Snikt, snikt. The severed hairs piled on the inkstone. Jihan couldn’t help but open his eyes, staring at his now-bare groin. A choked sound escaped him.
His cock, usually half-buried in pubic hair, looked foreign—like it belonged to someone else. No, not even a man. What man had no hair?
When Seon cupped his balls and shaft, lifting them, the humiliation crushed him. Neither man nor woman—just some thing in between. And the guilt—desecrating what his parents had given him.
The cold blade touched his perineum.
“T-There too?”
“Especially there.”
A dark chuckle brushed his most sensitive spot.
Swish, swish. Every time the blade skimmed his tender skin, goosebumps erupted. The knife traced the narrow cleft vertically, then horizontally, carefully scraping even the wrinkled folds of his anus, smoothing each crease with a fingertip.
A madman. Truly, utterly insane. If there were a pervert competition in the capital, this bastard would win first prize without breaking a sweat.
“All done.”
“……”
“Though this one doesn’t seem quite finished yet.”
Seon gave Jihan’s glans a sharp tug before letting go.
The thick, fully erect cock slapped against his lower abdomen, flinging slick precome. The shaven groin was soaked—every fold dripping, the hairless skin making the mess painfully obvious.
Jihan couldn’t lift his bowed head. Couldn’t. He’d been stripped naked countless times before, but this—this—was a new kind of humiliation.
“Hyung. Do you know how precious water was during last year’s drought?”
“……”
“Wasting it like this in times like these—what would people say?”
One more word and Jihan might actually hit him. He grabbed a nearby cushion and clutched it over his bare crotch, his whole body trembling.
How do I bury this bastard without a trace?
Seon wiped the oil from his hands with a cloth, then glanced at the untouched breakfast tray.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
Jihan kept his head down, teeth clenched. “I’ll eat when I’m ready… Now get out.”
“How cruel. I’ve barely been here, and you’re already kicking me out.”
“Cruel? You—you dare—!”
“Eat.”
Seon dragged the tray closer, scooped up a heaping spoonful of porridge, and thrust it toward Jihan’s mouth. Jihan froze in horror.
“You think I can swallow this right now…?”
“Can’t you?”
Seon lowered the spoon, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Then should I feed you lower instead?”
And with that, he let the porridge slide off the spoon onto his own hand. Jihan gaped as the white tarakjuk dribbled down Seon’s fingers.
“Y-You—!”
Before he could protest, Seon snatched the cushion away and pressed his sticky fingers between Jihan’s thighs. Jihan grabbed his shoulder in panic—but his well-used hole, loosened from constant abuse, swallowed two fingers in one smooth glide. He gasped, head snapping back, eyes flying wide.
“Hyung, does it taste good?”
The porridge-slicked fingers slid deeper, his dry inner walls instantly slickening. Shock after shock left Jihan speechless, mouth flapping like a fish as he twisted away.
“Hng—Fine! Fine, I’ll eat, just—just stop—!”
“Through your top mouth, then?”
Seon’s voice was maddeningly calm. Jihan glared, his face twisted in humiliation. Even in this chaos, Seon’s composure made him feel pathetic.
Seon casually wiped his hand on a cloth, then scooped up another spoonful, holding it out with that same blank expression. Jihan’s vision swam.
“You said you’d eat.”
“……”
The dry gaze brooked no refusal. Jihan felt the oppressive weight of inevitability—if he was a plank, Seon was the axe, splintering his resistance with every word, every move.
Defeated, he slowly parted his lips. The spoon forced its way in, tipping the cold porridge down his throat. That shameless face curved into a faint, mocking smile. “Good?”
Jihan’s eyelids twitched as he swallowed painfully, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “…Yes. It’s delicious.”
“How fortunate.”
Cool fingertips wiped the dribble from his chin. Everywhere Seon’s gaze lingered, his skin burned.
***
It was an unseasonably warm, clear winter day.
Seon dragged the reluctant Jihan out for a walk in the Annex’s garden. Built as a guest quarters, the place boasted a well-tended landscape—a small grove of mixed trees and a pavilion draped in jagwi vines, perfect for whiling away the hours with tea, baduk, tuning a geomungo, or burning incense. They spent the afternoon surrounded by braziers, lost in their own pastimes. The silence between them, oddly, soothed the mind.
“Still hurting?”
Jihan had been plagued by stomach troubles lately. His already lean frame had grown gaunter, his shoulders hunched as he sat on the railing, endlessly burning incense. He’d draped a rabbit-fur-lined durumagi over his shoulders but hadn’t bothered to put it on properly.
Seon offered a pink hwagwa sweet. When Jihan shook his head, he called for Maki to bring warm maesil tea instead.
“Maesil is good for indigestion.”
Jihan shot him a look. “You poison me, then play doctor? Ever since you started sneaking that tarakjuk into everything, my body’s been a wreck.”
“…I scraped it all out for you.”
“You’re the one who kept shoving it in front of me—jujube porridge, this, that—”
He snatched the teacup, sulking. Seon, for once, had no retort. The only sound was the occasional sip of tea.
“…Come to think of it, the storeroom in the Little Love Pavilion is packed with maesil wine and preserves. Did all of that come from the pavilion’s plum tree?”
Seon sidled closer, feigning innocence. Jihan, still avoiding his eyes, finally answered after a long pause. “…Yes.”
“You used to hate it when I so much as touched that tree.”
“……”
“Remember? You’d flick cigarette ash at me if I got too close… Want to see the scar? It’s still there.”
The mention of the past silenced Jihan.
The plum tree was his mother’s legacy. Of course he didn’t want anyone touching it. And he’d always had a weakness for maejuk—sweet, tangy plum meat—so…
Excuses swirled in his mouth, bitter as the tea he swallowed. He changed the subject. “Ever heard the tale of Maerimjigal?”
Seon thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“It was a scorching summer. Wei King Cao Cao’s army was retreating, his soldiers dying of thirst under the relentless sun. When he asked a guide where to find water, the man said the nearest stream was half a day’s march north—too far for the parched troops to endure. Desperate, Cao Cao had an idea. He turned to his men and shouted, ‘Soldiers! Ahead lies a grove thick with plum trees, their fruit ripe and bursting. March a little farther, and we’ll quench our thirst with their juice.’ The mere thought of sour plums made their mouths water. That saliva kept them going until they reached the stream—not a single man left behind.”
Jihan set down his empty cup… and froze. Seon was staring at him, utterly still.
“W-Why are you looking at me like that?”
Seon answered quietly, no trace of a smile. “The story was interesting. I liked listening to you.”
“……”
“Didn’t know your voice could be so… gentle.”
For the first time, that infuriatingly perfect face looked its age. Unable to bear the intensity, Jihan looked away first.
“…Pathetic.”
***
As Jihan’s seclusion dragged on, absurd rumors spread among the capital’s young dandies: He’d impregnated a maid and been locked away by his furious father. He’d attempted suicide over a failed engagement. He’d entered a temple to atone, planning to retake the civil exams in three years…
“Everyone’s so invested in your affairs, Hyung. Not a soul suspects you’re actually here, locked in with me.”
Seon had taken to daytime trysts. No matter how meticulously he monitored Jihan’s meals, the weight kept melting off—until he discovered the reason: Jihan was being ravaged nightly. So Seon adjusted his schedule. If night was the problem, they’d do it by day.
His routine was ruthlessly efficient. He rose at dawn with the servants, exchanged greetings with Grand Secretary Choi over breakfast, then slipped into Jihan’s room to wake him, feed him, and fuck him. Afterward, he’d leave as if nothing had happened, grabbing his bow and horse to meet his fellow archers for practice or drinks. By midday, he’d return to check on Jihan’s meals—and take him again.
He always made sure to fuck Jihan at least twice before Grand Secretary Choi returned from court, as if bound by some vow. Jihan’s curses about his “useless consistency” bounced off him like rain.
He didn’t always penetrate—sometimes he’d just bring Jihan to climax with his hands, then grind his cock between his thighs or over his face to finish, careful not to spill inside. (He’d belatedly realized Jihan’s stomachaches stemmed from residual semen.)
Late afternoon. The Little Love Pavilion’s round garden was thick with cold gusts, but the kitchen maids kept the braziers burning, and the room stayed warm from their ceaseless coupling.
“Let me see.”
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
