Chapter Text
The sky was so clouded, it looked as if it was nearing evening when it was, at most, four in the afternoon. Probably. Jimin did not know; he did not have a watch on him, and quite honestly, what time it was was the least of his concerns. Rain beat down on him in a relentless torrent, as it had been for a while. He was drenched from head to toe; his thin shirt itched where it clung to his body; his shoes squeaked against the granite setts; his dark hair fell into his eyes in wet clumps.
Only a fool would think to make the journey from the east end of the city to an area well into the outskirts on foot. Jimin liked to think he was no such fool, but he was a victim of circumstance. The weather had been no more dismal than usual when he hopped onto the cart he had hired to bring him here this morning. For eight shillings, no less. It had cost him about half of all that he had in his coin pouch, but the driver argued it was half a day’s journey, and besides Jimin was carrying luggage. Ha! As if his paltry little case that weighed perhaps ten kilograms could even qualify as that. And then the heavens had unleashed their stormy fury, and the driver was suddenly more concerned about his horse falling ill than honoring any kind of commitment to Jimin—which was somewhat understandable and Jimin could not very well blame him for that, but he wished the driver had returned at least part of the fare when he all but threw him off the cart mid-journey.
But perhaps the driver was onto something, with all his squabbling over charging extra for the luggage, because even ten kilograms seemed to weigh a trillion when one had been lugging it around for the better part of the day. Jimin would know. He was cold, shivery and fatigued, practically dragging himself up the road. A small mercy: his destination came into view up ahead at last. He was sure it was the right house because he had passed the nearest one a good fifteen minutes ago and there were no other houses in the vicinity. He had once heard somewhere that there were few things that the wealthy valued above privateness, if not more wealth and Jimin, though far from wealthy himself, could appreciate the sentiment just the same. He had lived in a single room with his mother all sixteen years of his life, and he was one of the lucky ones. The room next door had housed a family of seven.
The house he found himself standing in front of was grand and imposing as such houses tended to be. Large and multi-story featuring sash windows with stained glass, and a steeply pitched roof with decorative gables and eaves. Nothing all that unusual, awe-inspiring as it was. Except there was an air of gloom and foreboding that surrounded the place. Something that stirred a kind of instinctive unease in Jimin’s gut. Perhaps it was the dark facade, the extensive bare ground devoid of grass or greenery, the sense of stark isolation from the lively city. Perhaps it was the bleak weather. Perhaps it was just old wives’ tales getting to Jimin.
He quickly shook those thoughts off, clomping up the porch steps and to the front door, dragging his case behind him. He was just feeling a little out of sorts from his mother’s funeral. The merciless rain and cold certainly were not helping. Reaching a wet, quivering hand up, he rapped loudly with the brass knocker. There were voices on the other side of the door, he realized belatedly, of people close by. A woman’s voice, groggy from age and deferential. And, oh, a man’s voice—firm and even yet low and calm, exuding a kind of nonchalant authority. Footsteps approached and before Jimin had the chance to ready himself, the door swung open, and the man appeared in front of him. Immediately, Jimin could tell it was him whom he had come seeking. His light coloured shirt with its crisp collar and straight-legged trousers, held up by dark suspenders, were elegant and perfectly tailored to his measurements. Even in relatively casual attire—no waistcoat, cravat, gloves, or the like because he probably was not expecting visitors—it was undeniable he was the master of the house. Mr Jeon Jungkook. Jimin had not been prepared to face him on the spot. It was some strange, unfortunate coincidence that Mr Jeon happened to be close enough to the door to answer it when it was normally a servant’s job.
Stunned, Jimin took a step back without meaning to, clean forgetting to what purpose he was even there. Mr Jeon was a handsome man in his 30s, unsettlingly so. He had hair dark as the night, a strong jaw, and a mouth that tilted upward in a way that hinted at something cruel. His frame was lean yet his arms were sturdy and his shoulders broad, and he stood a full head taller than Jimin.
It made sense for Jimin to be taken aback by the suddenness of his appearance. But what was bewildering was the look that crossed MrJeon’s face on seeing him. It was in the ever so slight widening of his eyes, the hair’s-breadth parting of his lips. Shock. The kind that only ever arose on seeing one you never expected to, which, in turn, implied some level of recognition.
It was absurd to even think that. Jimin had never so much as heard of a Mr Jeon up until a few days ago. The look vanished and was replaced by an expression of cool disdain so fast, the only plausible explanation was Jimin had misread Mr Jeon in his own fluster.
Mr Jeon’s gaze flitted briefly to the case Jimin was holding, then dragged up his body in a way that made Jimin want to curl on himself in mortification. He knew the sight he must present. Some wet, disease-ridden mongrel clawing at at a stranger’s door. And the first words to leave Mr Jeon’s mouth only validated that worry.
“I’m afraid you have come well out of your way, boy,” he said with a hint of mockery. “This isn't a poorhouse. I reckon you will have better luck calling for alms a little further into the city.”
A flush of shame crept up Jimin’s neck. “I–I’m not a b-beggar, Mr Jeon—sir.” His teeth were chattering so hard it was difficult to speak. While the porch provided some shelter, the gusty winds carried the rain just the same, all but pelting him from behind. As quickly as his quivering fingers would let him, he opened the satchel strapped around his chest and fished out the envelope from his mother, sending a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens that the leather bag had kept the contents safe from being soaked. He held it out for Mr Jeon.
“And yet you come with a begging letter,” Mr Jeon remarked flatly, but accepted the envelope anyway.
Jimin had not regarded the message from his mother as a ‘begging’ letter, but now that Mr Jeon’s acerbic words were forcing him to reconsider, perhaps it was exactly that. The message itself was vague, his mother requesting Mr Jeon to ‘take care’ of Jimin, addressing him in a manner that implied a degree of familiarity despite her deferential tone. And yet there was no sense of self-pity, no ingratiating appeals to Mr Jeon, and for whatever dignity that afforded him, Jimin was grateful. All he knew of Mr Jeon was that his mother had once been in his employment. It must have been before Jimin was born. Perhaps it was her falling pregnant with Jimin—out of wedlock, no less—that compelled her to find work elsewhere. The only kind of work still available to a woman labeled a whore, a harlot, a strumpet, and a sinner.
Sometimes Jimin wondered why his mother chose to sully her honor that way, effectively sending her life to ruin by her own hand, and by extension Jimin’s. He never learned the answer, because his mother’s refusal to talk about it remained staunch all throughout her life, and now that she was dead it was only more so.
Mr Jeon’s dark eyes scanned the letter, his face impassive. He looked at Jimin. “So it is work you came to seek, then? Tell me—of what use can you make yourself here?”
Jimin felt a timid kind of relief at that. Mr Jeon had not agreed to take him on yet, but Jimin knew tacit acceptance when he saw it. He was quick and eager to answer. “I can read and write clearly and accurately. I am well able to use a typewriter.”
He was aware that to a highly educated man like Mr Jeon his skills might not seem like much, but for Jimin they were a point of pride—perhaps his only one—nonetheless. Not many boys of his means were educated; their families rathered they sold newspapers on streets, or polished and cleaned shoes in the city square, or climbed up and swept chimneys of rich houses. Jimin had done all of that and gone to school. A ragged school. The classrooms were large and freezing cold in winter, and the teachers would make sure that lessons were hard work, repetitive and really not much fun. He still had the faded scars on his wrist from when he was struck with his teacher’s strap for talking in class or for spelling a word incorrectly. But he came out on the other side with the skilfulness needed to move past hard, low-paying jobs that involved long hours and make a better life for himself, so perhaps it had all been worth it. He so hoped it had. It was the very hope that had brought him here.
Good handwriting was a valuable job skill, certainly, but it was not what Jimin was most excited to flaunt. “I possess good mathematical skills for calculation; I have learned bookkeeping, shorthand, and basic accounting.” Someone like Mr Jeon who hailed from the landowning class almost definitely had country estates in addition to his townhouse that would require a capable accountant or an estate manager. Not right away, no that would be plain delusional, but perhaps ten, twenty years down the line Jimin could see himself in that position if he could prove his worth to Mr Jeon, starting out as a clerk of sorts. “I have an acquaintance with the general principles of the legal system. With some guidance I’m certain I shall be able to manage tax affairs and financial records—”
“Can you look after children?”
Jimin blinked, his mouth still agape but voice dead. Mr Jeon had cut in, but there was no impatience in his manner. It was merely as if Jimin’s words were as inconsequential to him as the useless buzzing of a housefly or the idiotic belating of a mule and he saw no point in entertaining them.
“Sir…”
“Bathing and dressing them, making sure they eat well, putting them to bed, keeping a close watch on them so they stay out of trouble—that sort of work,” Mr Jeon said. “They already have a tutor coming in for lessons every afternoon, when it’s not coming down in buckletloads, that is. Besides, I doubt you would be able to teach my children much that they do not already know.”
The veiled insult stung awfully. Mr Jeon’s children could not be older than five or six. Jimin did not come here to be some kind of nanny. It was not a man’s work, and it certainly provided no room for advancement. All those nights he spent poring over books by the light of a thin tallow candle could not end up in having to wipe a child’s chin and burp it after it had eaten. But—
Jimin looked over his shoulder at the road he had come trudging up. The rain was falling so hard it was difficult to see more than a couple feet ahead of him. His case was no less heavy and the city was no less distant. He would not be making it back before nightfall and what would he even be returning to? He had no home anymore, no possessions other than what was in his case. Everything had been sold off to pay his and his mother’s debts. Perhaps he could seek a clerical job in some other rich house, but who would hire him with his only reference being a letter from a dead prostitute? He would have to go back to polishing boots and selling newspapers except without a roof over his head this time. At least here, at Mr Jeon’s house, he would be provided board and lodging. He was sure looking after children was much less arduous work too, not that he had any experience with that.
He turned back around only to find an expression of mild amusement on Mr Jeon’s face tinged with condescension. As if Mr Jeon had followed each and every line of thought that went through Jimin’s head.
“I would be honored to be entrusted with your children’s care, sir,” Jimin spoke up at last. “And I shall do it to the very best of my ability. You will have no complaints about me, I promise you.”
“How very fortunate for you,” said Mr Jeon. “Miss Kang—” Jimin followed the shift of his focus to the old woman in a dark dress and white apron hovering behind him in the doorway. Only now did Jimin even notice her—the woman Mr Jeon had been speaking to before he answered the door. His housekeeper by the looks of it.
“Help the boy get settled in.” Mr Jeon’s gaze returned to rest on Jimin, a not quite kind smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “He’ll be a very valuable member of our household from now on.”
*
The housekeeper was civil with him but too old and jaded to be anything more. There was no room for him in the servants’ quarters, he was informed with little preamble, so he would be staying in the attic. Jimin did not know how to feel about that. He knew he should be delighted; having his own private space was a privilege he had never been afforded. But there was something… off about his house that Jimin could not put his finger on.
There were incandescent lamp fixtures on the walls which filled him with awe—he had only ever seen electric lighting in affluent public areas in the city— yet the bulbs flickered as terribly as the poorest of candles. There would be a crash of thunder, and then suddenly they would be lit up bright and steady as if they had the power of the sun itself. There were parts of the house that were warm and toasty as a summer’s day even without a fire burning in the hearth, but then Jimin would step into another room and be hit with a chill so terrible his skin erupted in gooseflesh all over. The clocks in the house all showed different times, the staircases creaked too loud, the rooms were too large and too empty.
Jimin inquired about Mr Jeon’s seemingly absent wife only partly out of curiosity. His urge to make conversation was brought on by a nervous desire to fill the eerie silence. Sent to live by the seaside, the housekeeper told him. She was struck with melancholy after the birth of her youngest and never quite recovered. The doctor recommended a temporary stay near the sea to cure her ailment, and Mr Jeon thought it wise. The children remained with their father, both for their own and their mother’s well-being, but paid her visits fairly often. The children… Jimin did not see them around nor hear them so he could only assume they were napping. He did not want to risk asking too many questions, so he avoided the ones which were obvious or of little consequence.
He did not encounter any other servants on the way either. Mr Jeon actually employed very few servants—here, the housekeeper expressed her surprise at Jimin being taken in on the spot. Most of the servants had undergone a rigorous background check before being taken into Mr Jeon’s employ. Even then, there had been few who met his standards. Only two housemaids and a cook had permanent lodgings at the house, aside from the housekeeper. And now Jimin apparently. If the servants had been here for such a long time, perhaps they knew Jimin’s mother? Yet he hesitated to ask the question. Being associated with his mother had never done him any favors except with Mr Jeon, most surprisingly. Jimin did not want to push his luck.
Besides, he had already reached the rickety ladder to the attic. The housekeeper parted with final words, informing him she would arrange a spare mattress for him that he could pick up from the servants’ quarters at nighttime. And then Jimin was on his own.
The attic was dark and dusty with a floor of plain wooden planks, exposed wooden beams and a sloped ceiling. For the first time in his left, Jimin felt grateful for his short stature, else he certainly would have hit his head on the beams standing upright. There was a large window, blurry with rain, but no other source of lighting. Come nighttime, he would also need a candlelight. It was obvious no one had lived there nor was the space intended for such a purpose. Clearly, it was used for storage. There was old furniture in one corner, boxes and trunks, and disused household items and equipment sitting in a messy, dusty heap. Even if one added rat droppings to the cluttered ensemble, this was still the best place Jimin would ever stay in.
The sky out the window was steadily darkening, the rain tapering off. He supposed he would be required downstairs soon so he had better rest his body for as long as he could. Setting his case down on the floor at last, he slid down with his back against the wall, and sat staring out the window.
*
There was a boy of five and a girl of two. There was not a shadow of doubt they were Mr Jeon’s children. The same strong nose and clear eyes, the same dark slightly wavy hair. Jimin himself was the spitting image of his mother. If there were parts of him he had inherited from his father he did not know for he had never seen the man, did not even know so much as his name.
They were at the dining table for supper. Mr Jeon was seated at the head of the large table with his children sitting on one side. Soft golden light from the candelabrum illuminated their features as they dined on their meal of roast beef slices and salad. Jimin was not seated alongside them, of course; he would have his meal later with the staff. In a surprising act of kindness, he had been warned by the housekeeper he might find the children a little testy. They often got that way after they returned from a visit to their mother for they missed her so terribly. Jimin was certain he could empathize with that particular feeling better than most.
The boy was fairly capable of feeding himself, but the little girl required a bit more help with cutting up her meat, and Jimin obliged dutifully. It was his very first time dealing with children—the children of a very wealthy man, no less—and with Mr Jeon himself so close by, even if he did not appear to be paying him any attention, flustered Jimin. He was eager to do well, hyper conscious of the way he spoke and carried himself, lowering his voice to a sweet croon and then changing it again when he considered it might come across as patronizing or ingratiating, both of which would be looked upon unfavorably by Mr Jeon. Jimin had not spoken to him again since this afternoon, but that single interaction made it clear Mr Jeon was a shrewd man who had little tolerance for any kind of nonsense.
Even now, Jimin was certain Mr Jeon could sense his nervousness and need to please, though he chose not to call attention to it, focusing on his meal instead.
Jimin thought it wise to try to direct his attention elsewhere as well, lifting the fork with a small piece of roast beef to the girl’s mouth. The girl shook her head obstinately. “No! Wan’ mama.”
He faltered. He was never the type to throw tantrums even as a child, but he recalled children who were prone to kick up a fuss in school or in his building being remedied with a swift smack across the face. He could not hit Mr Jeon’s daughter, nor did he wish to; he could not scold her either. Perhaps he could bribe her? “Come now,” he said softly. “I hear the cook has prepared a most scrumptious sponge cake for dessert. You need to finish your food if you want to have it.” He worried if he was overstepping by implying he had the authority to deprive the girl of dessert, but Mr Jeon gave no reaction, so Jimin breathed a quiet sigh of relief to himself, bringing the fork to the girl’s mouth again.
“No! Don’ wan’ it!” the girl screeched, smacking the fork away “Go away! Go away!” In a surge of agitation, she flipped the entire plate of food in front of her, sending bits of meat and vegetables flying in all directions. Fat tears rolled down her cherubic cheeks and she brought up her small fists to rub at them. “Wan’ ma–ma.”
Jimin only stood watching goggle-eyed like some brain-damaged goldfish. What should he do? How did you comfort a child who did not want to be comforted? When your mere presence was serving to upset her? How could he have mishandled the situation so bad? Mr Jeon would surely be displeased with him. He would send him packing this very instant. It was nightfall already, and this far out he would never be able to find a cart driver to take him into city—
“Oh, sweetheart, oh no. Come here.”
The murmur pulled Jimin out of his frenzied thoughts. He blinked, stunned as Mr Jeon lifted his daughter in his arms and settled down in his chair again with the girl on his knee. “It’s alright. I know you miss your mother. I miss her too,” he said, his voice so gentle, so, so tender. He gently bounced his daughter on his knee. “But you have me here, don’t you? You have your brother. You have Miss Kang. We all love you very much. You know that, right?” The girl lowered her fists and gazed up at her father with wide wet eyes. “Right?” She gave a slow nod. “Good. Tell you what—after supper, why don’t you stay up a little late and have a tea party with your dolls.”
A look of bemusement crossed the girl’s face. “Can’ have a tea party at night, silly.”
Mr Jeon laughed. It was a lovely sound filled with warmth and adoration. “You can draw all the curtains and your dolls will never know.” The girl seemed to seriously consider it. “Problem solved, hmm? Won’t you give me a smile, now? Just a tiny one for your father?” He tickled the girl underneath the armpits as he said it.
A small smile lifted the corners of the girl’s mouth and then she was positively laughing.
“Stop!” she whined even as she giggled.
Mr Jeon conceded with a loving kiss to the top of her head. “There’s a good girl.” He lifted her off himself and set her down. “Go finish your supper now.”
The little girl scampered back to her chair and climbed into it, looking happy as a clam.
Mr Jeon’s gaze cut to Jimin, all warmth and softness erased from his expression. Only now did Jimin realize he had been staring. He quickly looked away, returning to himself, and rushed to the kitchen to get the girl another plate.
*
The housekeeper had not merely been trying to ease him into the job; Mr Jeon’s children really did grow milder and more easy to deal with over the next few days as the mournful shadow from the visit to their mother retreated. They were not particularly fussy or demanding, nor were they any more prone to mischief than children their age tended to be. They were even—dare Jimin say—well-behaved.
The boy was a boisterous one and often had Jimin chasing him around the house when he refused to put on pants. He was a rather reclusive soul otherwise and preferred to spend time on his own, playing with his clockwork trains and tin soldiers, unlike his sister. She in fact insisted, with whatever broken vocabulary she possessed, that Jimin come have tea with her and her dolls. The dolls were all dainty with pretty dresses, painted porcelain faces and permanent smiles, and the tea set was of fine china with floral designs and cups the size of one-pound coins. She had them filled with water as pretend tea and Jimin very nearly sipped it before he considered she was not tall enough to reach the pitcher on the dining table and that the door to the bathroom was suspiciously ajar.
He spent most of his days playing with the children or watching the children play rather than doing any real work. It was fun at times, boring most of the time, but after the kind of jobs Jimin had worked, he decided boring suited him and suited him well. On the rare days the sun chose to make an appearance, he was instructed to take the children outside for the few scant hours they could soak in sunlight. He noticed a funny thing then—both the children sneezed soon as they stepped into the sunlight as did Jimin himself. And not just once or twice; the children had a mild attack of sneezes every time they encountered bright light without fail. Jimin had known no other than himself with the condition. They said one inherited it from a parent, but his mother had always been perfectly fine in the sun.
It was only a coincidence; it did not need to be a strange one. Except Jimin began to take notice of other coincidences—little things but enough of them to be surprising. To be odd. To be unsettling. The boy jutted out his bottom lip in the exact same manner as Jimin did when he was thinking hard about something. The girl had a practically incurable, insatiable sweet tooth and gorged herself on licorice, toffees, fruit drops, and boiled sweets in secret just as Jimin used to whenever he could afford it. The boy squeaked when he laughed like Jimin, the girl could wiggle her ears. Just. Like Jimin.
And when the little boy complained about not wanting to eat mulligatawny soup that had cilantro as garnish, Jimin immediately understood why that might be the case. His mother had always thought he was being dramatic for no reason, but Jimin earnestly insisted that cilantro tasted like—
“Soap,” they said in unison.
Jimin’s gaze snapped to him in surprise. It was not the boy who had finished the sentence with Jimin. Mr Jeon sat at the head of the table, imposing and commanding as ever. He returned Jimin’s surprised look with a cool one of his own, gaze cutting as a steel knife.
“Inform the cook not to prepare food with cilantro anymore,” he said simply and nothing more.
It was rare that he spoke to Jimin, which would not have been all that worthy of notice were he not around so much. But while Mr Jeon left all childcare tasks to Jimin, he was a lot more involved with his children than Jimin had expected. He did not have a father nor was he all that familiar with the customs of the upper class, but from what he had observed around himself, fathers tended to absent themselves from parental duties. He had assumed this disparity in parental caregiving would only be more stark among the rich where men had significantly greater avenues for entertainment. Places like gentleman’s clubs, the theater and opera, hobbies like hunting and shooting, and sports.
Perhaps Mr Jeon was hyperconscious of the hole in his children’s lives left by his wife’s absence. Perhaps he did not trust Jimin to be alone with them. Even when he was not directly engaged, he was almost always somewhere in the background. On the sofa, reading the paper; by the window, smoking a cigar; at the table, writing a letter. His manner did not seem like one of unease though, if the latter really were the case. He interacted with his children with the warmth and familiarity of one who had always had them as an integral part of his life. By all appearances, Mr Jeon chose to be around his children for no other reason except that he wanted to.
Jimin recalled his first evening in the house. The way Mr Jeon had set his daughter on his lap, the way he had crooned sweetly to her. Called her terms of endearment. Tickled her to make her laugh. Kissed her on the head. He had gone over it again and again in his mind later that night, lying on his lumpy mattress in the attic. What part was it that he was fixating on? The fact that he had only ever seen a tantrum like the girl’s being treated as an offense that was deserving of punishment? Or that he had misperceived and mishandled the situation so terribly? Or—
Or was it Mr Jeon, the way he had chosen to handle his daughter? With such gentleness, such love. Mr Jeon who was frightening and overwhelming. Mr Jeon who had cold eyes and a cruel mouth, and a darkness about him that seemed to permeate through every inch of the house. That Mr Jeon transforming into a whole different person when gazing at his children, his aura radiating only warmth and happiness, his protectiveness and nurturing instinct never once abandoning him.
When it got too windy outside, he made sure to cover his son with a coat. When his daughter fell and scraped her leg, he bandaged it himself, drawing a little heart on the gauze to make her smile. He cheered for his son when he learned to ride a bicycle, and kissed his daughter's tears away when she broke one of her dolls. On his son’s sixth birthday, he got him a new train set, complete with live steam engines, which used small burners to heat water, carriages, tracks, and even miniature stations and landscapes. It must have cost him a tiny fortune. On a particularly lazy afternoon, his daughter crawled into his lap while he read the paper, curled up and fell asleep, sucking on her thumb. And Mr Jeon only looked down at her with a soft smile, stroking her hair with one hand while the other held the paper he carried on reading.
And Jimin found himself staring. Staring and going over and over these innocent little moments in his head at night, lying in the attic, when he was by his lonesome. He told himself it was only his sense of deprivation; he himself had never experienced a father’s love, as much as he yearned for it. Yearned for someone who knew what it was to be a boy his age, who could teach him to tie a tie and smoke a pipe. Yearned for someone to play catch with him and tell him he did a good job and that he was turning into a fine young man. But most of all, he yearned for someone strong and capable to provide for him, to protect him from the world and its relentless cruelty. To nurture the best in him and discipline the worst and do it for no reason other than the love only a father has for his child.
And so when he saw himself in the boy’s place being urged on by Mr Jeon as he tried to ride his first bicycle, he did not think much of it. When he saw himself in the girl’s place being carefully bundled up in a warm scarf by Mr Jeon, he did not think much of that either. Except it did not stop there. Soon it was Mr Jeon comforting him after he had scraped his leg, kissing Jimin’s tears away. Mr Jeon crooning sweet words into his ears, bouncing Jimin on his knee. Jimin crawling into Mr Jeon’s lap in the afternoon, tired and sleepy, feeling Mr Jeon’s fingers stroke his hair as his thumb found itself into his mouth, and—
A strange lick of pleasure stirred deep inside Jimin’s gut. This was wrong, so utterly, thoroughly wrong. Jimin had taken something as innocent as Mr Jeon’s love for his children and perverted it. He hated, loathed himself. And yet his hand snaked beneath the waistband of his trousers and wrapped around his blood-filled prick while his other hand clasped tightly over his mouth. He knew he was well out of earshot and did not need to stifle noise, but that was not why he did it.
His teeth clamped down hard over his palm in punishment as his fist worked itself over his prick, sending wave after wave of euphoric pleasure coursing through his body, making his toes curl and his eyes flutter shut. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth and the pain in his other hand dizzied him, but it was nothing more than what he deserved. He thought of Mr Jeon’s strong hands holding him gently, Mr Jeon’s dark eyes gazing down at him fondly, Mr Jeon’s stern voice talking to him softly. He thought of Mr Jeon holding him in his lap protectively as one holds a little child and he thought of his own self trusting Mr Jeon to take care of him.
He thought of a soft cry leaving his lips and Mr Jeon’s mouth curving into a warm smile.
“Father.”
Jimin ejaculated with a gasp, feeling a burst of hot-white pleasure deep inside him, more intense and powerful than anything he had ever felt before. His trousers still soiled with his release and his hand still wet with blood, he curled up on his side, buried his face in the mattress, and sobbed.
*
He should have known it was not merely a fleeting fantasy, some anomalous flight of sinful, ungodly desire like he had so desperately tried to convince himself after his first time abusing his body to thoughts of Mr Jeon. He told himself perhaps a sense of catharsis was all that he needed to be rid of those thoughts, that it was only an admittedly bizarre but ultimately harmless manifestation of the longing in his subconscious for a parental figure, more so now that he was without a mother too.
But when fixation turned to obsession, longing grew into lust, and those depraved feelings, those satanic desires only continued to intensify, seeking sexual release in his own fist could never provide him with catharsis, only fuel a feedback loop he found himself unable to break out of.
He could not stop his eyes lingering every time Mr Jeon lifted his son in his strong arms, or set his daughter down, warm and comfortable, in his lap. Every time he took his daughter’s hand in his while they took an evening walk together, or patted his son on the back, telling him he was proud of him for doing well in his lessons, or drew a funny little picture for his daughter to look at and laugh, or spent time teaching his son how to play with his new train set.
Jimin could not tear his gaze away every time Mr Jeon gave his daughter playful hugs and kisses as she lay cuddled up to him on the sofa, every time he roughhoused with his son, acutely wary of own strength and taking care not to get too forceful, the safety of his son a priority to him even during a bit of play. It would have been so easy for him to accidentally hurt the boy. Mr Jeon’s frame was so much larger, so much mightier.
Watching the little boy pinned down on the rug beneath Mr Jeon made an awful, wicked, depraved pleasure burn deep in Jimin’s abdomen. It was not the boy’s wrists that Mr Jeon held captured in one firm fist; it was not the boy whose chest heaved with ragged breaths; it was not the boy who lay sprawled on his back, his cherubic cheeks flushed with exertion, dark sweat-damp hair plastered to his forehead. It was all Jimin. And then his thoughts took an uglier turn. Mr Jeon’s fingers ran up the boy’s sides, tickling him while the boy giggled happily; Mr Jeon’s fingers skimmed the front of Jimin’s trousers, fondling him while Jimin moaned lewdly. The boy breathless from laughter; Jimin breathless from pleasure. The boy squealing Stop; Jimin crying More.
Mr Jeon’s gaze cut to him and Jimin felt as though he had been shot with a rifle, jolting him out of his reverie. His cheeks burned and his eyes darted in all directions in fearfulness. Mr Jeon knew. Every perverted thought, every vile little fantasy that had run through Jimin’s head just now, he knew it all. His face was impassive, but his gaze was a little too sharp, a little too keen. Jimin waited—for what, he was not sure even himself. Mr Jeon held his gaze for a moment longer, a terrible moment that made Jimin’s lungs suddenly short of air, but then looked away as if in disinterest. He moved off his son and helped the boy up as he got to his feet as well.
And that was that.
*
Except it was not. Not for Jimin.
He had hoped that the shock of fearfulness from the prospect of Mr Jeon picking up on his abnormal frame of mind would help him snap out of it altogether. But that had not happened—no. The part of his psyche, the corrupted tainted part of soul that polluted his mind like a cancer, became preoccupied with a different aspect of the interaction altogether, letting it mould his desires into something unrecognizable, something entirely downright grotesque.
The hint of knowing in Mr Jeon’s eyes was not the only novel part of the incident, something else had happened too. For the first time since the burning desire had taken shape inside Jimin, the vision in his head had not unfolded in a way that mirrored Mr Jeon’s conduct with his children in reality. Mr Jeon’s love for his children was nothing but innocent and pure; it was Jimin who had taken these wholesome displays of affection and given them a new sickening meaning. But this time his flight of fantasy did not merely see Jimin in the children’s place, feeling arousal stir at an interaction that was inherently chaste; his imagination had veered into a direction explicitly carnal.
And suddenly, it was as if the floodgates to a whole new world of salaciousness had burst open, different and infinitely more depraved. Jimin’s mind now conjured up imaginations that bore no color or shade of Mr Jeon’s manner of behaving with his children in real life, and yet retained the same base elements.
Jimin curled up in Mr Jeon’s lap on the sofa, tired and sleepy, the afternoon a warm and lazy one, except it was Mr Jeon’s thumb pushing against Jimin’s bottom lip while Mr Jeon gazed down at him with dark, lidded eyes. Jimin accepted it readily, closing his eyes, sighing in contentment. He felt so safe and loved, sucking on Mr Jeon’s thumb while Mr Jeon’s other hand snaked underneath the waistband of his trousers to wrap around Jimin’s aching prick, all while his low, calm whispered “Good boy, my good boy” and “Let me take care of you”.
Jimin kicking up a fuss at the supper table, flipping the plate of food in front of him, sending pieces of meat and vegetables flying in all directions, and Mr Jeon lifting him off the chair and up in his arms. Except when he seated himself again, he turned Jimin over his knee, pulling down his trousers, baring his buttocks. Punishing smacks to his behind from Mr Jeon’s flat open palm in repeated succession made Jimin squirm and sob, but Mr Jeon’s firm arm held him in place. Afterward, Mr Jeon drew the trousers up over Jimin’s stinging red bottom and pulled him up, gently bouncing him on his knee as he told Jimin “I discipline you only for you one good” and “Punishing you hurts me more than it hurts you” and ”I have to do it, because I love you” while placing tender kisses on Jimin’s cheeks, the tip of his nose, and the top of his head. And Jimin believed and trusted him more than he did himself, and he had never felt so cherished and adored in his life.
But Jimin was not on the sofa; he was not at the supper table. He was in the dark attic, alone and filthy, seeking the most unnatural kind of pleasure in his own hand. He wept in shame so wretchedly his sobs turned into gasps; his nails dug into his thighs hard enough to draw blood; his teeth clamped down on his arm viciously, tearing through his sleeve. And yet his fist never stopped stroking his cock, relieving it of its burning ache, the surge of ecstasy that rose from deep within him never ebbed away, incomparable to any other feeling.
It was this house, this… demonic, sinister, nightmarish house, so cut away from the rest of the world. Out where there were ordinary feelings and desires, and ordinary people to keep them in check. Here, in this strange isolation, it was easy to forget, to neglect and disregard social conventions, the agreed upon morals, the difference between right and wrong, righteousness and sin.
Or perhaps Jimin had been possessed by the devil, and it was he who was corrupting his soul. He had known it, had he not, from the minute he set eyes on this dark building: an evil lurked here that should not have been. Why else did the clocks stop at odd times? Why were some rooms so cold and inhospitable when the ones directly adjacent were warm as the afternoon light? Why did the light bulbs flicker at random? Why did the shadows extend in long, eerie shapes?
Or perhaps it was Jimin who had brought the evil here. An evil that had been inside him all along, lying dormant until now. An evil that had nothing to do with devils and demons, an evil far darker and sinister.
The evil of the human condition.
He thought of his mother, his feelings of resentment that had permanently tainted his love for her. He resented her for throwing away her good virtuous life for one of sin, dishonor, and ignominy. He resented her for making him a fatherless bastard, for condemning him to a life of the same. How could she have been so weak as to give in to such wantonness? Desires were merely that. Desires. Their capacity to dictate one’s action was limited, and to believe otherwise was an indication of poor character, one that was as immoral as it was pathetic.
But finding himself in the same position now, he was forced to confront his own hypocrisy. His judgment of his mother’s actions had been far less charitable; how could he be deserving of leniency in his own case? Desires were not merely desires, he was coming to learn, they were often symptoms of underlying ills. Sometimes those ills took root as something benign, perhaps even sympathizable. Sense of deprivation from a parent’s absence, a need to be protected and sheltered or—in his mother’s case—a need to feel desired and loved. Perhaps. He could only surmise his mother’s reasons for engaging in the sin of which Jimin was born.
Then perhaps the blame all really did rest on his mother. It was her blood in Jimin’s veins, so perhaps he had inherited her propensity for wickedness, her immorality too. A child borne of darkness and sin had its fate sealed the moment it opened its eyes to this cruel, unforgiving world.
Nothing about Jimin’s beginnings had been pure or conventional, and the world never let him forget that, so how could his being be expected to reflect anything but that?
His perversion, the manifestation of the taint in his soul—it was not an abnormity, then.
It was only an inevitability.
*
The children were positively bouncing off the walls.
Jimin was kneeling down in the entrance hall, trying to get the boy to hold still while he did up his coat. He cast a glance up at the morning sky through the open front door in front of him. Yes, it would certainly rain at some point today. Dark and thick billows of clouds were stretched as far as the eye could see and not so much as a leaf stirred outside. They might even get a thunderstorm.
Nearby, the girl was bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I miss you fa’er,” she said, sounding torn between her excitement to leave and her sadness at departing from her father.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Jimin heard Mr Jeon croon, but he forced himself not to look toward him. He could see Mr Jeon’s tall frame in his peripheral vision even as he kept his eyes fixated on the boy’s coat buttons. There was an awful nervousness churning in the pit of his stomach. He tried to focus on the task at hand and not on what was to come.
“I’ll miss you too.” Mr Jeon leaned down to take his daughter up in his arms. “So much. But you’ll get to see Mummy. Isn't that exciting?” He kissed her softly on the cheek. “I’ll send you lots of drawings to keep you company. Promise you’ll send me a few back as well?” The girl nodded, her expression solemn. Mr Jeon laughed. “That’s my girl.”
He turned toward his son. “Come along now,” he said briskly. “The journey is a long one, and it’ll rain soon. I’m eager to see you get on the train before nightfall.” The boy pulled away from Jimin with an excited leap, whipping around and darting toward his father, leaving Jimin’s hands frozen in mid-air, where they had been working at the buttons, until he thought to lower them.
The boy gave his hand to Mr Jeon’s waiting one, and Mr Jeon walked him out through the front door, holding his daughter in his other arm, toward the carriage standing by. The housekeeper followed after them wearing a bonnet and a shawl over her usual attire.
“Take good care of my children, Miss Kang,” Mr Jeon said as he seated his son and daughter in the carriage. Mr Kang gave a deferential nod and climbed in after them.
The diver pulled on the reins and the horses started with a slight jolt. Soon the carriage was pulling away and out of sight. Mr Jeon stood on the porch watching until not even the clomping of horse hooves down the road could be heard anymore. He turned back toward the house, his face tinged with a vague wistfulness, eyes soft.
That hint of warm heartedness, that expression so human, was erased the instant his gaze fell on Jimin, the other still kneeling stupidly in the entrance hall. Mr Jeon’s gaze on him was cool with a trace of condescension as he watched Jimin pick himself up. The house around them was quiet, the scant few servants absent and out of sight, concealed away in the servant’s wing as they usually were. To all intents and purposes, Mr Jeon and him were utterly, entirely alone.
Jimin’s heart was thudding against his ribcage so hard, he was sure Mr Jeon could hear it in the hush. He felt hyperaware, hyperconscious of every aspect of himself. Were the tips of his ears visibly red? Was his posture too tense and awkward? Could Mr Jeon tell Jimin was struggling to meet his gaze? His job was to look after the children, and they were gone. What now?
Mr Jeon moved toward him, entering the house. His approach was casual, footsteps even and unhurried. Even so, Jimin had to stop himself from flinching back. He should say something. Ask him the obvious about what work was expected of him now. That was a fair and sensible question, wasn’t it?
“Sir, I was wondering if there is any other work you would like me to apply myself to,” he babbled. “Erm, seeing as the children won't be around for a few days. Perhaps I can help you with writing letters or keeping books? You’ll find I’m very good at mathematics—”
Mr Jeon gave him an indifferent once over and then simply brushed past him as though nothing Jimin had to say could be worth his time. Jimin watched him go up the grand staircase leading from the entrance hall and disappear.
He supposed that was as good an answer as he could ever hope to get.
*
The day crawled on.
Mr Jeon remained somewhere upstairs while Jimin hung around the servants’ hall for his meals. The dull-faced housemaids did not seem all that eager to engage in conversation with him. One of them sat in a corner, darning socks, the other was reading a copy of the Bible.
By the time he had finished with supper, loud crashes of thunder shook the house, reverberating through the halls. The maids were preparing for bed, making it plain Jimin had overstayed his welcome. He supposed he should be returning to his place in the attic too, though he could not say the thought of it enticed him. It was dark and lonely there, and the uppermost part of the house was much less shielded from the noise outside. But it was useless thinking about that. It was not as if he had a choice in the matter.
Fetching a candle from the kitchen to replace the exhausted one in his candlestick holder, he made for the attic, going up the secondary staircase at the back of the house and then the ladder off a landing on the uppermost floor.
Candlelight flickered and floorboards creaked. Shadows followed him, long and eerie. Rain pitter pattered against the window in a relentless torrent, and erratic bursts of lightning bathed the attic in brief flashes of purple and silver.
No matter how Jimin tossed and turned on his mattress, sleep would not come to him. It was all the constant crash and bang rattling the attic, the bright bursts of light through a window with no curtains. It unnerved him and made him jump a little every time it happened. Perhaps a distraction was what he needed to calm his heart. His eyes fell on the dusty boxes sitting in one corner. Perhaps he would find something of interest there? It struck him then, the ridiculousness of the fact that he had not thought to go through them sooner, if only to relieve his boredom, and he was bored a lot. He was not the kind to snoop through someone’s belongings, but items lying discarded in an attic could hardly be considered private. He found his feet and picked up the candle, walking over to the boxes.
Some of them looked older than the others. One of them had toys; model ships of chipped wood, toy soldiers with rusted bodies and flaked paint, building blocks, pop guns and toy swords. They looked too old and worn to belong to the little boy. Jimin felt strange looking at them. It seemed bizarre to consider Mr Jeon had been a child too once, one who played with toy soldiers and wooden blocks. He had been an adolescent like Jimin, gone through all the stages in life a boy did, felt all those peculiar, embarrassing, and uncomfortable emotions.
Everything in these boxes belonged to Mr Jeon. The quilts and blankets, the leather bound-novels and books of poetry, the old letters and family documents, newspapers and magazines, souvenirs from travel. It was as if Jimin was seeing through time, peeking into each chapter of the kind of life Mr Jeon had lived. Forget his reasoning earlier; Jimin’s actions could not be considered anything but intrusive as he picked up a book and flicked through it, holding up the candle to see better. He felt a prickle of guilt, but the shot of thrill was much stronger. He had spent weeks consumed by thoughts of Mr Jeon, of his hands, his touch, his voice. And now he had an intimate access to him Jimin could have only dreamed of.
It was not just any book; he had chosen that one specifically because it looked like a personal journal, the key to unraveling the enigma that was Mr Jeon. He wondered what kind of thoughts had gone through Mr Jeon’s head as a boy of ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen. If he had ever struggled with conflicting feelings and emotions, if he had ever concealed a part of himself from the world like Jimin did that only these pages were privy to, if he had confessed his innermost secrets, his darkest desires.
But the book contained no writing at all. The first page he opened was a rough drawing sketched in pencil, the strokes sloppy and off-hand. A woman. Jimin stared at her and her lifeless eyes stared back. She looked to be lying sprawled on her back. Her face was pretty and her hair was long. The dress she wore was not drawn in elaborate detail so it was difficult to tell if she was wealthy, but Jimin was not sure if it would have made a difference. It was carelessly bunched up at the woman's navel, the woman’s legs spread, her cunt, raw and wet, exposed to view.
Jimin swallowed thickly, feeling a flush of heat creep up his neck. Slowly, he flicked to a different page, only to be met with a similar lewd drawing. His fingers flipped through the journal faster then, his mouth dry, the candle holder trembling in hand. Women of various ages and beauty gazed at him from the yellow, crumbling paper, a few of them dressed prim and proper, some of them half clothed, most of them entirely in the nude, all of them posed in a vulgar fashion. Some of those drawings looked as if done from memory, others looked as if the women had posed or been made to pose for them.
And then Jimin landed on a page that made his breath die in his chest. Thunder roared and he jolted, the book slipping from his hand and falling to the floor. No. This… this could not be possible. Jimin dropped to his knees, snatching up the book and frantically searching the pages. The boxes were already here when he arrived. No one had been in or out of the attic save for him since then. The journal looked to be at least a decade old. Surely, his eyes had played a trick on him. In these pages—
How could he have…
Seen his own face…
Staring back.
As real to life as he saw it in the glass window every day.
He brought the candle close—very close—to the page. Those were his eyes, his nose, his lips. That was his hair… but longer. His face, but softer. More feminine.
She was lying on her back, her legs parted, her breasts bare. There was something odd about the expression on her face. Something vaguely reminiscent of… discomfort? Fear?
Sketched in Mr Jeon’s own hand, naked, obscene, and younger than he had ever known her, lay before Jimin, none other than his own mother.
Jimin put the book down and sat back on his heels, inhaling a stuttering breath. He needed to get a hold of himself, for god’s sake. What he had just discovered in the book could mean a number of things; why was he letting his mind jump to the most foolish, preposterous of conclusions?
His mother had been in her 30s when Jimin was born. Mr Jeon must have been about sixteen years of age then. Why would a boy that young wish to engage in relations with a woman that old? It took a moment for the irony of his line of reasoning to strike Jimin. Perhaps it had been some fleeting desire then? Nothing more than a whimsical fancy of a hot-blooded boy on the cusp of manhood with a particularly creative imagination. It was part and parcel of adolescence, all kinds of quaint interests and attractions. Jimin would know. A well brought up boy lusting after a much older housemaid was hardly the most scandalous that could happen. It didn't have to mean anything tangible came of it. And judging by the journal he kept, Mr Jeon had never been the type to get fixated on a single woman.
It was easy to picture a boy in that awkward stage of sexual maturity where something as benign as a strong gust of wind could have his nether regions stirring, letting his eyes linger when a housemaid leaned down, unwitting of the dip of her neckline, and having his imagination to do the rest of the work later, when he was by his lonesome with a journal and pencil in hand. The dozens of sketches of various women in the journal did not have to mean Mr Jeon had fucked them; only that he had desired them at some point in his life, even if only in passing.
Oh, how Jimin wished jumping through all these hoops was enough to truly convince himself. But somewhere at the back of his mind he knew his desperate rationalizations were disregarding a number of significant facts as mere coincidences. He felt faint all of a sudden, the roar of thunder, the flash of lightning, the dingy attic around him fading into the background. He needed to get some water, and just… not think about any of it. Perhaps he would have a clearer head by the morning and be able to come up with a better explanation.
With that thought he stood up, leaving the spent candle forgotten on the floor, and walked over to the attic and down the ladder to the uppermost floor. From here, he would have to turn toward the secondary staircase all the way at the back of the house to go down to the kitchen, except something gave him pause, drawing his attention in the opposite direction.
Through an open door down the hall, a warm, inviting glow was spilling out onto the mahogany floorboards in the otherwise dark house. Jimin crept toward it, driven by reasons he could not explain even to himself. He kept himself pressed to the wall as he peeked into the room. The room, like most others, was the picture of opulence, comfort and refinement. Heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows put the storm out of sight. There was a bookcase filled with leather-bound books, a large Persian rug covering the polished wooden floor, wallpaper with a damask design with gilded accents, all flooded with the warm light from the crystal incandescent lamps.
A grand piano sat in one corner. A grandfather clock ticked away in another one.
The hour hand pointed to 3, but like the other clocks in the house, it was not to be trusted. Perhaps it really was that late in the night, perhaps even later.
A bright fire burned in the central fireplace, keeping the room warm. It had a beautifully crafted mantelpiece and a large mirror above it. Close by was an armchair upholstered with rich brocade with intricate woodwork and carved details. And seated in the armchair, holding a lit cigar in long elegant fingers was Mr Jeon, watching Jimin with stony eyes.
Jimin startled, recoiling physically. How could he have taken in every detail of the room before noticing him? There was something wrong with him. He wasn't thinking clearly; he wasn't right in the head. Their gaze remained locked with each other. Mr Jeon didn't speak. By all appearances, he looked as though he would have been content to watch Jimin gawk at the room, oblivious to his presence, all night long.
“Uhm, I came down to get some water,” Jimin mumbled, speaking up at last. “Couldn't sleep.”
His eyes helplessly followed the movement of Mr Jeon’s fingers as Mr Jeon tapped the ash off his cigar in the ashtray resting on the side table with an air of nonchalance. “Water is found in the kitchen,” he said. “I know someone of your means cannot be expected to be particularly astute, but surely even you can tell by now this is not what a kitchen looks like.”
Jimin shifted on his feet, feeling himself flush with shame. He deserved the mockery. Trying to pretend like he had lost his way could only be treated as an insult to Mr Jeon’s intelligence at this point. Truth was, he had known he would find Mr Jeon here. Who else could it be at this late hour? A servant had no business being in these rooms. It was Jimin’s subconscious impulse that had drawn him toward him, the same one that begged, writhed, sobbed, moaned, and yearned for Mr Jeon every second of every day and every night.
“M-my apologies, sir,” he stammered. “I didn't mean to disturb you. I’ll go now—”
“Oh, quit it,” Mr Jeon snapped. Jimin’s mouth slammed shut in an instant. “You fool no one. It’s terribly irritating that you still insist on trying.” His expression turned dark. “Come here.”
Jimin shifted on his feet in hesitation. There was something ominous about Mr Jeon’s manner. Something that pleaded with Jimin to turn on his heel and flee. But that voice was small and weak in the face of every other part of him that had longed for nothing but this. Mr Jeon calling Jimin to himself, acknowledging him with more than a few dismissive words at last.
It was thrilling and terrifying, exciting and distressful all at once.
He took a step into the room and then halted. “Should I close the door, sir?”
Was that too presumptuous a question? Jimin had a feeling Mr Jeon would not be pleased if he tried to play the wide-eyed babe. Especially not after he had just called Jimin out on his pitiful excuse. There was heavy implication to Mr Jeon’s words, to this entire exchange that wasn't lost on Jimin. There was a current in the air, so charged with sexual instinct, it was nearly palpable. There was no point in pretending he was here for anything otherwise.
“No need for that,” Mr Jeon said. “It’s only us here alone.”
Alone. Jimin couldn't suppress the pleasurable shiver that raced through him. Steps slow and measured, he approached Mr Jeon until he was standing directly in front of the man.
Mr Jeon did not rise from his chair. He stubbed the cigar out on the ashtray, no haste in his movement at all, and then reached a hand toward Jimin’s face, making Jimin nearly flinch back in surprise. Mr Jeon tutted reproachfully and Jimin held still at once. “Let me have a look at you,” he murmured, voice dark as smoke and sin.
Clever, steady fingers traced Jimin’s cheekbone, trailing lower. The touch was warm and feather-light, almost a caress. Jimin leaned helplessly into it. He had thought about it many times, tried to dream up what Mr Jeon’s skin against his own might feel like, but no imagined pleasure came close to the real sensation.
“The son of a housemaid,” Mr Jeon said. “Your mother used to be in my employ. Well, in my parents’ employ, not that the distinction matters. She must have told you that much, yes?”
It took a moment for Jimin to realize Mr Jeon expected an answer, so lost was he in his own mind. He could hardly believe this was not a dream, that the feeling of Mr Jeon’s touch on him was real, His eyes had all but fluttered shut in the heady intoxication of it all.
“Answer me.”
“Ye-yes, sir,” Jimin managed to say.
“So you recognize and understand the sheer entitlement of such a woman to have expected anything of me at all, especially when she hadn't served my family in any capacity for more than a decade.” Mr Jeon exhaled a sigh, but the pitying air of his manner seemed feigned. Almost mocking. “And yet I accepted her demands, took you into my home and gave you a respectable job.”
Jimin felt himself being pulled out of his ecstatic daze. What Mr Jeon was saying… it wasn't quite right. His mother had not made any demands; her letter to Mr Jeon contained merely a request. One that Mr Jeon had likened to begging not too long ago. Jimin couldn't bring himself to point this out, though. He couldn't explain what it was that made him consider it this way, but something about Mr Jeon’s manner of speaking to him seemed… intentionally provocative. As though he knew what he was saying was a misrepresentation of facts and took satisfaction in knowing Jimin would not dare challenge him.
He was correct.
“It was very kind of you, sir,” Jimin mumbled.
“Kind?” Mr Jeon gave a half-suppressed chuckle. His fingers were still stoking the side of Jimin’s face, inching closer to his mouth. “If that’s what you want to call it. You know—” Abruptly, his expression turned deadpan, steely eyes boring into Jimin’s. “I don’t let just anyone near my children. They mean a great deal to me, and there are all sorts of people out there. Bad people. People who would wish to take advantage of their innocence. People with unnatural, depraved, perverse desires.” He shoved two fingers past Jimin’s lips, deep into Jimin’s mouth until Jimin gagged, too taken aback to react.
“I see the way you behave around my children. I’ve watched your face sweat and your cheeks turn red. I’ve watched you get hard in your trousers.” Mr Jeon was speaking in a slow, almost lazy drawl. Jimin’s hand flew up to grasp at his wrist in a silent plea as tears began to leak out of the corners of his panicked eyes, but Mr Jeon’s fingers stayed unforgiving, fucking Jimin’s mouth as if it were a cunt.
“Tell me,” he said. “When you spend these nights all alone up in the attic, do you stroke your little prick to the thought of touching my children?”
“N-no,” Jimin gurgled around his fingers in horror. “Ne—never, s-sir.”
“Oh?” Mr Jeon raised a brow. “What is it that keeps you in a perpetual state of such lecherousness, then? There are hardly any women around, none worth looking at anyway. But when you bathe my children, surely your gaze must linger sometimes where it shouldn't. When you clothe them, when you have your filthy hands on their small vulnerable bodies, they surely must stray in inappropriate ways. It must be so easy for you, isn’t it? My little girl can barely talk in full sentences let alone be able to explain what you do to her—”
“No!” Jimin screeched. The things Mr Jeon was accusing him of, these awful, monstrous things, he couldn't bear to hear one more word of it. “It’s because of you.”
“What was that?” Mr Jeon withdrew his fingers from Jimin’s mouth, strings of spit keeping them connected to Jimin’s lips. He wiped them on Jimin’s cheek offhandedly. “I couldn't quite understand you.”
“It’s b-because of you. All because of you. These things I feel, these desires. I get hard because of you. I t-touch myself to thoughts of you.” Mr Jeon knew; he had known all along. He only wanted to hear Jimin admit it; it was plain from the look of satisfaction on his face.
“What kind of thoughts?” Mr Jeon’s voice dropped to a whisper as though encouraging a child to share a secret. He placed a broad palm hand on Jimin’s chest, sliding it down his abdomen, making Jimin’s breath stutter and his knees weak. The touch burned even through the cotton of his shirt.
“This—you touching me. Holding me, caressing me.” Jimin stifled a moan. Arousal curled hot and tight in his abdomen as Mr Jeon continued to stroke and fondle him, reaching between his legs. “You kiss me, cuddle me, praise me, tell me I’m good, and that I’m yours. Sometimes you punish me when I’ve been bad and wipe away my tears after. Sometimes you take off my clothes and make love to me.” Mr Jeon's fingers squeezed him through the trousers. “Make m-me feel good, s-sir”
“Sir,” Mr Jeon echoed with a chuckle as though a private joke. “Is that what you call me?”
“....Yes. Yes, of course, sir—”
Jimin’s hasty words were cut off with a cry as Mr Jeon squeezed him hard. “I don’t like liars,” he said calmly. “Let’s try this again. In your innermost, private thoughts, what do you call me? Who do you really see me as, Jimin?”
It was the first time he had heard Mr Jeon speak his name. The first time he had spoken to him without a hint of mockery, condescension, or contempt. Mr Jeon looked understanding, almost… kind. A kindness he had only ever reserved for his children.
“I call you ‘Father’,” Jimin confessed at last, voice quiet as a whisper. “I think of you as my father, and myself as your son. It’s loathsome and repulsive, I know, I’m sorry, so terribly sorry but I cannot make myself stop.”
For a fraction of a second, a hint of something smug and cruel flashed across Mr Jeon’s face. Jimin did not have the chance to decipher its meaning before a rough hand fisted his hair and yanked him down to his knees before Mr Jeon’s spread legs, making him cry out in pain.
His head snapped up, desperate, only to find Mr Jeon staring back at him, his eyes as blank and lifeless as that of the women in his journal.