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﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏꧁ ༺ ⚜ ༻ ꧂ ﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

𝓐-𝓣𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮-𝓦𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓛𝓲𝓼𝓽

༯ - 𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓳𝓸𝓸𝓷𝓰

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊

༯ - 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓼𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝔀𝓪

𝒮𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈

𝒮𝑜𝒶𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒

༯ -𝓙𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓾𝓷𝓱𝓸

𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊

𝒮𝒶𝒻𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈

༯ - 𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓮𝓸𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓰

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒

𝒲𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝑔𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑒

༯ - 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓼𝓪𝓷

𝓂𝑜𝑜𝓃𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 (18+)

𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 (18+)

𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒 (18+)

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝑒𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒

𝑀𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒶𝓁𝓁

𝒜 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓈 𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈

𝒮𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓅𝓁𝒾𝓉 (DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT)

༯ - 𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓲

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓃

𝒯𝒽𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝓁𝒶𝓂𝑒

༯ - 𝓙𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝓦𝓸𝓸𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 (MDNI)

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓈𝓉 (MDNI)

𝒞𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓃𝓉 (MDNI)

༯ - 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓲 𝓳𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝓸

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒾𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑔𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓊𝓈 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez san #ateez seonghwa #ateez hongjoong #ateez wooyoung #ateez smut #ateez x reader #ateez yunho #ateez mingi #ateez yeosang #ateez jongho #8 makes 1 team #ateez atiny

sweetinsaniiity

Night Of The Hunter

► 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 - assassin!Mingi x "blind"!reader ◄ ► 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎/𝙰𝚄 - workplace au, suspense trope, psychological thriller, mild horror themes, nerve-wracking tension, generalised dark themes, close calls (you almost get caught multiple times), forced proximity, power imbalance, slow burn, blackmail, morally grey character (Mingi), politics, glorified ignorance, manipulation, humiliation, obsession, possession, plot twist ◄ ► 𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 - PG-18+ so MDNI!!! This is NOT romance, Mingi is depraved, murder (semi-descriptive), slight gore (not towards you), sharp object near eyes, eventual smut, CNC, dubious consent (be warned!) sexual shame/guilt, corruption, degradation, masturbation, accidental voyeurism turned to forced voyeurism, exhibitionism, dominance, reluctance submissiveness, sadism, rough foreplay, rougher almost violent sex, creampie (DO NOT DO THIS) ◄ ► 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 - 37.4K words (listen) ◄ ► 𝚂𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 - A simple morning walk to clear your head for your upcoming job interview turns into a nightmare when you witness a brutal murder in broad daylight. In a panic, you pretend to be blind to escape. By sheer miracle, the man lets you go, and you thought that was that. You tried to forget what you saw, focusing on your job interview, but there was one problem - you were once again face to face with the man from the trail, and he was now your boss. ◄ ► 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 - I'm back! I am so sorry for taking this long. So many things happened, but most of it was health related. I swear I didn't mean to take THIS long. Now, I know I could've split this into 3-4 parts but screw it. Y'all deserve it. Side note, this is just fictional and is not meant to glorify what vision impairment is like. This is also not meant to be taken seriously. Happy birthday to our Princess Minki!◄ ► 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - see end of the story for the list

bro-atz

going insane

in which: you want to watch a movie, but they won't let you.

pair: dpr ian (christian yu)/park seonghwa/afab!reader

word count: 1.8k

content: pwp, sex, oral sex, unprotected sex, mommy/daddy kink, completely consensual

rated: R | nsfw — mdni

part one | part two | part three

You didn’t know how it came to be, but one second, you were sitting at home watching a movie, and the next you were straddled on Christian’s lap, his eyelashes fluttering against your skin as he left soft kisses along your neck.

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────── DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT ──────

WARNINGS: supernatural, possession, unhealthy/obsessive behavior, extreme fixation, psychological, unsettling imagery, emotional manipulation, no graphic violence but heavy disturbing themes.

──────READ AT YOUR OWN RISK ──────

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ℝ𝔼𝔽𝕃𝔼ℂ𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ

Chapter 2

You woke at 3:17 a.m. — the numbers glowing faint and pale on the face of the clock beside the bed. The room was still wrapped in that deep, quiet hush that only falls in the hours before dawn, when the world outside seems to hold its breath. The rain had slowed to a soft, distant murmur, tapping lightly against the glass like fingertips asking to be let in. Beside you, the bed was empty.

For a moment you lay still, half caught between sleep and waking, your mind drifting slowly back into focus. You reached out automatically, your hand brushing cool, smooth sheets where San should have been. Your heart gave a small, confused lurch before you told yourself not to worry he was restless sometimes, especially after days spent out in the cold, or when something sat heavy on his mind. Often he would get up to fetch water, or stand by the window for a while, or sit quietly in the armchair until he felt steady enough to sleep again. You told yourself it was nothing more than that.

You sat up slowly, pulling the soft duvet around your shoulders, and turned your head toward the bedroom door. It stood ajar, just a few inches, and a faint, shifting silver light spilled through the gap, painting pale ripples across the floorboards. It did not look like the warm golden glow of the bedside lamp, or the cool white of the overhead light. It looked like moonlight on water, bright and alive and moving, even though the moon was hidden behind thick clouds.

You slipped out of bed, your bare feet touching the cool wood, and padded quietly toward the door. You did not know why you moved so softly, why you found yourself holding your breath. Some quiet instinct deep inside you warned you that something was different that the air in the room felt heavier, tighter, as if the walls themselves were listening.

You pushed the door open just far enough to see inside.

San was standing before the mirror.

He was barefoot, dressed only in the thin cotton shirt he slept in, his dark hair falling loose and messy over his forehead and eyes. He stood perfectly straight, his shoulders squared, his hands clenched tight at his sides until the knuckles shone white. He was not moving. He was not blinking. He simply stood there, staring into the dark glass as if he had been carved from stone and set there long before you ever knew him.

The silver patterns along the mirror’s frame were glowing. They burned with a steady, bright silver light that pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat once, twice, three times casting shifting shadows across San’s face that made him look less like himself and more like something ancient and powerful. The light washed over his features, turning his familiar warmth into something sharp and strange, carving deep hollows beneath his eyes and along his jawline that you had never seen there before.

He was not looking at his own reflection. You could see that clearly even from the doorway. His gaze was fixed far deeper than the surface, as if he were staring through the glass into something vast and endless that lived on the other side. His lips moved, forming words too quiet for you to hear, his voice low and breathless and full of something that sounded like awe, and something that sounded like fear.

“San?” you whispered, pushing the door open a little further.

The sound of your voice seemed to snap him out of a trance. He turned so fast it made you jump his body twisting, his head snapping toward you, his movements sharp and jerky, nothing like the smooth, easy grace you were used to. For a heartbeat you did not recognise him. His eyes were dark, so dark that the warm brown was almost entirely swallowed by the pupils, leaving only a thin ring of gold around the edges. They were wide and burning, filled with a terrifying intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he crossed the room in two long strides, and his arms were around you, pulling you tight against his chest so quickly and with such force that it knocked the breath from your lungs. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms locked around your waist, his hands clutching at your back as if he were afraid you might dissolve into thin air if he let go for even a second. His heart was hammering against your own, fast and wild and out of rhythm, beating like a trapped bird against his ribs.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick and trembling, vibrating through his chest and into yours. “You’re perfect. More perfect than I ever knew.”

“San,” you said, your voice soft and unsteady as you lifted your hands to rest them on his shoulders. “You’re scaring me. What are you doing standing in the dark like this? What did you see in there?”

He did not pull back. He did not look at you. He just held you tighter, his fingers digging gently into your sides, pressing kiss after kiss to your neck, your jaw, your forehead desperate, hungry kisses that felt less like affection and more like he was trying to memorise every inch of you, to brand your shape into his mind so he would never forget it.

“It showed me the truth,” he said quietly, his forehead resting heavy against yours. His breath was warm and fast against your skin, smelling faintly of rain and something else something old and metallic, like copper or old coins. “Nothing bad. Just… what everyone else is too blind to see. How beautiful you are. How completely you belong to me.”

“Belong to you?” you repeated gently, reaching up to brush hair back from his face. “San, I’ve always been yours. You know that.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands coming up to cup your face, his palms warm and firm against your skin. His gaze was intense, burning into you like he was seeing you for the very first time, like he was learning every line and curve and freckle all over again. There was something raw and feverish in his expression a desperate, consuming hunger that made your chest ache in a way you did not understand.

“You are,” he said, his voice low and intense, every word heavy with conviction. “But now I know it. Truly know it. I see it. And no one will ever make me see anything else.”

He kissed you then deep, slow, and overwhelming, his lips moving against yours with a fervour that left you dizzy and breathless. He kissed you like he was drinking you in, like he was trying to pull you inside himself so that nothing could ever separate you. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still dark and bright, but there was a softness there too, a terrible, tender devotion that made your heart twist.

“Come back to bed,” he said, his voice gentle again, almost back to the San you knew. “It’s cold out here. I want to hold you.”

You let him lead you back to bed, let him pull the duvet up over both of you, let him wrap his arms around you and tuck your head beneath his chin. He held you closer than he ever had before tight enough that you could feel every beat of his heart, every rise and fall of his chest, every tremor that ran through him. He did not sleep. You could tell by the way his fingers moved slowly, constantly, over your skin tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your shoulder, the shape of your hand as if he were checking you were still there, still real, still his.

When you woke again a few hours later, the room was filled with pale morning light, and San was sitting up beside you, watching you sleep. He was leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin propped in one hand, his eyes fixed on your face with that same quiet, burning intensity. He looked tired there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his hair was messy and unkempt but he did not look unhappy. He looked like a man who had found something he had spent his whole life searching for.

“Good morning,” you said softly, sitting up and rubbing your eyes.

He smiled, and for a moment everything felt normal again that familiar warm, soft smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners, the smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, slow and lingering.

“Good morning, my love,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

Over breakfast, things felt different. Not wrong, exactly just shifted, like the world had tilted a fraction on its axis and nothing sat quite where it used to. San sat across from you at the small wooden table, but he did not eat his toast. He did not look at his phone, or speak about his plans for the day, or hum that quiet little tune he always hummed while he drank his tea. He just watched you — his eyes following every movement you made, every lift of your hand, every sip of tea, every small smile that touched your lips.

He reached across the table and took your hand in his, his fingers lacing tight through yours. He did not let go even when you reached for your mug, even when you stood up to take your plate to the sink. He walked with you, still holding on, his grip firm and steady.

“San,” you said gently, turning to face him as you stood by the sink. “You’re holding on so tight. I’m not going anywhere.”

He did not smile this time. He just looked at you, his gaze serious and dark and unwavering.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I need to make sure. I need to be sure no one takes you away.”

“Who would take me away?” you asked, frowning a little as you reached up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “San, what is this about? Is it something the mirror showed you?”

His expression shifted, softening into something tender and sad. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering against your skin.

“Nothing that matters,” he said. “Just that… the world is full of blind people. And they don’t know how to look at something perfect without trying to ruin it.”

He would not say more. No matter how gently you asked, no matter how you tried to coax him into explaining, he would only kiss you and tell you not to worry, that he would take care of everything, that all you needed to do was trust him.

Later that morning, you walked past the bedroom and glanced inside. The mirror stood there, tall and dark and silent, its silver patterns glowing faintly even in the bright daylight. You stepped closer, curious, and looked into its surface.

You saw only yourself soft, familiar, unchanged. Your hair fell the way it always did, your skin looked smooth and healthy, your eyes clear and bright. There was nothing strange, nothing terrifying, nothing wrong. You were just you.

But as you stood there, something shifted deep within the glass. A ripple ran across the surface, as if a stone had been dropped into still water, and for a split second you saw something else a flash of red, of torn skin and bared bone, of something terrible and bleeding standing where you were. Then it was gone, and you were just you again, and the mirror was just a mirror.

You stepped back quickly, your heart racing, and told yourself it was nothing more than a trick of the light, a shadow playing tricks on your tired eyes. You told yourself not to be silly. You told yourself the mirror was just an old, beautiful thing, and that San was just tired, and that everything was fine.

But you did not step close to it again.

That afternoon, San came up behind you while you were folding laundry, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. He smelled like soap and rain and that faint, metallic scent you had noticed earlier.

“I love you,” he said, his voice low and serious, as if he were making a vow he intended to keep for all eternity. “More than anything. More than life itself. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” you said, turning in his arms to kiss his cheek. “I love you too, San. More than anything.”

He held you for a long time after that, his face buried in your neck, his arms so tight around you it was almost hard to breathe. He did not speak again. He just held you, as if he were terrified that if he let go, you would vanish, or turn into something else, or be torn away from him by forces he could not see.

And all the while, in the bedroom across the hall, the mirror glowed.

Part 3 will be posted tomorrow as I have no time 🫶🏻

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #choi san #ateez san #san ateez #dead dove do not eat

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────── DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT ──────

WARNINGS: dark supernatural themes, possession, psychological horror, manipulation, angst, implied danger, unsettling vibes, no graphic violence but heavy themes.

──────READ AT YOUR OWN RISK───────

═════════════════════════

ℝ𝔼𝔽𝕃𝔼ℂ𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ

Chapter 1

The rain had been falling all day, a steady, soft drumming against glass and tile that blurred the edges of the world into shades of grey and silver. It was the kind of weather that made the city feel smaller, quieter, like the sky had pulled a heavy blanket over everything to keep it safe and warm inside. Inside your flat, the lights were turned low, casting pools of amber glow over the sofa and the rug, over the books stacked on the shelf and the mugs left out on the coffee table. You were curled up beneath a knitted blanket, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of chamomile tea, the other resting on the open book in your lap.

You and San had been together for one year and seven months. It was a length of time that felt both short and endless short in the sense that you could still remember the nervous thrill of your first date, the way his ears had turned pink when you laughed at his joke, the tentative brush of his fingers against yours as you walked home; endless in the way he had woven himself into every part of your days, every quiet habit and small joy, until you could scarcely remember what life had been like before he was there.

San was not a loud man. He did not shout grand declarations or make sweeping, dramatic gestures. He loved you in the quiet, steady way that water wears down stone gentle, constant, impossible to stop. He woke up ten minutes before you every morning so he could make your tea exactly how you liked it, with just the right amount of honey and a slice of lemon floating on top. He left sticky notes with little hearts and soft words on the bathroom mirror when he had to leave early for practice. He held your hand whenever you walked anywhere, his grip firm but never tight, his thumb brushing slow, rhythmic circles over your knuckles like he was checking you were still there, still real, still his.

You knew every part of him. You knew how his nose crinkled when he laughed, how his voice dropped an octave when he was sleepy, how he hummed old ballads under his breath while he washed dishes. You knew he was afraid of letting you down, that he sometimes worried he wasn’t enough, that he loved you with a quiet, burning intensity that showed in the way he looked at you like you were something precious, something rare, something he never wanted to break.

That afternoon, he had texted you just after three o’clock. His message had been sent with a little smiley face beside it, bright and familiar against the screen: “Got caught in the rain, wandered into that weird little antique shop on the high street. Found something I think you’ll love. Be home soon, don’t miss me too much x”

You had smiled at the screen, setting your phone down on the cushion beside you. You had been curious about that shop for months it sat tucked between a bakery and a charity shop, its windows dusty and dim, filled with strange, shadowed shapes that you could never quite make out from the pavement. You had never gone inside, always telling yourself you would go another day. But San had always been braver about those kinds of things than you were curious, unafraid of the old or the strange.

By four o’clock, the rain had grown heavier, turning from a gentle patter into a steady downpour that ran in thick sheets down the windowpanes. You stood up and walked to the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass and watching the street below. People hurried past with umbrellas tilted low, splashing through puddles that glinted like dark mirrors beneath the streetlights. The world felt soft and far away, separated from you by glass and warmth.

Then you saw him.

He was walking up the road, his coat pulled up around his neck, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with rain. In his arms he carried something tall and heavy, wrapped in thick brown paper that was already darkening at the edges with damp. He walked slowly, carefully, holding the parcel close to his chest like it was something fragile, something he was afraid to let the rain touch. Even from this distance, you could see the way his eyes were fixed on the parcel, his expression soft and focused, like he was carrying something more than just an object.

You pulled the door open before he could reach it, stepping out into the small entryway to meet him. The air smelled of wet stone and rain and something sweet the faint, familiar scent of his cologne, always warm and woodsy, like pine and amber.

“Hi,” you said, smiling as he stepped inside, shaking rain from his coat. “You’re soaked.”

He grinned, his teeth white against his flushed cheeks, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you loved so much. “Worth it. Wait until you see what I found.”

He set the parcel down carefully on the dining table, his movements slow and reverent, as if he were handling something made of glass. He brushed rain from his hair, his fingers trembling slightly with cold and excitement, before he reached for the edge of the brown paper.

“ The shopkeeper didn’t know much about it,” he said as he began to peel the paper away, his voice low and eager. “Said it had been in the back room for as long as he could remember. That it was old very old. He said it had been brought over from somewhere far away, but he didn’t know where. He said it… well, he said it had a way of making you feel things you couldn’t explain.”

The paper fell away, and you found yourself staring.

It was a mirror tall, standing nearly as high as the ceiling, its frame carved from thick, heavy black wood that seemed to drink in the light of the room. The wood was smooth and dark, polished until it shone faintly, and along every edge, curling around the corners and sweeping down the sides, were intricate swirling patterns inlaid with silver. The patterns seemed to move as you watched them, twisting and turning in the lamplight like smoke caught in a draft, like water flowing over smooth stones. The glass itself was not bright or clear like a normal mirror it was deep and dark, like looking down into still water at midnight, like standing before a window into somewhere else entirely.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, stepping closer, your voice soft with awe. You reached out and ran a finger lightly along the edge of the frame. The wood was cool and smooth beneath your touch, and the silver patterns seemed to hum faintly, as if waking up at the contact. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

San stood beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, his gaze fixed on the mirror with an intensity that made something prickle at the back of your neck. He did not look at you. He did not look away. He just stared into the dark glass, his eyes wide and bright, his lips slightly parted, like he was seeing something that filled him with wonder.

“It called to me,” he said quietly, his voice sounding different deeper, slower, like he was speaking from somewhere far away. “I walked past it, and I just… knew I had to bring it home. I don’t know how to explain it. It felt like something I had been waiting for my whole life, even though I never knew it existed.”

He turned to you then, and his expression softened, the strange distant look fading back into the warm, familiar affection you knew so well. He reached out and brushed a strand of damp hair from your face, his fingers gentle and warm against your skin.

“I want to hang it in our bedroom,” he said. “Right across from the bed. So we can see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is,” you told him, leaning into his touch. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

He kissed you then, slow and sweet, the taste of rain and him clinging to his lips, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you close. For a moment, with the rain falling outside and the warm light filling the room and the strange beautiful mirror standing beside you, everything felt exactly as it should right, safe, yours. You had no way of knowing that the moment you spoke those words, something in the mirror shifted. You had no way of knowing that the silver patterns had glowed brighter, that the dark glass had drunk in your words and your warmth and your love, that something ancient and hungry had woken up and found exactly what it was looking for.

That evening, you helped him carry the mirror into the bedroom. It was heavier than it looked, the wood dense and solid, and the glass felt cold even through the cloth you held it with. You hung it on the wall across from the bed, just as he had asked, and stood back to admire it. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the silver patterns seemed to pulse faintly, like a slow, steady heartbeat, casting shifting ripples of light across the floor and the bedspread.

San stood before it for a long time, watching his own reflection or what you assumed was his own reflection. You could see him clearly, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his expression calm and thoughtful. But he did not look at himself. He was looking past his own reflection, his gaze fixed on something deeper, something further inside the glass.

“San?” you asked softly, stepping up beside him. “Are you alright?”

He turned to you, and for a heartbeat his eyes seemed darker than usual, the pupils wide and black, swallowing the warm brown you knew so well. Then he smiled, and it was gone just your San, soft and warm and loving.

“I’m perfect,” he said, pulling you into his arms and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Everything is perfect.”

That night, you fell asleep curled against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around you, his breath warm and steady against your neck. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the city clean. Inside, the mirror stood watch across the room, its silver patterns glowing faintly in the dark, feeding on the quiet love that filled the space between you.

You slept soundly, warm and safe and happy. You did not wake up when San slipped out of bed an hour later. You did not see him standing before the mirror in the dark, barefoot in his sleep shirt, his hands pressed flat against the cold glass. You did not hear the soft, whispering voice that drifted from the mirror, low and sweet and terrible, telling him things no one should ever hear. You did not see the way his eyes widened, the way his breath caught in his throat, the way he fell to his knees before the glass like a man kneeling before a god.

And you did not know that from that moment on, nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter 2

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez san #choi san #san ateez #dead dove do not eat

dreamon8

SAN | FAKE BOYFRIEND

PAIRING: Choi San! x F!Reader

WARNINGS: Explicit Smut (M/F), Enthusiastic Dom/Sub dynamics (Dom San), Dirty Talk, Praise, Explicit verbal consent, Oral sex (giving/receiving), Spanking, Creampie, Masturbation / Finger play, Shower sex, Public sex (ocean/water), Marking / Hickeys, Hair pulling, Spit kink, Consensual mild degradation / Toying.

SUMMARY: A university reunion, insufferable former classmates, and the perfect chance to teach them a lesson. Pretending that San—your best friend of six years, the tall, reserved, mysterious guy half the campus tried and failed to hook up with—is your boyfriend seemed like a foolproof plan. What you didn't know was that he had been waiting six years for an excuse just like this to stop pretending… and finally claim what he always considered his.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━━━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━━━━━⋆⁺₊⋆

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Pairing: Kim Hongjoong x Reader

Genre: Dark Fantasy • Cursed Magic • Eternal Bargain • Fates & Blood

Warnings: Soul magic, manipulation, time distortion, existential horror, emotional captivity, obsession, violence, morally ambiguous characters — MDNI

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Threads of fate, threads of you

The Spire of Forgotten Threads does not appear on any map. It shifts between worlds, visible only when the moon bleeds thin and the stars align wrong a tower of black glass and silver silk, rising endlessly above a sea of swirling mist, spinning slowly in the void. No one knows who built it. Some say it grew from a single drop of blood spilled at the beginning of time. Others say it is the loom itself, given shape, breathing, waiting. That is where Hongjoong lives.

He was not born a weaver. He was a prince who traded his kingdom for the power to rewrite the past to undo a tragedy that had burned everything he loved to ash. The price was steep: first his hands, then his heart, then his name. Now he is the Spire’s living master. He wears robes stitched with constellations that burn and fade in time with his moods, silver rings on every finger each one etched with a rune that binds him to the loom and eyes that hold the cold weight of a thousand dead timelines. He does not age. He does not sleep. He only weaves.

Every thread in his loom is a life. A choice. A death. He can pull a soul from the flow of time, twist its path, snip its future clean away but every fate he changes costs him a memory, a piece of himself, until soon there will be nothing left but the loom and the dark. He has forgotten the faces of his parents. He has forgotten the sound of rain. He has almost forgotten what it feels like to be warm. Only the threads matter. Only the work.

You arrive at his door running from a death you cannot escape. A prophecy hung over your family for generations one carved into stone, spoken in whispers, inevitable: you will die before the season turns, betrayed by the one you love most. You have watched it unfold in your dreams, night after night cold steel, crimson petals, a face you cannot quite make out. You climb the endless, spiralling stairs of the Spire, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your blood your only coin the only thing the Fates and their weaver still value. You find him standing before a loom as tall as the sky, threads of gold and shadow and bone glowing between his slender fingers, weaving, weaving, never stopping. He does not turn when you enter. He already knew you were coming. He wove your arrival three years ago.

“You want to live,” he says, his voice like silk sliding over broken glass quiet, precise, terrifyingly calm. “Everyone does. But no one ever asks what they must pay. Power is never given freely. It is always taken and always bought.”

“I have nothing left to give,” you tell him, your voice trembling. “They have already taken everything else.”

He turns then, and his smile is sharp and terrible beautiful, but edged with frost, with centuries of loneliness. “Then you will stay. You will be my hands when mine bleed. You will be my eyes when the threads blind me. You will sort the tangled skeins and mend the broken patterns when the backlash tears them apart. You will live but your life will belong to me. Every breath, every heartbeat, every moment you think is yours… it is mine. And if you ever try to leave, if you ever try to unravel the bargain… I will unravel you. Thread by thread, existence by existence, until not even a ghost remains. Until no one remembers you ever existed at all.”

You agree. What choice do you have? Death waits outside. Here, at least, there is time.

At first it is only work. Days blur into weeks, measured not by the sun for there is no sun here but by the shifting colours of the threads. You sit beside him, sorting strands of pale gold for lives of joy, deep crimson for lives of passion, cold black for lives ending in grief. You watch him shape worlds saving children from burning villages with a gentle tug of silver thread, cursing cruel kings with a sharp twist of iron, ending wars with a single, precise snip of his shears. He is quiet, intense, terrifyingly brilliant his mind seeing patterns where you see only chaos, predicting outcomes before they have even begun to form. He rarely speaks unless it is to give an instruction. He never touches you not until the night a thread snaps.

It happens during a weaving of immense power a correction to a timeline that threatens to tear the world apart. The backlash strikes like lightning, shattering the air, throwing you backward toward the void the endless, starless drop that waits beyond the Spire’s edge. You would have fallen, dissolved into nothingness but Hongjoong moves faster than thought. His hand closes around your wrist, his grip firm and burning, and he pulls you back against him, safe, against his chest. For a heartbeat you are pressed close you can smell him: ozone and old parchment and wild, starlight. You feel the beat of his heart slow, steady, impossibly strong beneath the stitched silk of his robes. And in that moment, you see it beneath the power, beneath the curse, beneath the terrifying perfection of him the loneliness. The fear that he is already too far gone, that the magic has eaten him alive and soon there will be nothing left.

He does not let go immediately. His fingers brush the back of your hand, feather-light, as if he is afraid you will break or as if he is afraid he will break you.

“You are the only bright thread in all of creation,” he whispers, and his voice shakes just barely, a tremor in the silence that no one else would ever notice. “I did not weave you. You are the one thing I cannot control. And it terrifies me.”

The danger comes not from outside but from the loom itself. The Fates do not like being cheated. They send shadows that slip through the cracks in the tower, things that look like people you once loved your mother, your dearest friend whispering that Hongjoong is destroying you, that he has trapped you here for his own selfishness, that he is feeding on your light to keep his own darkness at bay. And they are not entirely wrong. He has trapped you. He does keep you close when he should let you go. But when the darkness comes for you not as whispers, but as teeth and claws, as cold that seeps into your bones he stands between you and it. His weaving needles transform in his hands, lengthening into daggers of starlight, burning with a cold, white fire that leaves the shadows screaming. He fights with a ferocity that shatters the very walls of the Spire because for the first time in an eternity, he has something worth fighting for.

“I would burn the world to keep you safe,” he snarls, blood silver and glowing on his cheek where a shadow’s claw grazed him. “Let them come. Let them try to take you. I will unravel the heavens themselves before I let them touch a single hair on your head.”

But the truth is far worse than either of you imagined. It happens on a quiet night or what passes for night in the Spire when you are searching for a lost thread behind the loom. Your fingers brush something cold, hidden beneath the floorboards a single strand, glowing with a light that hurts your eyes, pulsing in time with your own heartbeat. You pull it free, and the images flood your mind visions, memories, futures that never were. And you see it all.

He did not save you out of kindness. He wove you into his fate to fix his own. The prophecy was never about your family it was about him. The magic is eating him alive. It will consume his soul completely within the year, turning him into something no longer human a thing of thread and void, cold and eternal. You are the only thing that can stop it. The only thing that can anchor him. You are his lifeline. His cure. And his curse. He knew it the moment you were born. He waited your whole life for you to come to him.

When you confront him, the thread still glowing in your trembling hand, he does not deny it. He does not lie. He drops to his knees before you the Weaver of Fates, the most powerful being in all the realms bowed low, his head bowed, his hands loose at his sides, offering you no resistance. For the first time, you see him truly not powerful, not immortal, but terrified. Broken. Human, beneath all the silk and starlight.

“I am sorry,” he says, and tears fall like liquid starlight bright, cold, burning where they hit the floor. “I stole your freedom. I lied. I used you. But I did not know I would fall in love with you. I did not know you would become the only thing I cannot bear to unravel. I tried to fight it to weave it out of existence but the threads… they would not obey. Not even mine.”

He reaches into his robes and pulls out a pair of shears small, sharp, made of moonlight and shadow. He lays them at your feet.

“I offer you the choice I never had,” he says, his voice hollow, raw. “Cut the thread cut my fate free. Break the bond. I become mortal again I will forget you, and you will forget me. You will go back to your life, and I will die… finally, properly, as I should have died centuries ago. Or —” He looks up, and his eyes are bright with fear and longing and something ancient and fierce. “Or stay. Stay, and let me weave our lives together forever bound, cursed, immortal. We will rewrite the stars. We will outrun the Fates. We will face the darkness together. And we will never, ever be parted… even if it means neither of us is ever truly free.”

The loom waits. The threads glow, shifting colours gold, shadow, bone. The silence stretches, endless, waiting. Hongjoong stays on his knees before you, trembling the Weaver of Fates, who bends time to his will waiting for you to decide his ending.

“In all the timelines I have seen,” he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it, “in every possible world… I am always yours.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #hongjoong fanfic #kim hongjoong #ateez hongjoong

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Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader

Genre: Psychological Horror • Gothic Romance • Slow‑Burn Obsession • Supernatural

⚠️ EXTREME CONTENT WARNING: Dead Dove — Do Not Eat. dom!hwa • captivity & obsession • violence & gore • dead bodies • murder • power imbalance • dubious consent • explicit sexual content • breath play • biting • overstimulation • emotional manipulation • romanticised dark themes • squirting • piv • hair pulling • eating out • fingering • scratching

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Feathers stained crimson

The Grand Aurora Opera House had been condemned for twenty years. Iron gates rusted shut, stained‑glass windows fogged like cataracts, ivy choking its stone throat until it looked less like a building and more like a thing that had died and been left to rot. Locals crossed the street when they passed it. They told stories: that on full moon nights you could hear violins playing broken melodies, see a shadow in the highest window, and that anyone foolish enough to slip through the cracked stage door would never be seen again.

You’d come only for the photos. A journalist friend had mentioned the lost opening night a production of Swan Lake that had never premiered, whose lead dancer had vanished without a trace hours before the curtain rose. You’d found yellowed playbills tucked in library archives: PARK SEONGHWA — PRINCE OF THE STAGE — THE BLACK SWAN. And beside his name, crossed out in faded ink: UNDERSTUDY — THE WHITE SWAN.

You stepped through the broken door, camera slung over your shoulder, torch cutting through dust‑thick air. The velvet curtains were tattered, hanging like rotting flesh. The seats were draped in sheets. It smelled of old dust, mildew, and something sharp and metallic you couldn’t place.

Then the curtains parted on their own.

And there he was.

Park Seonghwa stood centre stage, exactly as he had been in the photographs. Pale as marble, sharp‑boned, dressed in a costume of tattered black swan feathers that shifted like smoke around his shoulders. His pointe shoes were dyed dark with old, crusted stains. The black kohl around his eyes had run, as though he’d been weeping for decades. When he moved, there was no sound no footfall, no breath only a terrible, fluid grace that made your skin crawl.

“Welcome,” he said, bowing low, feathers drifting down like ash. “I apologise for the dust. It has been so very long since we had a proper audience.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “They said opening night never happened. That you were the only one left here when they locked the doors.”

He straightened slowly. The smile that touched his lips was polite, soft and utterly devoid of warmth. Only the quiet, satisfied weight of twenty years of secrets kept buried in the floorboards.

“They never knew the half of it,” he murmured, gliding a step closer without making a sound. “I was never meant to share this stage. Not with understudies, not with critics, not with anyone who might take what was mine. So I silenced every last one who tried to take it from me. The cast, the crew… anyone who dared to say I wasn’t enough.”

He gestured to the shadowed tiers rising high behind you. “Look closely. Every seat is filled. They never leave.”

You lifted your torch.

Your breath died in your throat.

Row after row, every seat was occupied. Some were fresh, bloated and pale. Some were skeletal, clothes rotting away to reveal bone. Every single one of them stared unblinkingly at the stage. You recognised names from old obituaries, from cases gone cold, from people who’d simply vanished after wandering too close to the gates on nights like this. Every single one had come curious, or bold, or looking for a story and every single one had died right where they sat, so they could never look away.

“I lured them in,” Seonghwa said, soft as a confession, cold as the stone walls around you. “Whispers through the cracks. Notes left on doorsteps. The sound of music drifting out after dark. They all came running, just like you did. And when they did… I made sure they’d never leave their seats.”

Somewhere above, a broken organ started up, playing the same mournful refrain over and over, never reaching its end. He moved closer still, his stained pointe shoes tapping once, twice against the rotting wood a rhythm he’d kept perfect for twenty years.

“You came looking for beauty,” he purred, curling cold fingers around your wrist. “Looking for something to capture. And now you’ll get to watch me dance forever. Just like them.”

The stage door clicked shut behind you. The lock turned with a sound like a final breath. The dead audience leaned forward as one, silent and waiting. Seonghwa’s smile widened sharp, unhinged, perfectly pleased.

“Shall we take your seat?”

He did not kill you.

That was the first thing that made your blood run cold. He dragged you not to the seats, but backstage to the dressing room that had once been his. Mirrors framed in cracked gold, a vanity still dusted with old powder, a wardrobe standing open. And inside, hanging pristine amid the decay: The White Swan costume. Ivory silk, soft feathers, a crown of pearls, pointe shoes wrapped in satin.

“Put it on,” he said, laying it out on the velvet chaise.

You backed away, shaking your head. “No. Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone I was here.”

He tilted his head. For a moment you saw the monster beneath the grace something hungry, ancient, and terrible. But he did not step closer. He did not strike.

“I will not hurt you,” he said, and his voice was so soft it hurt to hear. “I never hurt the ones who belong here. Only the ones who try to take this place from me. Only the ones who break the silence.”

And then he showed you.

A man burst through the stage door a trespasser, drunk and loud, shouting about ghosts and dares. Seonghwa turned. In a movement too fast for your eyes to track, he was there. He drove a shard of splintered wood through the man’s throat, pinning him to the wall, and watched without flinching as blood soaked the stone floor. He dragged the body into the wings, and when he returned, he wiped the blood from his hand on a velvet cloth like it was nothing more than dust.

“I protect what is mine,” he said, locking eyes with you. “And you… you are different. You looked at me and you did not scream. You looked at the stage and you saw what I made. You are her. The White Swan that was stolen from me twenty years ago. You are the only one who will ever be worthy of standing beside me.”

Slowly, trembling, you put on the dress.

It fit as though it had been made for you.

Days bled into weeks. There was no sun here, only the dim, perpetual glow of moonlight through high windows. Seonghwa never laid a hand on you in anger. He brought you food that had somehow stayed fresh, kept you warm, never let you out of his sight. But he watched you always. From the wings, from the balcony, from the shadows of the room. He would sit for hours simply staring at you, as though memorising every line of your face, terrified you might vanish if he blinked.

When you tried to run, he caught you easily but he did not hurt you. He simply held you, his grip firm but gentle, and whispered against your hair:

“Don’t you understand? There is nowhere else for you. Out there they would only ruin you. Here you are perfect. Here you are mine.”

When other intruders came thrill‑seekers, vandals, thieves Seonghwa was gone in an instant. You would hear screams, wet tearing sounds, the sickening crunch of bone, and then silence. He would return stained with blood, feathers matted, and he would wash his hands before touching you, as though you were something too pure to be soiled by what he did.

He taught you to dance.

At first you stumbled, clumsy and afraid. But he was patient. He corrected your posture with cold, careful hands. He hummed the music until you knew it by heart. And slowly, you began to feel it the pull of the stage, the rhythm that had been beating in these walls for two decades. You began to understand why he had killed to keep it.

One night, after you’d danced until your feet bled, he knelt and untied your pointe shoes. He kissed the bruises on your ankles, reverent and desperate.

“I have been alone for so long,” he whispered against your skin. “I thought I would have only the dead for company forever. But you… you are alive. You are warm. And I will burn the whole world down before I let anyone take you from this stage.”

It was not love not at first. It was captivity, fear, and a terrible, magnetic pull you could not break. But as months passed, something shifted. He stopped locking the door to your room. He let you wander the corridors alone. He told you stories of his childhood, of the way the world had chewed him up and spat him out, of the night he had taken his knife and made sure no one would ever laugh at him again.

You saw the boy beneath the monster. You saw the loneliness that had curdled into cruelty. You saw the fear that had turned to obsession.

And one night, when he came back from disposing of another intruder, shaking and splattered with gore, you did not flinch. You stepped forward and wiped the blood from his cheek with your thumb.

“I know what you are,” you said softly. “And I am still here.”

He broke then.

He fell to his knees, burying his face in your lap, and wept silent, heaving sobs that shook his whole body. For the first time in twenty years, someone had looked at all the blood and all the bones and all the madness… and had not run.

He rose slowly, his dark eyes burning with something far more terrifying than hunger devotion.

“Then stay,” he breathed, pulling you close until you could feel his cold, still heartbeat against yours. “Be my White Swan. Be the only living thing in this whole cursed place that belongs to me. And I will give you everything. Every dance, every song, every eternity.”

He kissed you then not with the violence you had feared, but with a desperate, aching tenderness, as though he was afraid you might dissolve into smoke if he held you too tight. His hands roamed over you, reverent and claiming, tracing every line of the dress he had dressed you in, every curve he had watched from afar for so long. He worshipped you, slow and deliberate, whispering how beautiful you were, how you were the only thing that had ever made this dark, dead place feel alive.

You gasped, pulling away from the kiss just a little, his forehead resting on yours, your lips swollen and glistening with him. You looked into his eyes, noticing the hunger burning brightly through them, igniting something within him.

Without hesitation, without a word he gripped your hips, guiding you to the rail that lined the mirrors behind, “i will ravish you tonight, i will teach you that you are mine, mine to ruin, to piece together, mine to worship” you gasped the words settling heavy inside you, a wave of arousal pooling deep in your gut. This should have been wrong, falling in love with a murderer, a sadistic madman. These thoughts silence as he gripped your body, bending you forward. “Grab the rail” he purred into your ear.

The sound reverbrating down your spine as he traced his fingers delicately along your spine, watching as he left a beautiful trail of scratches, earning a hiss of pleasure to leave your lips. “Beautiful” he murmured before caressing your hips, squeezing gently. He was teasing, his touches bringing you closer, arousal pooling between your legs. You moved your thighs together, in search of friction to ease the ache.

He tutted behind you, his fingers moving featherlight up your thigh, close enough to your aching core but not enough, you pushed back forcing yourself into his touch. Without hesitation Seonghwa took his hand away, his grip now in your hair tugging harshly. “Not yet baby” he purred. You whined, an almost pathetic sound, you was desperate for him.

He knew this, he had planned this, pushing and pulling your strings, moulding you to his liking. He would make you beg, he wanted to hear how much you needed him, how he was the only one that could make you fall apart, and the only one that could mould you back together again.

You let out a stuttered sob, the need unbearable, shaking and desperate you mumbled. “S-seonghwa..P-please..”

With a tilt of his head he looked took his finger wiping the tears falling from your eyes, “Look at you, unravelling for me, beg me properly… and maybe ill reward you for your best behaviour” he purred, his teeth grazing your pulse, sending a burning wave of pleasure to coarse thorough you.

“S-seonghwa…please…please fuck me…I- I need you” the words spilled from your lips, sweet and honeyed, Seonghwa drank it in, the sound of your begging making his cock throb with desire. He stood back, admiring the way you writhed, body shaking in anticipation.

He let his fingers curl, ripping a hole in your tights, forcing your core to the coldness of the air around you both. You gasped, his fingers trailing along your wetness, gathering on his slender fingers. You looked into the mirror, the sight forcing a choked moan out of you, another wave of tears streaming from your face. You choked back a breath as you watch his hand stroking his hot and aching member, his face contort in pleasure as he got closer to your heat.

With a sharp, earth shattering thrust he slid inside you, cock nestled deeply. You almost screamed, the cord snapping within you, tears falling uncontrollably now, he smirked into the mirror watching your gaze focusing, watching the scene unfold in front of you.

“Good girl~” he purred, his hips gliding ruthlessly against you, curling so deeply into you. Your knuckles white as you gripped the rail. You whined as you felt his hand wrapping around your throat. His hips snapping against you with pure lust.

Seonghwa let out a low moan, his hand squeezing around your throat watching your eyes flutter. “Beautiful” he purred, hips stuttering against you, unable to control the tidal wave of pleasure uncoiling within him. He gasped as your core clenched around him.

Leaning in he bit into your shoulder, teeth sharp against your skin. A searing heat bursting as your pussy clenched around him, cumming hard. You whined as you came, his name hot and heavy.

He wasnt done, he would make you quiver, thrusting harder and faster, chasing his own release he gripped tighter onto your throat, your eyes fluttering again, unable to breath unless he let you. With a sharp and brutal thrust he spilled inside you, painting your walls as he gasped out a low moan.

Without a second you gasped his hands twisting your body, his broad shoulders spreading your legs as your back hit the coolness of the rail. “F-fuck youre insatiable” he murmured, breath hot against your core. With a long lick his tongue delved into your folds.

Seonghwa moaned, a deep, low moan vibrating through you, your body shivering as he continued collecting the mixture of you both on his tongue. “So fucking sweet” he purred against you. Tongue working in circles against your sensitive bud. Without warning he lifted his hand, his slender fingers sliding into you, curling deeply into you. The overstimulation tightening the coil within you. You let out strangled moans, your hand letting go of the rail as it threaded into his hair, tugging hard as he sucked your clit. His fingers curling deeper into you.

Without a deep curl of his fingers and his teeth grazing gently over your swollen bud, you crashed, the deep coil of arousal snapping, you core tigthening around his fingers and tongue, you squirted, the flow dripping onto his chin, coating his face with a gorgeous sheen, fingers drenched in your essence, he drank your arousal, pulling away breathlessly as he smirked, his eyes looking up at you before rising and crashing his lips to yours.

The dead audience sat silent in the dark. The organ played on. But tonight, the music sounded less like a funeral march and more like a song for two.

And somewhere in the shadows, the curtain was already rising for Act Two.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez seonghwa #park seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa smut #seonghwa fanfic #dead dove do not eat

Pairing: Jung Wooyoung x Reader

Genre: Psychological Horror • Dark Romance • Slow Manipulation • Twisted Devotion

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT (morally grey)

⚠️ FULL CONTENT WARNING: Kidnapping, chloroform, non‑consensual dressing & grooming, public captivity, psychological control, implied body horror, unhealthy power dynamics, heavy obsession, eventual explicit themes | MDNI — all content is purely fictional

Warnings: unprotected sex,bruising,biting,praise,hair pulling

Silk strings and obsession

The alley was always quiet after your night shift. You’d walked it dozens of times, keys clutched in your hand, never thinking twice. But tonight the shadows seemed to lean in. Footsteps matched your pace, soft and deliberate. Before you could quicken your step, an arm wrapped tight around your chest, and a thick, sweet‑smelling cloth pressed hard over your mouth and nose.

You kicked, you clawed, you tried to scream but the air turned thick and heavy. Your limbs went loose, your vision blurring into streaks of streetlamp gold. The last thing you saw was Jung Wooyoung’s face inches from yours: eyes burning bright, lips curved in that wide, too perfect smile, whispering soft and low: “Don’t fight it, little doll. You’ll look so much prettier asleep.”

Then nothing.

You woke to a dull, throbbing ache behind your eyes and the strange, heavy weight of clothes that were not yours. You tried to lift your hands, but they moved sluggishly, as if something invisible tugged at your wrists; your feet were shod in polished, narrow shoes that forced your posture straight, your body swathed in layers of cream silk and black lace stitched through with silver thread that caught the light like spider‑silk. Your hair had been pinned back tight with tiny carved wooden ornaments shaped like curled fingers, and your skin smelled of jasmine oil and old beeswax the scent of a workshop filled with things he had made.

A sudden swell of music hit you: low, haunting strings that echoed through a space so vast it made your ears ring. Bright, searing spotlights slammed down around you, blinding you, and when your vision cleared, your breath died in your throat.

You were on a stage. Velvet curtains rose high above you, and beyond the pool of light, stretching back into darkness, sat thousands of people. Every eye was fixed on you. No one cheered. No one whispered. They sat perfectly still, faces pale and unreadable, as if they too were carved from wood.

Then you felt him.

He stepped up directly behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his chest, his breath fanning slow and cold against your ear. In his hands he held long, thin strands of gleaming silk invisible to everyone else, but you could feel their phantom weight anchored to your shoulders, your elbows, your throat, your hips. He plucked one gently, and your head tilted upward of its own accord.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he murmured, his voice smooth, melodic, and terrifyingly calm. “Talk like a puppet. Soft, even, no cracks. Speak only what I give you to say. Move only when I pull. And you will be rewarded. Disobey… and we will find out exactly how much you can be remade until you learn.”

He stepped out to stand beside you, bowing low to the silent crowd, his smile wide and sharp and triumphant. When he turned back to you, his eyes held nothing but hungry possession. He plucked a second thread, and your lips parted without your will.

“Welcome,” your voice came out high, clear, perfectly measured, nothing like your own. “To the Master’s theatre.”

The crowd clapped then slow, rhythmic, thunderous, rolling like distant storm waves. Wooyoung’s fingers brushed your jaw as he leaned close again, so only you could hear:

“Good girl. Now turn. Slow. Let them see every inch of you.”

He guided you through every movement: the tilt of your chin, the sweep of your arm, the slow, graceful turn that made your silk skirts flare like a flower. Every time you faltered, every time your own fear tried to twist your expression, he would murmur a correction or give the faintest tug, and you would snap back into place. When you spoke the lines he had planted in your mind lines about beauty, about perfection, about belonging to the one who holds the strings the crowd reacted as if you were a miracle.

Halfway through, you stumbled. Your breath hitched, and for a moment you almost cried out his name in panic. Wooyoung’s hand landed light on your back, steadying you, his voice barely a whisper against your temple:

“Not yet, doll. Be good. I’m right here.”

You forced yourself to finish. When the final note faded and the lights dipped, he took your hand not roughly, but with the absolute certainty of ownership and led you offstage, down corridors lined with shelves filled with glass‑eyed figures, all frozen in poses he had chosen. After the show, he led you away from the noise, down winding corridors lined with shelves of carved wooden figures eyes glassy, smiles painted on, frozen forever in poses he’d chosen. He took you to a room draped in velvet, lit only by candlelight, and locked the door behind him.

He laid out a tray: sweet fruit, warm tea, a soft velvet blanket, a small carved wooden pendant shaped like a heart.

“This is what you earn,” he said, stepping close, his fingers tracing your jawline. “When you perform perfectly, you get comfort. You get pretty things. You get me. If you break… you get nothing but silence and cold wood.”

He fed you pieces of fruit himself, watching your mouth like he was memorising every movement. He brushed your hair back, his touch lingering, warm and sharp all at once. You flinched, and his hand stilled for a heartbeat, he looked almost hurt, before that bright, dangerous smile slid back into place.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I only want to make you perfect.”

Night after night you stood on that stage. Night after night he pulled your strings, guided your words, made you dance and recite and smile for the crowd. And every time you obeyed, he gave you little gifts: ribbons, chocolates, sketches he’d drawn of you, perfectly still and beautiful.

But something began to change.

He started watching you not like a creator watching his creation but like a man watching something he couldn’t live without. He’d linger in the doorway of your room, just staring. He’d sit with you after shows and tell you about his work, his life, things he’d never told anyone else. When you stumbled on stage one night, he didn’t punish you. He just caught your arm, whispered “It’s alright”, and guided you through the rest.

You felt it too a twisted, terrible thing blooming in your chest. Fear was still there, cold and sharp, but underneath it was something else: curiosity, a strange kind of safety when he was near, a flutter in your stomach when he looked at you. You wanted to speak, to tell him, to ask him what he was doing but you were too scared. Too scared he’d break you if you said the wrong thing. Too scared you were already halfway to being his puppet for real.

One night after a show, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“I don’t want to control you anymore,” he admitted, quiet and raw. “I want you to choose me. Even if you shouldn’t. Even if it’s wrong.”

He reached out, his fingers trembling just a little, and brushed a tear from your cheek.

“I think… I think I’ve fallen for you. And I don’t know how to stop.”

You looked up at him … really looked at him and saw the madness was still there, but tangled up with something real, something hungry and human.

“Wooyoung,” you whispered, your voice shaking.

He flinched, like he’d forgotten you had your own voice.

“Say it again,” he breathed.

“Wooyoung.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away, to run, to scream but you didn’t. He kissed you, gentle at first, then deeper, desperate, like he was trying to pour every twisted, hidden part of himself into you. His hands were no longer pulling strings they were holding you, touching you, memorising you. He undressed you slowly, reverently, whispering how beautiful you were, how you were the only thing that ever felt real.

There was still power there, still danger, still the ghost of all he’d done but now there was longing too. He worshipped every inch of you, his touch burning and soft all at once, checking in with every breath, letting you set the pace even when his own desire raged out of control. It was messy and wrong and utterly consuming and somewhere in the dark, you let yourself fall too.

You looked up at him…really looked at him, and saw the madness was still there, sharp and bright, but tangled up with something real, something hungry and human, something that ached as bad as you did.

“Wooyoung,” you whispered, your voice shaking.

He flinched, like he’d forgotten you had your own voice, like hearing you say his name like that was something he’d only dared to dream of. His fingers curled tight in the silk at your waist, knuckles white, fighting the urge to take you all at once.

“Say it again,” he breathed, leaning closer, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot and shaky against your skin. “Louder. Let me hear you say who you belong to, not just on my stage, not just when I pull the strings… but right now. For real.”

“Wooyoung.”

He leaned in slow, giving you every chance to pull away and when you didn’t, when you leaned right into him, he groaned low in his throat and crashed his lips to yours. It wasn’t gentle anymore, it was claiming. He kissed you like he’d starved for it, teeth grazing your lip until you gasped, his tongue sweeping in to taste every part of you, hands fisting in your hair to tilt your head exactly how he wanted it.

“You have no idea,” he growled against your mouth, “how long I’ve waited to stop pretending this is just a performance.”

His hands were everywhere at once, rough and reverent, tracing every curve like he was carving you into his memory. He undid the laces of your corset slow, watching your chest heave as the silk fell away, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, nipping soft then hard until you whined and arched into him. When you tried to touch him back, he caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head with effortless strength, his other hand gliding down your stomach to grip your hip hard enough to leave marks.

“Not yet, doll,” he purred, eyes dark and burning. “You move only when I let you. Remember?”

He dragged his thumb slow over your skin, making you shiver so hard your teeth chattered he loved it, loved watching you fall apart for him, loved that every gasp, every shiver, every broken little sound was yours and yours alone, but still his to command.

He trailed kisses lower, over your ribs, your hips, sucking bruises into your soft skin that would stay for days, his mark, his claim. When you tangled your hands in his hair and tugged, he bit down light, making you cry out, then soothed the sting with his tongue, laughing dark and low when you squirmed.

“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you, hair wild, lips swollen, skin flushed and marked exactly how he liked it. “Beg for it. Properly. Like you know who owns every inch of you.”

You stammered out his name, half-plea half-prayer, and his smile went sharp and devastatingly sweet.

“Good girl.”

He moved over you then, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him pressed against you – solid, warm, unyielding. He pushed into you inch by agonising inch, watching your face twist, whispering dark praise against your skin: “So perfect. Made just for me. Look at you – taking every last bit of me like you were always meant to.” He set a brutal, steady pace, one hand still holding your wrists pinned, the other gripping your jaw to make you look right at him, forcing you to see the hunger and the adoration warring in his eyes. Every time you tried to look away, he tilted your chin back, thrusting deeper until you gasped his name loud enough to echo off the velvet walls.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded, voice rough with want. “Don’t you dare look anywhere else. I want to see every second of you coming undone for me.”

He knew exactly how you moved, exactly what made you gasp and shake and cling to him he had been creating you, contorting your every move to his will, bending you to his shape, forcing your body to unravel before him slowly, stripping you of every single fibre of control you once felt.

You let out a strangled moan as he pulled the strings tight, you body tiightening with the snap of the strings your body moving, forced onto the floor, knees hitting the floor with a thud as he towered over you his frame encompassing you, his hands gripping you, brushing himself against you. Giving you a taste, a sample of what he was going to give you.

You gasped loudly as you felt his large calloused hand pressing into your face, forcing your cheek to hit the ground, the contrast of the coolness of the floor and the raging fire that he had created burning through you. You moaned, the sound muffled between his hand and the floor, vibrating through your body, he smirked as he hiked the fabric of your skirt up over your hips, your core now visible, glistening in the glow of the room, you looked back eyes raking over his form as he slid his slacks down his member springing free from the restraints, he let out a low moan as he stroked his cock, leaking with precum as he smeared it over your fluttering core. Pressing his cock into your glistening pussy inch by inch. “Such a good toy, a puppet made just for me” he growled out, jaw tight, eyes darkening with the lust.

The last of his restraint snapped as he bottomed out, his hips snug against your ass, hips moving fluidly against you, waves of pleasure flowing through your body as he pushed deeper inside, only to pull back, snapping his hips faster as he pulled you closer to the edge.

You closed your eyes, reveling in the brutal waves of pleasure he let spread through you. He noticed, jaw tightening as he brought his hand off your face, gripping the strands of your hair tugging harshly as he moved you, forcing your neck to bend upwards, you back arching with a searing ache.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded, voice rough with want. “Don’t you dare look anywhere else. I want to see every second of you coming undone for me.” Your eyes fell to the reflection in the mirror that was set perfectly angled in the room, the sight of him taking you like this forcing you to clench around his throbbing cock, the searing pain of his hand tightening in your hair, the pain leaving as his hand released, wrapping the large slender fingers around your throat as he kept you in place. Pistoning his thrusts into you almost animalistically, his hips stuttering as he felt the warm wet muscle of your core clenching around him tightly.

With a low groan he stuttered hips jolting deeply into you spilling his seed into you, the mixture of your release and his pouring out of you, spreading between your bodies.

When you finally fell apart, crying out his name over and over, he followed you right over the edge, burying his face in your neck, biting down soft against your pulse as he shook through his own release, holding you so tight it felt like he’d never let go.

Afterwards he didn’t pull away. He curled around you, brushing your hair back with gentle fingers, kissing every bruise he’d left, every inch of skin he’d claimed – that wild, dangerous edge still there, but wrapped around something soft and aching.

Afterwards he didn’t pull away. He curled around you, brushing your hair back with gentle fingers, kissing every bruise he’d left, every inch of skin he’d claimed that wild, dangerous edge still there, but wrapped around something soft and aching. You let your eyes fall shut, dizzy and warm.

Then you felt it.

The faint, familiar tug at your wrists not rough, not urgent, but impossible to resist.

You tried to shift, to pull back and look at him, but your body didn’t answer. Your head stayed tilted exactly where he’d placed it; your fingers curled limp against his chest, unable to close around the silk of his shirt. Panic flared sharp and hot in your throat, but your lips wouldn’t part to speak.

Wooyoung ran his thumb slow over your bottom lip, and that wide, too‑perfect smile spread across his face the same one he’d worn in the alley, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

“Oh, my sweet doll,” he purred, soft as the strings that hummed in the dark. “Did you really believe I’d ever let you have your own way?”

He sat back, pulling you easily with him, and you saw them then the thin, gleaming silver threads strung from your wrists, your elbows, your throat, your hips, trailing out into the shadows to where his fingers curled around their ends. He’d never cut them. He’d only hidden them where you couldn’t see.

“I told you I’d make you perfect,” he murmured, plucking one thread so your back arched of its own accord. “And perfect things don’t get to choose. They don’t get to have voices, or minds, or hearts that beat for anyone but their maker.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, cold as polished wood. “I didn’t fall in love with you,I fell in love with what I could make of you. And now you’re finished.”

He stood, and you rose with him, moving only when he moved, your body light and weightless, no will of your own left to hold it down. He led you to the far wall, where a new shelf had been set up, empty, save for a velvet stand shaped exactly to your height, fitted with tiny carved clamps for your wrists and ankles.

Rows of glass‑eyed figures watched you go, their painted smiles identical to the one he wore now.

He settled you into place, adjusting your limbs with slow, careful hands until you stood just so: head high, lips parted, that soft, perfect look he’d taught you fixed forever in your eyes. He wound the silver threads around the carved wooden fingers of the stand, tying them tight, then stepped back to admire his work, head tilted like he was studying his finest masterpiece.

The last thing you felt was his thumb brushing your pulse, still, for a moment, warm, before he reached out and plucked the thread strung through your throat.

Your breath caught.

And then it stopped.

He bowed low to you, as if you were still on that stage, as if you could still see him, still hear him.

“Sleep well, my beautiful puppet,” he whispered. “The show will go on forever, and you will never, ever leave me.”

He turned away, blowing out the candles one by one, until the room fell dark. Somewhere in the quiet, you thought you heard the faint, soft hum of strings being tuned and the click of the lock, sealing you in with all the rest.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez smut #wooyoung x reader #ateez wooyoung #jung wooyoung #wooyoung #wooyoung smut

Pairing: Choi San x Reader Genre: Action • Intense Romance • smut ⚠️ 🔞 Explicit content implied/teased | Violence, blood, themes of injury | Consensual intimate moments | MDNI — all content is purely fictional Warnings: choking, knife play, unprotected sex, biting, posessive, size kink, hard dom San, mirror sex

bruises and kisses

The basement smelled of sweat, iron, and stale beer. Lights swung low over the ring, casting long shadows across scarred skin and worn canvas. Choi San stood in the corner, wrapping his hands tight, his jaw set hard, eyes dark and focused. He was the most feared fighter in these underground rings fast, brutal, relentless. But you were the only one who saw what lay beneath all that muscle and fury.

You’d come to watch a friend fight, but you’d stayed because of him.

When the bell rang, San moved like thunder. He took hits that would have dropped anyone else, shook them off, and struck back with terrifying precision. You winced every time a fist connected, but you couldn’t look away. When the final blow landed and the crowd roared, San didn’t celebrate. He ducked through the ropes and headed straight for the shadows straight for you.

Blood trickled from his lip. His knuckles were split open. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, but his gaze softened the second it landed on you.

“You came,” he said, voice rough and breathless.

“I told you I would.” You stepped forward, dabbing gently at the cut on his cheek with your sleeve. “You’re insane. You take too many hits.”

He caught your wrist, his grip firm but careful. “Only because I know you’re watching. Makes me fight harder.”

He led you back to the small room he used to rest, closing and locking the door behind him. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull murmur. He pulled off his gloves, then his shirt, revealing the bruises already blooming across his ribs and shoulders. You traced one gently, and he shivered, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing that could soothe him.

“I hate seeing you hurt,” you whispered.

He lifted your chin, his dark eyes burning into yours. “But you’re the only thing that heals me.”

He kissed you then hungry, desperate, tasting of iron and salt and something entirely him. It wasn’t gentle; it was heavy with all the things he couldn’t say inside that ring, all the tension he’d held back all night. His hands were everywhere at once: gripping your waist, tangling in your hair, pulling you flush against him so you could feel every hard line of him.

You tangled your fingers through his damp hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned low in his throat, backing you slowly against the wall. His lips moved down your jaw, your neck, his touch searing and sure, every movement deliberate, every breath yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with need. “Tell me I’m yours.”

“Always,” you breathed, arching into him. “Only you.”

He lifted you easily, setting you down on the edge of the bench, stepping between your legs, his hands roaming slow and sure. The gloves were off now and so was every part of him that he kept hidden from the world. Here, there was no crowd, no rules, no fight. Only him. Only you.

You gasped his hands that held so much weight behind them, usually used to cause pain, was feathlight against your skin, you felt the shiver run down you spine as he caressed your body, adding pressure to the soft flesh of your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. You felt the calloused hands bruisong into your skin as he forced you to lay on the bench, his frame towering over you, the dog tag he always wore dangling from his neck infront of you. Tempting your will, you grabbed the metal, pulling him closer closing the distance, tongues fighting for dominance as he pulled away, his eyes dark with desire as he gripped your throat, his touch burning like fire against you. Enoug pressure to cause your eyes to flutter, your core clenching under the skirt you wore. You came with no panties, knowing the pent up adrenaline of the fight would be enough for it to end this way. You gasped as he rose, kicking the loose fabric of his sweatpants onto the floor, boxers gone with a thud. He stood over you again, his cock aching, throbbing against his stomach as he drank in the sight of you, the soft fabric of your skirt hiked up to your hips, your glistening pussy on show for him.

He let out a low moan as he trailed kisses along your neck, brusing the delcate skin, his teeth biting and claiming you. You let out whines at the feeling, his cock pulsing against your core, you moved your hips against him in search of friction, the need burning between you both. You gasped as he took his cock in his hand lining up and sinking into you deeply, the size and girth splitting you delciously, you gripped onto him your nails digging into the golden skin, your touch bruising and grounding for him. He tried to restrain himself, he really tried but the look in your eyes made him growl, the restraint snapping as he lifted your body, forcing you onto all fours as he gripped your throat again sheething himself into your dripping core again, the mirror in front of you giving you a delcious view of the scene before you, his hand wrapping around your throat again, touch motlen. You moaned loudly. "s-san…please" the words forming into a whine.

He let the sound echo through the room, reverberating through the walls, surrounding him, he moved against you thrusting hard into your core, arousal pooling out of you and dripping down his thighs. "keep your fucking eyes on me princess" he growled, the grip on your throat almost punishing, you let out a strangled whine as his other hand reached for something.

lifting the item he let the glow of the metal shine in the mirror, you whined loudly, the sight of the knife making you clench around him hard. A low growl leaving his body as he kept the pace, hips gliding against you gorgously, you could see the sliver of sweat adorning his body, dripping down each toned muscle. You felt the sting at this moment, eyes fluttering as he dragged the metal against your spine, the blade touching your skin, a light as a feather, before pressing the blade against your skin harder. The sight of the blood trickling down your skin as he pumped inside you was driving him insane, he needed to stake his claim in the most divine way he knew. Gliding the blade across your spine he etched his name into your skin. The sounds leaving your lips were like music in his ears. His grip still tight around your throat, not once allowing your gaze to fall from the sight before you.

"mine, all fucking mine" he growled, lifting the blade to your throat as he moved his hand, the deadly grip on you hip with his other hand almost bruising. He moaned into your ear as he watched your body react, your eyes fluttering with unfiltered raw passion as you pussy clench around him, milking his throbbing cock. He felt the coil forming, the familiar wave of both your orgasms approaching rapidly. You let out a scream as you came, the blade still pushed against your throat, his hands still gripped tightly into your skin, painting your insides white as he pumped you full. His cum leaking out of you, squelching between you both.

He couldnt fight the monster inside him, the ones he was told to fight against, but he could satisfy it in one way, and he would never give up any chance to bend you to his will. To make you scream his name, to show everyone who you belong to.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez san #choi san #ateez smut #choi san smut #san ateez #san x reader

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader

Genre: Smut • Soft Romance • Chance Meeting

⚠️ MDNI — all content is purely fictional

Warnings: fingering, choking, spanking,unprotected sex, eating out,fingers in mouth, size kink, pet names(puppy)

All hands no talk

you gasped as his fingers curled into your aching pussy, you let out a whine of his name spill from your lips. "y-yunho.." the sound sweet and dripping from your lips like honey. You watched as he spun your body around, giving you access to watch the scene play out before you. "watch me little one~" the low rasp of his voice causing you to clench around his slender, long fingers. You let your head fall, watching the way his fingers pumped into you with precison, drawing out the ache that burned deep within you.

You let out a whine as his hands left your aching core, lifting his fingers to his lips as he sucked the glistening arousal from his deft fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. You gasped, watching as he trailed his hand down his body, stroking the length of his cock, throbbing between his hand as he lined up with your core, stretching your tight muscles as he pushed himself in inch by inch, the burn flowing through you causing you to whimper hands flying to grip onto his shoulders as he bottomed out. The length of his cock reaching deeply inside you as he thrusted into you, his cock bulging against your cervix as he laid his hand across your stomach feeling the way he abused your hole. Taking his desire to ruin you beyond new heights, he set a pace his hips bucking wildly against you as his own high came tumbling through him.

He let out low moans, the sounds of skin slapping against each other being the only thing swirling around you both, the festival outside a mere muffled memory, he fucked into you harshly. His hands taking their claim brusing you delicate flesh as he pumped himself inside you. "cum with me puppy~" he moaned out as his orgasm flushed through him. spilling inside you, painting your aching core. You clenched hard around him as he came, tighening around him and milking his throbbing cock.

You gasped as he pulled out slowly, legs shaking, body trembling as he grips your body lifting your legs onto his shoulders, moving slowly upwards standing tall against the wall, his shoulder alone keeping your legs parted enough for him. "hold on baby" he said. His breath hot against your overstimulated core. His tongue circling around your fluttering pussy, the mixture of both your arousals painting his tongue as he eat you out like a man starved. Tongue laying flat against your clit as your hands found purchase, interwined in his hair, tugging harshly at the strands, hips moving wildly against him as he brought you closer to the edge again, the wave thrashing through you as you squirted, the liquid pouring from you coating his face, dripping down his chin onto the floor below. You moaned loudly, his name falling repeatedly from your lips.

A pleased hum vibrated against you as he drank in every single drop of you. Unable to stop, he knew he was going to get into so much trouble for this but the hunger to make you his was stronger than any force hed imagined. He would be damned to let you go now.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez yunho #jeong yunho smut #jeong yunho

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﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Pairing: Kim Hongjoong x Reader

Genre: Pirate AU • Fantasy • Enemies to Lovers • Sacrifice & Redemption

⚠️ Themes of magical punishment, grief, injury, and emotional hardship | MDNI — all content is purely fictional

Warnings: eating out, unprotected sex

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔱𝔲𝔫𝔢

The sea knew your name. It had sung it since you were small, taught you that your voice was a weapon, your beauty a trap, and that men who sailed above the waves were nothing but prey to be dragged down and devoured. Your father, the ancient ruler of the deep reefs, had made it clear: Captains like Kim Hongjoong are the worst of all. Arrogant, greedy, untouchable. Lure him. Break him. Bring his ship to the rocks.

You watched his vessel cut through the water like a dark blade: The Horizon’s Edge. Black sails stitched with silver stars, cannons gleaming, and at the helm stood Hongjoong. He wore a long coat of deep crimson, gold rings glinting on every finger, a scar slicing through one eyebrow that only made him look sharper, wilder. He did not look like a man who could be charmed. He looked like a man who commanded the tides themselves.

But you were a siren. And you had never failed.

You rose from the waves, skin glowing pale as pearl, your tail shimmering in hues of sapphire and emerald, and you began to sing.

It was the song your kind had used for centuries sweet, haunting, weaving through the wind and seeping into the bones of anyone who heard it. The crew froze. Hands slipped from ropes. Eyes glazed over, drawn toward the water like moths to a flame. Even the ocean seemed to slow, listening.

But Hongjoong did not drop his wheel.

He gripped it tighter, his knuckles white, and stared straight at you through the spray. His eyes were dark, fierce, and burning with something that was not fear. He did not turn away. He steered the ship directly toward you.

When the bow dipped close enough, he leaned over the rail and called out, his voice cutting through your melody like a knife:

“Beautiful song, siren but I do not die so easily.”

He tossed down a length of heavy sailcloth, and when you reached for it, he pulled you up himself strong arms hauling you over the gunwale, dripping wet and snarling, ready to sink your teeth into him. But he only wrapped the cloth around your shoulders and stepped back, watching you with curiosity rather than fear.

“I know what you are,” he said calmly. “I know what you do. But I will not be your victim.”

You stayed aboard as his prisoner or so you told yourself. You planned to wait, to charm him slowly, to learn his weaknesses, then lead his ship onto the jagged teeth of the Devil’s Teeth reef at high tide.

But Hongjoong refused to be the monster you expected.

He did not lock you in the hold. He gave you a cabin of your own. He brought you sweet fruit and fresh water, and when you spoke of the deep trenches and the glowing caves where you lived, he listened truly listened asking questions, drawing maps of places you described, saying, “I have always wanted to see those waters.”

He stood beside you on deck at night, pointing out constellations, telling you stories of stolen treasure and narrow escapes, and slowly, the sharp, hungry edge of your song began to soften. You found yourself singing only for him now low, quiet melodies that held no malice, only the things you could not say aloud. You had meant to break his heart. Instead, he was slowly mending yours.

One evening, when the sea was calm and the sky blushed pink, you leaned against the rail and admitted it quietly “I was sent to destroy you.”

Hongjoong did not flinch. He only turned to you, his gaze gentle but intense.

“I know. But you did not.”

Your throat tightened. “Because I could not.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from your face, his touch warm and careful.

“Then you have already chosen, little siren.”

You felt it, the power he held, pulling off his ring that adorned his middle finger, a garnet stone adorned the middle, taking your hand gently and sliding it onto your finger. The ocean around you breathing shakily, waves crashing a little more powerful. You watched at the stone glistened under the moonlight. A glow casting around your both as you winced, a pain coursing through you as you looked down. He smiled as he watched, the power from the ring working. You body changing, your tail melting away, you didnt know this was possible, always told it was a thing of myths and legends. You gasped as you looked down at your legs.

He smiled as you looked at yourself, his hand reaching to touch you, his eyes searching for any hesitation. You gasped as his touch ignited a warmth throughout you, used to the cold waves of the ocean flowing through your veins, you looked into his eyes, the deep browns swirling around and mesmerising you, a power you knew was wrong, you was supposed to command him, to draw him into your own world, to force his hand. You smiled, the bright smile causing him to gasp, completely enraptured by you… his hand finding its place against your cheek.

Leaning into his touch you let yourself go, letting the warmth spread across you slowly. Each touch featherlight as he leant in, connecting your lips, pouring his devotion into each movement. You smiled into the kiss, as he did. Pulling away slowly, breathless. You looked at him, drinking him in, you fingers curling into his billowing shirt, pulling the fabric, a silent plea. He answered immediately taking the thin fabric and peeling it from his skin. Throwing the cotton across the room, your eyes following the sharp lines that adorned his skin, the scars covering his body from the many battles he had fought. You gasped as he walked closer, his hands gripping your own body, forcing your body against the cool rail, a stark contrast of the fire burning within him, pouring into you, your coolness fighting, restraint being tested as he attached his lips to your throat.

You let out a moan of his name as his teeth grazes along your pulse throbbing in your throat. You felt his hands gripping your body, digging his nails into your flesh as he trailed his lips down your body. Leaving his mark against your skin. A silent claim. You gasped back the whines threatening to spill from your mouth as he knelt between your legs, pulling your legs to lay on his shoulder, opening your core to him. The wind whipping around you both as the ocean matched the storm awakening inside you, Hongjoong pulling and pushing your restraint to his will, your power slipping through your pores as he sunk his lips and teeth into your plush thigh, marking your body with his power, seeping his strength and fire into your body. You felt your grip tightening against the rail knuckles white from the grip as he dove in between your legs, taking his time to lick and suck your clit.

You moved your hand, knocking the captain hat from his head and laughing as it hit the ground, your fingers intertwining into his hair, tugging harshly as he drove his tongue into your core, your hips stuttering, matching the thrusts of his tongue curling into you. The moans from him vibrating through you, the ocean waves crashing around you both as the ship moved, forcing your bodies to move, falling against him.

You both fell to the floor, hongjoong gripping your body and pulling you close, the hardness of his cock straining against his slacks, you moved with ease, fingers curling around the pants tugging harshly pulling the fabric off, throwing the restraints across the deck. You crawled over him, settling your knees over his thighs. His cock straining, throbbing with the movements. His eyes drinking your body in as he smirked, gripping your hips as he forced your to sink down. Leaving no hesitation to flood your body. His cock sheething inside your warm core inch by inch. Moans leaving both your lips, the feeling igniting a passion inside you didnt know was ever there. He gripped the back of your neck, pouring his devotion into your mouth as he bucked his hips, slow and precise movements, drinking in the way you whined into his mouth.

You moved against him, lifting your body up slowly, hands against his sculpted chest as you rode him, your hips curling as you took the pleasure you craved from him. His thrusts meeting your movements. You felt the wave flooding your system, his cock throbbing inside you deeply as you clenched around him.

You both moaned loudly, his name falling from your lips as you both came, your core clenching around him milking his cock as he spilled inside you. You both pulled away breathless, bodies moulded together.

You took him in, he smiled, a bright warm smile. You dont know when it happened but you fell for him completely hopelessly, irrevocably. You began to dream not of the deep, but of standing beside him, of seeing the world above the waves, of being his equal. He reached for your hand, sliding the garnet ring from your finger, the power surging back into the ring and your body moving, your beautifully scaled tail adorning your body again as you leant against the ship. A sigh leaving your body as you felt your body relaxing.

You lay tangled together, breathless, and knew you had fallen for him completely, hopelessly, irrevocably. You began to dream not of the deep, but of standing beside him, of seeing the world above the waves, of being his equal. He reached for your hand, sliding the ring back onto his own finger the magic fading, your tail returning, beautiful and iridescent, as you leant against the rail with a soft sigh.

You didn’t know how, but your father was watching.

The storm hit without warning. Black clouds swallowed the sun, waves rose like mountains, and the ocean roared with a voice that shook the very timbers of the ship. From the churning deep rose your father towering, terrible, his eyes burning with cold fury.

“You have betrayed us,” he bellowed, the sound echoing through every drop of water. “You have given your heart to the enemy. And so you will pay.”

You cried out, begging for mercy, but he would not listen. He reached down, and with a snap of his will, he took what was yours by right. The change Hongjoong had gifted you by choice he tore it from you by force. Magic seared through you, hot and blinding, as your tail was stripped away entirely. He silenced your song, severed every bond you held to the sea, and left you with nothing but trembling, bleeding human legs.

“Walk on land,” he snarled. “Be weak. Be mortal. And never return to the waters again.”

You collapsed to the deck, gasping, weeping, broken and terrified.

Hongjoong drew his sword instantly, stepping between you and the raging sea, shouting orders to hold fast. He did not care that you had lost your power. He did not care that you were human now. The moment your father vanished back into the deep, he was on his knees beside you, wrapping you in his coat, holding you up when your legs gave way.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, his voice rough with anger and fear. “I will not let anything else hurt you.”

The first weeks were agony. You could not walk without stumbling. You ached for the water. You woke screaming for your tail, for your song, for the life you had lost. But Hongjoong never left your side.

He taught you to balance on legs that felt alien. He fitted you with sturdy boots and a coat stitched with silver stars just like his, and gave you a sharp dagger with a hilt carved in the shape of a wave. He showed you how to climb rigging, how to read the stars, how to fight not with magic, but with skill and courage.

“You are not less now,” he told you one night, wiping salt spray from your cheeks.

“You are simply different. And I will be here for every step you take.”

Slowly, you began to heal. You learned to stand tall on deck, to shout orders, to stand watch through storms. The crew accepted you not as a siren, but as one of them sharp, fierce, loyal. You fought beside Hongjoong when rival ships attacked, your blade flashing as brightly as your tail once had.

And your love grew deeper still. It was no longer the dangerous pull of a song it was choice. It was trust. It was knowing that even if you had nothing left but him, you would still choose him every time.

One night, anchored in a quiet cove under a sky full of stars, Hongjoong took your hand and pressed a kiss to every faint scar on your legs proof of what you had given up for him, and what he had given you in return.

“I was meant to be your doom,” he whispered. “Instead, I became your home.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, and for the first time since you were punished, you sang not a siren’s call, but a soft, human melody, only for him.

“I gave up the sea,” you said, “but I gained something far greater. I gained you. And I gained a family.”

He pulled you close, and somewhere far beneath the waves, the ocean seemed to sigh not in anger, but in acceptance. You were no longer a siren of the deep. You were a pirate. And you were his.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez hongjoong #ateez smut #kim hongjoong #hongjoong fanfic #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut

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Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader

Genre: Supernatural, Action, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity

⚠️ Dark themes, demonic violence, hellfire imagery | MDNI

Warnings: eating out, choking, dom, unprotected sex

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The flame that bows to you

You had only stepped out for late‑night snacks. You did not expect to round a corner and find the street tearing itself apart.

Flames erupted from asphalt. Shadows twisted into claws. And in the middle of it all stood him Seonghwa his skin peeling away to reveal a skull wreathed in white‑hot hellfire, a chain of burning iron coiled in his hand. He was Ghost Rider: the Spirit of Vengeance, bound to punish the wicked, consumed by endless, agonising fire.

A demon lunged for you. The Rider turned, eyes blazing, and fixed you with the Penance Stare the gaze that burns every sinner from the inside out.

But nothing happened.

The hellfire flickered. The roar of flames dimmed to a low hum. The Rider hesitated, as if the very fire in his bones did not know how to burn you. You stood frozen, unharmed, and somewhere beneath the blaze, Seonghwa’s quiet voice rang in his own mind: She’s not a sinner. She’s… calm.

When the smoke cleared, it was Seonghwa standing there again shirt torn, skin streaked with soot, eyes dark and exhausted. He stared at you like you were something impossible.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, sharp and breathless. “Run. Before it comes back.”

But you didn’t run.

In the days that followed, he found you again and again.

He would spend days, weeks conceding to your every command, something he didn't know he could do. His heart aching for your touch, the curse forbidding it. Still this did not stop you both, threatening the very existence of the curse he grew closer, his touches lingering, testing.

Until he snapped, your doe-eyed eyes shining brightly at him as he towered of you, his broad shoulders and frame covering you entirely, you should have run, you should have got away. but you stayed, the ache in youre own soul forcing its way through your being, pouring out of you like gasoline on the floor, waiting for a match. You felt his warmth surrounding you, echoing a sense of familarity, dare you even say comfort.

you gasped as he took his slender fingers and tilted your chin upwards to meet his gaze, his eyes boring into your soul, a silent plea as he grew closer the kiss barely there. a touch igniting the bones within you. You shivered and gripped his jacket, pulling him closer sealing your lips together as you kissed. It was messy, tongues battling for dominance as you both moved in a rythym built for you both only.

His hands finding purchase against your soft skin as he shed the clothes from your body, his gaze falling to drink you in. You didnt shy way, only a slight tinge of blush creeping upon your cheeks as he knelt before you, lifting your leg onto his shoulder. His face mere inches from your core. You felt his breath ghosting across your pussy, the sheen of arousal making the man below you groan, before leaning in and devouring you, his tongue moulding against your clit with presicion as he worked you closer, his right hand gripping into your hip keeping you pinned where you stood, his left hand tracing the soft flesh of your thigh, creeping closer towards your core. You felt a needy whine creeping up your throat as he drove his fingers into you, not once neglecting your clit with his tongue, the multitube of stimulation causing you to moan loudly, hands gripping onto his hair, tugging hard as his name spewed from your lips. Over and over again as you released, your core dripping onto his tongue as he smirked.

"god, what a mess youve made little one~" he groaned, gripping your body and spinning you to face the wall. his hand wrapping around your throat as he stroked his cock, slipping inside you deeply, the stretch of his cock making you whine. Hips moving to their own accord, chasing the high that tumbled over you like a tidal wave, you gasped breathlessly, his name falling from your lips as he thrusted into you animalitcally, unable to contain the need to ruin you. His hand squeezing as he spilled his seed into you deeply, you both looked at each other, pulling eachother into another sloppy kiss. A small laugh leaving your body as you parted and gasped as he carried your body to the bed, cleaning your body with a cloth before laying you down.

you would spend days after this, learning each other, falling into the same routine, a pattern that became something you couldnt let go.

Every time the fire threatened to take over, every time the pain grew too much to bear, being near you soothed it. The hellfire quieted. The Spirit of Vengeance receded. You were the only anchor his tortured soul had left.

He asked you to stay close reluctantly, angrily, terrified of what being near him would cost you.

“You don’t understand what I am,” he snapped one night, pacing the small safehouse he’d found. “If I lose control, I could kill you. Hell hunts me — and now they’ll hunt you too.”

“Then let me help you fight them,” you said, steady as you ever were. “I’m not leaving you to burn alone.”

He tried pushing you away more than once. He turned cold, cruel, told you you meant nothing, that you were just a convenience. But you stayed. You saw past the fear to the man who had already lost so much.

Then they came Hell’s bounty hunters, tearing through the walls, howling for the Rider’s head. Seonghwa stepped between you and them, his body already beginning to blaze. This time it was not rage that drove the change, but pure, unyielding resolve to keep you safe.

Fire swallowed his form. The skeletal face formed, the chains screamed, the ground shook. He was terrifying, magnificent, every inch the Spirit of Vengeance and yet, when he turned to look at you, the flames burned softer, less wild.

You stepped forward while the demons circled.

“Seonghwa?” you called.

He paused. The hellfire roared, but it did not turn on you.

You reached out your hand and pressed your palm right against the burning side of his arm.

The hunters froze. Even the demons recoiled.

The fire did not burn you. It wrapped around your hand like warm light, answering your touch like it belonged there. The Rider’s head tilted, and for a moment, the fire swirled into the shape of his face and you saw gratitude there. Trust.

He turned back to the attackers, chains lashing out, hellfire searing through them but he kept one burning hand close to you, never letting you out of reach.

When it was over, the flames faded slowly, gently this time. Seonghwa stood before you, breathing hard, his skin unmarked where you had touched him. He looked at your hand, then up at you, his eyes glassy with disbelief and something softer.

“It didn’t hurt you,” he whispered.

“Never,” you said.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and for the first time since he was cursed, he felt entirely, perfectly at peace.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez seonghwa #ateez smut #seonghwa smut #park seonghwa #seonghwa x reader

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Pairing: Choi San x Reader

Genre: Psychological Horror,Dark Drama,Tragedy

⚠️ FULL CONTENT WARNING: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. There’s a lot of Graphic violence & gore, Psychological manipulation, Self‑harm & facial mutilation, Body horror, Obsessive & unhealthy dynamics, Severe trauma, Mind games, Blood & injury detail All content is purely fictional ⤵︎

shibari, choking, biting, claiming, control, submission, dom! san, hard dom, restraints

READ WITH CAUTION!

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Smile until you 🅂🄿🄻🄸🅃

The news footage played on every screen in the country: “THE JOKER SMILE KILLER — Choi San, 26, found guilty of the brutal murder of both parents, before mutilating his own face beyond recognition.”

The image burned into everyone’s mind was him being led away in chains, head bowed, a jagged, raw incision running from the corner of his mouth all the way up to his ears on both sides a joker smile he had carved into himself with a shard of broken glass from the very room his parents died in.

He had done it in a fevered, shattered moment of clarity. The thing that had taken over his hands, the voice that had screamed kill them, had faded and San, the boy who loved his mother’s cooking and his father’s quiet stories, had woken up to the blood on his hands and the horror of what he had become. He had screamed until his throat bled, and then he had taken the glass and dragged it through his own flesh, punishing the mouth that had stayed silent, punishing the face that had hidden the monster inside.

The scars healed thick, rope‑like and pale, pulling his lips permanently into a rictus grin that looked like a scream frozen in time. Any attempt to speak tore the tissue open anew; blood would well up instantly, choking off sound before it could even form. He had not uttered a single word since that night.

But there were two of him.

San was the core gentle, terrified, broken beyond repair, drowning in guilt and shame, convinced he deserved every bit of pain inflicted on him.

The Shadow was the alter born from the trauma cold, sharp, cunning, and violently protective. It believed the world was a cage built to destroy San. It believed every doctor, every guard, every person who looked at him with pity or fear wanted to hurt him. It saw San’s softness as a weakness to be weaponized.

When you were assigned to his case at the high‑security psychiatric facility, your colleagues told you to give up before you started. “He’s a monster,” they said. “Whatever you see isn’t real.”

But you saw the way he flinched when a door slammed. You saw how his hands twisted in his lap when you spoke softly. You saw the tears that leaked from his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking, even as that terrible, fixed smile never wavered.

You sat with him for weeks in total silence. You brought him his favourite tea sweet, just as his medical notes mentioned he used to like. You never touched him without warning. You never recoiled when the scars wept. Slowly, so slowly you almost missed it, the tension in his shoulders eased. He began to look you in the eye. He started to nod when you asked if he was okay.

San was starting to trust you.

The Shadow watched from the dark corner of his mind, calculating every move. It saw the way San’s heart lightened when you entered the room. It saw hope blooming and hope was dangerous. So it decided: Use her. Make her love you. She will get you out. And once you are free, you leave her. No one gets close enough to hurt San ever again.

These words repeating around his head as he took his time, spending the little time he could treating you as if you was something precious, a treasure, he took you into the room, his hand intertwined with yours. His touch warm and spreading like wildfire beneath you igniting a need you didnt know was flickering. He guided you to the wall pushing your frame against the wall with force before attaching his lips to yours.

the kiss was claiming, a silent promise of trust, of protection, of love. He brushed his tongue across your bottom lip, silently preening for entrance as you gasped he took his moment, exploring your mouth with urgency, his growing need brushing against you as he kept you pinned against the wall. He moaned into you mouth, his hands gliding down your body as he learnt the way your body craved him. Feeling the lust pouring from your pores, drinking it up. Licking and biting into your neck as you whimpered for him, body submitting into his grasp. He had you where he wanted you and nothing would stop him.

You moaned as you felt his large calloused hands cup your clothed core, a slight pressure added as he growled. His eyes dark with lust as he watched you, felt the way your legs began to tremble beneath his touch. He hooked his fingers into your waistband, ripping the thin material away from your skin, the loose fabric thrown across the room. His hands removing every inch of fabric from you, the barrier he needed so badly to break through. You let out a squeal as the cool air hit your skin, goosebumps glistening against your skin.

He took a second, admiring the view before him, drinking you in before grabbing a box. A simple black box adorned with a deep crimson ribbon one he had been gifted, he took the lid off and reached inside. You eyes glazed of, need pouring from your irises as he took out the rope. The same deep crimson colour as he unravelled the material, walking closer to you. His broad frame towering over you as he cracked the rope with each step. He didnt speak. He didnt need to.

You felt your entire body shiver, the arousal coating your core, you felt yourself dripping down your legs as he got closer. You saw it, the way his eyes glistened, almost a smirk present in his eyes. He let himself admire his work so far, marks adorning your skin, a show of his power. He took your arms, crossing them infront of you, silently asking you for your trust. A small nod was all he needed before he tied the rope, tugging hard on the rope before creating intricate knots across your body, he had spent days during your time together dreaming of performing such diabolical things to you, a need to assurt his deepest desires on someone, the pure submission in your eyes was something he never thought would arouse him so much, you was feeding his monster. his deepest parts of him.

You moaned loudly as your body moved his hands gripping into your skin as he hooked your body to the wall, no escape from his clutches now, the rope binding your body, his touch sending a fire across your body as he lifted your legs bending them to his will.

He moved you as if your body was a ragdoll, a toy he could mould to his liking. He shed his clothes, his skin glistening with sweat as he stroked himself, lining his cock against your core. You felt yourself clenching instictivly, his girth and length almost torturous as he sheethed himself deep inside you. He let out a breath, a please sigh as he moved against you, his cock thrusting into you at a pace that caused you to whimper, whines leaving your lips. You felt your own mind clearing, the sounds of your bodies slapping against each was the only thing to be heard.

You let out a almost pornographic moan as his hand found your stomach, pressing slightly. The pressure as his warm calloused hand touched your skin, his pace never faltering. A silent plea. You gasped and moaned as you felt his cock brushing deep inside. You felt the familiar ache, your orgasm mere minutes away as he sped up his rhythm, his hips bucking against you animalistically as his hands found the rope around your throat, pressing hard against the material and your skin. You let your mind go. All sense of control leaving your body as you bucked widly against him, chasing the high. The feeling of his cock throbbing as you let out a whine of his name.

He released, his hot cum spilling inside you deeply, you clenched around his cock. milking him through it, your arousals painting each others thighs. You both slowed down. Breaths mixing together as you came down.

He took his time to care for you after, relaxing your aching bones, treating your body with the upmost care, he smiled through his eyes. You smiled back.

It took control. It leaned into your kindness. It let you see flashes of vulnerability that made your heart ache. It played the part perfectly the wounded boy who just needed someone to stay. And you fell for it. You fell hard, crossing every professional line, breaking every rule, because you truly believed you were saving him.

One night, you slipped him a set of keys you’d copied. You led him through empty corridors, past sleeping guards, out into the cold dark of the night. You thought you were running away together. You thought you were starting over.

When you reached the treeline, safe and hidden, you turned to him, breathless and smiling through tears.

“We made it,” you whispered. “We’re free.”

He stopped. He looked at you and for the first time, you saw only emptiness in his eyes. No gratitude. No warmth. No recognition. Just cold, sharp detachment.

He turned without a sound and walked away into the trees. He didn’t look back once.

You stood there until the sun rose, alone and shattered.

Days blurred into weeks. You were suspended, investigated, interrogated but you didn’t care. All you felt was a burning, ragged betrayal. You had given him everything, risked everything, and he had discarded you like trash.

If he wouldn’t come to you, you would make him see you.

You walked into the headquarters of the national news outlet that had first branded him a monster. You walked past the reception, past the cameras, straight into the main newsroom. You didn’t scream. You didn’t shout. You produced a package you had prepared graphic, visceral, mirroring the wounds on his face, written in blood and ink, a message that screamed I AM STILL HERE. YOU CANNOT FORGET ME.

You told them to broadcast it. To show him.

Security dragged you away screaming. You fought them, wild and unhinged, until sedatives finally took you down. They sectioned you immediately. Labelled you delusional, dangerous, obsessed. Locked you away in the very same system you had once worked for.

San saw it live on a small television in the safe house he had hidden in.

For a heartbeat, San surged forward. He collapsed to the floor, sobbing silently, blood trickling down his chin as he tried to scream your name. He knew exactly what you had done. He knew you had broken yourself apart just to reach him. He tried to turn himself in, tried to go back but the panic, the fear, the memory of being caged triggered the switch.

The Shadow slammed back into control, but something was wrong. It felt a twisting, burning ache in its chest that it couldn’t name. It didn’t understand love, or grief, or regret. It only knew that seeing you dragged away like that made it want to burn the whole world down.

“She did this for him,” it reasoned. “She is still a threat. Or… maybe she is the only one who understands.”

It didn’t know what the feeling was. It only knew: I have to get her out.

It took three days of planning. It disabled the perimeter alarms, slipped past sleeping guards, picked the locks until its fingers bled. It burst into your secure room and the lights snapped instantly to a harsh, flashing red.

The door slammed shut behind him.

It was a trap.

San spun around, eyes wild, and saw the staff and guards waiting behind reinforced glass. He looked at you, strapped to the observation chair, and something snapped.

“YOU LIED!” he tried to roar, but the effort tore his scars wide open. Blood poured down his jaw, soaking his collar. “YOU SET ME UP! YOU WERE JUST LIKE THEM — TRYING TO LOCK ME AWAY AGAIN!”

He screamed until he choked on it, clawing at his own face in his rage, tearing the wounds open deeper.

Then he saw you.

You were standing by the far wall, calm and composed, no restraints, no fear. You tilted your head, your voice soft and steady.

“San? Are you okay? You look hurt.”

Confusion warred with fury in his fractured mind. You were free. You were concerned. Nothing had happened.

The Shadow shattered. His mind fractured further, weaving a hallucination so convincing he could taste it. He saw you not as the woman he had abandoned, not as the prisoner, but as an enemy mocking him, playing a game he could not win.

He lunged across the room, blinded by the illusion. He snatched the heavy metal pen from the pocket of the figure standing before him and drove it hard, straight into your chest.

The moment the tip sank home, the spell broke.

The figure by the wall vanished.

You were on the floor beneath him. Eyes wide, shocked, blood bubbling from your lips. You were not an illusion. You were real. And he had just killed you.

He dropped to his knees instantly, pressing his hands over the wound, trying to stem the flood, sobbing silently, blood pouring from his own ruined mouth and mixing with yours. He tried to speak, tried to beg, but all that came out was a gurgle of blood and broken air.

“No… no no no… what did I do… please… wake up… please…”

The Shadow was gone. Shattered by the horror of what had just happened. Only San remained the broken, terrified boy who had never wanted any of this. He held you tighter than he had ever held anything, rocking back and forth, tears cutting tracks through the blood on his face.

You lifted a shaking hand and touched his scarred cheek one last time.

“I… forgive you…” you mouthed.

Then your hand fell.

The guards burst in, weapons raised, shouting for him to stand down. But San didn’t move. He curled his body over yours, shielding you from view, his ruined face pressed into your hair. He made no sound. He had nothing left to say.

He had killed his parents. He had mutilated himself. He had used the only person who ever cared about him. And now, he had destroyed the only thing that could have saved him.

Outside, the sirens wailed. Inside, there was only silence and the echo of a smile carved in blood

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez san #ateez smut #choi san smut #san choi #choi san #san x reader #san ateez #dead dove do not eat

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Pairing: Choi San x Reader

Genre: Historical Fantasy, Time Slip, Soulmates, Destiny

Warning: Themes of injury, battle, emotional distress, blood

MDNI

Summary: an old history book about a General sends you back to the Joseon era, where you marry him and save his life … that was until it all ends.

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A love that lasts centuries

You were curled up late at night, turning the final pages of an old, worn history book about the Joseon dynasty. It told of General Choi San brave, formidable, a man who served his country with everything he had, but whose story always ended too soon. The deeper you read, the brighter the pages glowed, until golden light spilled out and wrapped around you. Before you could gasp, the world tilted, and you were pulled straight into the words.

When your eyes opened, you were sitting on a wooden floor, dressed in a soft, blushing pink hanbok, surrounded by people you knew were your family but this was centuries ago.

A sharp knock rapped at the door.

Your father rose and opened it. Standing there was him…General Choi San. Broad-shouldered in gleaming dark armour etched with silver dragons, sword at his hip, face serious and commanding, every bit the legendary figure you’d just read about.

“The King has ordered alliances between loyal houses,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “I am to take a wife from this household.”

Your father looked between his daughters, then bowed his head. “I offer my eldest.”

You knew this part. You knew how the story went. So you bowed your head and accepted it, your heart trembling but your resolve set you would follow the path, and change the ending.

The wedding was quiet but grand. San was polite, respectful, but distant treating you as duty, not choice. But as the days passed, you saw past the armour. You saw how he carried the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders, how he came home exhausted, how he never let anyone see his wounds.

Until the betrayal.

General Park once San’s mentor, now twisted by envy and greed had been secretly feeding enemy forces information for months. He waited for San to return alone from a border patrol, then burst into your quarters with six armed men at his back, sword drawn and eyes burning with malice.

“All bow before the true protector of this land!” Park roared, his blade glinting in the lantern light. “San is weak! softened by a pretty bride! The throne is mine, and I will start by taking what he holds most dear!”

He lunged straight for you.

San moved faster than thought, stepping between you and the blade with a sharp, fierce shout. The sword drove deep into his side, tearing through his armour and flesh. He staggered, hand clamped hard over the wound, blood spilling fast between his fingers, but he didn’t fall. He drew his own sword and fought back fierce, unyielding until his men arrived and Park was dragged away screaming curses.

As soon as the room was clear, San’s strength gave out. He sank to his knees, and you caught him as he fell, your pink hanbok soaking through with warm, dark blood.

“San — look at me, please look at me!” you sobbed, easing him down onto the floor, pressing your hands tight to the wound to slow the bleeding.

He grit his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead, but his gaze stayed fixed only on you. “It is… only a scratch. Do not fear.”

“It is not a scratch!” you cried, tearing strips from the hem of your inner skirt to bind it. “You could have died! Why did you jump in front like that?”

He reached up, his hand trembling, to brush hair from your face. “Because nothing… nothing is worth losing you. Not this land, not this title, not my life. Never you.”

You ran to gather clean water, healing herbs, and linen cloths, your hands shaking but your mind racing with everything you knew from your time how to clean it, how to stop infection, how to tie it firm but gentle. You knelt beside him again, wiping the blood from his skin with soft, careful strokes.

“This will sting,” you whispered, dipping a cloth in boiled water.

“I have endured worse,” he breathed, watching you with an intensity that made your chest ache. “But your hands… they are softer than any I have known. Even like this.”

You cleaned the wound slowly, whispering soothing words when he flinched, your fingers light and steady. “I am not going to let you go. Not today. Not ever.”

“Promise me?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“I promise.” You bound the wound tight, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead when you finished. “Rest now. I am right here.”

Day after day you sat by him, feeding him broth, cooling his fever, changing his bandages, never leaving his side. And slowly impossibly he recovered. When he was strong enough to hold you, he pulled you into his arms and wept. “You saved me. Not just my life but my heart.”

The war turned, the traitor was punished, and peace settled over the land. San no longer came home as a general alone he came home as your husband, fully and truly yours. Years passed, and one bright spring morning, you held a tiny, beautiful baby girl in your arms, wrapped in soft cloth the colour of cherry blossoms. San knelt beside you, his hand resting gently on her head, tears glistening in his eyes.

“She has your eyes,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “And she is proof that no time, no distance, no fate could ever keep us apart.”

You smiled, looking down at your daughter, then up at the man you’d crossed centuries to save and for a moment everything felt perfect, forever yours.

Then the light faded.

Everything went black.

When your eyes opened, you were back in your own room, the old history book lying open on your lap, the page showing General Choi San’s portrait. You sat up gasping, patting your chest, your arms, half‑expecting to feel the soft silk of your pink hanbok but you were in your own clothes, in your own time.

You cried for days. You reached for him in your sleep, whispered his name when you woke, stared at the book until your eyes burned. You knew it was impossible. You knew you could never go back. But your heart refused to forget.

Weeks passed. You tried to carry on, but nothing felt quite right. One afternoon you walked to your usual coffee shop, ordered your matcha latte, and stepped out into the busy street.

You weren’t looking where you were going and bumped straight into someone’s solid chest.

“I’m so sorry —” you started, then froze.

You looked up.

It was him.

Same warm dark eyes, same soft mouth, same broad shoulders just in a hoodie and jeans instead of armour. He looked exactly how you remembered… or even more handsome, bright and alive in the sunlight.

He stared at you too, like he recognised something he’d been searching for his whole life.

“Oh — I’m sorry,” he said, his voice the same deep, familiar tone that had once whispered vows to you by candlelight. He still hadn’t looked away.

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. You gave a small, wobbly smile.

“It’s okay… have a lovely day.”

You turned to walk away but his hand caught your wrist, gentle but sure.

“Wait — please.”

You stopped in your tracks, turning back slowly. He smiled bright, warm, that same smile that had once lit up a palace in another lifetime.

“I know this sounds crazy,” he said softly, “but… do I know you from somewhere? Because I feel like we’ve met….. idk maybe …. I think I also owe you another matcha?”

Your eyes filled with happy tears, and you smiled back the first real smile you’d had since you woke up.

“I think you do.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez san #san choi #choi san #san x reader

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Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader

Genre: Mutual yearning, Intimate Romance

MDNI

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Safe in your hands

You’d been sharing the space for ages easy, comfortable, so used to being around each other that you barely thought twice before stepping into his room. You’d gone to grab his hoodie you’d left there, assuming he’d locked the bathroom door like he always did.

You turned the handle and pushed it open.

Steam billowed out instantly, warm and thick. And there he was tall, broad, water glistening over his shoulders, head tilted back under the spray. He spun around fast, eyes wide, and you yelped, slamming both hands over your face and stumbling back a step.

“OH MY GOD — I AM SO SORRY! I thought you locked it!” you stammered, voice cracking, face burning so hot you could feel it all the way to your ears. “I didn’t mean to — I’ll go, I’m so sorry —”

“Wait, wait — stop!” His voice was deep, flustered but gentle, no anger at all. “It’s okay! I was in a rush, I forgot to lock it. That’s my fault, not yours. Please don’t run off.”

You stayed frozen, hands still clamped over your eyes. “I’m so embarrassed…”

You heard him laugh softly that familiar, warm rumble that always settled your nerves. “I’ve got a towel now, promise. You can look if you want… or not. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

You lowered your fingers just a little, peeking through, and saw him leaning against the wall, towel wrapped securely around his waist, hair dark and dripping, cheeks just as pink as yours. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, but his eyes stayed soft on you.

“To be honest…” he started, then paused, taking a slow breath like he was working up courage he’d been hiding for ages. “I’ve been wanting to say something for a really long time. I just… I never knew how. I was scared I’d mess us up.”

Your heart gave a hard, hopeful thud. “Say… what?”

He stepped a tiny bit closer, careful not to crowd you.

“That I don’t just see you as a friend. Not anymore. Not for a long time.” His voice was quiet, earnest, no rush, no pressure. “Every little thing you do… it matters to me. More than I know how to say properly. I guess… this silly accident just pushed me to finally admit it.”

You stared at him, and all the quiet moments suddenly made perfect sense. “I… I feel the same. I have for ages. I was just too scared to say anything too.”

His whole face lit up that bright, crinkly smile that made him look like sunshine itself. He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead with his thumb, his touch warm and trembling just a little.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly, waiting until you nodded before leaning down.

The first kiss was shaky, clumsy, desperate like you’d both been holding it in for so long you couldn’t get close enough fast enough. His hands came up to cup your face, huge and gentle, dwarfing your jaw, and you fisted your hands in his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Baby…” he breathed against your lips, the pet name slipping out soft and shaky. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

He was so much bigger than you his shoulders twice your width, his hands spanning your whole waist, his chin resting easily on the top of your head when he pulled you against him. He walked you slow back toward the bed, never letting go, never breaking the kiss for long, checking in every step with quiet little questions “Is this okay? You want this too?” and only moving forward when you said yes.

Every touch was deliberate, reverent, and entirely yours. He made sure you wanted every part of it, every shift, every quiet whisper of “beautiful girl” against your skin. When he finally moved slow and deep, his arms wrapped tight around you like he was scared you’d slip away, you tangled your legs with his and held on just as tight. It was raw and unguarded, no barriers left, just two people who’d waited too long to be this close.

Afterwards he curled himself around you, his big body shielding you completely, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder and your hair.

“Yunho…” you murmured, turning in his hold.

He looked down at you, eyes soft and bright. “Yeah, baby?”

“Stay?”

He smiled, warm and sure, and pulled you closer.

“Always.”

You dreamt of this, the way his body would feel against yours, you took this oppourtunity and grasped it with both hands, unafraid to let go, you moulded into the touches, his hands tracing against your skin so softly you barely felt it, goosebumps raising against your skin.

He let his gaze fall over your still clothed body, his hands lifting the hoodie that you had on as he deepened the kiss, his lips soft against yours. You gasped as his toungue traced lightly against your bottom lip.

Taking this as an invitation he slipped his tongue into your mouth, exploring and claiming your breath, your soul as you melted every worry, every nerve alight with his movements. A small whimper left your body as he shed the clothes from your body, his big hands roaming across your body, leaving you no room to feel even a slight tinge of nervousness.

He drank you in the way you looked was ethereal to him, he could only admit that he had imagined this far to many times in the quiet hours of the night, when you slept soundly in your own bed. unaware, unphased. Hed be damned if he was to even waste this time.

He smirked as he parted away, breathless and sunk into the crevice of your neck his teeth grazing along your pulse point, a shar shiver coursing through your spine as he gently caressed your inner thigh, his hand trailing up towards your core.

Your core clenched, feeling so aroused, the coolness of the room and the heat of his touch doing nothing to sedate the ache between your legs. You gasped as you felt his fingers caress your folds the slick that spread causing him to let out a breathy moan, his fingers working against your clit with precision. He really took his time, working you towards the high you craved. Your body moving against his as his finger slid into you without a warning the whine that left you caused your face to flush a deep crimson, a breathless laugh leaving his mouth.

"oh look at you, so needy, so wet for me little one~" he whispered into you ear, the low rumble of his voice driving you closer. He found a rythym, the thrusting and curling of his long fingers bring you towards the high. You hurtled towards it you body moving against his fingers. A silent cry for more.

He tutted, a small noise you barely registered as your mind become blank, his name wanting to fall from your lips. "Oh little one, you havent even taken my cock yet and look at you, wanting to cum so badly~" he laughed, a smirk plastered on his face as he moved, his tall frame between your legs as he spread them apart, his hands keeping you from squeezing them shut.

With a slow and deep thrust he slid his cock into you, a deep moan leaving his lips as he gripped your hips with such a force it punctured a whine to leave your lips, his name dripping like molten gold from your lips.

"y-yunho" you moaned out, the sound causing his cock to throb inside you as he set a pace, his slow and deep thrusts hitting the spot that caused you to see stars. Your hips moving at their own accord as his nails dug into your skin, one hand coming up to caressed your body as he wrapped his hand around your throat, the slight pressure bringing you close as your body reacted, clenching around him hard.

You moaned his name, your core clenching around him as he picked up the pace, chasing his own release, his hand wrapped perfectly around your throat as he pumped into you releasing inside you, youre own orgasm approaching at the same time, like a tsunami. You clenched hard and released at the same time. The sounds of your breathless moans and whimpers being heard throughout the apartment.

you gasped as you felt yunho lifting your body, eyes heavy with exhaustion as he set you on the counter, his hands caressing your body gently, a warm cloth over your body as he cleaned you throughly, throwing the cloth into the launfy hamper and turning slowly, his eyes wandering to you, keeping an eye on you as he run a bath for you both.

Checking the tempreture before lifting your body into the water, smiling as he witness your body relax.

You smiled, the warmth settling in your bones along with your heart. You made the jump and landed softly, with the only person you could ever dream of. You moved settling into his chest as you both relaxed letting the water soak away everything.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez yunho #jeong yunho #yunho smut #jeong yunho smut

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Pairing: Choi Jongho x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Secret Relationship, Soft Romance, Embarrassment

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The picture that gave us away

You and Jongho had agreed to keep it quiet at first.

It wasn’t that you were ashamed far from it. But Jongho was still so shy, still getting used to letting people see how soft he really was behind that strong, quiet exterior. You’d wanted to keep this sweet, precious thing just for the two of you for a little while longer: the quiet dates, the gentle touches, the way he’d lean down and whisper how much he adored you when no one else was looking. No one had guessed. Not the members, not your friends, not a single soul.

Until the lock screen.

You were sitting in the practice room waiting for them to finish, phone resting face‑up on your lap while you watched Jongho sing. Wooyoung bounded over, curious as ever, and reached for your phone when you weren’t looking.

“Hey, what’s your lock screen?!”

He stopped mid‑sentence. Then he gasped. Loud enough to make everyone turn.

It was a candid shot you’d taken only last week: Jongho laughing, eyes crinkling shut, head tilted back, your hand resting lightly on his arm. The most open, happy anyone had ever seen him.

“Is that — is that Jongho?!” Wooyoung practically yelled, holding the phone up like he’d found treasure.

The whole room went quiet. Jongho froze mid‑note, his face turning bright red all the way up to the tips of his ears. Seonghwa leaned over to look, Yunho grinned so wide his eyes crinkled, and Hongjoong just shook his head, smiling like he’d known all along.

You felt your own face burn hot. You reached for your phone, but Wooyoung was already bouncing over to Jongho, shoving the screen in his face.

“You two are dating?! And you didn’t tell us?!”

Jongho looked at you, wide‑eyed and flustered, then ran a hand through his hair and let out a nervous laugh. He walked over slowly, sat down right beside you, and laced his fingers through yours where everyone could see.

“We… we wanted to keep it private for a bit,” he mumbled, squeezing your hand tight. “But yeah. We’re together.” He glanced at you, voice softening so only you could really hear: “And I’m glad they know now. I don’t want to hide how happy you make me.”

The room erupted in cheers. Wooyoung whooped, Mingi clapped Jongho on the back, and San gave you both a warm, knowing smile.

Later, when things had calmed down and you were walking home together, Jongho pulled you gently against his side.

“Sorry your lock screen got us caught,” he said, but he was smiling.

You shook your head and leaned into him. “I’m not sorry. I’d show everyone how much I love you every single chance I get.”

He stopped walking, turned to you, and kissed your forehead gently.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m never letting go now.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez jongho #choi jongho

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