IT'S YO GIRL, CD

CHALLENGES

Brat Summer 2025

KWON JIYONG / G-DRAGON (BIGBANG)

SERIES: Born To Die (vampire au)

Lucky Star

Killshot

Valentine's + Part 2*

Stars Rewritten ( + bonus smau)

224

I Belong To You

Fan Wars

Hotline

Unbuttoned

Like a Villain

Centre

On The Floor*

Sugar*

Storm Shelter

Manchild

CHOI SEUNGHYUN / T.O.P (BIGBANG)

MINI SERIES: Read Your Mind SERIES: pending...

A Moment in Marble

Misread

Closed Door + Part 2

Everyone But Us

Turn It Up*

I Know Love

KANG DAESUNG / D-LITE (BIGBANG)

SERIES: Animal I Have Become (coming soon!)

Spotlight

One Take, One Chance

Mother's Day + Father's Day

Look At Me*

Nicknames

Sweet

We Like 2 Party

34+35*

Taste

LEE CHAELIN / CL (2NE1)

Guess*

CHOI SUBONG / THANOS (SQUID GAME)

SERIES: pending...

Bridge The Gap

Freak*

Breaking The Habit

Mine

NAMGYU (SQUID GAME)

No One Mourns The Wicked

IFHY

Bones cracking like wet firewood.

Sweat, blood, and something primal.

Your father writhing on the floor of your kitchen, his body twisting in ways it shouldn’t.

You were so small, the doorway seemed to swallow you whole as you clung to the frame, bare feet on cold floorboards. Your father’s eyes locked onto yours through the agony. For a second, they were still his eyes, still the same warm brown that had looked down at you by firelight, telling stories in a voice that rumbled comfort through your bones. You remember thinking he was calling for help, that if you just stepped forward, you could hold his hand and steady him.

Then his pupils slit. 

His jaw dislocated with a wet, tearing sound. Fur split through his skin like something bursting from underneath. 

He screamed, and it was no longer your father’s voice.

You didn’t scream back. You just stood there, trembling and mute, heart pounding so violently it hurt.

When the hunters came, you thought they were there to save him. They weren’t. Their boots thundered on the wood, their crossbows gleamed in the lantern light. They didn’t look at him as a man. They didn’t even look at him as something alive. He snarled, lunged—not at you, never at you—and they fired. The sound of bolts hitting flesh will haunt you forever.

Your father’s body jerked with each strike, but even then, even as blood soaked the floorboards, he turned back toward you. His massive frame hunched protectively, shielding you from their line of fire. His eyes found yours one last time. And you knew, with a child’s clarity, that he was begging you not to hate him.

People never knew what to do with you afterward.

They didn’t shun you outright. They offered condolences, nodded kindly in the streets, handed down old coats in winter. Beneath it all, there was always that pause, that sideways glance, the unspoken rumours. Children didn’t stop inviting you to games. But when the woods loomed behind the school playground, they would find you standing apart, gaze lost in the treeline. You were there, but never present. They stopped trying to understand.

So you found companionship elsewhere.

You remember the stray mutt that followed you home one evening, ribs showing, ears torn. Everyone else threw rocks to drive it off. You crouched in the dirt and offered half your bread. It followed you for years, padding behind you like a shadow, sleeping at your feet. You remember pressing your hand to the glass at the small town zoo, and the wolf in the enclosure padding forward, meeting your eyes without fear. You remember summer afternoons when you’d vanish into the woods, sitting still enough that foxes crept close, curious noses twitching. You’d hum under your breath, lullabies your father once sang, and the forest seemed to soften around you. With wildlife, you never had to explain yourself.

Adolescence sharpened you. While your peers leaned into dances, gossip, and whispered romances, you buried yourself in study. Biology, genetics, behavioral psychology, folklore and field notes on hybrids—you consumed everything. 

It wasn’t obsession, you told yourself. It was preparation.

When books weren’t enough, you trained your body. Running trails until your lungs burned, drilling restraint techniques until your arms shook. You learned how to load a tranquilizer rifle, how to wield a capture pole, how to hold someone twice your size to the ground until they stilled. You bore bruises like medals, claw-shaped scars like lessons.

The evaluations were brutal. Psychological tests, simulation rooms where actors lunged with foam claws, formal written exams with heavy surveillance. You answered, you acted, you played their game.

“Would you pull the trigger if a hybrid turned on you?”

“Do you believe hybrids are dangerous?”

“Would you hesitate if it looked human?”

You lied with clean-cut answers through your clenched teeth. Because if you admitted you still dreamed of your father’s eyes, if you admitted you believed the human survived inside the beast, they would never let you through the gates.

So you passed, and with passing came reward.

Dangerous work commands dangerous pay. By the time you were certified, you could afford more than most your age ever would. A modern cabin on the edge of the woods—a contradiction made just for you.

It’s larger than you need, clean-lined, with wide windows that pull the forest inside. Heated floors, polished counters, bookshelves lined with your notes. A sanctuary carved by money, but softened by your choices: old quilts folded neatly at the foot of your bed, dried flowers in glass jars, the distant sound of running water from the creek behind the property.

The best part is the silence. From your back porch you can step straight into the woods, where the air smells of pine and earth, where deer paths cut narrow trails, where wolves sometimes call at night. The facility is only a drive away, but here, you can almost convince yourself you belong in both worlds. Almost. Some nights you wake, drenched in sweat, certain you can hear bones cracking outside your window. You step barefoot into the dark and swear you see eyes in the trees, bright and gold, watching. Always watching.

And so, when the gates of the Lunar Containment Facility loom for the first time, towering and sterile, you inhale slowly and steady your hands.

The walls rise higher than you imagined, a lattice of reinforced steel that catches the morning light in cold flashes. Razor wire crowns the perimeter like a warning to the sky itself: nothing leaves without permission. Cameras tilt, tracking your car as it idles by the checkpoint, each red blink reminding you that from the moment you crossed the perimeter, you no longer belong to yourself.

Years of study, sweat, bruises, and silence have brought you here. The ghosts of your childhood stand with you: your father’s twisted body, the hunters’ raised bows, the pitying eyes of your neighbors, the wolf at the zoo pressing nose to glass. The scars across your arms ache faintly beneath your sleeves, as if remembering each training yard fall. Even the comfort of your cabin seems to cling, the scent of pine and hearth smoke clashing with the sterile tang of concrete and metal.

This is where it begins.

The moment where all the contradictions of your life converge. Where you’ll prove that monsters are not born, only made. That they can be understood, contained, maybe even redeemed.

The gates groan as they begin to open, slow, mechanical, swallowing the sunlight in their shadow. You can’t shake the sense that you’re not stepping into a career, but into the belly of something vast and hungry. The air tastes different on this side. Heavy. Waiting.

You adjust the strap of your bag across your shoulder, fingers brushing the small scar beneath your collarbone—an old reminder of what claws can do. The hum of machinery vibrates through the soles of your boots. For a moment, you think you hear something else beneath it: a low, distant growl that doesn’t belong to engines.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t turn back. You’ve never turned back.

Staring into the yawning mouth of the facility, you murmur under your breath, words carved from memory, sharpened into resolve.

“Whatever’s on the other side… I’m not afraid of you.”

starting off spooky season with this series finally ;) thank you for all your patience to anybody who actually wanted this series, and to the anon for giving me this idea in the first place. i hope this series will have been worth the wait <33

The first time you met Kwon Jiyong, he was forty-five minutes late.

You were sitting in one of the conference rooms of YG Entertainment’s sleek office building, staring at the untouched stack of press packets you’d prepared for the group’s tour announcement. As the newly assigned public relations manager for one of the biggest acts in the industry, you wanted your first day to be perfect. Organized. Professional. Scandal-free.

But no one warned you about him.

The door burst open mid-thought, and in he strolled—oversized sunglasses, ripped designer jeans, and a smirk that could start wars. 

“Sorry, traffic,” he said casually, holding an iced coffee like he’d been on vacation instead of heading to a meeting scheduled an hour ago.

“You live five minutes away.”

“You checked?”

“It’s my job to know things, Mr. Kwon.”

Jiyong grinned, clearly delighted by your irritation. He lowered the sunglasses slowly, revealing annoyingly pretty eyes that sparkled with mischief. “Cute. So you’re the new babysitter, huh?”

You set your jaw, flipping open your folder. “I’m the one who keeps the headlines about your group focused on music instead of whatever… circus you have going on in your personal life.”

He slid into the chair across from you, looking utterly unbothered. “So basically, you clean up after me.”

“Glad you understand,” you deadpanned.

He laughed, leaning back in his chair like this was the most entertaining meeting of his life. “I like you already. Most people are scared to talk to me like that.”

“Most people don’t know what they’re doing. I do.”

That made him pause. His grin didn’t falter, but something in his expression shifted—just a flicker. Like he was studying you for the first time instead of just trying to get under your skin. Your comment earned you a raised eyebrow—and, annoyingly, a smile that was a little too charming for its own good.

And you hated that your pulse jumped under the weight of his gaze.

Two hours later, you were standing backstage at the hotel ballroom where the group’s press conference was being held, headset on, clipboard in hand, doing what you did best: holding everything together with duct tape and sheer willpower. The other members of the group were lined up neatly, dressed perfectly in the stylist’s carefully coordinated vision. Cameras were already flashing, reporters buzzing with questions.

Then there was Jiyong.

Slouched in his chair at the end of the row like he owned the building. Sunglasses back on. One ankle propped on his knee like this was a café hangout instead of a live-broadcast press event. You could practically feel your blood pressure rising.

You leaned toward him just before the cameras went live, hissing at him to lose the sunglasses.

He tilted his head lazily toward you, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “What, and deprive them of the mystery?”

“Deprive me of a heart attack,” you snapped.

“You sure you’re not just dying to see my eyes again?” He murmured, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

You froze for half a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, but recovered quickly. “I’m dying to not have to clean up another headline about you acting like a rockstar on live TV.”

For a moment, you thought he’d keep pushing. But then—so suddenly you almost didn’t believe it—he took off the sunglasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket, obedient for once. Except when the questions started, he didn’t stick to the script.

Reporters asked about the new album, and he let the others yap off-topic. They asked about the group’s inspiration, he mentioned how it was obviously heartbreak. What else would it be? One reporter even asked about dating rumours and, instead of deflecting like you told him to, he smirked to himself and mumbled something cryptic. By the time it was over, your notes were crumpled in your hands, your headset askew, and you were seconds away from launching yourself into traffic.

Backstage, you cornered him the second the cameras were off. “What was that?!”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Entertainment.”

“This is not a game, Kwon Jiyong—”

“Relax,” he drawled, leaning against the wall with a lazy grin. “You said you know what you’re doing, right? Looks like the world’s still spinning. Guess I didn’t ruin everything after all.”

By the third disaster of the week, you had stopped hoping for smooth sailing. At this point, you were just aiming for survivable. The charity red carpet was supposed to be simple. Quick photos, a few interviews, and out. The group was already lined up like the professionals they were, every member dressed perfectly, smiles practiced but genuine enough to keep the fans screaming.

Of course, Jiyong had showed up late, hair damp, shirt buttoned in a way that made you wonder if he’d lost a fight with it on the drive over.

Your clipboard was in your hands before you even realized you’d tightened your grip on it.

“Nice to see you too, boss,” he said as soon as he caught your stare, grin sharp and effortless as the press went wild for him.

“This isn’t about me seeing you,” you said evenly, eyes scanning the reporters, the cameras, the lights. “This is about the fact that you were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago and now I have to reshuffle the entire schedule to fit you in.”

No anger. No panic. Just facts.

Something flickered in his expression, like he’d expected you to yell.

He tried anyway. “Aw, come on, I made it, didn’t I?”

“Stand on the mark,” you said, pointing to the tape on the floor. “Smile. Don’t answer any personal questions. Keep your comments brief so we can get through this on time. Can you do that?”

The edge of his grin softened, eyes narrowing in curiosity now. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with someone who didn’t play his game.

“Sure,” he said slowly. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

The moment he turned toward the cameras, you saw it. The way he paused for half a beat, like he was thinking about something to say to you, something clever or teasing… and couldn’t come up with a single thing.

And that? That was more satisfying than yelling at him would have ever been.

Naturally, the second the interviews started, he still couldn’t help himself—throwing in a wink at the camera, cracking a joke that made the reporters laugh. But it wasn’t reckless this time. It was like he was performing while keeping one eye on you, waiting for you to crack.

By the time the event wrapped up, you had managed to get the schedule back on track, the press satisfied, and the manager breathing again.

“See?” Jiyong said afterward, hands in his pockets as you crossed paths backstage. “No disasters. Guess I’m not that bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” you said, flipping through your notes. “Just undisciplined. We’ll work on it.”

His grin faltered—just barely—but you caught it. And for the first time, he didn’t look like the man in control of the room.

You’re not sure when the dynamic shifted. 

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. Jiyong arriving on time for a photoshoot? Must have been a rare alignment of the planets. Him actually following the wardrobe notes you gave the stylists? Probably a fluke. 

But then it kept happening.

He’d show up exactly two minutes before call time with his usual iced coffee in hand, acting casual like he hadn’t spent half the week ignoring schedules before you started. He still cracked jokes during interviews, but he stuck to the talking points you sent out beforehand, his smirk flashing toward you like he was checking to see if you noticed. You always did. You just didn’t react. Not outwardly, anyway.

“Good job today,” you said once after a particularly smooth press junket, your eyes still on the clipboard as you scanned the next day’s schedule.

It was nothing. Just a polite acknowledgement.

He was quiet for a moment, and when you looked up, he had this odd expression—like a kid who’d just gotten a gold star and wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The next day, he was on time again.

After a while, you realized he was… competing with himself.

When you praised the group for wrapping an event without chaos, he started cracking less outrageous jokes in interviews. When you mentioned you appreciated punctuality, he began showing up early enough to be seen waiting. When you gave notes on posture and tone for televised segments, he actually followed them, smirking like he was expecting a report card afterward.

He never said anything directly. Of course he didn’t. That would be too easy.

But you started catching the way his eyes would flick toward you after a reporter laughed at his perfectly timed, non-controversial joke. Or how he’d linger nearby after an event, clearly waiting for you to give instructions he absolutely didn’t need.

And when you gave those short, professional compliments—

“Good interview.”

“Better pacing this time.”

“Nice job staying on message.”

—he would nod like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

But you caught the way his mouth would twitch, the way his shoulders loosened, the way he walked away like someone who’d just been told they did well for once in their life.

Of course, he still had his moments.

“So… that was at least a B-plus, right?”

“B-minus. You need to work on your breathing control.”

The way he stared at you? Like you’d just handed him a personal challenge. Somehow, without meaning to, you’d become the one person in his glittery, chaotic life whose opinion actually mattered. And he was terrible at hiding it.

You weren’t expecting anyone that late.

It was past nine, you’d already kicked off your heels, hair pinned up messily, laptop open on the coffee table while you finished tomorrow’s press notes. When the knock came—sharp, impatient—you assumed it was a delivery mix-up.

Instead, it was Kwon Jiyong, leaning against your doorframe like a desperate lover boy in a bittersweet romantic film. Hood up, sunglasses on, grin flashing like he didn’t look ridiculous showing up like that at night.

“Do you wear those to bed, too?” You asked, leaning one shoulder against the door, arms crossed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He shot back, smirk tugging at his mouth.

You gave him the flattest look you could manage. “What are you doing here, Jiyong? It’s late.”

He shrugged, shifting his weight lazily. “You don’t answer my texts.”

“Because they’re not work-related.”

“That’s cold, boss,” he said, hand over his heart in mock injury. “I thought we were building something special here.”

You didn’t move, didn’t rise to the bait, and that was the thing—he wasn’t used to people not giving him what he wanted. He tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to find the crack in your armor.

“Y’know… you talk to me like I’m some reckless kid who can’t be taken seriously.”

“Do I?”

His eyes narrowed slightly at the almost-smile you didn’t quite let him have. “Yeah. Like you’ve got me all figured out.”

“Maybe I do.” You met his gaze evenly.

There it was. The flicker across his face when he realized you weren’t bluffing. That calm, infuriating confidence of yours was eating at him, and the worst part? He liked it. For once, he didn’t have a slick comeback ready. His tongue darted over his lower lip like he was stalling for time, his weight shifting as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

Finally, he said, quieter than before, “So what would it take for you to admit I’m not just some… manchild to babysit?”

“More than showing up at my door after hours.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, jaw tight, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

Then he moved.

One step. Then another. Until your back hit the wall just inside your doorway.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. Just stayed there, calm as ever, while he loomed closer, one hand braced above your shoulder, the hood of his sweatshirt shadowing his sharp eyes.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low now, almost rough, “you drive me crazy.”

Do I?” You repeated.

He gave a sharp little laugh under his breath, but there was nothing funny in his expression now. “You stand there with your perfect little clipboard, like you’ve got me all figured out. Makes me wanna—”

His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze again.

“Wanna what exactly?” You asked, tone smooth, even as your pulse hammered in your throat.

See if you’d stay this calm if I kissed you.”

“And what makes you think I wouldn’t?”

That did it.

You could see it happen—the moment the game changed. The moment the golden boy with all his charm and swagger finally lost his balance. Because for once, you weren’t yelling or bossing him around. For once, he used his charms on a woman he was infatuated with and it didn’t stick to the usual script. You were pretty much daring him, and Jiyong was never good at walking away from a dare.

One second, he was watching you like a man on the edge. The next, his mouth was on yours, hot and reckless, his hand finally cupping your jaw like he couldn’t hold back another second.

The wall was cool against your spine, contrasting the sheer heat of his touch. 

And still, even as you kissed him back you stayed infuriatingly calm. Like you were letting him, not losing yourself to him.

It drove him wild.

He broke away just enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven. 

“God, you make me insane,” he said, like it was a confession dragged out of him. “How can you stand there and remain perfectly calm while I’m—” He huffed a short laugh, frustrated. “—while I’m me.”

Your lips curved in the faintest smile. “Dangerous?”

He groaned softly, the sound half amusement, half defeat. “Sure… if that’s what you wanna call it.”

You let your hands slide up his chest, slow, deliberate, resting against his shoulders like you were holding him still. 

“Lucky for you,” you said softly, voice smooth enough to cut glass. “I like danger.”

tysm rei for inviting me to this challenge, im so sorry this was so late but i hope you guys enjoyed :,))

Neat serif print, shots of you under impossible lights, draped in gowns worth more than some people’s homes. 

Magazines and agencies always called you untouchable.

The flash of cameras never seemed to crack your composure; you were elegance incarnate, sculpted and polished, the kind of beauty that looked more statue than human.

On billboards across Seoul, Paris, New York, London—you existed however many feet tall, a model the industry couldn’t stop watching. To them, you were a symbol. A fantasy. Something they could never really touch. You learned to play the part: chin lifted, eyes steady, voice smooth in interviews. When fans shouted your name outside airports, you elegantly smiled and waved, even when your feet ached and your throat burned from rehearsed charm. That was who you were to the world.

And the same goes for your boyfriend…

Choi Seunghyun was the enigma.

On stage, he was fire and granite all at once—razor-sharp verses delivered with a voice so deep it rattled through the largest arenas around the globe, every gesture deliberate, every smirk calculated. He was T.O.P. The charismatic rapper, the man with the piercing stare, the oldest member of BIGBANG who could turn an audience of thousands into an uproar with one low growl.

The public knew his more refined appearance—tailored suits, art and wine collections, his naturally reserved nature. They knew his aloofness, the way he’d slip through interviews with clever wordplay, revealing nothing leaving people wondering what was real and what was a joke. Even the tabloids admitted he was hard to pin down. An artist, an actor, a collector, a mystery. Fans loved him for it. They projected their own fantasies onto his cool exterior, his image larger than life.

But you knew better.

The apartment was warm when he finally came through the door, the kind of warmth that wrapped itself around tired shoulders. You’d left the living room lamp on, its golden light catching the edges of the photo frames on the wall, the stack of books on the coffee table, the mug waiting on the counter. It was late—well past two in the morning—but you hadn’t even tried to sleep. You knew he’d come home restless, buzzing under his skin after hours on stage, and you wanted to be awake when the noise faded and he finally remembered he could breathe again.

Seunghyun stepped inside with his usual quiet, closing the door gently behind him like he was afraid to wake up the entire street. His duffel bag dropped to the floor with a soft thud. Even dressed down in sweats and a hoodie, hair damp from a quick shower at the venue, he still carried the air of someone the world looked at too closely.

But when his eyes found you curled on the couch, all of it slipped away like he was shrugging off a coat he didn’t need anymore.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just crossed the room in long, tired strides, wrapped both arms around you, and held on. His breath was warm against your neck, his heartbeat still fast from the performance or the rush to get here. You couldn’t tell which.

“Long night?” You murmured.

A low laugh rumbled through his chest. “The longest.”

You tugged him toward the couch, made him sit while you ducked into the kitchen for the tea you’d already steeped. When you came back, he was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, head bowed like the quiet was finally sinking in.

“Here,” you said, handing him the mug. 

He cradled it in both hands, letting the steam rise over his face. 

“The boys asked after you,” he said after a moment, voice low. “Daesung said you should come to the next soundcheck so he doesn’t have to keep looking for you in the audience.”

You smiled faintly, settling beside him. “He misses me that much, huh?”

“They all do.” He glanced sideways at you, eyes soft. “Jiyong said it doesn’t feel right when you’re not there. Youngbae called you our good-luck charm.”

“And what about you?”

“I don’t need good luck,” he said, tilting his head to rest against yours. “I just… like knowing you’re close.”

The words hung there, simple but heavy in that way only he could manage. You reached up, threading your fingers through his damp hair, feeling the last of the adrenaline start to leave him in slow waves. He stayed like that for a long time, sipping tea, telling you little pieces of the night—the fans, the lights, the chaos backstage, things he’d never share in interviews. And then, when his cup was empty and his shoulders had finally slumped with real exhaustion, he shifted, lying down with his head in your lap. 

Your fingers traced lazy circles at his temple as his breathing evened out, though he didn’t sleep right away. He never did after concerts. You kept combing your fingers through his hair, untangling the strands still damp from his shower. 

“You okay?” You asked softly.

He nodded, the weight of it pressing against your legs. “Yeah. Just… coming down.”

It always took him a while. He could command a stage like it was built just for him, but afterwards, he carried the echoes home—the screaming fans, the pounding bass, the burn in his chest from giving everything he had. You knew better than to fill the silence too quickly. After a moment, he spoke again. 

“You know what’s strange?”

“Hmm?”

“The whole night, the crowd’s so loud you can feel it in your ribs. Lights everywhere. Chaos backstage.” He shifted a little, cheek brushing your thigh as he looked up at you. “And then I walk through that door, and it’s like all of it just… stops.”

You smiled faintly. “Whiplash?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that. I think…” He paused, searching for the right words. “I think that’s why I look for you first. I need it to stop.”

Your hand stilled in his hair.

He closed his eyes, voice lower now, rough with exhaustion. “It still gets me sometimes. How fast it all changed.”

You tilted your head. “What did?”

“Us.” His gaze stayed on yours. “One day you were just… there. My best friend. The girl who stole my fries at lunch. And then one day it wasn’t the same anymore.”

Your chest tightened like he was confessing to you all over again. “You make it sound like I snuck up on you.”

“You did,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “I didn’t see it coming. Suddenly, you were everywhere. In my head before shows. On my phone at three a.m. In every song I wrote.” He exhaled slowly, like the words had been waiting a long time to get out. “It hit me so hard, I didn’t even know what to do with it at first.”

You brushed his hair back from his forehead, heart thudding in your chest. “And now?”

His lips curved faintly. “Now I think maybe I don’t want it any other way.”

The room felt very still, the kind of quiet you couldn’t buy, the kind that only existed here with him, in this apartment, where no one wanted anything from either of you. It was the kind of silence that wrapped itself around you both like a blanket, thick and soft, carrying no weight of expectation or performance. No cameras, no phones buzzing, no managers knocking on doors or makeup artists fixing smudges under bright lights. Just the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint city noise filtered through closed windows, and the steady rhythm of his breathing against your legs. It was a pocket of the world that belonged only to you, carved out between the chaos of everything else, where you could both put down everything you carried and just be yourselves.

“You know,” you spoke up softly. “I think it hit me before it hit you.”

That made him laugh, low and warm. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. The day we skipped class together for the first time.”

He groaned into your lap. “God. We were so bad at it.”

You grinned. “We didn’t even make it past the park. Just sat on the swings for two hours and panicked every time someone walked by in case they told on us.”

His shoulders shook with laughter, the sound rough around the edges but real. “We thought we were so cool. We were just… idiots.”

“You were grinning the whole time,” you teased.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Because you were there.”

He reached up, caught your hand where it rested against his cheek, and pressed a kiss into your palm.

“Dumb teenagers,” you murmured.

“Mm,” he agreed softly, eyes slipping shut. “And now look at us.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything else. His breathing evened out, his hand still holding yours, the night finally softening its grip on him. And you thought maybe this was what love really was—not the rush of the lights or the noise of the crowd, but this quiet aftermath where you could both finally just rest and bask in each others’ presence.

“Y’know, you should come to the next show.”

“You want me to?” 

“Youngbae said he noticed I was happier when you’re around.” 

That made you still for a moment. “Are you?”

He cracked one eye open at you. “You seriously have to ask?”

You looked away, suddenly warm under his gaze. “Just checking.”

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining. “You’ve been around since we were dumb teenagers skipping class together,” he said softly. “Since the days when I didn’t even know what I wanted out of life. And now there are nights when I sing to twenty thousand people… but you’re the only one I want to tell about it afterward.”

Your throat tightened, but you smiled anyway. “That’s kind of sappy.”

“Good,” he muttered, closing his eyes again. “Maybe you’ll remember it in the morning.”

You bent down and kissed the crown of his head. “Goodnight, Seunghyun.”

“Mm,” he hummed, already sliding into sleep. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

im so sorry its so late, i hope you still enjoy it and thank you @slut4kwon for inviting me to this challenge <33

Everyone else thought you were a little too much. Too jealous, too sharp-tongued, too quick to glare at any girl who lingered too long near him. They whispered words like obsessive or toxic under their breath, like they knew anything about the two of you.

But they didn’t see the way his lips always twitched when you snapped at someone, or the way his eyes gleamed when you threatened to claw a girl’s face off just for brushing too close. They didn’t hear his laugh when you swore up and down he was yours and yours alone, or how he leaned back with that cocky smirk like he was daring you to prove it.

The truth was, Subong thrived on your madness. He called you crazy almost daily, but never with malice—always with a drawl that dripped affection, always with that teasing lilt that made your blood burn. He liked the way you burned for him. He liked that you were wild, unrelenting, and vicious when it came to keeping him. Maybe it was the age gap—the way he could effortlessly push boundaries while you, wild and reckless in your early twenties, chased after him with obsession and fire. He liked the imbalance, the way you practically vibrated with need and jealousy, and how you’d throw yourself at him with no hesitation.

Not once did he try to put the flames out. No. He fanned them. He fed on them like oxygen, like gasoline, grinning all the while.

The flat you two shared wasn’t much—peeling paint, a sink that groaned every time you turned the tap, one window that rattled when the buses rumbled past on the street below. But it belonged to both of you, and it was all either of you needed. 

When the fever hit you out of nowhere, it felt like the universe itself was trying to break the two of you apart.

Right now he was perched on the floor by the coffee table, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside him, notebook open, pen tapping against his knee. His purple hair was sticking up in half a dozen directions, and his freshly painted neon nails drummed against the wood as he muttered rhymes under his breath.

You sat curled on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, watching him. Even like this, chaotic and disheveled, he carried himself with that impossible assurance. Cocky smirks, sharp eyes, posture that screamed relaxed confidence even when the room was just your cramped living space.

“You know half those lines are just about me,” you said, sipping weak tea.

He glanced up, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Not half. All.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed anyway. Before you could reply, a sudden shiver wracked your body. You blinked, startled. The blanket wasn’t helping. Your skin felt too hot, too cold all at once.

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine…”

Another wave of heat flushed through you. You pressed the mug to your lips, hoping the warmth would steady you, but your hands trembled. In a heartbeat, he was up. The notebook hit the table, cigarette forgotten. He crouched in front of you, palms pressing to your forehead, his cocky smirk nowhere to be found.

“Shit. You’re burning up.”

You tried to wave him off. “It’s nothing, just—”

“Don’t.” 

His tone was sharp, leaving no room for argument. He grabbed the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then disappeared into the kitchen, muttering curses under his breath. Pots clattered. The faucet groaned. You leaned back against the cushions, dizzy, listening to the chaos. When he returned, it was with a steaming mug and a damp cloth. He set the mug down, pressed the cloth to your forehead with a gentleness that didn’t match his chaotic edges.

“Soup’s on the stove,” he said. “Don’t ask me if it tastes good. Just eat it later.”

You smiled faintly. “You’ll poison me before the fever does.”

“Better me than anyone else,” he muttered, brushing damp hair from your face. He stayed there for a while, crouched in front of you, studying you with that rare softness he let no one else see.

The fever lingered for days. Through it all, he barely left your side. He made toast at three in the morning trying to make you something light. He sat up through the nights, cigarette after cigarette, watching you breathe like he was scared you’d stop. When you woke up shaking, his arms were there before you even called his name.

You teased him once, in a weak whisper. “Didn’t think the legend Thanos himself would play nurse.”

“Only for you.” 

Your chest squeezed.

That was the thing about him. To everyone else, he was just the menace with purple hair and a smart mouth, chaos bottled in human form. But with you? He was just a man who loved too hard, who wrote his soul onto scraps of paper, who stayed awake all night to make sure your fever broke. By the end of the week, the fever had finally begun to lift. He still hovered, suspicious, watching for any sign you’d collapse again.

Which is why, when his phone buzzed with a reminder for tonight’s set, he hesitated.

“I can cancel. They’ll survive without me.”

“You’ve been with me all week. I’ll be fine for a couple hours.”

He frowned, not convinced.

You caught his hand, squeezing. “Go perform. I want people to hear what you wrote about me.”

His eyes softened—that rare, secret look that belonged only to you. He leaned down, kissed your forehead, and whispered.

“Couple hours. Then I’m back.”

You must have dozed off sometime after he left. The flat was too quiet without his restless pacing, his muttering rhymes under his breath, the subtle deep basslines he was always listening to, the scratch of pencil on paper.

When your eyes blinked open again, the fever-haze wasn’t as sharp. Your skin no longer burned, the pounding in your head had dulled to something manageable. You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, realizing you could breathe without your chest seizing.

For the first time in days, you felt… better. Not perfect. But steady enough to sit up, stretch, and feel the faint stirrings of restlessness in your body. And it hit you then, the ache of missing him—not just in the bed beside you, but on stage, alive under the lights, pouring himself into his words. You smiled to yourself, pulling the blanket tighter.

Maybe you were well enough to make it to the club.

Neon lights pulsed in time with the bass, smoke curled through the air, bodies pressed and moved like a tide that never stilled. You pushed your way through, his hoodie hanging off your frame, until you found him.

Subong.

On stage, he was electric. Purple hair flashing in the strobe, hand wrapped around the mic, voice raw and magnetic as he ripped through his verse. Every eye was on him, the crowd screaming like they’d set themselves on fire for him. He wasn’t just alive here; he was untouchable.

You felt it in your chest, pride swelling until you thought you’d burst. That was your man. Your chaotic, cocky, impossible man. When the set ended and the DJ took over, he slipped down into a booth near the bar, a red vape dangling lazily between his fingers, legs spread like a king on his throne.

That’s when you saw her.

She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Certainly a little younger than you. Polished, glossy, smiling too wide as she leaned into his space. Her manicured hand slid along his arm, her nails trailing against his chest like she had a claim. Subong didn’t move her away. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there, smoke curling from his lips, eyes glittering as he smirked to himself. Watching. Waiting. Like he knew you were here. Like he was daring you.

Your fury hit so fast you didn’t think—you just moved.

“He’s not yours.”

She looked you up and down, then scoffed, lips curling. “If you think you have a chance with him, you’re just gonna get hurt honey.” 

The words hit like gasoline to fire.

You lunged before she could blink. Your fist tangled in her glossy hair, yanking her head back, and your palm cracked across her cheek with a sound sharp enough to cut through the music. She gasped, stunned, then clawed at you with manicured nails.

Everything blurred into pure fury. All you could see was red. 

How dare she touch him. How dare she lean into your man, press herself into his space, laugh like she had a right. Didn’t she know every lyric he wrote, every breath he took, belonged to you? Didn’t she know the two of you were made for each other? 

The crowd surged around you, a circle forming, shouts and cheers rising like it was the best show of the night.

“Get off me, you psycho!” She shrieked, shoving at your shoulders, but you only drove harder, nails sinking into her arm, dragging her down with you as you toppled onto the booth. Your knee dug into her thigh, teeth clenched, remaining unnervingly quiet aside from manic breathing and the occasional grunt under your breath. 

She thrashed, shrieking, nails raking across your cheek—sharp enough to sting. The pain only lit you up more. You swung again, knuckles grazing her jaw, the crowd roaring louder. She tried to claw back, but you caught her wrist and slammed it against the table hard enough to make her cry out.

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that much.” You muttered. 

Somewhere through the haze of fury, you caught sight of the very man you were fighting over. 

Sitting exactly where he’d been, legs spread, that smirk cutting sharp across his face. His eyes gleamed with amusement, with something darker, something proud. He wasn’t stopping you. He wasn’t even flinching. He was just watching—watching his girl fight like hell for him, like it was a performance made just for him.

You turned back to the girl, the sight of your boyfriend clearly enjoying the show only egging you on more. 

“Don’t fucking touch him, don’t fucking look at him, and don’t even fucking breathe in his direction. Got that?” 

The girl screamed again as you shoved her back into the booth, your fingers locked in her hair, your knee pressing into her stomach. She tried to twist free, but you slapped her again, sharp and merciless.

“She’s insane!” She wailed, voice breaking. “Get this crazy bitch off me!” 

It took two security guards to finally wrench you back, your body thrashing, nails still swiping for her like a feral animal dragged from prey. Your chest heaved, hair falling into your face, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The girl was sobbing now, mascara streaking, clutching her scalp where you’d ripped at her hair.

And still, Subong didn’t move until you were fully restrained.

Only then did he rise from the booth, slow and deliberate. He strolled over, plucked your wrist effortlessly from the guard’s grip, and tugged you against him like you belonged under his arm. His eyes flicked down to your flushed face, the scratch blooming on your cheek, your knuckles reddened and raw.

That smirk of his curved wider.

“Damn,” he drawled, voice low, almost a purr. “Kitty’s got claws.”

The guards were barking at him, at you, but he didn’t bother to listen. His arm hooked heavy around your shoulders, steering you through the crowd like nothing had happened. The girl’s sobs, the shouts of the crowd, the chaos—none of it mattered. Not to him. Not to you.

The night air hit you the second you stepped outside, sharp and cold against your flushed skin. Your chest heaved, still racing from the fight, and your knuckles throbbed with every pulse of your heartbeat. You felt raw, messy, and more alive than you had in days. Subong’s arm was heavy across your shoulders, steadying you as you navigated the crowded street. His other hand lazily held the cigarette he’d lit back at the club, smoke curling around his smirk.

“You know,” he drawled, eyes flicking to the scratches on your face and hands, “I could’ve stopped you, you know that?”

“I didn’t need you to,” you muttered, breath still ragged, leaning into his side. “I could handle it.”

His grin widened, sharp and wicked. 

“Oh, I know you could.” He paused, letting the words hang as you felt a shiver crawl up your spine, half from cold, half from the way he was still looking at you. “But watching you go at her like that? That was… maybe the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You shot him a glare, fumbling with your hoodie sleeve to wipe at the sweat and streaked makeup on your face. 

“Sexy? I looked like a maniac.”

“Exactly.” 

He chuckled to himself, the sound vibrating against your ear. “My crazy little kitty, claws and all. Don’t tell me you didn’t love it. You’ve wanted to rip someone apart for me before—admit it.”

“I—” You stopped yourself, caught between irritation and a fluttering heat. “I just… she was touching you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, thumb brushing over the fresh scratch on your cheek. “And you went ballistic. Exactly how I like it.”

You groaned, trying to hide your blush as he tightened his hold slightly, guiding you down a quieter side street. He laughed softly when you tried to mutter an annoyed protest.

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same, pretty boy.” 

“I know I would have. But I also know you wouldn’t do that to me in the first place.” 

You rolled your eyes, biting back the annoyed smile forming on your lips. “Whatever—” 

“Please,” he scoffed. “You practically live off your jealousy. I know it nearly made me come back there…”

Your pulse skipped, wild and erratic, every nerve on fire from adrenaline and lingering fury. You wanted to punch him for teasing you, for watching you lose control like that, and at the same time you wanted to throw yourself at him, kiss him hard, let him feel exactly how rattled he’d made you. The mix of anger, heat, and obsession twisted inside you, sharp and irresistible.

You stopped dead in your tracks, tugging at his jacket until he turned fully to face you. He didn’t flinch, didn’t ask questions—he just stood there, smirking, eyes gleaming like he’d been waiting for you to snap. The city buzzed around you, more neon lights flashing over his purple hair, and for a moment all you could hear was your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

And then you kissed him. 

Hard. Fierce enough to bruise, desperate enough to taste like blood and smoke and the chaos you carried inside. 

He didn’t hesitate—his free hand slid to the back of your neck, gripping firmly, pulling you closer until there was nothing left between you but heat. He kissed you back with the same cocky hunger he wore on stage, like he was proud you’d lost yourself for him all over again. When you finally tore yourself away, breathless, his grin was wide and merciless. 

“You’re mine,” he murmured, low and steady, thumb dragging across your swollen bottom lip. “And tonight, everyone else got to see what happens when someone tries to get in between us.”

You huffed, trying to glare, but your chest was still heaving, and leaning against him felt too natural. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice playful but edged with possession, “but you love me for it.” 

He pressed a softer kiss to your temple, tugging you back under his arm. 

“C’mon… let’s get home before you start plotting your next fight.”

You’ve never been the type to make promises you can’t keep—mostly because you don’t make promises at all.

Not the romantic kind, anyway.

Daesung learned that early.

He learned it when you showed up at his door at midnight with a bottle of wine and that smile that meant trouble, sliding past him before he could even invite you in. He learned it when you told him you didn’t want labels and he said he didn’t mind. He learned it every time you pulled on your coat before the sun came up, tossing a casual goodbye over your shoulder like it was a joke.

The thing is, it wasn’t a joke.

It was the rule.

You thrived on the game—the slow burn, the push and pull, the way his eyes darkened whenever you leaned too close in public but never crossed the line. You’d text him out of nowhere at 2 a.m. asking if he was still up and, every time without fail, he always was. 

Tonight is no different.

You’re curled on his couch, wearing one of his hoodies that hangs off your frame like it’s meant to, sipping a drink while he flips through music channels. You don’t even remember what the conversation was about when you say it; the smirk is there before the words leave your mouth.

“You know you’d miss me if I stopped coming around.”

Daesung glances over, a small laugh slipping out. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You tilt your head, eyes locking on his. “You like me exactly like this. No strings. No drama. Just… fun.”

You watch him breathe in like he’s about to argue—but then he shakes his head, smiling like you’ve just beaten him at a game you both know you’re playing. And you have but he turns back to the TV, pretending to look for a channel, but his hand is still resting along the back of the couch—close enough that you could lean into it if you wanted. You don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you stretch your legs out, nudging his thigh with your toes.

“You’re ignoring me.”

He huffs out a laugh, glancing down at where your foot is pressing into him. “I’m trying to watch something, but someone won’t let me.”

“Then maybe you should pay more attention to the someone.”

You say it like it’s casual, but there’s a glint in your eyes that makes him pause. It’s always like this: you say something that could be innocent, but the way you look at him turns it into something else entirely. He sets the remote down, shifting so he’s facing you. 

“And what exactly would you like me to pay attention to?”

You smile, slow and smug, and pluck at the drawstring of the hoodie you’re wearing letting the fabric slide just far enough off your shoulder to expose bare skin.

“You’ll figure it out.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer that. He just studies you for a moment, that soft, almost disbelieving smile on his face like he can’t decide whether to kiss you or call you trouble. You lean in, close enough that your breath stirs the hair at his temple, and whisper.

“Admit it, Dae. You’re addicted.”

His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, you swear he’s going to say it — the thing you’ve always dodged, the thing you don’t want to hear. But then he leans back, shakes his head, and mutters something about you being unbelievable. You grin like you’ve won.

Because you always do.

It’s been a couple weeks since that night on his couch, but nothing’s changed. At least, you don’t think so. You still text him when you’re bored, you still show up without warning, and he still answers the door every single time. Tonight’s no different—except you’ve decided to really lean into it.

He’s in the kitchen when you arrive, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it. You don’t even say hello before slipping onto the counter, letting your legs swing.

“Miss me?”

Daesung looks up from the pan on the stove, the tiniest smile tugging at his mouth. “You were here like last week.”

“So that’s a yes.”

He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath, but he doesn’t argue, and just like always, you feel that little jolt of victory.

You watch him work for a moment, then reach over and steal a piece of whatever he’s cooking, popping it in your mouth before he can stop you. He gives you a look, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“Careful, Dae,” you tease, licking sauce from your finger, “keep spoiling me like this and I might start to think you actually like me.”

Usually, that’s the moment he’d throw something back—a sarcastic comment, a smirk, something. But this time, he just glances at his phone on the counter. It buzzes, screen lighting up with a name you don’t recognize. He picks it up quickly, reads the message, and smiles: not the crooked, boyish one he gives you when you’ve gotten under his skin, but something softer.

“Give me a sec,” he says, tapping out a reply before sliding the phone into his pocket.

You tilt your head. “New friend?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just stirs the pan and says lightly, “something like that.”

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. 

But for the first time since this started, you feel that dangerous flicker in your chest—the one you’ve spent months pretending doesn’t exist.

It doesn’t happen all at once. At first, it’s just little things — a text that takes a couple hours instead of a couple minutes, a night where he says he’s busy instead of letting you come over. You don’t ask questions, because that’s not what you do. You’re not the clingy type. You’ve built this whole thing on being untouchable, and you’re not about to let a few unanswered messages make you slip.

So you play it cool.

You still send him flirty texts when the mood strikes, still drop by unannounced like nothing’s changed. And when he hesitates—even for a split second—you just smile wider, lean in closer, act like you don’t notice the space he’s starting to put between you. If he’s pulling away, fine. 

You’re not chasing him.

At least… not where he can see it.

You’re not looking for him when you see it happen. It’s an industry event—one of those big, glittering things where everyone pretends they don’t notice the photographers in the corner. You’re mid-conversation with someone when you catch a glimpse of him across the room.

Daesung.

He’s laughing at something, head tipped back just the way you’ve seen a hundred times before. But it’s not the laugh that makes your stomach drop—it’s her. You know her. Everyone does. She’s the one he dated a couple years back, the one the fans loved because she was “so good for him.” Sweet. Steady. The kind of girl who probably remembers his coffee order and asks about his mom.

She’s standing close, her hand brushing his arm like it belongs there, and you can tell by the way he’s looking at her that he doesn’t mind. 

That he likes it.

It’s just a conversation. You know that. But the air shifts in your chest all the same.

You don’t move toward them—you’re too proud for that. Instead, you turn back to whoever was talking to you, smile like nothing’s wrong, and take a long sip of your drink. You don’t stare. You don’t even glance. But the sound of his laugh carries across the room, curling under your skin until you can’t tell if it’s pulling you back to him… or pushing you away.

Later that week, you’re sprawled across your couch, phone in hand, half-distracted scrolling when the photo stops you cold. It’s all over social media, originating from that same girl’s account. 

Your thumb hovers over the screen, like maybe if you don’t move, it won’t be real.

It’s a selfie. She’s curled into his side on what looks like his couch, the same one you’ve spent too many nights on. He’s not looking at the camera, he’s looking at her, both of their smiles are soft and easy like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The caption is simple. Just two words.

“We’re back.”

The comments are already flooding in. Fans crashing out, mutual friends scolding them 

Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to breathe slow. You don’t double-tap. You don’t even open his profile, even though every muscle in your hand is itching to. You toss the phone onto the other end of the couch and lean back, letting your head fall against the cushions.

It’s fine. 

You told him from the start you weren’t his girlfriend. You set the rules. You played the game.

You just never expected him to win.

And you certainly weren’t expecting to run into her. 

The café smells like fresh espresso and cinnamon, a small refuge from the chaos of the industry. You step inside, casually scanning the menu, trying to ignore the dull ache you’ve been pushing down for weeks. Then you hear the voice — light, effortless, the kind of voice that belongs somewhere safe and warm.

You turn, and there she is.

The girl. His girl.

Her eyes catch yours before she even realizes who you are. There’s a flicker of something unreadable before she forces a bright smile. Polite. Controlled.

“Hey,” she says softly, like this meeting is a coincidence that could be nothing but civil. “Aren’t you friends with Daesung?” 

You tilt your head, letting that slow, confident smile spread across your lips—half amused, half dangerous. “Something like that. You can have him if you like…” 

She laughs nervously before you cut her off, not wanting to hear anything more from her, refusing to let your mask slip.

“Just know… you’ll taste me when he’s kissing you.” 

thank you zenny for inviting me to be part of this challenge <33