my wattpad story - ༒︎ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄 - 𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐍 ༒︎
park sunghoon x stalker!femreader | reader starts as dom | power struggle | degradation | rough smut | dubcon/noncon dynamics | outdoor public setting | dynamic switch to dom!sunghoon | manipulation | DARK CONTENT !!!!
warning: This piece contains explicit sexual content including stalking, gaslighting, manipulation, reader degrading and using Sunghoon (spitting in mouth, face sitting, rough handjob, ass fingering), orgasm denial, overstimulation, brutal rough penetration, breeding talk, choking, hair pulling, slapping, crying, filthy talk, dynamic flip where Sunghoon takes control. Extremely dark themes.
summary: You’ve spent months breaking Sunghoon down — stalking him, destroying him, making him beg at your feet. But hate and need blur in the dark, and when he finally snaps, the dynamic shatters. What begins as your game ends with Sunghoon flipping the script, taking what he needs, using you until you’re ruined on the cold ground, claimed and claiming, breathless and broken in the mess you both made.
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You watch him through the slit between the library shelves, fingers ghosting over the spine of a book you have no intention of borrowing. Park Sunghoon sits at a table bathed in afternoon light, head down, flipping through notes, pen tapping in a rhythm he probably doesn't even notice. His hair glints in the sun, flawless, as if he was sculpted to be cruel. The kind of face that was never meant for people like you — except that he is, and he just doesn't know it yet.
He doesn't glance up, doesn't sense you. Not yet. You've trained yourself to breathe quietly, to move like a shadow. He's too focused on his study group, too focused on making everyone else in the room love him the way you do.
Jake leans over his shoulder, laughing at some inside joke. You hate Jake. That easy, golden warmth of his — it keeps Sunghoon protected, surrounded. A buffer between him and you. You want to shatter it.
You stay until the group packs up, watching every movement. The way Sunghoon slings his bag over one shoulder. The way he runs a hand through his hair. The way he says goodbye to the others, polite but distant, perfect and untouchable.
When he leaves, you follow.
His dorm smells like him. Not just the cologne he wears — something deeper. Skin. Sweat. Clean linen mixed with the faintest trace of detergent. You stand in the center of his room like you belong there, like he should walk in any second and see you as his.
You sit on his bed, legs crossed. Fingers trail over the sheets, his pillow, the edge of his desk. You press your face to the pillow and breathe him in, slow and deep, until your head feels light from the rush of it.
You wear his discarded hoodie, oversized on you, sleeves brushing your thighs as you move. You study the small things — the books stacked neatly on his nightstand, the worn corners of his wallet, the faint smudge on his mirror where he touches it in the morning.
At his desk, you slip a hand under your skirt. Slow. Controlled. No mess. Just the high of knowing this is his space, his chair, his world — and you are in it, silent and unseen. When you're done, you straighten your clothes, smooth the sheets, leave everything the way it was. Except the strand of your hair on his pillow. The fingerprint on his mirror. The smallest, quietest marks of ownership.
You take a pen from his desk — nothing dramatic. Just enough that he'll notice it's gone, but won't think to question where it went.
When you pass him on campus the next day, his reaction is immediate. His jaw tightens. His lips press into a thin, angry line. His eyes — those beautiful, cold eyes — flick over you with pure contempt.
"Stop looking at me like that," he snaps under his breath, low enough that only you can hear as he brushes past. His voice is venom. "Freak."
You say nothing. Just watch as he walks faster, shoulders rigid, desperate to get away from you.
Later, you catch glimpses of him in the student union, the quad, the gym. Always surrounded. Always shining. And always, always hating you.
You hear Jake talking about him with someone at a table near yours:
"Yeah, Sunghoon's been on edge lately. He thinks some girl's been following him or something. I dunno, maybe it's just stress."
You sip your drink, smiling to yourself.
Yunjin watches you from across the room, brows slightly furrowed, as if she's trying to figure out what it is about you that sets her teeth on edge. She says nothing. But she sees more than she lets on.
Night falls, and you're outside his dorm again. The window cracked open just enough that you can hear the faint sounds of him moving around — drawers opening, water running.
You record it. Every sound. Every breath. Every piece of him you can steal without touching.
You don't need him to want you. Not yet. It's enough, for now, that he exists in your orbit.
It's enough that you know: you're already inside his life. And he hates it.
Sunghoon doesn't notice it at first. The small, quiet ways you start pulling the threads loose around him. It begins with a simple shift in a group project — you speak with the professor after class, voice soft, eyes wide, and suggest that maybe Sunghoon would work better with someone else. That he mentioned, in passing, how stressed he felt about carrying certain partners. A lie, smooth and subtle. The professor believes you. The group is split. Sunghoon hears about it that afternoon.
He corners Jake outside the lecture hall, voice tight. "Why would I say that? I didn't say that."
Jake shrugs, frowning in confusion. "I dunno, man. That's what Professor Song said you implied. Maybe she misunderstood."
Sunghoon's eyes are dark, frustrated. "I'm getting sick of this shit."
The next move is easier. You intercept one of his texts — you have his passcode. You saw it months ago, reflected in the glass of the vending machine as he typed. You borrow Yunjin's charger, make an excuse about needing to message someone, and in the privacy of your room, you send the text.
hey can we not tonight. feeling off.
It goes to Sakura. The girl he's been seeing.
Later, from the shadows near the quad, you watch them. She approaches him, confused, hurt. He looks at her like she's speaking another language.
"I didn't send that," he says, voice low, glancing around as if he can sense you. "I didn't—what the fuck is going on?"
Sakura's brows knit. "Sunghoon, if you wanted space, you could just say it."
"I didn't!" His voice rises, and people turn. Embarrassment colors his cheeks. He lowers his head, mutters something, and walks away.
Your heart races with the beauty of it — how easily the cracks begin to form.
In the dining hall, you sit a few tables away from Jake, Sunghoon, and Jay. You don't look at them directly. You don't need to.
"Dude, you're seriously being paranoid," Jay says, laughing as he steals one of Jake's fries. "No one's after you."
"I know what I feel," Sunghoon mutters, stabbing at his food without appetite. "It's like—I don't know. Like I'm being watched. And shit keeps happening. I swear, someone's messing with me."
Jake claps him on the shoulder. "You're stressed, man. You need to chill. Maybe cut back on the late practices or something."
Sunghoon shrugs him off, glancing around, jaw tight. His gaze skims past you. He looks right through you, as if trying to find the eyes he can feel but can't see.
That night, you leave something in his room. You don't break in — no, you've gotten smarter. You slip it through the cracked window he always forgets to lock. A folded paper crane. Plain white. No writing. No mark. Just a shape, delicate and small, left on his desk where he'll find it in the morning.
It's enough to unnerve him. You hear it in the way he snaps at Jake the next day.
"I lock my door. I lock my window. How is this happening?"
Jake frowns, concerned now. "Bro, maybe talk to campus security?"
"No. No — fuck, no. I can handle it."
His pride won't let him admit that he's afraid. But you can see it. The way he glances over his shoulder more often. The way his smiles fade quicker now, no longer effortless.
Meanwhile, Yunjin watches you. In the bathroom as you apply lip balm. In your room as you quietly hum to yourself, phone screen dark, but your mind full of him.
"You've been... different lately," she says carefully one night. "I mean — you were always a little... intense. But it's worse now."
You smile at her, sweet and empty. "You're imagining things."
She doesn't press further. Not yet.
The world begins to turn against him, one tiny twist at a time. You change the narrative in small, believable ways — a word here, a rumor there. His friends start noticing his moodiness, his paranoia.
And he hates you more. Every glance, every sharp word, every time his eyes find yours across a room and narrow with disgust — it feeds you. Fuels you.
He doesn't know it yet. But you're already wrapping him in a web he won't escape.
It starts to show in the small moments. Sunghoon sits at the edge of the field after practice, head in his hands, laces undone, as Jake chats easily with the others. Normally, Sunghoon would be laughing too, shoving Jake for being dumb, flashing that polished smile that makes everyone want to be near him. But now? His smile is brittle. His eyes dart across the field, sweeping the shadows, the edges, the empty bleachers where you sit unseen. He looks tired. Angry. Alone — and you've barely begun.
You planted the first seeds with Jay. It was too easy. Jay always thought you were hot — the kind of hot that makes boys reckless. You cornered him at a party, brushed his hand as you passed him a drink. Let him feel the weight of your gaze, the heat of your proximity. He bit.
"He's been weird lately, right?" you murmur, casual, like it's nothing. Like you're on Sunghoon's side. "Sunghoon, I mean. Standoffish. Like he's better than everyone else."
Jay scoffs, beer bottle tapping against his knee. "I've been saying that for months."
You tilt your head, smile faintly. "People like that always end up alone."
Jay watches you walk away, the shape of your hips burned into his mind. He'll remember your words, though he won't admit it.
Yunjin sees it happening. She sees the way you linger at windows, the way your phone is always in your hand but never lit up. She watches you as you hum under your breath, folding tiny paper cranes out of receipts and scraps, leaving them around the dorm like breadcrumbs of your mind.
One evening, she tries. She really tries.
“y/n," she says, voice low as she leans against the doorframe of your room. "I don't know what you're doing — but please stop. Whatever it is, it's not healthy."
You look at her, eyes wide with false innocence. "What do you mean?"
She shakes her head. "You know."
But she can't prove it. Not yet. And you smile, soft and polite, and close your door in her face.
Jake invites Sunghoon out more often, trying to pull him back into the circle. But you're there — not openly, never openly — but in the background. At the bar. At the library. On the paths he walks at night. And people start talking.
"She's everywhere he is."
"Maybe she's just into him and he's not into her."
"Maybe he led her on. He's such a fucking flirt sometimes."
The rumors twist. People who used to admire him now look at him differently, just a little. The flawless image cracks.
And Sunghoon knows. He knows someone is doing this to him, and he knows it's you.
"Stay the fuck away from me," he spits one afternoon when he catches you watching him outside the dining hall. His voice is sharp enough that Jake looks over, startled.
You don't flinch. You just smile, that slow, knowing curve of your lips that makes his skin crawl.
Jake jogs over as Sunghoon turns away. "Bro, what the hell? She didn't even say anything."
Sunghoon's hands are fists at his sides. "I can't breathe, Jake. She's always fucking there."
"Dude, maybe you should talk to someone."
But he's not. You see it. The way he walks faster now, always looking over his shoulder. The way he keeps his head down, shoulders tense, as if waiting for the next blow.
And still, you push deeper.
You send anonymous messages from burner accounts to people he cares about. Hints that Sunghoon talks about them behind their backs. That he thinks he's better than them. That he uses them.
It works. Little by little, his inner circle shrinks. Jay stops inviting him out. The others are polite, but distant. Even Jake starts looking at him like he's fragile, breakable, and Sunghoon hates it.
You see him alone more now. Sitting on the library steps at night, staring at his phone as if the right words might save him. They won't.
He's slipping. And you're the only constant left.
You see it coming long before it happens — the moment Sunghoon snaps. You've been winding the threads tighter for weeks, pulling at the seams of his perfect life until they fray in your hands. Now, he walks the campus like a shadow of himself. His friends keep their distance, their trust cracked by whispers you planted. His posture is different: shoulders drawn, jaw clenched, eyes hollowed out by sleepless nights spent wondering when you'll strike next. You've been everywhere and nowhere, and it's driven him mad.
It happens on a Thursday. Overcast. The kind of day where the world feels heavier. You're in the library — not even trying to hide, sitting at one of the tables where he used to study with his friends, legs crossed, fingers idly tracing patterns on the wood. He walks in, looking for peace, and finds you instead.
At first, he freezes. His hands flex at his sides. His breathing changes. You can hear it — sharp, ragged. Then he moves toward you, fast, footsteps loud in the quiet. People glance up from their books, sensing the storm.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice is low, shaking with the effort not to shout. His hands slam down on the table, inches from yours. The sound echoes.
You look up at him slowly, meeting his eyes with that calm, endless gaze that makes him recoil. "Hello, Sunghoon."
His lip curls. "Don't say my name. Don't fucking say my name."
You tilt your head. "Why not? It's a beautiful name."
He's trembling now — not with fear. With rage. Pure, blinding hate. His face is flushed, his breath uneven. "Leave me alone. Do you get off on this? On ruining my life?"
A pause. You smile, soft and sweet. "I don't know what you mean."
He laughs — short, bitter. "You're insane. I don't know what your fucking problem is, but I'm done. Stay away from me. Stay the fuck away."
People are watching now. Jake hurries over, pulling at Sunghoon's arm. "Bro, calm down — it's not worth it."
Sunghoon shrugs him off. His eyes are locked on yours, full of venom. "You disgust me. You're sick. Don't come near me again."
You watch him go, his words like music. Each one feeding that hunger inside you. His hate is perfect. His hate is everything.
Later, in the dorm common room, Jake tries to reason with him.
"She's creepy, yeah, but maybe you're letting her get to you too much. You're not yourself lately."
Sunghoon sinks into the couch, head in his hands. "You don't get it, Jake. She's everywhere. I see her in my dreams. I wake up thinking she's in my room. I can't fucking breathe."
Jake sighs, helpless. "We'll figure it out. Just... don't let her win, okay?"
But Sunghoon doesn't answer. His mind is spinning, drowning in the weight of it all.
Yunjin sits with a group of friends in the dining hall that night, quiet as she listens to the gossip spreading through campus.
"Did you see Sunghoon lose it today? Jesus."
"Yeah, it was about that girl, right? The weird one?"
"She's hot, though. Like, scary hot."
"Whatever, she's a freak. Poor guy."
Yunjin's eyes find you across the room. You sit alone, eating slowly, serenely, as if nothing happened. As if you aren't the storm tearing through Sunghoon's world.
And Sunghoon? Sunghoon lies awake that night, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched in his sheets. His heart races, mind filled with images of your smile, your eyes, the way you look at him like he already belongs to you.
And that hate is the only thing holding him together.
You always knew she'd be the one to go first. Sakura — pretty in that harmless, soft way that makes boys like Sunghoon think they're safe. She clings to him like a lifeline these days, the last one who tries to keep him anchored as the world turns against him. And he lets her, because what else does he have left? Jake's still around, sure, but even Jake has started watching him too closely, like he's waiting for Sunghoon to crack. Jay's no help, useless now that you've driven that wedge so deep it'll never come loose. So it's Sakura he leans on. And that's why you know: she has to be shattered.
You start with the simplest thing — a note slipped under her door. Handwritten, no signature, just a single sentence that could have come from anyone, but that you know will land like a blade.
He's still seeing her. The one who's ruining him.
No details. No proof. Just enough to make her wonder. Enough to plant the seed.
You watch from the corner of the quad the next day as she approaches Sunghoon after his lecture. Her face is tight, eyes bright with questions she doesn't want to ask. He looks exhausted, bag slung low, hair messy, as if he didn't bother to check the mirror this morning.
"I just want to know the truth," you hear her say as you linger behind a tree, out of sight but close enough to catch every word.
"The truth about what?" His voice is sharp, defensive. He's on edge, and it shows.
He stiffens. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"She's everywhere. People see it. I see it. Are you—are you doing something? Are you leading her on? Is that why she won't stop?"
His laugh is bitter, hollow. "You think I want this? You think I want her?" He runs a hand through his hair, voice rising. "I can't fucking breathe, Sakura. She's killing me."
Sakura flinches at the venom in his tone, the rawness of his desperation. She looks down, lips pressed together. And in that moment, you know she's slipping from him.
You don't stop. The next night, you send the messages — screenshots fabricated with care, as if from Sunghoon's number. Sweet words, apologies, confessions he never made. You make sure they're just real enough to sting.
I'm sorry I can't let go of her. It's complicated.
You wouldn't understand. I didn't mean to hurt you.
And Sakura, soft and foolish, believes what she sees.
Sunghoon finds her crying two days later, seated on the low stone wall near the student union. Her hands shake as she wipes at her face, and when he reaches out, she pulls away.
"No. Don't." Her voice breaks. "I don't even know who you are anymore. I can't do this."
His heart sinks. He tries to explain, tries to tell her the messages aren't from him, that he would never — but she's already gone, walking away, shoulders hunched like she's carrying the weight of the entire world.
Jake corners him that night in the dorms, worried.
Sunghoon shakes his head, laughter bubbling up, wild and empty. "She's gone. They're all gone." His eyes are glassy, haunted. "It's just me now. Me and that fucking psycho watching from the dark."
Jake looks stricken. "Sunghoon, come on. Let me help—"
"No." His voice is hoarse. "No one can help me."
Yunjin hears the gossip spreading through the girls' dorms — about how Sakura broke it off, how Sunghoon finally lost the last person who cared. She hears your name whispered like a curse. And she looks at you across the common room, sitting in perfect stillness, a ghost wrapped in human skin, and feels a chill run down her spine.
She wants to say something. She opens her mouth. But the look in your eyes stops her cold.
You've won this round. And Sunghoon knows it.
That night, you watch him from your usual hidden vantage point. Alone in his room, head bowed, fists clenched in his lap.
Sunghoon walks through campus like a man being hunted. Because he is — and he knows it now. His steps are quick, his head down, his hoodie pulled low over his face even though the spring air is warm. His world has shrunk to a tight, suffocating circle: dorm, class, practice — and even those feel like traps. Every glance he catches, every laugh that echoes down the hall, he wonders if it's about him. And worst of all? He knows it doesn't matter anymore. They could be laughing at him, whispering about him, and there's nothing he can do. You've seen to that.
Jake tries to keep him steady. He sits with him at lunch, makes stupid jokes, drags him to the gym to blow off steam. But Sunghoon is hollow. He goes through the motions, lifts the weights, nods at the right times, but his mind is always somewhere else. Watching. Waiting. He feels your eyes even when he can't see you. Especially then.
"Let's go out tonight," Jake suggests one afternoon, throwing a towel over his shoulder as they finish up at the gym. "You need to get out of your head, man. A party. A bar. Anywhere but here."
Sunghoon shakes his head, eyes dark. "I can't."
Sunghoon hesitates, then mutters, "She'll follow."
Jake stops, frowning. "Sunghoon..."
But Sunghoon is already walking away, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with tension that no amount of lifting or running can shake loose.
Yunjin watches it all unfold from a distance. She sees the way Sunghoon drifts through the quad like a ghost. She sees the way you watch him — not openly, but always. At the edge of groups. In the corner of rooms. Always close enough to see, never close enough to catch.
One evening, she tries again. She finds you on your bed, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over your stomach like you're waiting for something. Or someone.
"You're destroying him," she says quietly. No accusation in her tone — just sadness, maybe a little fear.
You turn your head, meet her gaze. "He's fine."
Yunjin's eyes harden. "No. He's not."
You smile, soft and unbothered. "Then maybe he should have been stronger."
She leaves without another word.
Jay sees Sunghoon in the student union the next day — sitting alone at a table in the corner, head bowed over his untouched coffee. Jay hesitates, then approaches, sliding into the seat across from him.
"Hey," Jay says, voice forced-light. "Long time."
Sunghoon looks up slowly, eyes ringed with shadows. "What do you want?"
Jay shrugs, leaning back. "Just checking in. You look like shit."
Sunghoon huffs a bitter laugh. "Thanks."
Jay studies him for a moment, then leans forward, voice dropping. "Is it really that bad? With her?"
Sunghoon's jaw tightens. His hands curl around the coffee cup like he might crush it. "Worse."
Jay leans back again, sighs. "Then do something about it."
And Sunghoon snaps. His head jerks up, eyes blazing with a fury so raw it makes Jay recoil. "Like what, Jay? Call the cops? Tell them some girl looks at me too much? Tell them I feel like I'm losing my mind?" His voice drops to a whisper, venomous. "No one cares."
Jay says nothing. What is there to say?
That night, Sunghoon locks his door, closes his blinds, checks every window twice. And still — still — he can feel you. Out there. Watching.
He sits on the floor of his room, back against his bed, breathing ragged, head in his hands. His heart races, skin cold with sweat. He hates you. He hates the way you've invaded his life, his mind, his dreams.
But in the silence, in the dark, with no one left to turn to — he feels it: that sick, twisting need for attention. Even yours.
Because hate is all he has left. And hate means he's not alone.
Sunghoon's body betrays him before his mind even catches up. It happens on a night when the air is thick and heavy, the sky a bruised purple as dusk bleeds into night. He walks alone across campus, the path nearly deserted, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, head low. He tells himself he's just clearing his head, just moving because sitting in his room had started to feel like being buried alive. But the truth is — he knows you're near. He can feel you, the way the air shifts when you're watching. And somewhere in that fractured, exhausted mind of his, he wants you to see him.
Your footsteps are soundless, your shadow a ghost trailing him as he cuts through the quad, past the empty benches and shuttered kiosks. He doesn't turn around, but his pace slows. His shoulders drop just slightly. A silent surrender. He hates it. He hates you. He hates himself most of all.
And then — he stops. Right at the edge of the quad where the lamplight fades into deeper dark, where no one will see, no one will hear. He stands there, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard. And he says it. Voice low, raw, shaking with disgust:
"Come on. I know you're there."
The words hang in the air, daring you.
You step from the shadows slowly, deliberate, letting him see you fully — the gleam of your eyes, the curve of your mouth, the hunger you don't bother to hide. His breath stutters. He hates himself for the way his pulse spikes, for the way his skin prickles under your gaze.
"Sunghoon," you say, soft as silk, tasting his name on your tongue.
"Don't—" His voice cracks. He backs up a step, but there's nowhere to go. The wall behind him is cold concrete. His spine meets it with a thud.
You stop inches from him, close enough that he can feel the heat of you, smell the faint trace of vanilla that clings to your skin. His eyes are wide, furious, terrified. But he doesn't move.
"You don't have to run," you murmur, fingers lifting — slow, giving him every chance to stop you — to brush the hair from his forehead. He shudders.
"I said don't—" But his voice is weak now. Hollow.
You see it in his eyes: that flicker, that moment where the line blurs — where hate and something darker, needier, twist together so tightly he can't tell them apart.
You don't kiss him. Not yet. But you lean in, your breath warm against his ear, and whisper:
"Look at you. All alone. All mine."
A sound escapes him — half a gasp, half a sob. His fists unclench, fingers trembling at his sides. He hates himself for it. Hates that his body, his broken, exhausted body, aches for something — anything — even this.
And then he shoves past you, stumbling into the dark, fleeing like his life depends on it.
You let him go. Because you know. The first crack has formed. And it's only a matter of time before he shatters.
Later that night, Sunghoon curls on his bed, heart racing, skin burning where your breath had touched him. He buries his face in his pillow, fists pressed to his temples, and lets himself shake apart in the dark.
God help him, he hates himself more.
It happens when he's at his weakest. When his mind is frayed to threads, his body worn thin from sleepless nights, from days spent looking over his shoulder, from the weight of being hated and hunted and completely alone. The night air is cold, but he doesn't feel it anymore. He walks because he has to — because staying in his room feels like suffocating, and there's nowhere left that feels safe anyway. His feet take him to the edge of campus, to the forgotten places where the security lights don't reach, where the trees grow too thick and the paths crack beneath the weight of roots.
He stops when he feels you watching, his breath clouding in the air. His heart pounds so loud he's sure you can hear it. His fists clench at his sides, but he doesn't move. Can't move.
"Just go away," he rasps, voice rough with exhaustion, with misery. But he doesn't run.
And that's all the invitation you need.
You step out of the dark, slow and silent, the click of your boots against the cracked path the only sound in the night besides his breath. His back hits a tree as he tries to retreat, but there's nowhere left to go.
You stop in front of him, so close he can't ignore the heat of your body, the way your scent wraps around him, dizzying. His chest rises and falls too fast, panic and adrenaline and something else burning through him.
"I hate you," he whispers, but it's shaky, broken. His eyes glisten in the moonlight, wide and wild.
"I know," you murmur, voice like velvet. "And you're mine anyway."
Your hand lifts — slow, deliberate, giving him every chance to fight — and curls in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the nape of his neck. His breath catches, his head tipping back against the rough bark, exposing his throat.
"Don't," he says, but it's weak, a plea he doesn't even believe.
It's not soft. Not sweet. Your mouth crashes into his with a hunger that steals his breath, that drags a sound from deep in his chest — part gasp, part moan, part sob. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to push you away, but they don't. They stay there, useless, trembling.
You bite his lower lip, not enough to break skin, just enough to make him whimper. His body jerks beneath yours, but he doesn't stop you. His mouth opens under yours, desperate for air, for escape, for more.
Your tongue slides against his, and he shudders, a broken noise spilling from him as his knees go weak.
You press him harder against the tree, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other sliding up under his hoodie, fingers tracing the curve of his waist, the dip of his hip bone. His skin is burning, fever-warm, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.
"Please—" he whispers, but he doesn't even know what he's begging for. For you to stop. For you not to. For something, anything, to break the spiral he's falling into.
You pull back just enough to see him — his lips swollen, wet, his eyes glassy with shame and need. His chest heaves, and a whimper escapes him as you lean in again, mouth at his jaw, at his throat, kissing, biting, leaving marks he'll feel for days.
"Look at you," you breathe against his skin. "So easy. So mine."
And he sobs — a sound raw and small, his head turning away as if he can hide from you, from himself. But he doesn't move.
You grip his jaw, force him to look at you. His eyes are shining with tears he refuses to let fall, his lip trembling.
"Open your mouth," you command, voice low, dangerous.
He shakes his head once, but his lips part anyway, helpless, broken.
And you spit — slow, deliberate — into his mouth.
His eyes flutter shut, a whimper escaping him as he swallows without thinking, too far gone to fight.
"Good boy," you croon, and his whole body shudders at the praise, at the humiliation, at the truth of it.
Your fingers slip into his mouth next, pushing past those bruised lips, sliding over his tongue. He sucks without meaning to, shame and desperation mingling as his breath hitches, as his hands finally lift — not to push you away, but to grip your sleeves like he's drowning and you're the only thing keeping him afloat.
You pull your fingers free, slow, watching the trail of spit that stretches between you. His knees buckle, and you press your thigh between his, holding him up, making him feel every inch of your control.
And then, when he's trembling, when his breath is nothing but soft, broken gasps, you murmur against his ear:
"Say it. Say you're mine."
"I hate you," he whispers, but his voice is wrecked, his body betraying him with every shiver, every tremble, every desperate clench of his fingers in your clothes.
And you smile. Because that's close enough for now.
The air is thick, damp with the promise of rain, but neither of you notices. The world has shrunk to this moment — to the press of your body against his, to the sound of his breath stuttering in the dark, to the trembling of his hands where they clutch at your sleeves like a man on the edge of drowning. His back is still pressed to the tree, rough bark biting through the fabric of his hoodie. His head tips back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, trying to hold on to what little defiance he has left.
But his body is betraying him, second by second.
You feel it in the way his hips twitch against your thigh, desperate for friction he's too ashamed to seek. You hear it in the soft, broken sounds that fall from his lips — whimpers, gasps, the shaky breaths of someone lost in a storm they can't escape.
You don't give him time to think.
Your hand tangles in his hair, tight at the roots, yanking his head down so his mouth meets yours again. This time there's no hesitation — your kiss is brutal, consuming, stealing the breath from his lungs. He groans into your mouth, a helpless, needy sound that he hates himself for making. His lips are swollen, wet from spit and tears he won't let fall.
You bite at his bottom lip, harder than before, and he jerks, a muffled cry escaping as his fingers clutch you tighter. His hips roll against your thigh, seeking relief, friction, anything — and you give it to him just enough to make it worse, grinding your thigh against the hard line of him through his jeans, making him gasp and sob all at once.
"Please," he chokes out, voice wrecked, but even he doesn't know what he's begging for. For you to stop. For you not to. For the shame to end. For it to consume him completely.
Your free hand slides between you, fingers working at his fly, slow and deliberate, making him feel every second of it. His whole body shakes, his breath coming in short, desperate pants as he realizes what you're doing — what he's letting you do.
"No," he whispers, but it's weak, a protest in name only.
"Yes," you hiss, voice low and dark, your breath hot against his ear. "Mine. All fucking mine."
You free him from his jeans, your hand wrapping around him firm, unyielding. His head snaps back against the tree, a choked moan tearing from his throat as his hips buck into your grip before he can stop himself.
"Fuck—" The word breaks on his lips, shame and pleasure colliding, leaving him raw and ruined.
You stroke him slow at first, savoring the way he shudders, the way his thighs tremble against yours, the way his hands — god, his hands — shake as they cling to you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.
The sounds he makes are obscene, desperate. Soft, broken gasps. Whimpers that hitch in his throat. The wet, slick slide of your hand over him fills the air, mingling with the ragged rhythm of his breath.
And then you tighten your grip, twist your wrist just enough to make him sob, to make his knees buckle. You press him harder to the tree, your body the only thing keeping him upright as he falls apart in your hands.
"Look at you," you snarl against his throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, to make him cry out. "Fucking pathetic. Crying for me. You love this. Say it."
He shakes his head, tears spilling now, breathless sobs breaking free. "I hate you— I hate you—"
But his hips are moving, fucking into your hand like he can't help it, like his body belongs to you no matter what his mouth says.
You let go of his hair, your hand sliding down to his throat, fingers pressing just enough to steal his breath, to make his eyes go wide, his mouth fall open in a silent, broken moan.
"You're mine," you growl, your hand working him faster now, rough, relentless. "Say it. Fucking say it."
He chokes on a sob, on his own shame, his body trembling so hard he can barely stand. His hands claw at your back, useless, desperate.
"Mine," you snarl again, tightening your grip on his throat just a little more, just enough to make his world narrow to the feel of you, the sound of you, the absolute, inescapable fact of you.
And finally — finally — he breaks.
"Yours," he gasps, voice wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Yours, yours, yours—"
You ease your grip on his throat, just enough to let him breathe again, to let him sob out the sounds you've stolen from him.
"Good boy," you hiss, biting his ear, your hand still stroking him, faster, rougher, until he's shaking, ruined, begging without words, just broken noises and the frantic thrust of his hips.
His whole body jerks, a strangled cry ripping from him as he realizes you've denied him at the edge, left him trembling, aching, desperate.
"Thank me," you demand, your breath hot against his cheek, your hand still wrapped around him, holding him right there at the brink.
He sobs, wrecked, his pride shattered.
"Thank you," he gasps, over and over, voice hoarse, shaking. "Thank you, thank you—"
And you smile, slow and wicked, because he's yours now. Completely.
Sunghoon can't stop shaking. His chest heaves, ragged breath after ragged breath filling the silent dark, each inhale shallow, desperate, like he's struggling to keep from falling apart entirely. His jeans hang half-open on his hips, his thighs trembling with exhaustion, with shame, with the raw, unrelenting need that's eaten him alive. His head is bowed, his wet hair sticking to his forehead, his tear-streaked face hidden from you. But you don't need to see it. You can feel it — the weight of his surrender, the way his body leans into yours because it has nowhere else to go, because the only thing keeping him upright is your grip on him.
You push him down — slow, relentless — until he slides to his knees on the cold, cracked path. He doesn't fight you. His hands drop to his sides, fingers limp, useless, as he stares at the ground, lips parted, breath shaky and broken. His pride, his defiance, his hate — all cracked open now, laid bare beneath your hands.
You stand over him, looking down at the boy who thought he was untouchable, watching him fall apart piece by piece. His eyes flick up once, wide and glistening, and the sound that escapes him when he meets your gaze is soft, wrecked, full of a shame so deep it cuts him to the bone.
Your hand threads through his hair again, gripping tight at the roots, yanking his head back so he's forced to look at you. His throat arches, pale and vulnerable in the moonlight, his breath coming in little gasps, little sobs that he tries to swallow down.
"You begged for me," you murmur, voice low and dark, every word wrapping around him like chains. "You're going to remember this. Every fucking second."
And then you lower yourself onto him.
Your thighs frame his face, your heat and scent overwhelming him, consuming him. He lets out a sound — half whimper, half moan — his hands lifting, hovering uselessly as if he wants to push you away but can't, as if the part of him that still wants to fight is drowning beneath the weight of his need.
"Look at you," you snarl, grinding down just enough to make him gasp, to make him sob, his body shaking beneath you. "On your knees for me. Just like you were meant to be."
His lips tremble, his breath hot and ragged against you, his face burning with humiliation. But when you shift, pressing down harder, forcing him to take more, his mouth opens without him even meaning to, desperate for air, for you, for anything to fill the emptiness you've carved into him.
Your hand stays tangled in his hair, holding him where you want him, using him, grinding against him slow at first, making him feel every second of it. His breath is wet against you, shaky gasps that turn into soft, broken moans as he loses himself, as his hands fall to his sides, as he gives up pretending he can fight this.
You ride his face like you own him, like he's nothing but yours to use, and the sounds he makes — god, the sounds — they're wrecked, desperate, needy in ways that make his shame burn brighter with every breath. His knees dig into the cracked path, his fingers curling into fists against the dirt, his body trembling with the effort of holding on, of surviving the storm you've made of him.
"Pathetic," you hiss, your voice sharp, cutting, as you pull his hair tighter, making him gasp, making him sob. "Crying for it like a little bitch. You love this. Say it."
But he can't. His voice is gone, lost beneath your weight, beneath his tears, beneath the ruin of who he used to be.
Your free hand slides down between you, finding him still hard, still aching, still desperate. He sobs when you touch him, his hips jerking up into your hand without thinking, without control, his body betraying him in the worst, most beautiful way.
"Please," he manages to gasp out, voice hoarse, wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Please, I can't— I can't—"
But you don't show mercy.
You work him with your hand, rough, relentless, stroking him to the edge again, holding him there, making him beg with every sob, every broken breath, every trembling thrust of his hips.
"Say it," you growl, your grip tightening, your body grinding against his face, using him, breaking him. "Say you're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours!" he cries, voice shaking, tears falling fast now, his whole body trembling beneath you. "I'm yours, please, please—"
You push him past the edge, into ruin, into overstimulation so raw he sobs with it, his breath hitching, his body shaking apart in your hands. His hips stutter, helpless, as you stroke him through it, as you use him until he's spent, until he's nothing but wreckage beneath you.
His hands lift, weak, trembling, as if to beg you to stop, but he can't form the words anymore. All that's left is the sound of his sobs, the tremble of his breath, the wreck of him in your hands.
And finally — finally — you ease your grip, your touch gentling, your body stilling.
He collapses forward, forehead to the ground, breath coming in soft, broken gasps, tears falling into the dirt. His body is limp, ruined, his pride shattered beyond repair.
And you crouch beside him, fingers stroking his hair, soft now, soothing.
"Good boy," you murmur, and he sobs, the sound raw, small, but full of something that sounds far too much like relief.
Because he's yours now. Completely.
He lies beneath you, wrecked. His chest rises and falls in sharp, broken gasps, the skin of his throat shining with sweat, tears, and the faint sheen of spit where your hand had gripped him, where your mouth had claimed him, where he'd begged and sobbed and called himself yours. His jeans are down past his knees now, his thighs trembling from the overstimulation you'd dragged him through. His cock twitches, sensitive, aching, flushed dark and wet at the tip from everything you've done — and everything you're about to do.
And you — god, you're no better. Your breath is ragged, your body burning with the rush of it all, your own need clawing at you from the inside. You stare down at him, chest heaving, hair wild, lips swollen from kissing him too hard, biting him too much. There's no control left in you — not the kind that hides behind smirks and slow, deliberate moves. You want him. You want him ruined completely. And you want him inside.
He looks up at you — wide-eyed, tear-streaked, still gasping for breath — and the sound that escapes him when he sees your face is small, soft, shocked. Because he's never seen you like this. Your pupils blown wide, your mouth parted, your hips grinding down against him like you need him in ways you've never let show.
And he moans, brokenly, because for the first time, he sees you lost in it — cockdrunk before he's even inside.
"Please," he whispers, voice wrecked. His hips lift, desperate, helpless, the last of his pride gone. "Please, let me— let me—"
You reach down, wrap your hand around him, feel the way he jerks at the contact, too sensitive, too eager, too fucking desperate. You guide him to you, your cunt dripping, hot, aching for him, and when you sink down — slow at first, making him feel every fucking inch — the sound he makes is almost a sob.
"Fuck— f-fuck," he gasps, his head tipping back against the ground, fingers clawing at the dirt, at nothing.
You don't give him time to adjust. The second he's fully seated inside you, you start to move — rough, relentless, grinding down hard enough to make him cry out, hard enough that the slap of skin on skin echoes in the empty night.
"Pathetic," you snarl, riding him like you're trying to break him apart, your nails digging into his chest, leaving scratches he'll see for days. "Look at you. Letting me use you. Letting me fucking ruin you."
He whimpers beneath you, tears streaking his cheeks, his hands gripping your thighs, trying to ground himself, trying not to fall apart completely. But it's useless. His hips buck up to meet yours, chasing the friction, chasing the heat, chasing the one thing that makes the emptiness stop.
"Say it," you growl, leaning down, your mouth at his ear, breath hot and ragged. "Say you want to fill me. Say you want to fucking breed me."
"I want to— I want to—" His voice cracks, his hips stutter up into yours, his cock throbbing inside you. "I want to breed you, I want to fill you up, fuck— please, let me, please—"
You laugh — breathless, wild — because he means it. God, he means it. His eyes are wide, glassy, full of shame and need so raw it burns.
"Good boy," you hiss, riding him harder, rougher, your hands in his hair, pulling, yanking, making him cry out as your cunt clenches around him, as you lose yourself in the way he stretches you, fills you, wrecks you.
And it hits you, hard — the way he feels, the way he sounds, the way his cock hits that spot that makes your mind go blank.
Your rhythm falters. Your body trembles. Your moans get louder, messier, no longer the controlled, cruel sounds of someone in charge, but desperate, needy, cockdrunk noises you can't stop.
Sees the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes go unfocused, the way you ride him like you can't get enough, like he's the only thing that matters.
And something snaps in him.
His hands grip your hips hard, hard, fingers digging in like he's holding on for dear life — or like he's trying to take control. His hips slam up into yours, rough, brutal thrusts that make you gasp, make you moan louder, make you claw at his chest for balance as he fucks up into you like he means to own you.
"You like that?" he pants, voice wrecked but sharper now, darker. "You like my cock, huh? Look at you. Fucking cockdrunk on me."
You try to snarl back, to take it from him, but his thrusts are relentless now, bruising, hard enough to make you see stars, to make your body shake, to make your moans break apart into wrecked, helpless cries.
"Say it," he growls, fucking into you like a man possessed, like a man who's finally tasted power and can't let it go. "Say you want me to fill you. Say you want me to breed you."
And you do. God help you, you do.
"Fuck— fill me," you gasp, your head falling back, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Breed me, Sunghoon. Fucking breed me."
And that's it. That's what breaks him.
His hips stutter, his cock throbs deep inside you, and he comes with a cry that's half a sob, half a snarl, emptying himself inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of heat as he clutches you to him like he never wants to let go.
The feel of him, the heat of him, the way he fills you — it pushes you over the edge, your body shaking, your cunt clenching around him, milking him for every last drop as you cry out, as you fall apart completely, as the world narrows to nothing but him, him, him.
The night is silent again when it's done, except for the sound of your gasps, his broken breath, the thrum of your pulse in your ears.
You collapse against him, spent, wrecked, claimed and claiming.
The air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and ruin. Your thighs are trembling, your cunt still pulsing around nothing, aching, gaping, leaking his cum — hot and thick, dripping out of you in slow, obscene trails that slide down over your folds, your inner thighs, onto his lap, onto the cold, dirty ground beneath. The night air hits your slick skin and makes you shiver, but the fire burning between you is hotter than anything the breeze could hope to cool.
Your stomach is tight, a little swollen, filled with the weight of what he's done to you, what he's poured into you, what he's claimed. You can feel it — the fullness, the mess, the heat — and for a moment, just a moment, you're stunned.
Because Sunghoon is still beneath you, chest heaving, face flushed and damp, hair a wild mess, but his hands... his hands are gripping your hips like he owns you. Like he means to keep you exactly where you are. And his eyes — god, his eyes — no longer wide with fear, no longer glassy with shame. They're dark now. Sharp. Watching you.
Your pulse spikes, instinct snapping back. You can't let this happen.
You brace yourself, fingers digging into his chest, trying to reclaim the control that slipped for just a breath too long. Your mouth curves into a sneer, words spilling out rough, filthy, desperate to remind him who he is, what he is.
"Pathetic little thing," you hiss, grinding your hips just enough to make his overstimulated cock twitch inside you, to make him whimper — but the sound is different now. Not just helpless, but... hungry. "Crying for me, begging to breed me like a bitch in heat. You're mine. You're nothing without me."
His lip quivers — just for a second. His eyes shine again, tears welling, and for a heartbeat you think you've won. His breath catches, his fingers flex on your hips, his body trembling beneath yours like before.
But then — god, then — he smirks.
It's small at first, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it spreads. Slow. Dark. His tears spill anyway, but his eyes — they blaze now, sharp and sure, as his smirk grows.
"Yours?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked, but steady now. Dangerous. "Baby, you don't even know what you look like right now."
And before you can answer, before you can claw it back — he moves.
One hard yank of your hips, one shift of his weight, and you're on your stomach, the cold dirt biting your skin, rough ground scraping your thighs. His body is over you, against you, his chest to your back, his breath hot against your ear as he presses you down, forces you to feel the grit of the earth beneath you, the weight of him above.
"Thought you were in charge?" he pants, fingers sliding between your thighs, finding your ruined, dripping cunt, smearing his cum where it leaks out of you, pushing it back in with two fingers, slow and deep.
You gasp, body jerking, shame burning through you at the sound — that wet, slick squelch as he fucks his cum back into you, as his breath hitches at how tight you still are around him even now.
"You're dripping for me," he snarls, his fingers curling, finding that spot inside you that makes your legs shake, that makes you whimper despite yourself. "So cockdrunk you can't even talk anymore. Where'd your filthy mouth go, huh? Say something. Say anything."
But you can't. Your cheek is pressed to the dirt, your body trembling beneath him as his fingers work you open again, relentless, merciless, making you feel everything. His cum leaks around his fingers, spills down to the ground beneath, every thrust of his hand forcing more of it out, more of it back in, more of it everywhere.
"Please," you gasp finally, voice shaking, broken by the stretch, the heat, the humiliation.
"Please what?" he taunts, his free hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down. His hips grind against your ass, his cock hard again already, slick and aching, smearing mess across your skin. "Tell me. Beg for it. Beg for my cock."
You shake your head, trying to fight, trying to hold on — but his fingers curl just right, his cock grinds against you just right, and you sob, wrecked.
"Please, Sunghoon," you whisper, tears hot against your cheeks, voice muffled against the dirt. "Please— fuck me. Fill me. I need it."
He groans — raw, desperate — because hearing you say it, hearing the need in your voice, hearing the way you break for him, it shatters the last of his restraint.
He yanks his fingers out, grabs your hips, lines himself up, and thrusts in — hard, brutal, burying himself to the hilt in one rough, claiming stroke that knocks the breath from your lungs.
The sound you make is wrecked — a gasp, a sob, a moan, all tangled together.
His thrusts are brutal now, the slap of his hips against your ass loud in the night, the wet, messy squelch of his cock driving into you over and over filling the air. His hands grip your hips so tight you'll feel the bruises for days. His breath is ragged, filthy words spilling out between thrusts.
"Take it. You fucking take it. God, you're so tight, so messy, so fucking perfect—"
Your body rocks beneath him, helpless under the force of him, under the ruin of him. Your moans are high, desperate, broken — no control left, no plan, just pure, raw need.
"You want me to fill you again?" he growls, pounding into you harder, faster, relentless. "Want me to breed you for real this time? Fuck it so deep you can't think straight?"
"Yes," you sob, shameless now, lost to it. "Yes, please, please—"
His hips stutter, cock throbbing inside you, and he snarls, voice low and wrecked. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours!" you cry, nails clawing at the dirt, body shaking apart under him. "Yours, yours, yours—"
His cock pulses deep inside, filling you again, harder, messier than before, so much it leaks out around him with every brutal thrust, dripping down your thighs, onto the filthy ground.
He fucks you through it, through the orgasm that rips you apart, through the aftershocks that leave you trembling, sobbing, ruined beneath him.
And when it's done — when the night is silent but for your gasps, his breath against your neck, the slow, obscene drip of cum from between your legs — he leans down, mouth at your ear.
"Mine," he whispers, and you sob, wrecked, because he's right.
Your body is sprawled beneath him, skin scraped raw from the rough ground, knees bruised from where the dirt and gravel bit into them. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, chest heaving, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, overstimulation, and the weight of what just happened. His cum leaks from you in slow, messy drips, warm and thick between your thighs, pooling beneath you in the dirt, mixing with the sweat and spit and tears that stain your skin.
Sunghoon stays over you for a long moment, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot against your ear, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly, twitching with aftershocks that make both of you flinch. His hands—those same hands that had gripped you so hard they'll leave bruises—now shake as they slide up your sides, gentle, almost hesitant, as if he can't believe what he's done.
The night air is cool, brushing over your sweat-slick skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, your spine, the backs of your thighs. But neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. The storm has passed, but the silence it leaves behind is heavy. Suffocating.
And then he shifts. Slowly, carefully, as if you might shatter if he moves too fast. He pulls out of you, and the loss of him makes you gasp, your body clenching down around nothing, empty and aching, the mess of him spilling out of you in an obscene, wet rush that splatters onto the ground beneath.
Sunghoon's hands linger at your hips, fingers trembling as they trace the marks he left there. His breathing is uneven, like he doesn't know how to calm himself down, like he's still caught somewhere between triumph and horror at what just happened.
You don't speak. You can't. Your lips are swollen, your throat raw from the sounds he dragged out of you, from the begging, the sobbing, the pleading that still rings in your ears.
And he... god, he looks down at you, at the wreck of you beneath him, and something shifts behind his eyes. That sharp, dangerous hunger is still there — but beneath it now, there's something else. Something softer. Something that terrifies him more than anything that came before.
His hands lift from your hips, hover over your back, your shoulders, like he wants to touch you, soothe you, but doesn't know how.
"Fuck," he whispers, voice hoarse, wrecked. "What... what did we do?"
You don't answer. You just breathe, feeling the dirt beneath your cheek, the cooling air against your skin, the burn of him still inside you, even though he's gone.
Sunghoon kneels back, staring at you like he doesn't know if he should run or stay, like he's caught between guilt and the desperate, gnawing need to do it all over again. His hands scrub over his face, his hair, trembling, as if trying to erase the feel of you, the sound of you, the taste of the night.
Because you're there, ruined and perfect, proof of everything he's done, everything he's become.
Slowly, you push yourself up onto your hands and knees, your body sore, spent, aching. You glance back at him, your hair wild around your face, your lips parted, your eyes still dark with the haze of everything he gave you.
And when your gaze meets his, the storm starts to build again.
Because nothing is settled.
Because you're his. And he's yours. And neither of you knows what that means anymore.
WOAH THAT WASS LONG ANYWAYS PLS GIVE A FEEDBACK AND COMMENT THANK YOU!!!
IK THIS WAS VERY DARK SO HERES A FLUFF OF SUNGHOON TO BALANCE OUT THE GUILT 😭😭😭😭
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