you to eat with me.”

“I can’t. I’m kind of in the middle of my shift, y’know, like my job.”

“I’ll wait.”

“No, you won't,” you snap. “You can’t sit here that long.”

“I doubt Jim will mind. Should I go ahead and ask him?”

Jim? Since when was he on a first-name basis with your boss? How did he even know Jim's name? “Look,” you hiss. “I don’t get what you’re trying to pull, giving me the grant for my research. But, you can’t buy me off that easily.”

“I’m not buying you off,” Jeongguk says, deadly black eyes fixated on yours. “I already told you what I had to say, I don’t care what you think of it.”

“Then why’d you give it to me?”

“Because your's was the best.”

His compliment hits you like a slap. He sounds completely matter-of-fact. And god, you’d like to believe it. But, you don’t trust him, not one fucking bit.

You're a third-year Ph.D. student at one of the best theoretical physics departments in the world, one that housed more than one hundred grads and what sometimes felt like an infinite amount of undergrads.

It’s been three weeks since Jeongguk— a Professor in your said department— granted your research project to be fully funded by no one other than him. Granted, you did submit your paper to his office (along with quite literally all of the other ambassadors) but that’s because you were almost certain he’d outright deny you.

Jeon Jeongguk, more infamously known as Dr. Jeon was the reason behind an abundance of late graduations; the sole culprit for half of the students in the department being forced to postpone their thesis. Not to mention, he forced your roommate, Jimin, to scrap two of his research projects and completely start from scratch—mid-semester.

You vividly remember Hyuna, Jeongguk’s assistant stopping you three weeks ago. “I have good news for you,” she said, running up to you.

“You do?”

“Yes, Dr. Jeon and his team have reviewed all of the research proposals… and you’ve been chosen for the grant!”

You stared at her, dumbfounded.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all, congratulations!” She passed you a slim envelope with your name neatly handwritten on the label. “There’s your check. You’ll accompany Dr. Jeon at his conference in one month to propose your research to a panel. I’ll email you the details for making use of his building.”

A week later, Jeongguk, showed up at your job for the first time ever, staring daggers into your direction. At the time, you hadn’t even known it was him. You assumed he was another hotshot coming in to pick up the bartender, Krystal. You nearly threw your entire tray of various drinks at him until he introduced himself.

“Finish your shift,” Jeongguk says, dismissing you. “Then we’ll talk.”

You finish your evening shift, feeling his eyes on you everywhere you turn, every move you move. Your skin burns and you fumble through tasks you usually could perform in your sleep.

He was mental. There was no reason for someone like Jeongguk to be hauled up at this run-down bar of all places. You could count six much more lavish bars that would be way more fitting for him.

“What’s with him?” Jim asks you, nodding in Jeongguk’s general direction.

“Sorry— he’s waiting to talk to me. He’s funding my research.”

“Like your Professor?” Jim questions, peeking around the corner to get a better look at Jeongguk.

“No, well yes— he is a Professor, but not mine. He funds like half of the school and somehow granted my proposal.” You toss your head, irritated that Jeongguk has invaded all aspects of your academic and now personal life.

“He looks rich as hell,” Jim snickers. “You should ask him out, Professor and his student, eh?”

“No fucking way.”

“He is rich though, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” you admit.

“Knew it.” Jim nods, wisely.

“He’s wearing Alexander Wang, you’re not exactly Anna Wilson here.”

Jim gasps fakely, placing his hand on his chest as though someone just shot him. “You better drop the attitude or he’ll never date you, missy.”

You wish you could slap Jim and Jeongguk at the same time, with both hands.

“Well, go ahead on to your Prince Charming, I’ll finish your stuff off,” Jim says.

“Thanks,” You respond, not actually grateful. You’d much rather deal with drunk-off their ass old men and frat boys for another two hours than sit and talk to Jeongguk for five minutes.

You take your apron off and plop in the seat opposite to Jeongguk.

“Listen, whatever the hell you’re trying to pull—“

You’re interrupted by Jim, who apparently has decided tonight would be the night to wait a table for the first time in a decade so he can have the pleasure of observing your annoyance up close and personal.

“Good evening!” he sings. “What can I get for this fine couple?”

Jeongguk turns to Jim with a smile of such sincerity that you could only gape at him. His entire face has transformed, suddenly animated. Even his voice softens, becoming warm and humorous. You pinch the flesh of your hand to make sure you’re not dreaming, you wince at the jolting pain reminding you that you are very much awake.

“___ was just telling me how hungry she is,” Jeongguk says. “I want to treat her to all her favorites— I’m sure you know what she likes.”

“How incredibly generous,” Jim says, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

Your hand brushes the full glass of water before you, itching to swing it directly at Jim.

“I am quite generous,” Jeongguk says, grin widening. “Thank you for noticing.”

Jim laughs. “And to think she didn’t want to spend her evening with you.”

“Is that so?” Jeongguk questions, patting your hand in a way that makes you feel murderous. “She never knows what’s good for her.”

Jim is enjoying this ordeal so much he doesn’t want to leave to punch in your order. You clear your throat several times, sending him daggers until he decides to finally get the memo.

As soon as he’s gone, you snatch your hand back from Jeongguk.

“I don’t need you,” you inform him.

Jeongguk snorts.

“The fuck you don’t. You’re broke, barely can afford to pay off your shitty apartment. You have no connections and no cash. I don't think you understand how grilling this field can be. You absolutely need my help, sweetheart.”

You wish you had a counterargument to that.

All you can do is scowl and say, “I’ve gotten quite far with what I have now.”

Jeongguk lets out a long sigh of annoyance.

“I think we both know that’s not true. Let's be honest, you're not doing so great in the real world. But now you’ve met me. In a few weeks, you’ll be joining me at my press conference. I could recommend you to the best Physicists in the world with my connections. You have no idea how many doors I could open for you, darling…”

You cross your hands over your chest. “In exchange for exactly what, Dr. Jeon?”

Jeongguk smiles. Now, this was his genuine smile— not the one he put on for Jim minutes ago. There’s nothing warm or friendly about it. In fact, it’s fucking terrifying.

“You’ll be my protégé,” he says.

“I’m sorry. What does that even mean?”

“It means we’ll get to know each other. I’ll give you my outstanding advice, mentorship. You’ll follow that advice and you’ll flourish.”

The words he’s telling you sound perfectly benign. Yet you can’t stomach the feeling that you’re about to sign a devil’s bargain with a hell of a hidden clause.

“Is there some kind of sexual implication here that I’m completely missing?” You say. “Are you the Epstein of the Physic’s world?”

Jeongguk sits back in his chair, sipping the sparkling cocktail lazily. This new position shows off his long legs and his powerful chest flexing beneath his cashmere sweater, a display that was beginning to suffocate you.

“Do I look like I need to bribe women for sex?”

“No,” you admit.

Half of your roommates and colleagues would fuck Jeongguk in a heartbeat. Actually, all of them would, except maybe Seokjin.

You bite the edge of your thumbnail, considering it.

“Don’t bite your nails,” Jeonnguk snaps. “It’s disgusting.”

You bite the nail harder, scowling at him.

He’s going to be bossy and controlling, you can already tell. Is that what he wants? A puppet dancing on his strings?

“Can I see your lab?” You ask.

It was an audacious request. Jeon Jeongguk doesn’t show his lab to anyone. Especially not when he’s in the middle of conducting experiments to solve yet another world-renowned theory. You have no right to ask— but you have just the strangest sense that he might agree.

“Already making demands?” Jeongguk says. He stirs his straw through his ice with a cold clicking sound.

“Surely a protégé gets to see their master at work,” you test.

Jeongguk smiles. He likes being called “master.” Sick fuck.

“I’ll consider it,” he says. “Now…” he leans forward on the table, steepling his tattooed, tan hands in front of you. “We’re going to talk about you.”

Is he serious? This happens to be your least favorite topic.

“What do you want to know?”

He looks at you hungrily. “Everything.”

You swallow hard. “I’ve always had a passion for Physics. I lived out in Arizona for a while, until Princeton accepted me for my Ph.D.”

“What about your family?”

Come to think of it, that tops the cake for your least favorite topic.

You put your hands down on your lap so you don’t start chewing your nails again.

“I don’t have any family,” you say.

“Everyone has a family.”

“Not me.” You glare at him, lips pressed together, stubborn.

“Where’s the alcoholic father?” Jeongguk says.

To you, the conversation at his office was a blur of shouted accusations and utter confusion. Jeongguk apparently remembers every word, including the part you blurted out and now fervently regret.

“He's still in Arizona,” you reluctantly mutter.

“What about the stepmother?”

“As far as I know, she lives in California. I haven’t talked to either of them in years.”

“Why?”

Your heart is hammering and you feel that sick, squirming sensation in your stomach that always arises when you’re forced to think about your father. You like to keep her trapped behind a locked door in your brain. He’s emotional cancer—if you let him out, he’ll infect every part of you.

So what if you had daddy issues?

“He’s the worst person I’ve ever met,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “And that includes my stepmother. I ran away the day I turned eighteen.”

“Where’s your actual mother?”

“Dead.”

“So is mine,” Jeongguk says. “I find it’s better that way.”

You look at him sharply, wondering if that’s supposed to be a joke.

“I loved my mother,” you say coldly. “The day I lost her was the worst day of my life.”

Jeongguk smiles. “The worst day so far.”

What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Him.

“So Mommy died, leaving you alone with Daddy dearest and not a penny between you,” Jeongguk prods you, wrinkling his nose as he can still smell those awful years on your skin.

“There are worse things than being poor,” you inform him.

“Enlighten me, then,” Jeongguk says, one dark eyebrow raised.

“No,” you say flatly. “I’m not your evening entertainment.”

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” he says. “Have you ever tried cooperating?”

You laugh. “In my experience, when men say ‘cooperative’, they mean ‘obedient’.”

He grins, leaning closer. “Then, have you ever tried being obedient?”

“No.” You lie.

You have tried it. And all you learned from it is that no amount of submission is ever good enough for a man. You can rollover like a dog, beg for mercy, apologize profusely and they’ll keep beating you.

Jeongguk’s dark eyes rove over to your face, giving you an uncomfortable sensation that he can see through every thought you try tirelessly to keep hidden.

Thankfully, you’re saved by Jim depositing several familiar platters of steaming food in front of you two.

Only after Jim leaves you does Jeongguk examine the food with his usual critical glare.

“What is this?” he demands.

“That’s the bacon sampler platter,” you say, nodding toward four marinated strips of premium pork belly labeled with a fancy script like each is a guest at a wedding.

Jeongguk frowns. “It looks . . . intense.”

“It’s the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth. Look,” you cut off a bite of the rosemary balsamic bacon. “Try this one first.”

Jeongguk takes a bite. He chews slowly, his expression melting from skepticism into genuine surprise.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“I told you—try this one now. Brown sugar cinnamon.”

He takes a bite of the second strip, eyebrows rising and an unwilling smile tugging at his mouth.

“This is so good.”

“I know,” you snap. “That’s why I work here. It’s the literal best food in the city.”

“Is that really why you work here?” Jeongguk asks, watching you closely.

“Yes. The smell of food—I can’t stand it if it’s not good. The food here smells incredible because it is incredible. Here, try this now—take a sip of the cocktail, then eat one of the spicy-sweet potatoes.”

Jeongguk does exactly what you said, taking a small sip of his drink, then quickly biting into the potato.

“What the fuck,” he says. “Why is that so good?”

“I dunno.” you shrug. “Something about the sour citrus and then the pop of salt. They amplify each other.”

Jeongguk is watching you as you eat your own food, taking a small bite of one thing and then another, cycling through your favorite combinations.

“Is that how you eat?” he says.

You shrug. “Unless I’m in a hurry.”

“Show me more combinations.”

You show him all your favorite ways to eat the magnificent brunch spread Jim laid before you both—lemon curd layered with fresh strawberries and clotted cream on the scones, blueberries between bites of maple bacon, a dash of hot sauce mixed in with the hollandaise . . .

Jeongguk tries it all with an unusual level of curiosity. You’d assume somebody as rich as him has eaten at a million fancy restaurants.

“Don’t you eat out all the time?” You ask him.

He shakes his head. “I don’t spend much time on food. It bores me.”

“But you like this?”

“I do,” he says, almost as if he hates to admit it. “How do you come up with all this?”

You shrug. “I never tried most foods until I started working at restaurants. I’d never tasted steak, cilantro, or avocado. I wanted to try everything—it was like discovering a whole new sense.”

“But there was a time when you weren’t poor,” Jeongguk says, harrying that point like a dog with a bone. He’s really not gonna fucking drop it.

“Yes,” you say testily. “When we lived with Melissa.”

“That’s your stepmother.”

“Yes.”

“What did you eat then?”

“Not fucking much. She used to scream at me if my spoon clinked in my cereal bowl.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

Jeongguk’s relentless . . . and hypnotic, the way he fixes you with those deep, dark eyes, never looking away for a moment. The way he absorbs everything you say with none of the usual displays of sympathy or irritating commiseration. He just soaks it in and demands more, like he plans to drill down to the core of you, strip-mining your soul.

He insisted on paying for the meal, leaving an extra hundred-dollar bill as a tip for Jim— something you’ll never hear the end of.

You can already see how he uses his money to manipulate people—including me. You cashed that seven-thousand-dollar check because I had to. You were not only late on rent but you owed Jimin somewhere around four hundred dollars for spotting you the past two months.

Jeongguk knows exactly how much leverage he has over you, and he isn’t shy about leaning on the lever.

And yet, despite the fact that he’s clearly callous and manipulative, you still find yourself walking with strange lightness down the campus streets to your sparkling new lab in his building.

Maybe because he wasn’t trying to make you feel better. In fact, it’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned this topic without hearing the words, “But it’s your dad . . .”

Jeongguk offered no sympathy. He also offered no excuses. No fucking platitudes. No lies.

You spend the afternoon working on studying light. You’ve never felt such confidence in your work. You bend over the display of water and turn on the main lamp above it, you then take the wooden dowel to your left and make indentations in the water.

The idea is already there, inside the depths of your brain. Perfect and whole—all it needs is to be unveiled.

You spot something in the reflection that you hadn’t noticed before: a camera mounted above the door, pointed into the lab. You frown, turning your face away from the lens.

Why the hell is there a camera in here?

Is it recording all the time?

Something in the back of your brain tells you yes, it most definitely does.

You suddenly feel self-conscious, replaying your behavior all afternoon. Did you talk to yourself? Scratch your ass? Pick your nose?

You’re suddenly paranoid that Jeon Jeongguk is watching you.

He unnerves you, and you don’t fucking trust him. Your talk at the bar didn’t help to ease what his intentions were. Sure, he said that you’d be his protege. But, when a man takes a special interest in you, it’s never good.

As your leaving, you stop at the cafe on the ground level, treating yourself to one of the iced lattes Hyuna promised were so good. She’s not wrong—the coffee is rich and perfectly prepared.

Hyuna herself comes through the front doors as I’m leaving.

You kind of wish she hadn’t caught sight of you, since she’s dressed in a stylish scarlet pantsuit, her hair freshly blown out and her lipstick immaculate. Whereas you look like you spent the night riding around in the back of a garbage truck.

“Oh, ___!” she says, “You’re here early.”

“Hey,” you say nervously. “Just leaving, actually. I came in extra early—I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay.” She smiles. “That’s why you have twenty-four-hour access.”

“Yeah . . .” you say. “Actually I was curious . . . I noticed a camera in the lab. Right above the door.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “All the studios have them. It’s for security purposes only—we’ve had issues with theft in the past. Don’t worry, no one has access to the feed. It would only be reviewed in cases where an incident has occurred.”

“Sure.” you nod.

You don’t believe a word she’s saying. Jeongguk owns this building, and those cameras are there for a reason.

A week after granting your proposal | Jeongguk

Jeongguk takes his stalking of you online.

Like most people, you’ve splashed your life all over social media for anyone to see—both on your own accounts, and your friends.

You and your friends are a smart bunch, so the photos you share are less eclectic than average. Jeongguk has to wade through any number of sepia-toned lab photos, aesthetic campus photos, and landscape shots to find something useful. Once he does, he finds endless portraits of you.

He spends a long time examining your face. You’re an interesting conundrum. Vulnerable yet fierce. Damaged yet stubborn.

You do not make personal posts—no long, rambling dissertations on your inner feelings under a mirror selfie, and no vague captions intended to elicit a flood of comments begging for more details.

Jeongguk’s already decided that you and he will inevitably cross paths—the Physic’s world is too small to avoid it.

He intends to choose the time and location of that meeting. He’ll control all the elements, arranging the players like pieces on a chessboard.

It’s unlike him to fixate on a woman like this. Jeongguk finds most people horrifically boring. He’s never met anyone as intelligent as him, or as talented. Other people are weak and emotional—slaves to their impulses. Constantly making promises they can’t keep, even to themselves.

Only Jeongguk seems to have the power to control his own fate.

Whatever he wants to happen, happens. He makes it so by his own cunning, his determination.

Everyone else is a victim of chance and circumstance. To arbitrary rules set up by people who died a hundred years ago. To their own pathetic ineptitude.

He does what he wants. He gets what he wants. Always. Every time.

If there’s a god of this world, it’s Jeongguk.

But even Zeus found mortals interesting from time to time.

He desires to see you again, to speak to you. Jeongguk wants to manipulate you and see how you react.

And if Jeongguk wants something . . . that means it’s good.

Jeongguk breaks into your room later that afternoon.

You’re working at that sleazy shit bar, something that usually takes you until 10:00 P.M.

It’s almost impossible to find a point in the day where none of your roommates are home, so Jeongguk doesn’t bother waiting. The apartment is so crowded, with so many people coming and going, he doubts that any of them will notice a few extra creaks from a room that ought to be empty.

It helps that your room is on the topmost floor. It’s easy to scale the trellis of the neighboring house, drop down onto your deck, and force open the flimsy lock on the glass door.

The attic room is certainly not to code. The ceiling is so low that he can’t stand upright, even in the center of the peaked space. Your bed is a futon mattress on the floor, your clothes folded in plastic milk crates because you have no closet or dresser.

This is the sort of cramped, chaotic space that usually disgusts him. The dusty air and stacks of battered secondhand Physics books next to the bed—no bookshelf to hold them—reek of poverty.

Curiosity staves off his repulsion. He’s drawn to the obviously used cover of his very own book. It’s his research paper from when he was a Ph.D. Student, “Fundamentals of Physics” laid prettily in your room.

He smiles to himself.

Of course, you had good— no, great taste.

He sets the book down.

He can smell your perfume on the sheets, stronger than when he followed you a week prior.

Jeongguk lays down in your bed, his head on your pillow. He turns his face so his nose is pressed against your crumpled sheets and he inhales.

Your scent is layered and complex. Warm notes of vanilla, caramel. A botanical scent—mandarin, or maybe black currant. Then something exotic, spiced—perhaps a jasmine soap. Under that, the light scent of your sweat arouses him far more than any of the others. Jeongguk’s cock swells until it’s no longer comfortable within his trousers.

He enjoys the trespass of laying in your bed. Knowing that you may catch a hint of his cologne lingering there tonight. It may confuse or frighten you. Or arouse you, if his chemical composition calls to you as yours does to him.

The idea of your heart beating fast, of you startling awake, searching your room for evidence that someone else was here, amuses him.

Deliberately, he rearranges the order of the books next to the bed making sure to put his on the very top.

Then he looks through your clothes.

You wear cheap nylon underwear, thin and transparent, in shades of black, gray, and purple. How colorful.

Most of your clothes are dirty, stuffed in a drawstring bag to be hauled down to the laundromat.

A single pair of black briefs lies abandoned next to the bed. Jeongguk assumes this is the underwear you shucked off this morning.

Lifting it to his face, Jeongguk inhales the scent of your warm morning pussy.

It’s similar to the smell of your sheets but musky.

His cock is raging now. Jeongguk unzips his pants, allowing his thick dick to spring free. He strokes it gently while he breathes in the scent of your cunt. He even puts out his tongue and tastes the cotton strip that is nestled between your pussy lips.

He remembers the picture of you laying on the ground from two weeks ago, tightly bound, arms behind your back and breasts thrust forward. Your knees pulled back, your bare pussy exposed. He could have shoved his cock in you.

If he had smelled this scent, he would have done it.

Jeongguk’s never experienced anything like it. It’s addicting. The longer he spent in your room with your sheets, your half-empty shitty perfume bottle, your dirty laundry, the more it fills his lungs, surges through his blood.

The more he wants it. Fresh from the source.

Jeongguk’s jerking his cock harder, taking deep breaths.

He imagines you tied down, this time on your back with your legs pulled apart. He imagines burying his face in you, thrusting his tongue all the way inside you while you thrash against the ropes.

His balls are boiling, his cock throbbing with every heartbeat.

Jeongguk wraps the panties around the head of his cock and he thrusts into them, right against the crotch. His cock erupts, pouring cum into your underwear.

He uses your panties to catch every last drop, squeezing them around the head.

That skimpy black fabric feels better around Jeongguk’s cock than any actual pussy he’s ever fucked. Maybe it’s the novelty, or maybe it’s the way your scent still clings to his fingers, lingering in his lungs.

It’s not enough. The orgasm was rapid, powerful as a rifle shot. Jeongguk’s not satisfied.

He wants to watch you in this space. Want to see how you walk around your room, how you undress, how you behave when you think you’re alone.

Jeongguk looks out your window.

The adjoining row houses offer no line of sight into your room. But the house behind hers—the tall Georgian with the black shutters—offers a perfect view from its own attic space.

You have no curtains on your windows. You’re so high up, you feel as safe as a crow in its nest.

Crows forget about hawks.

Jeongguk drops the panties back on the floor where he found them.

Then he leaves the way he came, already planning to call his estate agent.

You

By the time you get from your night shift, you’re already late for your meeting with Minho.

He’s good-looking, decent at sex, and better at conversation, though he has a tendency to get preachy. He’s judgmental as fuck about you bartending at Hybe because he says half the regulars are alcoholics and you’re fueling their addiction. Never mind that you met him at Hybe, and he’s hardly a teetotaler.

You hurry into the house, knowing Minho will be annoyed if you’re late again.

Seokjin passes you on the stairs, likewise hurrying to a date with his long-term boyfriend Taehyung, as you jog up the three flights to your attic room.

“You look gorgeous!” You tell him.

“You too!” he lies.

You laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m about to change.”

You strip off your clothes, sweaty from skating around the park with the dogs. Even though you’re well into October and the sky was cloudy, it was close to eighty degrees, muggy and humid.

You consider rinsing off in the shower, but you don’t really have time. Instead, you pull a black mini dress out of the closet, along with pair of thigh-high boots.

Shimmying into the dress, you look around for some clean underwear. It’s been two weeks since you hauled your clothes down to the laundromat, and you’re in short supply.

Desperate and late, you snatch up the panties off the floor, pulling them on.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, as wetness presses against your pussy lips.

Hooking your thumbs on either side of the briefs, you lower them to knee level.

You examine the crotch of the underwear, trying to figure out if you got your period without noticing. It’s hard to tell on the black material.

Stepping out of the panties, you rub your thumb across the strip of cotton sewn into the crotch. It feels distinctly slippery. Raising your fingers to your face, you smell a faint bleachy scent.

You drop the panties on the floor, heart racing.

You know what cum smells like.

Don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself. You’ve lived in this house for two years. Nobody comes up here.

Three of your roommates are male, and all three of them are gay.

It’s possible some asshole could have come up here and poked around your stuff. You sweep the room, wondering if you would notice if anything had been moved.

Your copy of “Fundamentals of Physics” by Jeongguk is still right next to the bed, open to the same spot as before.

Other than that . . . how the fuck would you know if someone had been in here?

Your heart hammers against your sternum, your hands trembling as you set down the theory once more.

You’re being paranoid. So your underwear was wet. It’s probably just . . . you know, discharge or some shit.

You don’t want to be this person. Jumping at shadows and thinking everybody is out to get you.

You can’t live like this, terrified and paranoid.

You take several deep breaths, trying to slow your racing heart. You look at your new phone, bought with a credit card.

10:14.

You’re really fucking late.

Snatching up your purse once more, you leave the underwear on the floor and hurry out of the room commando. No underwear is probably better than dirty underwear anyway.

Jeongguk

Jeongguk had a dinner for the Theoretical Physicist Embassy he was supposed to attend, but he skipped it in favor of further reconnaissance.

He found the house directly behind yours listed on Airbnb for eight hundred dollars a night. After messaging the owner, Jeongguk convinced him to cancel his next three bookings so he could take the place for a month, starting immediately.

So intense was his desire to spy on you that he probably would have bought the damn thing.

Jeongguk drove over to the townhouse early in the evening, parking his Tesla at the curb.

The three-story Georgian wasn’t nearly as nice as his own house, but it’s ten times more habitable than yours. The pale oak floors look freshly polished, and the host left a bowl of foil-wrapped chocolates on the kitchen island, as well as stocking the fridge with bottled water.

As long as the house is clean, Jeongguk doesn’t give a fuck about anything else. Strike that—it’s the view he cares about.

He climbs the creaking stairs to the third floor, which includes an office, a small library, and a sitting room.

The library window is the one that looks across the back garden to your house. The beveled glass offers a watery view into the protected alcove of your balcony.

You could be forgiven for thinking that you have complete privacy in that space. The library window is small, set high up on the wall, divided into a dozen diamond panes.

Jeongguk cuts out the entire window with his glass cutters. Then he covers the space with black paper, leaving only a hole for his telescope.

From a distance, it will look like nothing more than a dark window into an empty room.

His efforts are rewarded when you rush into your bedroom only twenty minutes later before he’s completed his preparations.

You rush everywhere you go, running from job to job, always late.

He respects the hustle, but your existence is tawdry and depressing. The thought of waiting tables, taking people’s orders, and serving their food is offensive to Jeongguk.

Jeongguk’s interest in this hectic, desperate girl baffles him.

His desires have never been mysterious to him. In fact, they’ve always felt rational and natural.

Jardin—his mentor— irritated him, so Jeongguk removed him from his sphere. He put his bones inside the sculpture in his apartment as his own private joke.

This is the first time in Jeongguk’s life that he’s desired something without understanding why.

Out of all the thousands of women, he’s encountered, how did you catch his attention like a hook through the gills of a fish?

Jeongguk noticed you the very first moment he saw you when you spilled wine on your dress. You hardly even flinched—just marched into the bathroom, emerging with that makeshift tie-dye that was creative and beautiful.

You had Jeongguk wondering what it would take to break you. To shatter you into so many pieces that you could never put them together again.

The view through the telescope is so clear that he could almost be standing in the room with you.

He watches you strip off your clothes, revealing a lean, taut body with average breasts and wide hips. He’s intrigued to see that you haven’t removed the piercings from your nipples—the twin silver rings remain in place.

As you hunt for clothes, a cold bead of excitement runs down Jeongguk’s spine. He already knows you have no clean underwear.

Sure enough, you spot the discarded panties on the floor. Jeongguk’s heart stops and he can hardly breathe, riveted in place, eye to the telescope, watching . . .

You pick up the underwear and step into it.

Blood rushes to Jeongguk’s cock so fast that he’s lightheaded.

You’re wearing panties soaked in his cum without knowing it. The most intimate part of him pressed up against the most intimate part of you.

You hesitate, standing still in the center of the room.

You’re feeling the wetness of his cum against your cunt.

Jeongguk’s cock is so hard it tents out the front of his trousers.

He loves the thought of his cum on your bare flesh. How long does sperm survive? He wonders if those desperate, minuscule swimmers are trying to wriggle inside you right now.

You yank down the underwear, examining the material.

Jeongguk watches the panic and confusion on your face, his cock harder than it’s ever been.

You touch his cum. Smell it. Then rips off the underwear and flings it away from you.

His whole body is warm and throbbing. Jeongguk can’t remember when he last felt this level of excitement. He’s been so fucking bored lately. Nothing impresses him. Nothing interested him. Until now . . .

Tormenting you without even touching you is so stimulating that Jeongguk can hardly imagine what it would be like to put his hands directly on your flesh . . . to circle them around your throat . . .

You shift your weight back and forth, trying to decide what to do.

You’re wondering if you felt what you think you felt.

You don’t trust yourself.

Finally, you snatch up your purse and exit the room.

Jeongguk’s already heading down the stairs. You’re not dressed for work—he wants to see where you’re going.

A date, he suspects.

At the thought, Jeongguk’s pupils contract, his throat tightens, his heart slows. He’s cold and focused.

Who do you date? Who do you fuck?

He wants to know.

He exits the townhouse, not bothering to lock the door behind him. He cut across 96th Street, catching sight of you walking ahead in your tight black dress and thigh-high boots. You don’t wear heels often. Jeongguk like how it hobbles you, slowing your pace.

It’s easy for him to track you, walking along the opposite side of the street like a disconnected shadow. Jeongguk follows you to a trendy little restaurant a few blocks away, where you meet some scruffy-faced hipster in a too-tight t-shirt.

Unlike you and your date, Jeongguk doesn’t have a reservation. A hundred-dollar bill pressed into the hostess’s palm solves that problem. He probably could have convinced her just by holding her gaze and letting his fingers trail across her wrist. The hostess giggles and blushes as she heads him to a table he requested, tucked away in a corner.

Jeongguk has no problem attracting women. In fact, it’s too easy. The wealth, the fame, and the looks suck them in before he says a word. There’s no challenge.

He wonders if you will fall at his feet as easily as that hostess.

You don’t seem particularly enthralled with your date. In fact, you twitch irritably as he rests his arm across the back of your chair.

Your date yammers on about something, oblivious to your expression of boredom. He doesn’t seem to notice how you angle your body away from him, only rarely meeting his eye. When he tries to tidy your hair, you jolt away from him.

Jeongguk feels a strange sense of satisfaction in your rejection of this buffoon. It would have lessened you in his eyes if you were besotted with someone so . . . pedestrian.

His pleasure evaporates as your date reaches under the table to fondle your pussy.

In its place: a sharp spike of fury.

Jeongguk wants to rip that hand off his arm, leaving a ragged stump with a bare glint of bone.

Even in Jeongguk’s most extreme moments, when he’s slit the throat of someone he hated and watched their blood run down his arm, his heart rate barely rose.

The feeling of that lump of muscle pounding in Jeongguk’s chest is something new to him—something that makes him sit back in his chair, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists on his lap.

What the fuck is happening.

He almost feels. . . jealous.

He’s never been jealous before. Why would he? No one on this planet has anything he envies.

Yet he’s already decided, with absolute certainty, that no one should be touching that sweet little cunt except him.

He’s smelled your scent on his fingers.

He wants it fresh from the source.

As if obeying his command, you jump up from the table, shoving back your chair. Jeongguk hears your hasty apologies as you throw cash by your plate. Then you leave, abandoning your disgruntled date before you’ve even ordered your entrées.

Lucky for him—Jeongguk was already planning how he’d cut off his balls with a box cutter.

Luckily for hipster boy, he's saved by the expedient of Jeongguk's urge to follow you instead. He's left his own folded bills tucked under his unused fork.

The sky is fully dark, thick with clouds. The wind is colder than before.

He walks back to 96th Street, feeling a curious elation at the prospect of watching you alone in your room.

Jeongguk likes you best in your private space. It’s a look inside your mind—your comforts and preferences.

Settling himself behind the telescope once more, he sees you pacing your room. You are a skittish horse. When you’re calm, you move with grace. But when you’re frustrated or uncomfortable—and you were certainly both in the company of your incompetent date—you become stiff and withdrawn, hypersensitive to irritants.

You haul your mattress out on the small deck attached to your room.

This is all the better for him. He can see you as clearly as a figure in a diorama.

You lay down on the futon, a pair of headphones over your ears. It takes a long time for your breathing to slow, for you to settle deeply into the mattress. Your lips move in time with the lyrics of the song.

You’re so still now that Jeongguk wonders if you fell asleep. Your chest rises and falls with metronome regularity.

The breeze whispers through the hedges in the garden between him and you. It slides across your skin, making you shiver. Your nipples are hard, visible even through the black dress.

Jeongguk hears the soft rumble of thunder.

A few scattered raindrops hit the black paper covering the library window.

You stir, feeling the rain on your skin.

He expects you to rise, to pull your mattress back inside.

But you seem determined to surprise him at every turn.

You sit up. Lift your palm. Feels the rain pattering down.

Then you pull your dress over your head and toss it aside.

You lay down on the mattress once more, fully nude.

Jeongguk lets out a soft sigh, his eye pressed against the telescope.

Thunder rolls and the rain falls harder. It shatters all across your naked skin: on your thighs, your stomach, your bare breasts, your upturned palms, your closed eyelids. It falls in your partly opened mouth.

You’re soaking it in. Feeling the delicious coolness and the tiny impact of each droplet breaking on your skin.

Your expression is dreamy, floating. Soaked in pleasure. Fully relaxed for the first time since Jeongguk has been watching you.

Again he feels that strange, squirming feeling in his guts.

Jealousy.

The rain falls harder, soaking your hair, drenching the mattress, chilling your skin.

You don’t give a fuck.

You reach between your thighs. You begin to stroke your fingers back and forth across your pussy lips. Touching yourself lightly, delicately.

Your lips part wider, allowing more rain into your mouth.

The rain beats against the side of the house. A bolt of lightning sizzles across the sky, illuminating your shining body like a camera flash. Every detail stands out in sharp relief: the long column of your throat, the divot of your collarbone, the points of your nipples, the long, flat expanse of your abdomen, the delicate bones of your hands, the slender fingers slipping inside of yourself.

Jeongguk’s never seen anything so beautiful.

Your bronze as a statue in the purplish light. If he could sculpt you exactly like this, it would be his greatest work.

He wants to pour molten metal over your, freezing you in time forever.

Jeongguk puts his own hand down the front of his pants, feeling the thick rod of his cock, painfully hard.

His skin feels feverish.

He wants to be out where you are, drenched in rain, touching that cold flesh . . .

Jeongguk pumps his cock in time with the motion of your hand.

Your pace quickens, back-arching, head thrown back.

He fucks his hand harder and harder, imagining he’s about to explode over your body, hot cum raining down on you harder than the storm.

Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, your cries drowned out by the rain. Your thighs clamp around your hand, your body shaking.

Jeongguk’s cumming for the second time today, a hot flood that pours over the back of his hand, dripping down onto the floorboards.

He can’t tear his eyes from the telescope.

The Favonious Cathedral was unlocked at night, though it was almost always empty, just in case anyone needed emergency sanctuary or comfort. You were here for the latter, coming to pray to Barbatos for guidance. Your footsteps clack against the linoleum floor and echo through the large empty hall. You get down on your knees between two pews and clasp your hands in prayer.

At least once a week you found yourself here, praying. You knew Lord Barbatos wasn't personally solving your troubles, he probably had much more important matters to attend to, but just getting it off your chest and into the open air of the cathedral brought you a unique sense of solace that you just kept coming back for.

You thought about the events that brought you here tonight. Your heart ached in your chest as you began praying. You truly thought they were different, that you could trust them. But they broke your heart anyways. You were glad you chose to come at night when the church was devoid of other churchgoers, as tears started falling down your cheeks and into the corners of your mouth. You inhaled shakily and shivered.

New footsteps resounded the room and you froze up, silencing your cries. The footsteps marched towards you and stopped in the aisle behind you. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hands to cover up your shame and turn slowly to face the newcomer.

Your already-throbbing heart skips a beat at what you see. A man, though he appears to be short, towers over your kneeling form. He is draped in long, flowing white robes that complement his figure. His face has gentle, round features with two braids tied around the sides of his head. He bears a striking resemblance to all known depictions of Lord Barbatos. You would have assumed it was an imposter in distasteful cosplay, gotten up and accused him of blasphemy, if it weren't for the beautiful, sprawling white wings behind him. He had to be real.

Everything about him is beautiful. Your mouth gapes slightly as you process the overwhelmingly holy presence before you, frozen in shock. You mindlessly stare at his stunning green eyes, currently void of readable emotion. His entire soft face is blank. You snap out of your trance and realize that he could strike you down at any second for your insolence.

You turn your body fully around to face him and bow your head. "Lord Barbatos." you say.

Your mind aches with questions- why here? Why now? Why you? The church and the people of Mondstadt had total radio silence from the god for centuries. Had you done something wrong, and he was here to punish you? You want to ask, but you didn't dare question him out of turn.

His lips finally move. "Why are you here tonight?" he asks. His voice is solemn yet angelic, nasally but not annoyingly so.

He knows why you are here. You come here once a week with something new to cry about. He wants to hear you say it, though.

Your breath catches in your throat at the direct acknowledgement and you struggle to find words. "For… guidance, my Lord," you manage, folding your hands in your lap.

He says nothing, waiting for you to continue.

"My partner… left me. I just feel so heartbroken. I just wanted to pray for comfort. I'm sorry," you say tentatively; you aren't exactly sure what you're apologizing for, but you still can't tell if he's upset or not, and you aren't about to risk it.

He blinks. Here you were, at his feet, in shambles over a breakup. He had fought tooth and nail for the liberation of his people. He lost everyone he had ever loved so you could be free today. But you get dumped and you’re suffering?

Sure, you were allowed to be sad, breakups happen. But every week you found some new trivial problem to be crumbling over, whining his ear off in the wee hours of the night. Bad hair day before an interview. Lost your wallet. Fight with a friend. He always listened to your prayers, as you were a pious follower (and he didn’t have much else to do), but they were always so insufferably inconsequential. You were privileged through and through, and you deserved to be knocked down a peg.

You didn't know what it was like to suffer. But he would show you.

He doesn't say that, though. Instead, he softens his eyes and gives you a kind smile that complements his gentle features. "It must have been hard," he soothes.

You stare at him in utter disbelief, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He knelt down on one knee in front of you, your heights now level, and extended a hand out to you.

You hesitate for a moment. You want oh-so-badly to accept his hand, but you aren't worthy. You don't deserve such a loving touch from someone as magnificent as him.

But rejecting him would be sacrilegious, and you would not be able to live with yourself after. Managing all your courage you crawl out from between the pews and into the aisle where he kneels. You crawl into the reach of his arms and he places his soft hand on your face. You would have thought his hands to be calloused, given the amount of times they fought for Mondstadt, but the delicateness matches the rest of him just as well. His disarming smile and loving gaze warms your weary soul and you melt into his hand, closing your eyes.

For a moment you just revel in the warmth. Then, he leans forward and you instinctively lean back, sitting on your legs. He removes his hand from your cheek and gently takes your wrists in his hands instead. His gentle eyes are still fixed on you, so you don't resist, fully trusting him.

He doesn't stop leaning towards you, slowly pushing you. "Let me comfort you," he says. You're about to question him, but he finally pushes you down onto your back. Your head hits the cold tile and you grimace in pain. Barbatos moves quickly before you can sit up, straddling your hips and still holding your wrists. You try to tug them away but his grip tightens at the movement.

"Lord Barbatos- this isn't- we can't-" You struggle to find the politest way to tell him to stop, but he just shushes you dismissively.

He lets go of your wrists once he's comfortably situated atop your hips and puts one of his hands on the center of your chest to keep you down. You immediately use your freed hands to try and push him away but he pays no mind to your feeble attempts. He undoes a clasp on his robes and they slide off of him gracefully, now clad in much lighter, more revealing underclothes.

The impending doom of the situation causes panic to settle in your chest. Adrenaline pumps through you and the force with which you shove at his shoulders and arm increases dramatically, though he is much stronger than he looks. You didn't expect any less from your archon, but it only serves to enhance your dread. Your ribcage feels like it's closing in around your lungs.

Barbatos grows visibly irritated with your weak shoves and catches both of your wrists in one hand. "Stop fighting," he huffs, "I'm doing this for you."

He isn't. You don't know what he's doing this for, but you're gaining absolutely nothing from what he is doing to you but lifelong trauma that will weigh heavy on your mind like shackles. You will never be free from the suffering he is inflicting upon you now.

With his other hand he starts undoing the buttons of your top. He stops when it's unbuttoned to your stomach and your chest is fully exposed. His beautiful wings flutter slightly behind him.

Your once-dried tears come back with renewed life and you cannot bear to look at him any longer. You tilt your head back and fix your eyes on the ceiling of the cathedral and you cry as silently as you can manage.

You hear the rustling of clothes and feel him hike your skirt up to your waist. You close your eyes and shudder. He releases your wrists and adjusts his position so that he's between your legs. He must notice you tuning him out because he taps the side of your face, "Hey. Pay attention." You open your eyes and he's laying on top of you, his face directly over yours. You know what comes next and you give him a pleading stare with your teary eyes. He smiles down at you.

He casts his gaze downward. Tears blur your vision and his warm, soft fingers tug your underwear aside. You blink and hot tears stream down the sides of your face. You brace yourself.

He spares no time piercing through your virginity, bottoming out like he had been waiting ages for this moment. Pain sears through your abdomen and your will to fight reignites. You thrash your legs, trying to kick him off. You didn't care about being pious anymore. You didn't care if you were called a heretic. You just wanted him off.

But he somehow keeps going despite your movement. With one hand he props himself up over you, and he wraps the other delicately around your throat. He doesn't squeeze, but the threat is there. "Just- ugh- just relax," he pants.

The initial pain dulls out but you still feel him splitting your insides and hitting your cervix with each thrust, like he was made perfectly to fill you up in the most mind numbing way possible. You whimper in pain and stare up at him. His face is flushed red, breath uneven, his hand trembles slightly against your neck. His wings obstruct your view of anything past him. Even like this, even though you hate him right now, he's beautiful.

Your body rocks back and forth against the cold floor in time with his thrusts. The way he stretches you out around him is uniquely painful, and yet a warm, pleasant feeling blooms in your abdomen. It feels natural.

You scan his graceful features. He looks so soft. You realize that, while he's had a field day touching you, you had yet to touch him, aside from the desperate shoving. Formalities are long gone by this point, so you reach up slowly and cup the plush flesh of his cheek. He doesn't seem to mind, and in fact he enjoys it. He leans into your hand and closes his eyes. It's a wonder how someone so warm and soft can be capable of such cruelty, you muse. You pull your hand away and he sighs at the loss of contact.

The hand around your throat slides lower to your exposed breast and he squeezes one in his hand. All the resentment he felt towards you mere minutes ago had dissipated. This was no longer about making you suffer, he just wanted you. You felt so good under him, he was certain this was what Celestia had intended for you all along. He was your god, and you were his angel.

His uneven hip movements become more erratic and he leans down and presses his forehead to yours. You push at his shoulders one last time, silently urging him to pull out.

He bucks harshly into your cervix with bruising force and you cry out in pain. You feel him tense up and relax, twitching slightly inside you. He thrusts haphazardly a couple more times, fucking his cum into you, and panic swirls in your clouded mind.

He pulls out and slides off of you. You button your shirt back up as soon as he's off in a frivolous attempt to preserve your dignity. Agony weighs heavy on your mind. You're disgusted with him. You're disgusted with yourself for hating the god you were meant to revere. You're disgusted with your body for enjoying even a second of it.

Barbatos sits on the floor behind you. He lifts your head and slides his legs under so that you're resting your head in his lap. His robes are back on. You roll over so you're face down in his lap and openly sob into it. Your shoulders shake and you gasp for air between wails.

"You did so good," His nimble fingers stroke your tangled hair comfortingly, "It's like you were made for me."

You sob harder into his robes at the words, desperately clinging to the fabric for comfort. You cry into him for several minutes and he just pets your hair gently the whole time.

You're exhausted, emotionally and physically, and when your crying eventually ceases, you can't resist the urge to just shut your eyes. You fall asleep in his lap.

When you wake, it's dawn, and Barbatos is nowhere to be seen. A sister found you when she stepped into the main hall to prepare for morning mass, out cold on the floor of the cathedral in disorderly, rumpled clothing. She assumes you must've taken sanctuary in the night from something outside.

If only she knew.

~

You stopped going to church after that, on your own at least. You still went when invited by friends or family, just so they wouldn’t suspect something was wrong. Time passes and one such day occurs- you walk out the doors of the Favonious Cathedral after watching the choir sing with two friends. You gossip lightheartedly with them and one suggests visiting a tavern on the east side of town to wind down, and that there should be a performer there today.

You push open the door of Angel’s share and have a seat with your friends at the bar. Lo and behold, the performer is a bit farther in, singing in the more crowded area with all the tables. He’s facing away from you, but slowly turning to address the full crowd. His green clothes were a striking clash against the brown background of the rest of the bar. Something about his presence is familiar, and as he turns towards your group it clicks like the hammer of a gun.

His visage bears perfect likeness to the man that day in the church, to Barbatos himself. His attire is different, his demeanor is fully changed, to where you almost think you must be seeing things- but as he spins around to the melody of his tavern tune, he makes brief eye contact with you and you see the slightest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. You know.