ScarletFootNotes

Short story horror/dark romance fanfiction writer (Kpop themed) MDNI! Some NSFW.

[scarletfootnotes]

Hey my gorgeous dirty little horror freaks! I’ve got a story in the works and I’ll have it posted for yall sometime tomorrow 🖤 love yall for now though enjoy this picture of my cat

[scarletfootnotes]

His love has teeth

You didn’t fall in love with Jeonghan all at once.

You sank.

Slowly. Quietly. With both hands open. Before the blood, before the whispers, before you learned his name meant finality, there was just a man who listened to you like your words were holy. He remembered how you took your coffee. He noticed when you were tired before you said anything. When he touched you, it was gentle—reverent, even—as if you were something fragile he’d waited a lifetime to hold.

You told yourself that men like that couldn’t be monsters.

You were wrong.

Now you stand in his penthouse, rain stitching silver lines down the windows. The city glows beneath you—alive because of him, dying because of him. Because of you.

Jeonghan adjusts your coat like he’s done it a hundred times before. His fingers linger at your throat. Not to threaten. Never to threaten. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

You want to say it’s cold. You want to lie. But he presses his forehead to yours, and your breath stutters like a confession.

“You’ve been thinking about leaving,” he says softly.

Your heart breaks at the tenderness in his voice.

You don’t deny it.

Jeonghan exhales, slow and patient, like this hurts him. That’s the worst part—he makes it feel like you’re the cruel one.

“I never wanted to cage you,” he whispers. His thumb brushes under your eye, wiping away a tear you didn’t notice falling. “I wanted you to stay.”

“I don’t know how to live like this anymore,” you say.

He smiles, small and sad. “Neither do I.”

He takes your hand and places it over his heart. It beats steady. Unafraid. The heart of a man who has never doubted his right to exist exactly as he is.

“Do you remember the first night you stayed?” he asks.

The memory comes uninvited—his bed, his warmth, the way he held you like you were something worth keeping.

“You told me you felt safe,” he continues.

You did. God, you did.

“You still are,” he says. “With me.”

The room tilts. You think of locked doors you stood beside. Of screams you learned to tune out. Of how he never asked you to do anything—but always made sure you understood what would happen if you didn’t.

Jeonghan kisses your knuckles, slow, loving. “If you leave,” he says, almost regretful, “you’ll carry everything alone.”

Your chest tightens.

“If you stay,” he adds, eyes dark and earnest, “I’ll carry it with you.”

That’s when you understand. This is his romance. Not escape. Not redemption. Shared guilt. Intertwined ruin.

You let him pull you into his arms. He holds you immediately, securely, like he knew you’d give in. Like he always knew.

Later, you lie beside him, his arm draped possessively around your waist. He sleeps easily. Peacefully. A man content in his love.

You stare at the ceiling, counting the ghosts that press in around you.

You loved him once because he made you feel chosen.

Now you love him because he’s made you unleaveable.

And as the storm fades outside, one truth settles deep in your bones:

Jeonghan didn’t destroy you.

He loved you until you were shaped exactly like his shadow.

[scarletfootnotes]

No Warnings!

—————————————————————-

His Muse

He never asked permission to paint me.

The first time I stepped into his studio, the air tasted like oil and smoke and something almost metallic. Canvases leaned against every wall, most of them faceless, unfinished, abandoned like bodies at a crime scene. He stood in the center of it all, tall and ink-stained, dark hair falling into his eyes as if even gravity was drawn to him.

“Don’t move,” he said softly.

I froze—not because he commanded me to, but because the way he looked at me made it feel impossible to do otherwise. His gaze didn’t skim my surface. It dissected me. Like he was peeling me open layer by layer, memorizing every fault, every fracture.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, fondly. “Good. Fear sharpens the lines.”

That was how it began.

I became his muse the way a candle becomes aflame—slowly, and then all at once. He painted for hours without speaking, only the scratch of bristles against canvas filling the room. Sometimes he’d circle me, head tilted, eyes narrowed, as if deciding which part of me to ruin first.

“You don’t know how beautiful you are when you’re uncertain,” he told me once, fingers holding my wrist, leaving crimson fingerprints like I'm his to claim. “People lie when they’re confident. You don’t.”

I should have left. I knew that. Every instinct screamed that something about him was wrong—that the way his hands shook when he painted my mouth, the way his jaw clenched when anyone else spoke to me, it wasn’t love. It was hunger, lust, and possession.

But I stayed.

Because when he painted me, I existed more vividly than I ever had before.

The portraits multiplied. None of them were identical. In one, I was soft, eyes half-lidded, lips parted like a secret. In another, I looked terrified—wide-eyed, cornered, preyed upon. My favorite was the one where I looked ruined and radiant all at once, shadows swallowing half my face.

“That one’s the truest,” he said, touching the canvas delicately. “That’s you when you belong to me.”

I laughed, nervous. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

He smiled slow. Dangerous.

“You will.”

The closer we grew, the more possessive his love became. He hated when I wore colors he hadn’t chosen. Hated when I was late. Hated when someone else made me smile.

“Your expressions are mine,” he whispered one night, forehead pressed to mine, paint-stained hands framing my face. “If someone else steals them, how am I supposed to paint you correctly?”

I told myself it was passion. That great artists were always a little mad.

Until I found the locked room.

Inside were older paintings—dozens of them. Different faces. Different bodies. All with the same eyes.

My eyes.

Or maybe… not just mine.

When he found me there, he didn’t yell, didn’t panic. He simply closed the door behind him and leaned against it, watching me like a predator amused by its own trap.

“They left,” he said calmly. “Muses never stay. They always want to be real people again.”

My voice shook. “What did you do to them?”

He stepped closer. “I immortalized them.”

His hand cupped my cheek, gentle enough to make my breath hitch. “But you’re different. You see me. You feel what I feel when I paint you. Don’t you?”

I should have run.

Instead, I whispered, “What happens when the painting is finished?”

His smile was devastatingly tender.

“I’ll never finish you,” he said. “As long as you’re here, I’ll keep repainting you. Loving you. Ruining you.”

And as he led me back into the studio, into the glow of canvas and candlelight, I realized the most terrifying truth of all—

I didn’t want to escape.

I wanted to be his masterpiece.

[wolfchans]

Chan + 🍟

Eat! Eat, it’s okay! You eat! YOU EAT! ↳ 23 / ∞

+ bonus a cutie eating his fries happily in the background

[scarletfootnotes]

!No Warnings! For my best friend.

————————————————

Red Lights

The first thing you learn about Bang Chan is that silence bends around him.

It curves when he enters a room, warps when he sits behind the console, folds in on itself when his fingers hover over the keys. Sound obeys him. People do too—eventually.

You’re new. A solo idol debuting under JYP, a company that loves risk almost as much as it loves perfection. They hand you to him like a confession.

“He’ll make you,” JYP says.

They don’t say what he’ll make you into.

The studio is dim, lit only by red LED strips and the glow of screens. Chan doesn’t look at you when you walk in. He listens instead—head tilted, eyes half-lidded, like he’s already sampling your breathing.

“You’re late,” he says softly.

You check the clock. You’re not.

“I don’t care about time,” he continues, finally turning. His gaze lands heavy, deliberate. “I care about honesty.”

You swallow. “I want to make music.”

A pause. Then—barely there—a smile.

“That’s not honest,” he murmurs. “Try again.”

Something in his voice peels you open.

“I want to be heard.”

There it is.

Chan builds your debut like a slow-burning confession. He strips your voice raw, layers it with low bass and aching synths, lets silence linger where it shouldn’t. Every lyric cuts too close. Every demo sounds like it knows you.

“You sound prettiest when you’re breaking,” he tells you one night, leaning too close, adjusting your headphones himself. His fingers brush your jaw—accidental, maybe. Intentional, definitely.

Your heart stutters. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

He chuckles. “Only if you’re afraid of being seen.”

You should be. You are.

But you let him push record anyway.

The rumors start before the album drops.

You’re too emotional. Too intense. Too dependent on your producer. They say Chan stays too late. That he watches you like a possession. That you’d fall apart without him.

They’re wrong.

You’d fall apart with him too.

The night before your debut showcase, you find him alone in the studio, music blaring—your song, distorted, twisted, almost unrecognizable. He looks exhausted. Haunted.

“Why does it sound like this?” you ask.

“Because this is how it feels to want something you shouldn’t,” he answers.

You step closer. “Then why make it?”

He meets your eyes, finally unguarded. “Because I wanted you to survive it.”

Silence stretches. The kind that decides things.

“Chan,” you whisper. “What are we doing?”

He exhales, shaky. “Ruining each other carefully.”

When he kisses you, it’s not gentle. It’s rough. His hands tremble, then steady, like he’s choosing you over every rule he’s ever followed.

“This doesn’t leave this room,” he says against your lips.

You nod. “Neither do we.”

Your debut explodes.

Critics call it haunting. Intimate. Unsettling. They say your voice sounds like it’s in love with the darkness.

They’re right.

Chan watches from the shadows as you take the stage, pride and pain warring in his eyes. He made you—but you’re not his anymore.

Except… every note still leads back to him.

Later, in the quiet aftermath, he texts you one line:

You sounded exactly like yourself.

You smile at the screen, heart aching, music still echoing in your bones.

You were heard.

And somewhere between the silence and the sound,

you and Bang Chan remain—unfinished, unresolved,

a song the world will never fully hear.

[scarletfootnotes]

!Warnings: Violence, mature scenes, smoking, weapons, blood!

——————————————————

“Burn the World”

The city learned our name the way people learn the shape of a scar-by touch, by pain, and by screams.

They call them monsters and kings. Yet they are also the reason entire districts go quiet after midnight.

To me, they are mine.

—----------------------------------

I knew what they were the first night Hongjoong pressed a gun into my trembling hands and told me softly, “If you pull the trigger, I’ll burn the rest of the world for you.”

His smile was dangerous, sharp, yet his eyes…oh God those eyes…they were gentle despite the violence he commanded. He leads like a man already planning the ashes and I know that as long as his arms are around me, the end will be beautiful.

—----------------------------------

Seonghwa watches me the way a priest watches confession-he’s patient, reverent, yet so fucking terrifying. Blood never stains his suits for long; he’s meticulous, graceful, and cruel only when necessary. When my nightmares leave me gasping, he holds me and wipes my face with the same hands that have ended lives.

“Sleep,” He murmurs. “I’ll keep watch.” And despite the alarms, I believe him. I always do.

—-----------------------------------

Yunho laughs too loudly for someone who breaks bones so easily. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, spins me through candlelit rooms where men once begged for mercy. His joy is dangerous-he loves too hard, fights too fiercely, and when someone makes me flinch, Yunho doesn’t ask questions. He just disappears with them. Silence follows him as he comes back with specks of blood on his cheeks like paint splatters.

—------------------------------------

Yeosang is quiet. That’s what makes him the scariest. He listens, remembers, and when enemies underestimate him, they never get a second chance. At night, he sits beside me on the balcony, cigarette glowing between his fingers as he gazes at me with desire and love. When his hands find mine, it’s a promise written in the stars: I would erase cities before I let you suffer.

—-----------------------------------

San is hunger and lust in human form. His devotion is feral, unashamed. He kisses like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, like the world might steal me if he loosens his grip. When I cry, he looks ready to kill God himself for allowing it. “Say the word,” he whispers into my neck. “I’ll make it stop.”

—-------------------------------------

Mingi is thunder. He’s loud, reckless, and brutally honest. He brags about his crimes like they’re love letters meant only for me. But when I’m scared, when my body trembles, he sits on the floor at my feet and talks until the fear dissolves. He would turn the city upside down just to hear me laugh again.

—------------------------------------

Wooyoung is chaos wrapped in charm like a beautiful present. He smiles while knives sparkle with a scarlet tint and makes jokes as blood paints the floor. He’s jealous, dramatic, and possessive. He reminds me constantly that the world is ugly-and that we’re allowed to ruin it back. “They don’t deserve you,” he says sweetly against my lips. “We do.”

—-----------------------------

And Jongho…Jongho is inevitability. The last thing people hear before everything goes dark. He doesn’t raise his voice. He stands behind me, solid and unyielding, I feel untouchable. He is the wall no one gets past.

—-----------------------------

I am not innocent, not anymore.

I sit at their table, drink their wine, wear their blood-red promises like jewelry. When the city burns-and it does, often-it’s never power, never for money.

It’s because someone looked at me wrong.

Touched me without permission.

Tried to take what they decided was theirs.

They don’t ask if I want this world saved.

They ask if I want it gone.

And when I say yes, they smile-soft, terrible, yet undeniably devoted- and set it all on fire.

For love, they tell me, as the sirens draw near.

“For you”

[randomsvt]

[scarletfootnotes]

!Requested by my beautiful best friend. 🖤!

Warnings: Subtle mentions of Death, mature themes.

“Devotion is a closed casket”

They never warned you that loving Jeonghan would feel less like a choice and more like a sentence handed down quietly, with a smile.

You met him before you knew what he was.

That’s how he prefers it.

A private club. Soft lighting. His jacket draped over your shoulders when you said you were cold. His fingers brushed your wrist—apologetic, lingering—and something in your chest folded inward. You remember thinking he felt safe. You remember the laugh you shared, the way his eyes stayed on you like nothing else in the room existed.

By the time you learned his name carried blood in its wake, it was already too late.

Jeonghan doesn’t court people. He studies them. He learned your habits, your fears, the exact tone your voice takes when you lie to yourself. He never rushed you. He let affection bloom naturally—late-night conversations, soft confessions whispered over wine, his hand warm at the small of your back like a promise.

“You’re different,” he told you once, brushing hair from your face.

And you believed him, because you wanted to.

When he kissed you the first time, it was slow. Careful. Almost reverent. Like he was afraid of breaking something precious.

That was the moment you belonged to him.

You didn’t notice when your life began orbiting his. Not when he asked for small favors. Not when your name stopped appearing on certain records. Not when people went quiet around you.

Jeonghan never ordered you to do anything cruel.

He just made sure you were present when cruelty happened.

Tonight, you’re back in his penthouse. The city bleeds neon beneath the rain. He stands close—too close—adjusting your collar with intimate familiarity. His touch is gentle. Loving. That makes it worse.

“You’ve been restless,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your pulse betrays you.

“You’re thinking about leaving,” he continues softly, thumb brushing your jaw. “I don’t blame you.”

You laugh shakily. “You wouldn’t let me.”

His eyes darken—not angry. Hurt.

“I would,” he says. “If you truly wanted it.”

The lie is beautiful. You almost fall for it.

He takes your hands, pressing them flat against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat—steady, calm, certain. He lowers his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers.

The words settle like a blade between your ribs.

Because he means it.

Jeonghan loves the way you look at him, the way you justify him, the way your silence has become second nature. He loves how you flinch at gunshots now, but never walk away. He loves that you’ve learned not to ask questions.

Love, to him, is permanence.

He guides you to the window. The city feels impossibly far away.

“Tell me,” he says gently, “if you disappeared tomorrow… how many ghosts would follow?”

Your throat tightens. Faces surface uninvited. Names you helped erase. Doors you held closed.

Jeonghan kisses your temple, slow and tender.

“I carry mine with grace,” he says. “You carry yours for me.”

You realize then that this is his romance. Not flowers or freedom—but shared damnation. A bond sealed in complicity.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, smiling softly. “If you leave, you’ll drown in what you’ve done.”

Your knees weaken.

“If you stay,” he continues, brushing his thumb beneath your eye, “you’ll never be alone again.”

Outside, thunder rolls.

You cling to him like he’s a lifeline. He holds you immediately, arms strong, familiar. Protective.

Victorious.

Later, when you lie beside him in silk sheets that smell faintly of iron and cologne, you understand the truth with terrifying clarity:

Jeonghan didn’t trap you with fear.

He loved you until you became unfit for any world that wasn’t his.

And as he sleeps beside you, breathing even and peaceful, you stare at the ceiling and wonder—

When the guilt finally crushes you,

will he hold your hand

or close the casket himself?

[bei-b]

what a man, what a man, what a man what a mighty good man Joshua Hong, 2026 Golden Globes red carpet

[scarletfootnotes]

Warnings: Psychological Horror

-------------

Thirteen Voices in the Practice Room

You find the flyer folded into your pocket without remembering how it got there.

SEVENTEEN — Auditions Tonight.

No address. Just a time circled in red ink.

By the time you realize how strange that is, you’re already standing in front of an old practice building at the edge of the city. The windows are dark, the kind of dark that swallows reflections. Music seeps through the walls—soft at first, then layered, overlapping, thirteen distinct rhythms somehow moving as one.

Inside, the air smells like dust and sweat and something faintly metallic.

They’re already waiting.

Thirteen men stand in formation, backs straight, expressions calm but too still. The lights flicker, and when they do, their shadows lag half a second behind them.

“Welcome,” one of them says. His smile is perfect. Practiced. “You’re just in time.”

The door locks behind you.

They introduce themselves—names you recognize instantly, though you don’t remember learning them. Each voice feels familiar, like a memory borrowed from someone else’s life. When they move, it’s beautiful. Hypnotic. Their synchronization makes your chest ache.

“Watch closely,” another says. “This is important."

The music starts.

At first, it’s just choreography—sharp turns, fluid lines, precision so flawless it doesn’t feel human. But as the song builds, something begins to slip. Their smiles strain. Their movements grow jerky, as if pulled by invisible strings. One of them stumbles, and when he looks up, his eyes are wrong—too dark, too deep, like a stage with no exit.

You blink.

There are more of them now.

Not physically—still thirteen—but the room echoes with extra footsteps, phantom breaths, voices singing harmonies that don’t exist. The mirrors along the wall show reflections that don’t match reality. In one, a member is missing his face. In another, all thirteen turn to stare directly at you, though their real bodies keep dancing.

“Do you hear them?” one whispers as he passes you.

“Hear who?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“The ones who wanted this,” he says. “The ones who watched us until they disappeared.”

The music cuts abruptly.

Silence crashes down, thick and suffocating.

“You came because you wanted to belong,” the leader says gently. “Everyone does.”

The lights flicker again—and suddenly you’re standing in the formation with them. Your body moves without permission, joints snapping into place, feet hitting counts you somehow know. The mirrors change. They show you smiling, eyes empty, mouth singing words you don’t remember learning.

“Don’t stop,” someone murmurs in your ear. “If you stop, you’ll wake up.”

Panic floods you. You try to break formation, but their hands grip yours—cold, strong, unyielding. Their smiles widen, stretching too far.

“Thirteen is never enough,” another says. “We’re always missing one.”

The room spins. The music crescendos. Your vision fractures into lights, shadows, applause that sounds like screaming—

—

You jolt awake in your bed, gasping.

Morning light spills through your window. Your heart pounds. It was a dream. Just a dream.

You sit up—and freeze.

Your legs ache like you’ve been dancing for hours. Your phone buzzes with a notification you don’t remember subscribing to.

SEVENTEEN — New Member Announcement Tonight.

Attached is a photo from a practice room you recognize instantly.

In the mirror behind them, you see yourself—standing in formation, smiling perfectly, waiting for the music to start.

[scarletfootnotes]

Warning: psychological horror and obsession

————————————-

You notice the silence first.

Not the peaceful kind—the kind that presses against your ears, waiting for you to acknowledge it. Your room looks normal. Too normal. The light through the window sits at the wrong angle, like it’s been pinned there for hours.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

You sit up. Your body feels heavy, as if you’ve been awake for days, but your thoughts are sharp—too sharp. Every sound feels deliberate. The hum of electricity. The distant drip of a faucet. Your own breathing, slightly out of sync with the room.

That’s when you realize you’re not alone.

It’s not a presence you see. It’s a certainty. Like knowing someone is standing behind you without turning around.

You wait.

Nothing happens.

You almost convince yourself you imagined it—until you notice the door.

It’s open.

You always close it.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold in a way that makes your teeth ache. As you stand, a thought slips into your mind uninvited:

They’re quiet because they’re listening.

You don’t know who they are, but the word fits too well to question.

The hallway stretches longer than it should. Each step feels rehearsed, like you’ve walked this path many times before. The walls are bare, but you can’t shake the feeling that something has been removed—frames, warnings, restraints.

You pass a mirror.

Your reflection lags half a second behind.

You stop. It catches up. Smiles when you don’t.

You turn away, heart hammering, and that’s when you hear it—

Soft voices. Close. Just out of sight.

“They’re awake.”

The words are calm. Fond.

You freeze.

Another voice responds, closer this time. “I told you they would be.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. You want to ask who’s there, but the question feels dangerous, like it would finalize something you’re not ready to accept.

Footsteps approach. Unhurried. Familiar.

Figures emerge from the shadows at the end of the hall—eight silhouettes, indistinct at first, blurring at the edges like your eyes refuse to focus properly. As they come closer, details sharpen in unsettling ways: matching movements, heads tilting in near-perfect unison, expressions that soften the moment they see you.

Relief crosses their faces.

Not surprise.

“You found your way back,” one of them says gently.

Back from where?

You open your mouth, but another one steps forward, close enough that you can smell something clean and sterile clinging to him, like disinfectant soaked into skin.

“You don’t remember yet,” he murmurs. “That’s okay. You never do.”

A hand reaches for you. You flinch—but it stops inches away, trembling, restraining itself.

“We learned not to rush you,” another says with a small smile. “They said we didn’t understand boundaries.”

“They were wrong,” someone else adds softly. “We just understand you.”

Your thoughts begin slipping, like pages turning too fast to read. Memories feel rearranged. You can’t remember how long you’ve known them—only that the idea of not knowing them feels wrong.

You step back.

The hallway behind you is gone.

Walls curve inward, seamless and white, lights buzzing faintly overhead. Doors line the corridor now, identical except for one detail—

Each bears your name.

Written again and again in different handwriting.

Your breath catches.

“This is where they kept us,” one of them says, voice flat now. Honest. “Told us we were sick because we couldn’t let go.”

“They said we were obsessed,” another whispers, smiling at you like it’s a shared joke.

Your chest tightens. Something inside you screams that this isn’t real—but the floor is solid, the lights are blinding, and their eyes never leave your face.

“You were the constant,” they continue, circling you slowly. “When everything else was taken away.”

“You dreamed of us first,” someone says reverently. “That made us real.”

Your vision blurs.

The lights flicker.

You fall—

—

You gasp and jolt upright in your bed.

Morning light floods the room. Your door is closed. Your heart is racing so hard it hurts. You press a hand to your face, grounding yourself, laughing weakly.

“A dream,” you whisper

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand.

A new notification.

You don’t remember unlocking it.

UNKNOWN CONTACT:

“You woke up too fast.”

Your breath stutters.

The mattress dips beside you.

You don’t turn around.

Warm breath brushes your ear as a familiar voice—gentle, affectionate, real—whispers:

“It’s okay. We caught you this time and now you get to stay”

And this time, you don’t wake up.