Iwake up sore and groggy, the morning light cutting harshly against my eyelids, and for a few disoriented seconds I don’t know where I am or what day it is. My mind is still foggy, wrapped in a thick cotton haze that makes it hard to string thoughts together, and my body feels like it’s been taken apart and reassembled wrong, every joint stiff, every muscle throbbing with a deep bone-level ache that tells me I was used thoroughly and without mercy. My lower back is the worst of it, a dull grinding pain that flares when I try to shift my hips, and between my legs the soreness is so acute that even the brush of the sheets against my inner thighs makes me flinch.
But I’m alone in the bed. There’s an absence of Hongjoong’s body heat against my back, the missing weight of his arm across my waist. The sheets beside me are cold, which means he’s been up for a while. I lie still and let my head clear enough to take stock of how thoroughly fucked I am, in every sense of the word.
Hongjoong kept me knotted all night. Every time the swelling deflated enough for him to pull out he would simply start fucking me all over again, rolling me into a new position and driving back in with that same relentless, punishing intensity, like he was trying to fuck years of anger and betrayal into my body. I have no idea how many times he knotted me. Each one longer and more brutal than the last, his teeth finding the fresh bond mark on my neck over and over, biting down until I screamed, reopening the wound and licking the blood away before sinking in again. Eventually I fell asleep or passed out, I’m honestly not sure which, with Hongjoong’s cock still knotted tight inside my ass and his arm locked around my chest like a vise.
I can feel the sheer volume of cum inside me now, heavy and warm and sloshing faintly when I breathe, my stomach cramping slightly from the fullness of it. He came so many times and so deep that my body couldn’t expel it all even between rounds, and now it sits in me like a weight, pressing against my insides, making my belly feel distended and tender. At the exact moment I start to roll over onto my back, the bed dips beside me, and Hongjoong’s hands grip my hips and hold me still, rolling me firmly onto my belly instead.
“Get your knees under you,” he says from behind me, his voice low and flat, carrying no warmth whatsoever. “Put your ass up.”
The command is punctuated with a deliberate pulse of pheromones that rolls through my body like a wave, sinking into my muscles and my bones, and the deepest recesses of my omega brain. It leaves no room for disobedience, even if I wanted to try. My body moves, my knees drawing up under me, my hips lifting, presenting my ass in the air with my chest still flat against the mattress and my face turned to the side on the pillow. I can feel the cool air against my swollen hole and theslow trickle of cum that leaks out of me with the position change, sliding warm down my taint.
I hear Hongjoong shifting behind me, and I crane my neck just enough to see what’s in his hand. My stomach drops. It’s a butt plug, silicone, matte black, and it’s even bigger than the one from the racetrack, the bulbous end thick and imposing enough that my sore hole clenches involuntarily at the sight of it. Hongjoong doesn’t waste time or offer explanation. He swirls the rounded tip of the plug through the slick and cum already leaking from my swollen hole, coating it thoroughly, and then presses it to my rim and pushes.
My breath is forced from my lungs in a stuttered exhale as the plug stretches me open, my sore abused rim protesting the intrusion with a sharp sting that makes my fingers curl into the sheets. The widest part forces me wider and wider, my body fighting it, my hole clenching uselessly against the unyielding silicone as I gasp and bite down on the pillow, and then it slides past the thickest point and my hole swallows the rest in one greedy pull, the flared base seating firmly against my rim and plugging me up completely. I shudder hard, a full-body tremor, as the plug settles deep inside me and traps the massive volume of Hongjoong’s cum in my ass, sealing it in with nowhere to go.
“You’re going to leave that in until I take it out myself,” Hongjoong says, his voice even and calm, which is almost more frightening. “If you try to remove it or empty yourself out, I’m going to put you over my lap and spank you until you’re in tears. Do you understand me?”
He grips my face, his fingers pressing into my jaw, and turns it toward him so I have no choice but to look up at him. I can see him take in the discomfort pinching my features, the way my brow is creased and my lips are pressed tight against the sheer size of the plug and the fullness inside me, and his expression doesn’t soften even a fraction.
“You’re going to wear my scent on you andinyou from now on,” he says, his thumb pressing into the hinge of my jaw. “Everyone who comes near you needs to know immediately that you are mine. My scent stays on you at all times. My cum stays inside of you. Do you understand?”
I nod, my eyes averted, unable to hold his gaze. Hongjoong releases my face and straightens up, and I hear him move away from the bed as he says over his shoulder, “Get up. We’re going to have a family day.”
I move gingerly, every shift of my body making the plug press deeper and the cum slosh uncomfortably inside me, my stomach cramping in protest, my legs and back aching from the night’s abuse. Getting upright takes real effort, my arms shaking as I push myself to sitting, and when I finally stand the change in gravity makes the plug settle heavier inside me, the weight of it and the fullness of all that trapped cum pulling at my insides, making me press a hand to my lower belly and breathe through my nose until the nausea passes.
I shower, but it doesn’t do much to make me feel clean since I’m not allowed to wash Hongjoong’s scent off. The musk of alpha clings to my skin and my hair and saturates every pore no matter how much soap I use, and the bond mark on my neck throbs steadily under the hot water, the freshly reopened wound stinging when the spray hits it. I dry off carefully and dress in loose pants that won’t press against the base of the plug, a soft shirt that covers the bite mark, and I keep quiet and reserved as I emerge from the bedroom and find Hongjoong and Sungyoon already in the living room, Sungyoon in a hoodie and sneakers looking bright-eyed and eager while Hongjoong jangles his car keys.
I trail behind them as we all get into Hongjoong’s car, taking the backseat without being told because Sungyoon is already in the passenger seat and neither of them looks back to checkif I’m following. Hongjoong drives us to the racetrack, and I walk several paces behind as he leads Sungyoon through the facility, an arm slung casually over the boy’s shoulder in a gesture so natural it looks like they’ve been doing it for years instead of days. Sungyoon is thrilled, his eyes wide as he takes in the garages and the pit lanes and the sleek cars lined up in the paddock, asking Hongjoong rapid-fire questions about tire compounds and downforce and qualifying times that Hongjoong answers with patience and obvious enjoyment, his whole demeanor shifting into warmth and animation that he hasn’t shown me in days.
Hongjoong takes him to sit in the racing cars, lets him grip the steering wheel and examine the cockpit, explains the gear systems and the safety features while Sungyoon listens with rapt attention, his dimple cutting deep every time Hongjoong says something that impresses him. The two of them are getting along effortlessly, falling into a dynamic that looks like it’s been there waiting for them all along, father and son clicking into place with an ease that makes my throat tight. I’m grateful to watch it unfold, genuinely grateful, because this is what Sungyoon deserved all along and what I denied him. But the sadness and guilt of all the years they missed together makes my chest ache as I stand off to the side with my arms crossed, watching them from a distance that feels much larger than the few meters of concrete between us. A lifetime of this that I took from both of them. Every first that Hongjoong should have been there for, every milestone, every scraped knee and school play and birthday candle, all of it gone and irretrievable and entirely my fault.
“I’ll teach you to drive if you want,” Hongjoong tells Sungyoon as they climb out of the last car, and Sungyoon’s face lights up like I haven’t seen since he was small. Unguarded childlike joy that teenagers usually work so hard to suppressbreaking through his careful fifteen-year-old facade. He looks at Hongjoong like Hongjoong hung the moon, and I have to look away because the expression on my son’s face is both the most beautiful and the most painful thing I’ve ever seen.
As the day gets late, Hongjoong suggests we all go out for dinner. We end up at an expensive traditional restaurant, the kind with private rooms and floor seating and staff who bow deeply and address Hongjoong by name. I have to make a real effort not to wince or let out an undignified sound as I lower myself onto the floor cushion, the large plug shifting inside me with the change in position and pressing against my prostate hard enough to make my cock twitch in my pants, my hole throbbing around the intrusion, the built-up cum turning my stomach and making the thought of eating almost unbearable. Hongjoong puts a hand possessively on the back of my neck as we settle in, heavy and claiming, his fingers curling around the nape where the bond mark sits just below, and I hunch automatically under the pressure but don’t dare push him off.
I don’t feel hungry. My body is too full and too uncomfortable for appetite, the persistent cramp in my lower belly making even the smell of the food laid out before us turn my stomach slightly. I pick at my rice with my chopsticks, moving grains around without lifting them to my mouth, pushing a piece of meat from one side of my plate to the other.
“Eat,” Hongjoong says without looking at me, his voice a low growl that carries the unmistakable edge of a command.
I force myself to lift my chopsticks and chew and swallow, the food sitting like lead in my already overfull stomach. Hongjoong and Sungyoon talk animatedly over the spread of dishes, Sungyoon telling Hongjoong about his soccer team and his classes and his friends, Hongjoong listening, remembering names and details Sungyoon mentioned earlier in the day.
I try to join in once, asking Sungyoon how he likes the food, and he doesn’t even glance at me, just keeps talking to Hongjoong like I didn’t speak. I try again a few minutes later, commenting on something Sungyoon said about his math teacher, and this time he gives me a flat monosyllable without turning his head. The third time I open my mouth, offering to order him the dessert I know he likes, Sungyoon’s eyes slide past me like I’m a piece of furniture, and he asks Hongjoong if they have the chocolate bingsu here instead.
I stop trying after that. I keep my head down for the rest of the meal, chopsticks moving mechanically between my plate and my mouth, chewing and swallowing food I can’t taste while the two of them laugh and talk across the table, their voices bright and overlapping, filling the private room with a warmth that doesn’t extend to where I’m sitting. The plug aches inside me and the bond mark throbs on my neck and I eat because I was told to eat and I stay quiet because no one wants to hear me speak, and I think this is what I deserve, all of it, every bit of it. That knowledge doesn’t make it hurt any less.
When we get back to the apartment Sungyoon kicks off his shoes and drops onto the living room couch with the dogs, Alto immediately draping her long silky body across his lap while Rennard circles twice and settles at his feet, and Hongjoong follows him in, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair as he asks Sungyoon if he wants to watch something. I hear Sungyoon say yeah, and then the sound of the television clicking on, and I stand in the hallway for a momentwith my shoes still on, listening to the two of them settle in together, Sungyoon’s voice bright and talkative as he scrolls through options, Hongjoong’s warm and engaged as he vetoes something and suggests something else, both of them laughing at whatever comes up on the screen.
I take my shoes off quietly and pad down the hall toward the bedroom without announcing myself. Neither of them calls after me or seems to notice I’ve gone, their conversation continuing uninterrupted behind me, Sungyoon launching into a story about something one of his friends did that has Hongjoong cracking up, the sound of it carrying through the apartment, filling the space with a life and warmth that follows me all the way to the bedroom door but doesn’t come through it when I close it behind me.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The plug shifts as I lower myself down, and I wince, adjusting my weight to one hip, pressing a hand against my cramping belly. My body is exhausted deeper than muscle fatigue, a bone-deep weariness that makes even sitting upright feel like an effort, and the persistent ache between my legs and in my lower back pulses. I can still hear them talking through the wall, muffled now but audible, Sungyoon’s voice rising with excitement about something and Hongjoong responding with that easy engaged tone he uses with the boy, the one that’s all interest and attention and none of the cold distance he reserves for me.
I sit there and I wait. I don’t undress or lie down or reach for my phone. I just sit with my hands in my lap and listen to the sounds of my son and his father getting to know each other in the next room. I try to feel happy about it because I am happy about it, genuinely, even as the loneliness of being shut out of it settles into my soul.
It’s a long time before I hear the television shut off and Hongjoong’s voice telling Sungyoon to get some sleep, thatthey’ll pick up where they left off tomorrow. Sungyoon says goodnight and I hear his bedroom door close, and then footsteps in the hall, and then the master bedroom door opens and Hongjoong steps inside and pushes it shut behind him with a soft click.
He looks at me sitting on the edge of the bed in the same spot I’ve been in for the last hour and a half, still fully dressed, hands folded between my knees. His expression is hard to read in the dim light from the bedside lamp, between tired and guarded. He doesn’t move toward me right away, just stands by the door and watches me the way he’s been watching me for days, like he’s trying to decide what to do with me.
“Sungyoon hates me,” I say quietly, sounding small, rougher around the edges.
