Chapter Text
The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain.
Wake up in Sangwon's bed. Shower (sometimes alone, sometimes with Sangwon's hands on him). Breakfast that Sangwon either fed him or watched him eat. Then the gym, sitting in Sangwon's office, watching him train through the glass.
Lunch. Sometimes Sangwon would come up between sessions, fuck him quick and efficient on the desk, then go back down. Sometimes Anxin would just wait, reading or scrolling his phone, existing just to exist.
Afternoon training. Anxin's own sessions with Jeemin three times a week. He was getting stronger, filling out slightly. Still small, still delicate, but less fragile.
Dinner. Always together now. Sangwon insisted.
Then night. And night belonged to Sangwon completely.
Three months since the loan sharks. Three months since Anxin's resistance had shattered. Three months of being so good, so obedient, that sometimes he forgot he'd ever been anything else.
And Sangwon kept winning every single fight.
Seven fights in three months. Seven brutal, decisive victories. The sports networks called it unprecedented. The Emperor's reign of dominance. Undefeated for ten months straight now, and climbing the international rankings.
Everyone wanted to know his secret. Anxin was his secret. The good luck charm. The human rabbit's foot. The pretty sacrifice to whatever gods governed violence.
Before every match, Sangwon would use him. Thoroughly. Completely. Leaving Anxin wrung out and marked and so full of come he could feel it sloshing inside him when he walked.
And then Sangwon would win, every time.
The pattern was undeniable now. The team knew. The sponsors knew. Even the press suspected something, asking probing questions about Sangwon's "new routine" and "what changed."
Sangwon never answered. Just smiled that sharp smile and said, "Good discipline."
But his eyes would find Anxin in the VIP section, wearing Sangwon's jacket, and everyone who was paying attention understood.
The Emperor had found his secret weapon. And he was never letting go.
It started small.
"Wear this tonight," Sangwon said one evening, handing Anxin a shopping bag.
Inside was silk. Soft, expensive, in a deep blue that matched Anxin's undertones. Anxin pulled it out and froze.
A nightgown. Short, barely mid-thigh, with delicate lace trim at the neckline and hem.
"This is for women," Anxin said quietly.
"It's for you." Sangwon's eyes were dark. "Put it on."
"I'm not—"
"You said you'd be good. You said you wouldn't fight me." Sangwon stepped closer. "Was that a lie?"
The words hit like a slap. No. He'd promised. He'd be good.
"No, Sir," Anxin whispered.
"Then put it on."
Anxin changed in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror at first. The silk slid over his skin like water, cool and soft. It clung to his frame—his narrow shoulders, slight chest, the curve of his ass.
When he finally looked at himself, his breath caught.
He looked... pretty.
Feminine. The nightgown emphasized his delicate features, his smooth skin (kept hairless by regular laser treatments), his small build. His hair had grown longer, nearly to his shoulders now because Sangwon liked it that way.
He looked like someone's kept thing.
He looked like a doll.
When he emerged, Sangwon's eyes went molten.
"Perfect," he breathed. "Absolutely perfect."
"I look like a girl," Anxin said, not quite accusation, not quite statement.
"You look like mine." Sangwon pulled him close, hands sliding over silk. "Beautiful. Delicate. Exactly what I want."
And he fucked Anxin in that nightgown, rucking it up around his waist, the silk bunching between them.
After, lying in bed, Sangwon said: "I'm buying you more."
He did.
Nightgowns in various colors. Silk pajama sets with shorts so small they barely covered anything. Sheer negligees that hid nothing. Lace. Satin. Materials that whispered and clung and made Anxin look like something precious.
And—though Sangwon presented it casually—lingerie.
Panties in soft cotton and delicate lace. Thigh-highs with silk bows. A garter belt that Sangwon spent twenty minutes just looking at him in.
"I'm a man," Anxin said once, holding a pair of particularly feminine panties—pale pink with white lace.
"You're mine," Sangwon corrected. "And I like you pretty."
So Anxin wore them.
At first because Sangwon wanted it. Because obedience was safety.
But then—
He looked at himself in the mirror one morning, wearing a cream silk nightgown that hit mid-thigh, his hair soft around his face, and thought:
I do look pretty.
And some broken part of him liked it.
Liked being Sangwon's pretty thing. His kept doll. His good boy who wore silk and lace and existed to be beautiful and available.
It was easier than being Zhou Anxin, poor student with crushing debts.
Easier than being a person with agency and choices.
Being a pretty object meant the decisions were already made.
It started around month two of his "good" phase.
Anxin woke up one morning before Sangwon, and his first thought was:
I want him inside me.
He lay there in a sheer white nightgown, Sangwon's arm heavy across his waist, and took inventory of his body.
He was half-hard. His hole felt empty—they'd used a plug last night, but Sangwon had removed it before sleep. The absence felt wrong.
I need to be filled.
The thought came unbidden, urgent, and erratic.
Anxin pressed his thighs together, trying to ignore it. But the need built like pressure under his skin.
When Sangwon woke twenty minutes later, Anxin was already grinding against his thigh, whimpering.
"Needy this morning?" Sangwon's voice was rough with sleep.
"Please," Anxin gasped. "Need you."
"I can see that." Sangwon's hand slid down, found Anxin already wet—he'd fingered himself open at some point, desperate and half-asleep. "Did you prep yourself?"
"Couldn't help it. Needed—" Anxin was already climbing on top of him, seeking. "Please, daddy, need your cock."
Sangwon groaned and pulled him down onto his morning erection. Anxin sobbed in relief as he was filled, stretched, completed.
"There you go, baby. Take what you need."
And Anxin rode him desperately, chasing the fullness, the connection, the feeling of being owned and wanted and necessary.
After, Sangwon studied him. "You're getting needier."
"I know," Anxin admitted, shame burning his cheeks. "I don't know why."
"You're mine. You want my cock. That's all that matters." Sangwon pulled him close. "But I'm not complaining. I like you needy. Like you wanting me."
And Anxin pressed into him, already feeling that emptiness returning, already counting down until he could have Sangwon again.
Addicted. Addicted to his own abuse.
Fight Week - Number Eight.
"You're insatiable lately," Sangwon observed.
They were in bed—or rather, Anxin was in Sangwon's lap, riding him slowly while wearing a pale pink babydoll negligee. His third orgasm in as many hours, and he was still desperate for more.
"Can't help it," Anxin gasped, rolling his hips. "Need you all the time."
"I've noticed." Sangwon's hands gripped his waist, guiding his movements. "You wake me up grinding against me. You touch yourself in my office thinking I don't notice—"
"You notice?" Anxin's face burned.
"I have cameras, baby. I see everything." Sangwon thrust up hard, making Anxin cry out. "See you fingering yourself while watching me train. See you looking at things on your phone that get you wet."
Anxin froze. "You—you're spying on me?"
"I'm monitoring my investment." Sangwon pulled him down into a kiss. "And I like what I see. My pretty boy so desperate for cock he can't function without it."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Sangwon flipped them, pressed Anxin into the mattress, the negligee bunching around his waist. "You've become exactly what I wanted. Needy. Obedient. Pretty." Each word punctuated with a thrust. "Mine."
"Yours," Anxin agreed, too far gone to argue. "All yours, daddy."
Sangwon fucked him through two more orgasms—Anxin's body was so trained now that he could come multiple times, each one leaving him more desperate, more needy.
"Please," he sobbed, even after the fifth orgasm left him shaking. "More—need more—"
"You're going to break yourself," Sangwon said, but he kept going. Kept filling him. Kept using him.
Because they both knew Anxin would beg if he stopped.
When Sangwon finally came, filling Anxin for the dozenth time that week, Anxin clung to him and whispered: "Thank you, daddy. Thank you for wanting me."
And Sangwon held him close, something complicated in his expression.
"Always," he said quietly. "I'll always want you."
It should have been romantic. But they both knew it was just another clasp to their invisible chains.
Victory Number Eight.
Anxin sat in his usual spot, wearing Sangwon's jacket over a turtleneck that hid the fresh bite marks. His body ached pleasantly—Sangwon had been thorough in his pre-fight ritual.
Junseo sat beside him, typing rapidly. "He's on fire lately. Eight fights, eight wins. This keeps up, he'll get an international title shot."
"That's good," Anxin murmured.
"Thanks to you." Junseo glanced at him. "Everyone knows, you know. The team. That you're his lucky charm."
"I know."
"Does it bother you? Being reduced to superstition?"
Anxin considered the question. Once, it would have. Once, he'd had dreams and dignity and selfhood.
Now?
"No," he said honestly. "It means I'm useful. That's enough."
Junseo looked at him for a long moment. "You've changed."
"Have I?"
"When you first started coming to the gym, you looked terrified. Like a trapped animal." Junseo's expression was unreadable. "Now you look... content. But in a way that's somehow worse."
Before Anxin could respond, the fight started.
Sangwon entered the cage like always—controlled, dangerous, unstoppable. His opponent was huge, experienced, heavily favored by betting odds.
Didn't matter.
Sangwon destroyed him in the second round. A perfect combination that ended in a knockout so brutal the crowd went silent before erupting into chaos.
The Emperor remained undefeated.
And when Sangwon's eyes found Anxin in the crowd, Anxin smiled.
Because of me. He wins because of me.
The thought filled the emptiness inside him with something warm.
Later, in the hotel (another victory party, but this time Anxin attended, standing quietly at Sangwon's side in an expensive outfit that Sangwon had picked), a reporter cornered them.
"Lee Sangwon, incredible win tonight. What's your secret?"
Sangwon's arm came around Anxin's waist, possessive and claiming.
"Good discipline," he said with that sharp smile. "And knowing what's worth protecting."
The reporter's eyes flickered to Anxin. Understanding dawned.
And Anxin stood there in Sangwon's hold, wearing clothes Sangwon bought, smelling like Sangwon's cologne, still feeling Sangwon's come inside him from earlier.
That Night - The Hotel Room.
"You were so good tonight," Sangwon murmured, stripping Anxin out of the expensive outfit. "Standing there looking pretty. Being mine."
"I liked it," Anxin admitted. "People knowing. Seeing that I'm yours."
"Yeah?" Sangwon pulled out a new nightgown—sheer white, barely there. "Arms up."
Anxin obeyed. The nightgown settled over him like mist, hiding nothing.
"Beautiful," Sangwon breathed. "My beautiful boy."
"Yours," Anxin agreed, already reaching for him. Already needy. "Show me. Show me I'm yours."
And Sangwon did.
Hours later, Anxin lay boneless and satisfied, nightgown torn, body marked, absolutely ruined.
He pulled out his phone. His search history reflecting the moments of soberness where he would try to put a name to their relationship.
Why do I want him to hurt me.
Is it normal to need sex after assault.
Why do I feel safe when I'm locked in.
The bolded results glared back at him. Words like hypersexuality and trauma response and learned helplessness. Clinical, sterile words for the filthy, desperate thing he had become.
But lying there in Sangwon's arms, wearing his silk and his marks and his come, Anxin couldn't bring himself to care.
The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain.
And he'd stopped trying to separate the colors.