➪ summary : based on this request. ( got botched with this format </3 ) what do you do when your best friend and the cute boy who's always at your job both have a crush on you ?
➪ other notes : in honor of pride month ! the storyboarding for this was absolute hell but this was so much fun to write, pls pls pls send me more love triangle reqs, i love them sm. edit : FUHHH I MESSED UP A SLIDE 💔💔 sorry gais i barely just reviewed it ( pls don’t judge )
the maknae of ive has game at the hybe headquarters.
▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• (idol au) situationship!martin edwards x idol!f!bisexual!r x situationship!hokazono iroha ss: 18 ss featuring: ive ot6 (+otheridols) disclamer: reader is the maknae of ive, commitment issuez, stella h2h is used as a visual for yn
cold-hearted girl, don’t hurt me like this anymore :(
stupid boy, you keep on begging, but i won’t let you in !
reading the written part is optional, it just adds more context 😋 you can skip it and go straight to the smau if u’d like!
“ew, this is so cringe.” you stare at your mac, re-reading the lyrics you had just written
you're supposed to be writing the lyrics for one of your upcoming songs, replay. title track, actually.
which is so good for you! except you don't like the lyrics. you think they're corny.
the producers liked it, they said the lyrics were addictive. but, no matter how you rewrite it, you still feel the same about it.
you sigh, burying your face in your hands
maaaaybe you just need the opinion of somebody outside your team?
soo that rules out.. minji, hanni, dani, haerin, hyein.
that's the majority of songwriters you know.
luckily, the past few days you’ve been hanging out with somebody new.
somebody who LOVES writing and making songs so much, that if he was in my little pony, that's what his cutie mark would represent.
so, you text him.
“okay, let’s see” martin says, already opening up the bag of chips you brought
🦮 “HOLY, who is this song about??” martin
🐨 “NOBODY??” you
that's a lie.
it's not about nobody, it's about a certain somebody.
🦮 “replaying every song you made??? well shit, why didn’t you just ask him for help, if he makes songs??”
🐨 “BECAUSE its not about anyone”
you hold eye contact with him, as if that makes it any better
it doesn't. it makes it much more awkward instead.
🦮 “is this about me??”
ohhhh my god.
🐨 “NO BRO what the hell”
he leans back slightly, analysing the lyrics infront of him like he's trying to solve a mystery.
does he really think you have a crush on him??
ew.
🦮 “well, i think the lyrics are really good. but this part feels a little out of place, so maybe let’s revise that”
you work on the song together for the next hour or so.
you already feel so much better about the song, he clearly knows his stuff.
but then, you get a message
“shit, it’s so late.” you say after checking your phone. “minji texted me”
🦮 “okay, just look into the verse i told you about”
"I will, I will. thank you sososo much” you say as you lean in to give him a hug.
when you get home, you check your phone just to see a message from martin asking about the meaning of the song, again.
the hangouts with him after this feel weird.
martin is weirdly nicer to you.
he always was nice, but it just felt different.
never rejects you when you ask to go out, even though he's clearly busy
always offers to pay for you, knowing you have much more money in your wallet than him (he literally has trainee debts to pay)
teases you more, but in this soft way, as if he's babying you.
aaand then it clicks.
author’s note: i dont like this as much as the previous one but 🥹
taglist; @sweetlydolls @kkyunho @meowchness @haezki @kirbzyq @hyuneskkami @qngelical @ikeufied @inadazeee @rositapinchesfresita lmk if u want to be added!
A Lovely Request For My Friend @Kari_Neko From Ko-Fi. Hope You All Enjoyed this One.
It started with a desperate need for a paycheck. You had been out of work for three months, and the bills were piling up on the kitchen counter, becoming a source of quiet, simmering tension between you and your wife. When the agency called about a "high-profile driver and personal assistant" position, you didn't hesitate, despite the vague job description.
The interview was at the headquarters of Voronova Corp. You expected a grilling from HR, but instead, you were ushered directly to the top floor. The office was vast, cold, and intimidatingly modern. Behind a desk of black glass sat Yunah. She didn't look up from her tablet when you entered.
"Name?" she asked, her voice sharp.
You told her, standing strictly at attention.
Finally, she looked up. The sharp dismissal she likely had ready died on her lips. She paused, her dark eyes scanning you from your polished shoes to the knot of your tie, lingering on your face. The silence stretched for an uncomfortable five seconds.
"You're hired," she said, her voice softer than before. "Start tomorrow. 6:00 AM."
That was two years ago.
Working for Yunah was demanding, but strangely intimate. You were the first face she saw in the morning and the last she saw at night. You knew how she took her coffee (black, two sugars), you knew her schedule better than she did, and you knew when she was stressed by the way she would unconsciously rub her left temple.
But there was something else. A shift in the dynamic that your wife noticed before you did.
"She calls you at 10 PM just to ask about the schedule for tomorrow?" your wife had asked one night, eyeing your buzzing phone. "Does she do that with everyone?"
She didn't. You knew that.
There were moments in the back of the Maybach where the professional barrier felt paper-thin. You would catch her in the rearview mirror. She wouldn't be looking at her phone or her laptop; she would be looking at the back of your head, or watching your eyes in the mirror. When you caught her gaze, she wouldn't look away immediately. She would hold it, a faint, unreadable smile playing on her lips, before slowly turning her attention back to the window.
One rainy Tuesday, you were helping her with her coat in the foyer of her penthouse. Her hands lingered on your chest as you adjusted the lapels. She stood too close, her perfume—something expensive and woody—filling your senses.
"You take very good care of me," she murmured, looking up at you through her lashes. Her hand brushed your arm, a touch that was entirely unnecessary. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
It was a confession wrapped in a compliment. You stepped back, professional as always, but your heart hammered against your ribs.
The crash came a month later. You had always been private about your personal life; you never wore your ring to work, fearful of scratching the expensive cars or appearing unprofessional in high-stakes meetings. Yunah had assumed you were single.
It happened during a gala. Yunah was making rounds, looking stunning in a crimson dress, with you shadowing her. A business associate, a man who knew you from your previous life, clapped you on the shoulder.
"Good to see you! How’s the wife? Jisoo, right?"
The glass in Yunah’s hand didn't break, but her knuckles turned white. The air around her temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. She turned to you, her eyes wide, searching your face for a denial.
"Wife?" she whispered, the word sounding foreign and bitter on her tongue.
You nodded stiffly. "Yes, Ms. Yunah. Married for five years."
The devastation in her eyes was instant and total. It was quickly replaced by a cold, icy mask, but you had seen it. For the rest of the night, she wouldn't look at you. She drank more than usual, her laughter sharp and brittle.
The next few weeks were unbearable. The warmth was gone, replaced by a suffocating intensity. She worked you harder, kept you later, demanding your presence constantly. It felt less like work and more like containment.
Finally, late one night in her office, the dam broke. It was past midnight. The city lights were a blur below. You placed a stack of documents on her desk, ready to leave.
"Sit down," she commanded. It wasn't a request.
You sat. She stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge of it, directly in front of you. She crossed her arms, looking down at you with a mixture of fury and hunger.
"I don't like sharing things that are mine," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
"I'm an employee, Yunah. I'm not a thing," you replied, your voice steady despite the tension.
"Are you?" She stepped forward, invading your personal space, forcing you to look up at her. "You spend more time with me than her. You know me better than her. You look at me, I know you do."
She placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip tight, possessive.
"I made a mistake assuming you were available," she hissed low in her throat. " But I don't make mistakes twice. And I certainly don't lose."
She leaned in close, her face inches from yours, her eyes dark with a dangerous resolve.
"I think it's time we renegotiated the terms of your employment."
The engine purrs to silence, but the weight in the car doesn’t lift. You don’t move. The partition stays up, a dark barrier between you and the empty chauffeur’s seat. Yunah’s perfume, something expensive and sharp like frozen orchids, fills the back compartment.
“You can look at me.” Her voice is a calm, velvet blade. “I know you want to.”
Your fingers are tight on the steering wheel. “Ms. Yunah. We’re at your penthouse. I should…”
“You should come back here. Now.”
A command. Not a request. You’ve heard this tone in boardrooms, seen entire teams wither under it. Your body obeys before your mind can form a protest. The door clicks open, the cool night air a brief shock before you slide into the back beside her. The leather is still warm from her.
She doesn’t look at you. She stares out the tinted window at the city lights far below. “Your wife called me today. Did you know that?”
Your stomach drops. “She… what?”
“She asked me, very politely, to ensure our working relationship remained professional.” Yunah turns her head. In the dim cabin light, her eyes are dark pools, absorbing everything. “She senses it. The thing you pretend isn’t happening every time you adjust my seatbelt, every time our fingers touch when I take my coffee. The thing I’ve watched grow for two years.”
“There’s nothing to sense,” you say, the lie brittle.
Her laugh is a short, soft punch of air. “Liar.” In one fluid motion, she reaches over, her palm cupping your jaw. Her thumb presses against your lips. “You think of me. I see it in the way your breathing changes when I’m near. I hear it.”
You try to pull back, but her other hand fists in your shirt, holding you still. Her strength is surprising, a wiry, determined force. “Ms. Yunah, please…”
“Please what?” she whispers, her face inches from yours. Her breath smells of mint and something darker, like desire. “Please stop? Or please continue?”
Her mouth closes over yours.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Her lips are insistent, parting yours with a ruthless efficiency. There’s no tenderness, only a hungry, consuming pressure. Your hands come up to push her away, but they land on her shoulders, the silk of her blouse slippery under your palms. A sound tears from your throat—a protest, a surrender—and she drinks it in, her tongue sliding against yours, tasting you, owning the space inside your mouth.
You kiss her back. God help you, you do. The part of you that’s been coiled tight for years unfurls, a sick, guilty heat flooding your veins. Your fingers dig into her shoulders, pulling her closer. She makes a low, approving noise in her throat, her hands sliding down to your belt.
“No,” you gasp against her mouth, even as your hips jerk forward.
“Yes,” she corrects, her voice muffled against your skin as she kisses down your neck. Her teeth scrape your pulse point. “You’re mine tonight. Every part of you. Especially this.” Her hand finds the hard line of your cock through your trousers, squeezing roughly. A bolt of pure, undiluted lust shoots through you, making your vision blur.
The next few minutes are a frantic, silent struggle of fabric and flesh. You don’t help, but you don’t truly fight. Your body betrays you at every turn, arching into her touch, your mouth seeking hers again in the dark. She straddles your lap in the confined space, her skirt pushed up around her waist. She’s not wearing anything underneath. The smooth, hot press of her bare skin against your stomach steals the air from your lungs.
“Look at me,” she demands, her fingers working your belt, your zipper. You obey. Her expression is one of fierce, terrifying triumph. “You’re going to fuck me now. You’re going to empty yourself inside me. You’re going to do it over and over until there’s nothing left and my body is so full of you it takes.”
She guides you, her hand a firm, unyielding circle around your shaft. The head of your cock nudges against her, slick with her own readiness. She doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease. She sinks down, taking you in one slow, devastating slide.
The feeling is catastrophic. She’s impossibly tight, a silken, gripping heat that sheaths you completely. A ragged groan is ripped from your chest. Her head falls back, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. For a second, she’s still, letting you feel every internal flutter, every pulse of her around your length.
“Fuck,” she breathes, the word a prayer and a curse. Then she begins to move.
It’s a relentless, punishing rhythm. She rides you with a focused, athletic intensity, her body rising and falling, using the leverage of the car seat to drive you deeper with every descent. The sounds are obscene—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, the creak of leather, your choked, helpless grunts. Her eyes never leave yours.
“You feel it,” she pants, her nails scoring your scalp. “You feel how deep you are. You’re going to come. You’re going to pump your fucking seed so deep inside my cunt it’ll never come out.”
Her words are a filthy, hypnotic chant. The pressure builds, a coil of white-hot need in your gut, tightening with every brutal plunge. You can’t speak. You can only watch her, this beautiful, ruthless woman milking you toward an end you both crave.
“Do it,” she snarls, her pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Breed me. Show me you’re mine.”
The orgasm hits you like a seizure. Your back arches off the seat, a raw, animal sound tearing from your throat as you erupt inside her. It goes on and on, wave after punishing wave, your cock jerking as you fill her exactly as she demanded. She clenches around you, milking every last drop, her own climax a silent, shuddering thing that makes her entire body go rigid, her inner muscles fluttering around your spent length.
She collapses against your chest, both of you slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken sync. You’re still buried inside her, feeling the warm, wet evidence of what you’ve done pulse between your bodies.
It’s only when your breathing starts to slow that you hear it. A soft, digital click from the vicinity of the door pocket.
Yunah shifts, lifting her head. A faint, cold smile touches her swollen lips. She reaches over, and your gaze follows her hand. She pulls her phone from the pocket. The screen is lit, displaying a video—a jumble of shadows and movement that is unmistakably the two of you.
“My wife…” you whisper, horror dawning.
“Is about to get a very clear message,” Yunah finishes, her thumb hovering over the screen. She leans in, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers. “But first, you’re not done. You’re going to get hard for me again. And you’re going to give me another. I want to feel you drip out of me all night.”
She hits ‘send’. The phone makes a soft whoosh sound.
“Now,” she says, shifting her hips, making you gasp as your oversensitive cock twitches inside her still-full channel. “Let’s go upstairs. We have all the time in the world, and I want so many more loads from you.”
The elevator ride to the penthouse is a silent, vibrating cage. You stand apart from her, staring at your own blurred reflection in the brass doors, the ghost of her taste still on your tongue, the phantom ache of her body still gripping yours. She watches you, a predator observing its captured prey.
“Clean yourself up,” she says as the doors open into her foyer. “In the guest bath. You smell like me.”
You do. The smell is unmistakable, a mix of your sweat and her musk. In the sterile white bathroom, you scrub your hands, splash water on your face. Your own eyes in the mirror look hollow. The thought of your wife seeing that video—the thought of her seeing you—is a physical pain behind your ribs.
When you emerge, Yunah is waiting by the wall of glass in the living room. The city sprawls beneath her, a galaxy of cold, distant lights. She has changed into a robe of black silk, untied. It hangs open, revealing the long, athletic lines of her body, the faint sheen of sweat still on her skin from the car.
“Come here.” Her voice carries, soft and absolute.
You walk, your shoes loud on the marble.
She turns, letting the robe slip from her shoulders. It pools at her feet. She is naked, her skin moon-pale against the dark cityscape behind her. “I want you to fuck me against this glass,” she says, her eyes pinning you. “I want you to look at everything I own while you fill me up.”
“I can’t,” you say, the words automatic.
“You can. You will.” She steps forward, her fingers finding the buckle of your belt. “You’re already hard for me again. Your body doesn’t lie to me.”
She’s right. The traitorous throb of your cock against your zipper betrays you completely. She makes quick, efficient work of your clothes, pushing your trousers and boxers down your thighs, her hand wrapping around your rigid length before the fabric even hits the floor.
“See?” she murmurs, stroking you slowly, her thumb smearing the wetness beading at your tip. “This belongs to me now. It knows who owns it.”
She turns her back to you, pressing her palms flat against the cool glass. She arches, presenting herself. “Take me. From behind. I want to watch.”
Your hands settle on her hips. The skin is smooth, warm. You feel the fine tremble in her muscles. You guide yourself to her entrance, still slick and swollen from your last claiming. The sensation of pushing into that familiar, gripping heat makes your jaw clench.
“Harder,” she commands, her voice a low rasp against the glass.
You thrust, burying yourself to the hilt. A sharp, guttural sound tears from her throat. Her head falls forward. “That’s it. Fuck me like you mean it. Like you’re trying to put a baby in me.”
Each word is a spur. You settle into a brutal, driving rhythm, your body slapping against the backs of her thighs. The glass shudders faintly with each impact. Her moans are swallowed by the vast room, echoing back at you—a symphony of her pleasure and your debasement.
“You feel so deep,” she gasps, pushing back against you, meeting every thrust. “I can feel you in my stomach. I want to be so full of your come it leaks out of me for days.”
Her filthy talk is a command you have no choice but to obey. The coil of tension in your gut winds tighter, a wire pulled to its breaking point. Your fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, sure to leave marks. You’re panting, grunting, a beast reduced to base, mechanical function.
“I’m going to come,” you grit out, a warning and a confession.
“Not yet,” she snarls. She pushes you back, your cock slipping from her with a wet sound. “Not here. On the balcony. In the open air. I want the whole city to hear me when I make you breed me.”
She takes your hand, pulling you through the open balcony doors. The night wind is a cold shock against your fevered skin. The city’s hum rises up, a constant, indifferent drone. She leans over the polished stone railing, her back to the infinite drop.
“Now,” she says, looking over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with reflected light. “Finish it.”
You step into her, sheathing yourself again in one sharp, deep stroke. Her cry this time is raw and unfettered, flung out into the night. You fuck her with a frantic, desperate energy, the threat of exposure to a thousand unseen windows only heightening the illicit thrill. The cool stone bites into her forearms, the warm wind kisses your sweat-slicked backs.
“Tell me,” she demands, her voice ragged. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m… fucking you,” you gasp.
“What are you doing?” she insists, clenching around you hard, making you stutter.
“I’m… breeding you.”
“Louder.”
“I’m breeding you!” The words are torn from you, lost to the wind.
“Good,” she moans. “Give it to me. Give it all to me.”
It’s too much. The pressure snaps. With a final, shuddering thrust, you lock yourself inside her and come. It’s a deep, pulsing flood, a surrender that feels both catastrophic and inevitable. You spill into her, your forehead dropping between her shoulder blades as you empty yourself, your body convulsing with the force of it.
She milks you through it, rocking her hips back onto you, drawing out every last spurt until you’re spent and softening inside her.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing and the city below. Then, she slowly straightens. You slip from her body, and a warm trickle immediately traces a path down her inner thigh. She turns, a slow, triumphant pivot. Her hand goes between her legs, her fingers gathering the evidence of your climax. She holds them up, slick and glistening in the balcony’s ambient light.
She brings her fingers to her lips, her tongue darting out to clean them, her dark eyes never leaving yours. The act is so vulgar, so profoundly possessive, it steals the air from your lungs.
“One more,” she whispers, stepping into you, her body aligning with yours. She wraps a leg around your hip, her heat still radiating against your thigh. “Just one more, right here. I want to feel it dripping down my legs when I walk inside.”
Her hand finds you again, stroking your softening length, coaxing, demanding. “You can do it for me. You always do what I say.” Her other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss. It’s deep, languid, full of shared salt and the bitter taste of her victory. “I want you to fill me until I can’t hold any more. I want to feel you pumping into me while I watch those lights. I want to remember this every time I look at my city.”
Her words, her touch, her sheer relentless will work on you. Against all reason, against the screaming voice in your head, you feel a treacherous stir, a slow, painful reawakening under her expert fingers. She smiles against your mouth, a smile of pure, dark power.
“That’s it,” she purrs, guiding you back to her entrance. “Give me what’s mine.”
Her fingers were still tracing patterns on your damp chest when her phone vibrated on the balcony floor. A harsh, insistent buzz. You flinched. She didn’t.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Yunah untangled herself from your limp embrace and retrieved the device. The screen’s glow illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows. She smiled. A real, wide, terrifying smile.
“Right on time,” she purred.
She held the phone up. It was a video call. The name on the screen—Jisoo—felt like a punch to your throat. Before you could speak, before you could even breathe, Yunah answered.
Your wife’s face filled the screen. Her eyes were red, swollen, shattered. The raw, open wound of her expression made you physically recoil.
“You… you monster,” Jisoo choked out, her voice ragged. “How could you?”
You tried to form her name. Nothing came out.
“Jisoo, darling,” Yunah said, her voice syrup-sweet and venomous. She leaned back, deliberately letting the camera capture the sheen of sweat on her naked skin, the mark of your teeth on her shoulder. “I thought you should see what your husband is really good at.”
“Stop it!” Jisoo screamed. The sound was a physical thing, scraping through the speaker. “Let him go! I’m calling the police!”
Yunah’s laugh was a low, melodic ripple. “And tell them what? That your husband is fucking his boss? That he’s been begging to empty his married load into me all night? Look at him.”
She swung the phone towards you. You saw yourself on the tiny preview window—naked, spent, your face a mask of guilty horror. You tried to cover yourself, a pathetic, instinctive gesture.
“He’s not a prisoner,” Yunah continued, swinging the camera back to her own triumphant face. “He’s exactly where he wants to be. Inside me.” She shifted, and a slow, deliberate trickle of your release traced a path down her inner thigh, captured in high definition for your wife to see. “He belongs to me now. We have… plans.”
“Plans?” Jisoo sobbed.
“Mmm.” Yunah’s hand drifted to her lower abdomen. “He’s going to help me conceive. A beautiful, healthy baby. I want his child. And judging by how much he’s already given me tonight…” She sighed, a sound of pure, smug satisfaction. “...I’d say my chances are excellent.”
“No,” you finally whispered.
Yunah ignored you. Her eyes were only for the screen, for your wife’s crumbling world. “He’s my employee. My asset. And now, my breeder. You should thank me, Jisoo. I’m putting him to much better use.”
She ended the call. The screen went black.
The silence that followed was heavier than the city below. The image of your wife’s broken face was burned onto the back of your eyelids. A cold, hollow nausea spread through your gut.
Then, warmth. Yunah’s hand, sliding up your thigh.
“That was invigorating,” she murmured, her lips against your ear. Her other hand closed around your softness, stroking with a possessive certainty. “Hearing her cry for you. Knowing she saw what we did. Knowing she knows.”
“You’re a monster,” you rasped, but your body, the traitorous fucking thing, was already stirring under her touch.
“I’m a realist,” she corrected. Her grip tightened. “And you’re still hard for me. Even now. Your pity for her is just another kind of arousal, isn’t it? It makes this even dirtier. Even better.”
She was right. A sick, shameful heat was coiling in you again, fueled by adrenaline and devastation. You hated her. You hated yourself more.
“On your back,” she commanded, pushing you down onto the cold stone balcony floor.
You went. What else was there?
She straddled your hips, her slick, used folds brushing against your renewed stiffness. She didn’t guide you in. She lifted herself and sank down, taking every inch in one slow, excruciatingly deep slide. You cried out, a sound ripped from a place of pure anguish.
“You feel that?” she hissed, beginning to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips. “That’s where you live now. That’s your home. You’re going to fuck a baby into me right here, where your wife heard you fucking me. Where she knows you are.”
Her words were a dark chant. You gripped her hips, your fingers biting into her flesh, as much to anchor yourself as to move her. She set a brutal, steady pace, riding you with a focused, biological intensity. Each downward stroke was a claim. Each clench of her internal muscles was a demand.
“You’re going to come so deep,” she panted, her head thrown back. “You’re going to pump it so far up my cunt your little swimmers won’t have a choice. They’ll find my egg and they’ll take it. And I’ll swell up with your child. My child.”
The imagery was vile. It was intoxicating. Your orgasm built not as a peak of pleasure, but as a tidal wave of surrender. You were a tool. A vessel. A breeding stud for this beautiful, ruthless woman who had destroyed your life and owned your body.
“Do it,” she snarled, her pace turning frantic. “Give me your seed. Fertilize me.”
You broke. A raw, guttural shout was torn from your lungs as you erupted inside her. This climax was different—deeper, more violent, a full-body convulsion of release and self-loathing. You pulsed into her, jet after jet, flooding her with everything you had left.
She milked you through it, her own climax a silent, shuddering clench around your throbbing cock, wringing out every last drop.
When it was over, she didn’t collapse. She stayed upright, impaled on you, breathing heavily. A contented smile played on her lips. She pressed a hand low on her belly.
“So much,” she whispered. “I can feel the heat of it. I can feel it pooling.”
Slowly, she lifted herself off you. In the dim light, you saw it—a thick, pearlescent stream of your spend already leaking out of her, dripping onto your stomach. She watched it for a moment, fascinated.
Then her phone buzzed again. A text notification. She picked it up, her smile widening.
“She’s begging,” Yunah said, her voice light. “She says she’ll forgive you. She says to please come home.” She laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. “As if you have a home besides me now.”
She tossed the phone aside and leaned over you, her hair a curtain blocking out the city lights. Her face was all you could see.
“You’re not done,” she said, her voice dropping to a hungry whisper. Her hand found you again. You were soft, oversensitive, raw. But under her relentless touch, under the pressure of her will, a feeble, aching throb answered. “You’re going to get hard for me again. You’re going to give me one more. I want it to spill out of me all night. I want to go to sleep dripping with you.”
She lowered her mouth to yours, her kiss tasting of salt and dominance. “Now,” she breathed against your lips, her hand working you with a cruel, knowing rhythm. “Let’s see if we can make it happen.”
A/N: Part of @prael Minju challenge over on Fanprose. Feel free to follow along there, but don't worry—I'll still be posting here!
Tags: fluff
She watches you. Out in the hallway, peeking through the window. Watches the way you casually sit on your desk, leg propped on your chair. The way you throw your head back when you laugh, loud enough that it echoes down the hallway. She watches your forearms flex as you shove someone’s shoulder, his protests drowned out by your grin.
Park Minju has always liked to watch this classroom, liked to watch you. Bassist for the school band. The one everyone gravitated towards without quite knowing why. She does—has watched you long enough to. All the girls have a crush on you, and she’s no exception. But she has one advantage over the others.
She feels a shove at her back—pressed against the wall by the newly arriving girls that came to watch you. The air is suffocating. Shoulders press against hers on both sides, blocking her view. Someone has too much perfume on, and she can’t breathe properly.
You turn to the commotion outside the classroom, and you see her, surrounded on all sides. Your smile drops slightly, worry etched across your face.
“Minju!” She looks up, face red, and sees you, waving, unhurried, as if the crowd behind her doesn’t exist. And just like that, everyone backs away. She takes two deep breaths, smooths her cardigan and skirt before entering the classroom. The noise from the hallway fades behind her. In here, she can hear your voice clearly now, the low rumble of your laugh she’d recognise anywhere.
She ignores the weight of stares she’s learned to walk through like they’re nothing.
See, the one advantage she has over the others is that she’s known you all her life.
“What are you doing here?”
She scowls at the voice before she even sees who it belongs to, her nose scrunching in irritation. She already knows.
The one disadvantage she has is that you are her brother’s best friend.
----
It isn’t unusual to find yourself in their home. It’s practically your second home. Their parents always welcome you, always invite you to stay the night.
It’s even less unusual to find yourself in their kitchen.
You roll your sleeves up as you drop three packets of noodles into the pot of boiling water, stirring slightly, waiting for it to soften before adding the rest of the ingredients: the soup packets, spring onions, maybe a bit of cheese.
Once done, you pour them into three separate bowls, one of them has a bit more than the others, before placing them on the dining table. You move again, this time to grab empty glasses and a jug of water.
“Why does she get the bigger one?”
You pour her water first, not looking up at your friend before answering. “Make more yourself if you’re that hungry.” You turn to face her. “Eat up.”
You’re already turning back to the table, moving to sit down, missing the way Minju’s cheek tinge bright pink, and the way she softly slaps herself as if that would help calm her down.
(It doesn’t)
She stares at you as you talk to her brother, wishing it was her instead. But what would she say? What could she say? Every conversation with you has been surface level. No deep discussions, no confessions, nothing beyond ‘how are you?’ and ‘good.’ and it’s all your fault. The way you maintain eye contact, how you patiently wait for her to get her words out, even when her throat closes up or her mind goes blank staring back at you.
It’s infuriating that you affect her so much, annoying that you have no clue about it either.
She watches as you become more animated telling a story. The way your arms start flailing around or the way every time you smile, your dimples come out. Her eyes travel to your neck, gazes as your adam’s apple bobs with every slurp of noodles.
Some soup splashes onto you, and she’s already half out of her seat, ready to get a tissue. Except, you’re wearing an apron. How could she forget you’re wearing an apron. And not just any apron. The apron her mom bought her when she had that fleeting dream of becoming a chef.
(That lasted two months)
“… don’t understand why we have to study! My brain hurts…”
That caught Minju’s attention.
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Your brother’s being an idiot again.” You sigh as you take another bite of your ramyeon.
“When am I going to ever need,” he stares at the title of the worksheet, “the Pythagorean theorem in my life?”
You ignore his whining, turning to face Minju.
“What about you? Does your dream involve finding the length of one side of a triangle?”
She hesitates before answering quietly. “N—no… I want to be an idol…”
You hear laughter. Her brother.
“You? An idol? Don’t you have to be an E? How can you be an idol when you’re an extreme I?” Her brother asks between fits of laughter.
You watch her look down at her hands, wringing. She slowly slides down the chair, face red in embarrassment.
You smack her brother on the head before looking back at her, ignoring his cries.
You nod. “I do. You should audition.” You’re already back to your noodles, mouth over the bowl before you continue. “You already have one fan in me.”
You turn back to her, and you smile that smile, dimples prominent, eyes in crescent shapes, head tilted ever so slightly, noodles hanging out.
If it was possible, Minju’s face would be even redder than it is. Her heart pounds hard against her chest. It feels loud, like you could hear it if you try hard enough. She smiles, and nods. “Th—thank you.”
You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. There’s something about the way she looks at you—like you promised her the world instead of believing in her. It makes your chest feel weird. Warm.
You look away first, back to your noodles, before you do something stupid like keep staring.
Later that night, you’re crashing at their place as you always do. The room is dark except for the light from the lamp post peeking through and from your phone. The floor is hard against your back, but warm. You’re scrolling through your phone when you hear rustling from the bed above.
Your best friend.
He sits up and turns to you, doesn’t say anything for a minute.
“You know she’s going to audition now,” he finally says. “After what you said.”
You don’t look at him, eyes trained on the phone but not absorbing anything. “And she should. I wasn’t lying when I said that.”
“She’s always wanted to audition. You were just the final push she needed.”
You hum, thumb frozen on your phone. You don’t know why that makes your chest tight.
He stays quiet for a long time, long enough that you crane your neck up to face him. “You’re good to her, you know. A better brother than I could ever be. Walking her home and shit. Just… don’t give her hope.”
You don’t know what he means. Or maybe you do, and you just don’t want to think about it.
“I… won’t,” you say.
He stares at you, looking for any lie. When he doesn’t, he lies back down, turning to face away from you. “Good.”
You stare at the ceiling for a long time after that. Don’t give her hope. But why not? You liked how she looked at you from across the table, eyes wide and bright that they’re practically burned into the back of your eyelids.
You close your eyes and sigh heavily, willing yourself to sleep.
----
You lean against the railing outside the studio, checking the time on your phone every few minutes. You exhale loudly, jumping at every sound. She should be out by now.
Ever since she told you her dream, she’s committed to it, taking vocal lessons, dance lessons, anything that could improve her chances of being cast. And you’ve been there every step of the way. Making sure she doesn’t burn out or that she gets home safely despite protesting numerous time that she doesn’t need a babysitter.
What can you say? You want to be here. Always have. The worrying is just an excuse you tell yourself.
You see someone coming down the stairs. Minju. One hand holding tightly on the handrail, the other trying, and failing to keep hold of the duffel bag on her shoulders.
You move quickly, avoiding people walking in front of you, taking the bag from her before she has time to protest.
“You’re here again? I told you, you don’t need to keep coming to these.”
You throw the duffel bag over your shoulder, walking out the building, arms brushing against each other every now and then. “You’d miss me if I didn’t come.”
You look down at her, smiling but she doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, she’s staring at her shoes, scuffing them slightly against the pavement. You tilt your head to look closer. Her cheeks are red, likely from the audition.
She must be tired.
You scan around the place, your eyes finding a small bakery nearby. You take her hand, dragging her to it. You don’t look back, don’t see the flush across her cheeks or the way her eyes widen in panic.
“Wh—what are you doing?”
“I finally found it. The bakery I wanted to try out. Come on!”
You pull her arm until she’s standing in front of you. Your hand is gently on the small of her back, guiding her inside.
She sucks in a breath, and holds it there as she enters the bakery. Only when you’ve found them a seat and you walked off to the counter does she finally exhale. Where your hand was, it feels like it’s on fire.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Messages from friends asking her how the audition went, and that they should go out for a meal after. Her hand starts shaking, typing out the message.
Sorry. Can’t make it.
She’s lying. She knows it but it doesn’t stop her from typing. Because you’re here, and she can still feel your hand on her back, and she can’t stop the smile creeping on her face.
“Here. I got you something sweet,” you point to a chocolate croissant before pointing to a salted bread roll, “or if you prefer something savoury.”
“Thanks.” She looks up at you. “Are you not having any?”
You shake your head, a warm smile still on your face. “I’ll try it next time.”
Minju moves to grab the croissant, tearing it in half before doing the same to the bread roll, pushing both halves towards you.
You let out a soft chuckle before digging in. She didn’t ask if you wanted any. Just knew. Split them both apart without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When did she start doing these things for you? When did you start noticing?
You open your mouth—to say what, you’re not sure. Thank you feels too small. You didn’t have to do that feels like a lie, because part of you expected her to. You’ve been wanting these small acts of kindness from her for longer than you can remember.
“How was the audition?” you ask instead.
She tells you everything. The nervous looks from the other auditionees, to the way she nailed the singing audition but messed up on the dancing one. You can’t stop watching her. How her hands move when she talks, the way she continues to talk with her mouth full. She’s so immersed in her story, she’s forgotten to be self-conscious. You’ve never seen her like this with anyone else. Not her brother, or her parents.
You don’t want her to stop. Ever.
At one point, her voice tapers off, aware that you haven’t said anything in a while, but when you ask a question, her eyes light up, and she becomes animated again, talking through mouthfuls.
You can’t help the laugh that escapes.
She stops mid-sentence, swallowing roughly around the croissant. “Why are you laughing?”
You wave a hand, taking a drink of water. “Nothing. It’s just… I’ve never seen you talk so much,” you look at her face, and the way her eyes concentrate on you. “It’s nice.”
Her ears go bright red, heart fluttering from your compliment. She smiles softly at the plate in front of you both.
And then, for a second, she hates you for it.
Hates how easy it is for you to say things like that—it’s nice—like it doesn’t cost you anything. Like you don’t know what those words do to her. How she’ll replay them every night before bed, on the bus, during study sessions, and every time she needs to remember what it feels like being seen by you.
You smile too. You can’t help it. Making her blush, it does something to you that you’re not ready to name yet.
The anger dissolves as quickly as it came. Because you don’t know. How could you? She’s never told you. And never will.
After finishing, you both get up to leave. The doorbell chimes softly as you both exit, side by side, your arm around her shoulders as you guide her through the busy night crowd.
You don’t notice the way she stiffens at the contact. At the way she relaxes against you.
Eventually, you both make it to the bus stop, sitting underneath the shelter. You look up at the timing board. 2 minutes.
“You don’t have to wait with me. You live in the opposite direction.”
You don’t look at her, instead watch as cars drive by, as people get off and on a bus. “So? I want to.”
The words come out easier than they should. More honest than you meant them to be. You glance at her. She’s staring at her shoes, but you catch her small smile before she hides it.
You’re doing it again. Making her heart race. She has to remind herself to not read too much into the way you said ‘I want to’ like it meant something more, that she can never be more than your best friend’s sister. But the way you’re looking at her right now… maybe it does mean something. Just the thought makes her dizzy.
The bus arrives soon after, and you’re walking in after her, scanning your card on the reader before sitting beside her. The bus is practically empty at this time, a couple of people are scattered around, earphones in or exhausted enough to fall asleep. You look towards Minju sat by the window, looking outside, and you’re able to get a glimpse of her reflection. Her hair carefully framing her face before she tucks them behind her ear, her lips slightly parted, her breathing fogging up the glass.
Cute.
The thought surprises you, but it’s there and you can’t take it back. You’ve thought it before—about puppies, about kids, the way she’d scrunch her nose when her brother annoyed her. But this feels different.
This feels like you’re actually seeing her.
Like you’ve been seeing her for a while now and you just didn’t want to admit it.
The bus lurches forward, the brake applied hard and sudden. Immediately, your hand moves, rests against her stomach, keeping her in the seat. “Are you okay?”
Her hand takes yours, gripping your fingers tightly. “Y—yeah.”
She doesn’t hear the driver’s apology or the complaints from the other passengers. She only feels your hand in hers, and how your fingers are calloused from touching the bass strings. You pull back, and she’s reluctant to let you go. Her fingers slip from yours slowly, and you feel the loss of contact more than you should.
You flex your hand in your lap, still tingling from the contact. You can still feel the warmth of her palm, the way her fingers tightened around yours like she was afraid to let go.
You didn’t want to let go either.
The ride to her place is long, to the point you find yourself yawning every few minutes. You turn to face Minju, only to notice her head swaying from side to side. She’s fighting to stay awake, trying to keep her eyes wide and open, only for them to close a minute later.
Who wouldn’t be exhausted after a day of school followed by singing and dancing in front of scouts in the hope of being chosen.
Her head falls dangerously close to the window, but before she could hit it, you move your hand. You shield her from the impact, gently pushing her head in the opposite direction, towards your shoulder.
She falls onto it with a gentle thud, losing the fight against sleep. You stay still, keeping her there, and making sure she doesn’t wake up. You get a whiff of her hair. Citrus. Nice. You hear her snore too, soft, barely audible unless you’re right next to her. She wrinkles her nose a few times and you can’t help smile at how adorable she is.
You feel the exact moment she fully relaxes against you—the weight of her head settling heavier, her breathing evening out, the tension leaving her shoulders. She trusts you enough to fall asleep on you. The thought does something to your head that you don’t have words for. You don’t move. Don’t shift your shoulders when it starts aching. Don’t reach for your phone when it begins buzzing against your thigh. You just sit there, barely breathing, like if you stay still, you can make this last forever.
Before you know it, the streets around suddenly become familiar. How long have you been staring at her?
Long enough to memorise the way her eyelashes rest against her cheeks. Long enough that you know she breathes through her mouth when she’s in a deep sleep, and that she scrunches her nose every two minutes. Long enough that the idea of moving—of waking her and pulling away—feels like you’re punishing yourself.
You don’t want this bus ride to end.
That thought should scare you more than it does.
You press a finger on her arm, gently enough to wake her but not enough to hurt her. “Hey, we’re almost at the stop.” You watch as her eyes flutter open, and the soft mewling sound she makes as she stretches her arms above her head, smacking her lips together a couple of times.
You lean forward, pressing the stop button before standing, grabbing her bag and her arm, guiding her to the exit.
The walk back to her home is slow, languid. She’s too tired to walk any faster, too tired to make conversation. But you stay by her side, matching her pace. Only now do you notice the bags under her eyes, under the light of the lamp posts, and how she slowly drifts into your path.
You smile, letting her lean on you the rest of the way. She fits against your side like she belongs there. Like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before, and you could keep doing it and never tire from it.
When you’re just outside her home, you gently place the duffel bag on her shoulder. She’s swaying slightly, exhausted, and you steady her with a hand on her arm.
“Go in. I’ll wait until you go inside.”
She nods, but doesn’t move. Just looks up at you, eyes soft and half-lidded from exhaustion. Her head softly falls onto your chest, and almost immediately, she stands straight, blinking a couple times. Your hand still has a hold on her arm. You should let go.
You don’t.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For walking me home. For… everything.”
“Minju—” You don’t know what you were going to say. Don’t know if you should say it.
She smiles. Small and understanding. Like she knew exactly what you were going to say.
“Good night,” she whispers.
You reluctantly let go. Watch her walk to her door. She turns back, just before she goes inside, and the way she looks at you makes your chest tight.
You lift your hand. A small wave. She waves back, and even in the dark you can see she’s smiling.
She enters without another word, and you watch as the door closes, standing there longer than you should, staring at the space where she was. You replay the way she looked at you, like she was waiting, hoping for you to say something. Like she’d wait no matter how long it took.
You walk back to the bus stop. Hear it coming from a distance.
You’re smiling when you board. Still smiling when you get home.
⤿ 𝐬𝐡𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 ★ i had this silly idea and so i hope y'all enjoy it. it's really short , but i liked it <3
MINJU first saw the pinkish building while walking out of her company, it's comfy and welcoming design got her inside the place without even meaning to. she just wanted to take a quick look inside and maybe order a piece of chocolate cake. but once she saw you, her body froze, and for a moment she couldn't speak. you were so pretty. minju only managed to speak once she heard your—oh so beautiful—voice asking what did she wanted to order. that was the first time she forgot her usual order, saying the first thing her mind came up with before timidly walk back to a seat.
WONYOUNG can be a flirty girl. it's not uncommon to have the idea of her being extra smiley around someone she may be wanting to see more than not. but it was even worse once she heard of you. there was just this... cute aura in you that made wonyoung want to get closer. when she ordered for the first time in your bakery, she couldn't keep herself from occasionally sending you a few smiles, her heart beating faster once you smiled back.
LIA heard about the bakery when one of her group members, yuna, mentioned it. the way people have been talking about the place got her curious, leading her to lia going there after a long day of practicing. she was enchanted from the moment she stepped inside, your eyes meeting hers as you greeted her with so much kindness. lia accidentally spent five minutes talking to you until someone else was behind her and she had to walk away, but as she waited for her order, she'd make sure to tell her members about this place as well.
MIYEON is a very loud and extroverted person, so when her friends begun talking about this lovely bakery with the cutest owner ever, she just knew she had to go there and see with her eyes. to say she liked it was an understatement. miyeon stayed in your bakery for about two hours, ordering small snacks so she could spend most of her time talking to you when you weren't doing anything in particular. she is so coming back here.
GEHLEE wished she had known about this bakery way sooner, especially because of you. she wasn't even caring to hide the flirtatious tone in her voice as she talked to you, asking for a pudding, something you could make that was fast, but also gave her a reason to sweet talk to you. gehlee has just found you so adorable, she couldn't help herself, she needed to see your reactions on everything she says.
WINTER was hesitant to go to your bakery at first, especially when karina herself has said things about how you're so, so sweet to everyone. but her experience there was beyond good. winter couldn't keep her eyes off of the cute baker who always flashed a smile to every person who showed up. and maybe she's giving herself false hopes, but she is very sure your smile was a little bigger than the others when it was directed at her.
KAZUHA was excited to finally see for herself what her friends were talking about. the bakery itself was amazing on it's own, however, her attention's fully on you, working so gracefully while talking to people. she doesn't know how do you manage to be so happy all the time. it's not even like a persona, you're just... friendly. and kind. kazuha had to talk to you in person and know more about this lovely bakery.
summary: Niki secretly has a crush on Y/N, the sweet and confident leader of ILLIT. He can’t help but admire her from afar. He knows he can’t say anything, but just watching her shine from a distance is enough to make his world a little brighter .ᐟ.ᐟ
w/c: 643
c/w: ILLIT sixth member, no use of Y/N, fluffˎˊ˗
You can find part two here .ᐟ.ᐟ
The sound of music echoed faintly from the practice room down the hall. Riki paused mid-step, his water bottle still in his hand. He knew that sound, the soft hum, the rhythm of sneakers on the floor, the occasional laugh that always made something flutter in his chest.
It was you.
You were the leader of ILLIT, the girl group that everyone said had a glow about them. But to him, it wasn’t just a glow it was you. The way you moved with quiet confidence, the way you encouraged the other girls when they felt down. You weren’t loud or flashy, you had a calm energy that drew people in without trying.
He leaned against the wall, trying to stay out of sight. He didn’t know when it started— this habit of stopping by the practice room when you were rehearsing. Maybe it was after that first joint stage at the company event, when you’d smiled at him backstage and said, “You did great, Riki.”
No one called him that except his family. The way you said it felt… soft, Familiar.
He shook his head, trying to focus. He wasn’t supposed to be here. If anyone caught him hanging around where you were practicing, the rumors would spread like wildfire. So he watched from afar, letting himself admire for just a moment.
When you finally turned off the music and sat down, catching your breath, he saw a glimpse of your smile in the mirror. You reached for your phone, scrolling, humming quietly to yourself. The sight made his heart ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Get a grip,” he muttered under his breath, forcing himself to walk away.
Later that evening, all of HYBE was buzzing. The artists lounge was crowded after rehearsals—trainees, idols, stylists. ILLIT was sitting at one corner, laughing over bubble tea. ENHYPEN was across the room, but Riki’s eyes found you instantly.
You looked tired but happy, your hair tied up loosely, a small bandage peeking from your wrist where you’d probably practiced too hard. He wanted to walk over, to tell you to rest, to remind you to eat properly—but he couldn’t.
So he just smiled quietly when you laughed at something Yunah said.
Sunoo smirked. “You think we don’t notice? Every time ILLIT’s on screen, your face lights up.”
Niki turned red instantly, looking away. “I—I just like their performances.”
“Sure,” Sunoo teased. “Especially the one with her in it.”
Niki grabbed his drink and muttered, “Shut up,” but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.
When the year-end music shows came around, both groups were scheduled to perform on the same stage again. Backstage was a blur of staff, lights, and excitement. Niki stood near the wings, waiting for his cue. You passed by, dressed in white and silver, hair shining under the lights.
“Hey, Riki,” you said, smiling as you walked past. “Good luck out there.”
He froze for half a second, heart thundering. “you too,” he managed, but you were already being whisked away by your manager.
He stood there, watching you disappear toward the stage, the echo of your voice still in his head.
When the lights dimmed and the music began, he watched from the side, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed only on you. The crowd screamed, the lights danced—but for him, it was quiet. Just you, glowing under the spotlight, doing what you loved.
He smiled softly to himself. He didn’t need you to know, not yet. Admiring you from afar was enough—for now.
Because in this world of cameras and chaos, stolen moments and secrets were all he could afford.
And if that meant loving you quietly
from behind the stage
from behind the applause—then Riki was okay with that.
