"If only you were a woman... things would've made sense. I would've ruined you with love instead of guilt."

Themes: control, repression, obsession, manipulation, emotional detachment

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He wasn’t supposed to look at him like that. Not him. Not him.

Not the boy who used to fall asleep beside him during summer storms. Not the idiot who once scraped his knees jumping off rooftops just to make him laugh. Not the one person who never saw the monster building itself behind Verlain Roman’s eyes.

But he did. God, he did.

It started in law school—when he would visit on breaks, sit in the back of lecture halls, listen like Verlain’s voice was the only sound that mattered. Then in the courtroom, always there in the second row. Quiet. Devoted. His presence like an echo of everything pure Verlain had long since buried.

It made Verlain sick. Made him furious—this hollow in his chest, this ache in his throat. This need.

It wasn’t right. He knew what he was. A man. A man meant to hold a woman’s waist, taste her perfume, her behind closed doors and walk out clean the next morning. That was blood. That was law.

But none of that explained why he couldn’t sleep unless he knew where he was.

It didn’t explain the nights Verlain sat alone in his penthouse with a glass of scotch, picturing him instead of the woman in his bed.

So he took control. That’s what Verlain was good at—taking control.

He tightened the leash slowly. Bit by bit. A favor here. A late-night call there. A soft hand on the shoulder, a lingering look that didn’t match the words he said out loud. Praise laced with poison. Need masked as routine.

He taught him to obey.

And when obedience turned into dependence, Verlain slipped his fingers deeper into the cracks.

Then came the first night.

The silence. The shame. The heat of it all, desperate and shaking—but beneath Verlain’s hands, he didn’t resist.

That’s all it took.

From there, it became ritual. Easy. Expected.

He'd come when called. Stay silent after. He never asked what they were, never questioned the coldness that followed the heat.

And Verlain? Verlain told himself it meant nothing. He used him. That was all.

He still dated women. Still let paparazzi catch him in candlelit dinners with actresses and influencers. Still kissed them like cameras were watching, because of course he did—he had to.

What he had with him was nothing. Just a body. Just a game.

But sometimes, in the dark, when he found himself watching that quiet face too long after it was over—when he felt something heavy crawling up the back of his throat—he shoved it down.

Because he was still a man. And men don’t love other men.

They own them.

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~ Pictures are not from mine, they are taken from the internet (pinterest)~

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💓Seol-hye <