Muffin
WJSN's Bona x M!Reader
Note: back to regularly scheduled fluff! Thank you @yoohyeons-puppy98 for the ask!
(3.1k words)
If anyone asked you to describe Bona, you’d probably say something like: “Oh, she’s professional, polite, always composed.”
But if someone asked you to describe Jiyeon, though…you’d probably shrug and say: “She demands more hugs than a five-year-old.”
…And yes, they were the same person.
It's lowkey amusing, really. Everyone else only knew Bona—the actress, the professional, the fortress. She’d been in the game longer than half the stylists had been working, and the rookie actors looked at her like she’d stepped straight out of a film reel. She carried herself with quiet authority, the kind that came with years of experience and the kind of polish one definitely couldn’t fake.
You often heard stylists whisper that she was a dream client: never complaining about rushed changes, never wrinkling her nose when something didn’t fit right. Sometimes the crew members stood behind you and admired how she listened carefully, gave nothing but steady focus, even when the shoot dragged deep into the night. Her co-stars—chatty, restless, always buzzing—eventually learned not to mistake her patience for softness (poor them, really). As for the seniors? They had nothing but respect for her discipline, which you were still amazed of till this day.
Firm, but never unkind. Always untouchable.
But you knew better along the road….way better.
Because the second you two stepped behind closed doors, whether it was her dressing room, her apartment, your apartment, or even the quiet backseat of the van, Bona disappeared, and Jiyeon, your girlfriend, appeared.
And she acted like you were the older one.
“Honey,” she’d say, dropping her bag on the couch as soon as you closed the door. You barely had time to take off your shoes before she was tugging at your sleeve, her cute pout already active. “Hug.”
You blinked. “Already?”
“Yes. Right now.” She crossed her arms but kept standing far too close, lips pressed together like she was trying to keep her composure.
“You literally hugged me before we left the set,” you reminded her, still very amused.
“That was a work hug,” she countered as if that explained everything. “This is a real hug. Totally different category.”
You sighed in mock defeat but your arms opened. She collapsed into them without hesitation, burying her face and snuggled against your chest. And the fortress dissolved instantly.
You felt it in the way her shoulders loosened, in the quiet sigh slipping past her lips. Hours ago, she’d been the picture of composure while the staff laughed about the vanishing cake at the wrap party. Someone had joked, “Whoever made that should open a bakery! That was some good cake!” and everyone agreed.
Jiyeon had only smiled politely, keeping her mask intact as usual. She just sipped her water, while keeping her expression unreadable. But when the two of you were back in the car, she leaned close and muttered under her breath, “You didn’t fool anyone, you know. I can always tell when it’s your cake.”
You blinked at her. “Annnnnddd how exactly do you know?”
Her lips curled into the warm smile she never showed anyone else. “Because it makes my heart flutter.” She turned away quickly after that, pretending to scroll her phone like nothing had happened.
That was Jiyeon. Your girlfriend who made you feel like the older one.
Sometimes she clung to you outright, even when it got in the way of your job.
“Jiyeon, I need to go unpack your bag.”
“No.”
“Damn, but you’re heavy.”
“Good. Suffer.”
“Wow. So much affection.”
She only tightened her grip, muttering into your back, “Can’t blame me when you smell like sugar and cream. Every time you bake, it sticks to your clothes. Do you know how distracting that is when I’m supposed to look serious on set?”
You ended up dragging her half across the room because she refused to let go.
And then there was the name. God, the name. You learned quickly that if you called her “Bona” in private, even by accident, she’d pout. Not dramatic, but just subtle enough: lips pressed forward, eyes dropping, her whole presence quietly sulking.
“Don’t call me that here,” she mumbled once, her voice muffled against your shirt.
“But everyone calls you Bona,” you teased.
“I’m not everyone’s.” Her fingers curled into your side. “I’m yours. So call me Jiyeon.”
It was such an uncharacteristic thing for her to say that you couldn’t resist laughing. She smacked your arm and demanded another hug to make up for it, cheeks pink even as she tried to look stern.
You sometimes wondered whenever you walked behind her. This girl, seriously, how the heck did she manage to keep the two sides of herself separate? During the day, she was this untouchable figure—accepting compliments from staff with a graceful nod, smiling politely when her co-stars teased her. You’d watch her, her assistant badge on your chest, pretending not to notice the glances that came her way.
But at night? Especially at your place?
“Honey, cut this apple for me,” she’d say, plopping herself onto the couch as if she owned the place (she does now, apparently, because she said so) and holding out the fruit like she didn’t know how knives worked.
“You have hands,” you’d deadpan.
“Yeah, but you do it better. Pleaseee?” She’d stretch the word out, batting her lashes in an exaggerated way.
And of course, you always gave in.
It was so funny when you think about it. To everyone else, you were her younger assistant—competent, sure, but still the kid in the room. But with Jiyeon, somehow, the roles flipped. She’d lean into you, cling to you, demand your attention until it felt like you feel like you were a single father, the one keeping her grounded.
And you never told her this, but you really adore it.
You liked being the only person who got to see this version of her. The only one who knew that beneath Bona’s perfectly crafted image was Jiyeon, who demanded hugs like they were oxygen and sulked when you teased her too much.
The world could keep their fortress for all you care. You’d happily keep your Jiyeon.
-
You first noticed something strange one night when you dropped her off after a long shoot. Normally, she would unlock the door, drag you inside like a kid, demand a hug, then complain she was starving until you found something in her kitchen.
But this time, just as you reached for the handle, her hand shot out and pressed flat against it. “You can’t come in.”
You blinked. “…Eh?”
Her eyes flickered, just for a second, before she smoothed her face into that same calm mask she always wore on set. “Not tonight. I have… things to do.”
“Things?” you echoed, amused. “At midnight?”
“Yes. Important things.” She crossed her arms and tilted her chin as if her usual sheer confidence could erase suspicion. “So just… go home. I’ll see you tomorrow. Listen to your elders.”
The way she said it almost made you laugh. Jiyeon never pulled the age card unless she was hiding something. You tilted your head, trying to peek past her shoulder, but she quickly leaned against the door, effectively blocking the view.
“Alright,” you said finally, raising your hands in surrender. “I should be respectful to my elders.”
Her expression softened a little at that, though she quickly covered it with a huff, giving you a light shove away from the door. “Good. Now go before I change my mind and make you organize my wardrobe.”
You left with a laugh, though you were genuinely dying to know what she was up to.
What you didn’t know, actually, was that the moment you were out of sight, she let out a sigh and turned back into her apartment, where the kitchen counter already looked like a storm just hit. Flour coated the surface like snow, cocoa powder stained the sink, and Jisoo, who had volunteered herself as “moral support”, was perched comfortably on the counter, scrolling through her phone as if nothing were wrong.
“Finally got rid of him?” Jisoo asked without looking up.
“Yes. Barely.” Jiyeon tied her hair up messily, glaring at the recipe on her tablet. “This has to work tonight.”
Jisoo peeked over, smirking. “You know, you could just… buy something. Pass it off as yours. Easy. He will just eat it, you know?”
“No!” Jiyeon snapped, more flustered than stern. “If he can bake with his own hands, so can I. I will not be out-feminined by my own boyfriend.”
“Out-feminined?” Jisoo snorted. “Girl, you sound like you’re overthinking it. They’re muffins.”
“I'm not overthinking it! It's just that… every time he brings cakes to set, I…” Jiyeon trailed off, cheeks pink as she measured flour. “…My heart flutters, okay? It’s unfair. I need to—” She shook her head, clenching her jaw. “I need to give something back.”
Jisoo gagged. “Wow, you’re actually sappy.”
“Shut up.” Jiyeon pointed the whisk at her.
Well, her determination was admirable. The execution, less so.
The first attempt ended with smoke filling the oven because Jiyeon (somehow) thought “200” was in Fahrenheit, not Celsius. She fumbled with the oven mitts, flapping them like a bird, while Jisoo howled with laughter and filmed the mess on her phone.
The second batch was hard enough to be used as self-defense. Jiyeon bit into one, immediately gagged, and threw it into the trash. “It tastes like he broke up with me!” she cried, scrubbing her tongue with her sleeve.
“Don’t worry, Jiyeonnie,” Jisoo said between laughs, “He will love you anyway.”
“That’s not the point!”
The third attempt rose beautifully in the oven. Both Jiyeon and Jisoo were very hopeful before it immediately collapsed into sad, wrinkled black discs five minutes later. Jiyeon buried her face in her hands. “Why are they so ugly?”
“Maybe they take after their mom,” Jisoo chirped.
“Kim Jisoo, get out of my apartment!”
But Jisoo didn’t move, and neither did Jiyeon. Batch after batch, the night stretched on, and the once-composed actress unraveled bit by bit, occasionally accompanied by Jiyeon banging her head down to the counter. Her immaculate hair frizzed around her face, her apron looked like it had been rolled in dust, and flour smudges marked her cheek. At one point, she dropped her forehead onto the counter with a groan.
“I can memorize thirty pages of script in a night,” she muttered into the wood. “But I can’t follow three steps in a recipe?!”
Jisoo patted her shoulder with mock sympathy. “Some people just aren’t meant for domestic life. No worries, he probably thinks you’re perfect already.”
“Shush, Kim Jisoo” Jiyeon mumbled, lifting her head with renewed fire in her eyes. “I’m going to get it right. Even if it kills me.”
And so the fortress stayed awake into the small hours of the morning, stoic and respectful actress by day, hopeless baker by night, battling her oven with the stubbornness of someone who had never lost a role in her life.
-
The next day on set, you spotted her the moment she walked in. Bona—oops, sorry, Jiyeon—always carried herself like a textbook leading actress: spine straight, gaze unreadable, each step measured like she was walking onto a stage. But today something was… off. Her sunglasses were comically oversized, covering half her small face, and even then they couldn’t hide the faint shadows beneath her eyes.
The stylist pursed her lips as she dabbed concealer under them. “Wow, what’s this? Did our Bona binge three seasons of a drama last night?”
“I was… busy,” she said in her usual calm tone, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.
Her co-star leaned over with a smirk. “Busy? Don’t tell me you were studying again. Or…” His grin widened. “…is someone keeping you up late these days?”
That got a few chuckles from the staff. Jiyeon’s only response was the faintest curve of her lips, polite enough to play along but distant enough to shut down further teasing. To anyone else, she was untouchable—stoic, professional, unreadable.
But you saw it. Under the table, her heel tapped against the floor, rapid and impatient. A tell you’d learned only because you’d spent so many nights watching her from the corner of your eye. She was hiding something.
When you managed to be alone with her later, in the quiet hallway outside the dressing rooms, you lowered your voice. “Bona…you look exhausted.”
She adjusted her script, face set in that practiced actress-mask, her eyes sharp. “I’m fine.”
You frowned. “Jiyeon, are you sure? Because—”
She didn’t let you finish. Instead she reached out and tugged your sleeve. Just a tiny, pleading pull, the kind of motion only someone utterly comfortable with you could make. Her gaze flickered, unguarded for half a second.
“Just… trust me, okay?” she murmured.
You did. You always did. There was something unbearably cute about watching her throw herself into whatever secret mission she’d set her mind on, even when she wouldn’t say a word.
So you nodded. “Alright. I trust you, my elder.”
She gave the barest smile before straightening back into Bona, the actress again, sweeping past you like nothing had happened.
Over the next few days the clues multiplied. You caught her slipping into corners to whisper into her phone; once you even heard Jisoo laughing on the other end before the call ended. At the pre-reading table, her head bobbed forward for a beat, then she jerked awake and took a playful jab from a co-star. Every time you raised an eyebrow she arched hers higher, daring you to pry.
You let her be. Curiosity continues to gnaw at you, sure, but the way she carried herself—so calm in public, so recklessly earnest in private—was endearing in its own right.
It wasn’t until the fourth day that you finally found out…well not really.
She pulled you aside after wrap-up, glancing around like she was sneaking snacks back in her trainee days. In her hands was a lone chocolate muffin in a tiny box, wrapped so neatly it almost looked store-bought. Almost. Her ears were red as she shoved it toward you.
“…Here.”
"Hm?" You blinked, taking it carefully. “What is it?”
Her chin lifted, defensive. “A muffin. I made it.”
“…You… made it? And live to tell the tales?”
Her glare could’ve cut glass. “Don’t laugh. It's just that…you’re always baking— bringing cakes for the team, little things for me. And it’s annoying.” Her voice softened into a whisper. “…Because it makes me too happy. So I wanted to—” She stopped herself, shifting awkwardly. “…Return the feeling.”
Hearing her admit that—awkward and all—hit you in the chest (in the good way). The box suddenly felt heavier, not from the muffin but from the way her eyes were expectant, arms folded, chin up like a queen waiting for judgment.
“Well?” she demanded, eyes narrowing as you lifted the lid.
You looked down at the lone chocolate muffin again. Lopsided. Cracked at the top. A little too dark around the edges, like it had fought for its life in the oven. But it was hers. She had made this.
“It looks…” you started, stalling.
“Say it looks delicious,” she cut in flatly.
You bit back a laugh. “Yes, ma'am. It looks… delicious.”
“Good. Eat it.”
The command was so sharp it almost made you salute. Instead, you carefully tore off a piece, popped it into your mouth, and chewed.
And the flavour hit immediately — and by “flavour,” it was a tsunami of pure salt crashing down your throat. Your brain short-circuited. Your tongue shrivelled. Your ancestors wept.
But in front of you stood your girlfriend, stoic and expectant, her fingers tapping her arm like a judge waiting for the verdict. But you can see the way her eyes softened, though, just enough to remind you she was nervous. This muffin wasn’t just food; it was her effort, her late nights, her secret mission that she tried to surprise and impress you.
So you just suck it up and swallow it. Barely. “Mm.” You nodded vigorously, ignoring the way your taste buds screamed for mercy (and water). “Wow. Amazing.”
Her eyes narrowed even further. “...You swallowed too quickly.”
“What? No…”
“You didn’t even chew it properly. You just…” She mimed gulping something whole. “…like that. Suspicious.”
“I was savouring it in my heart,” you shot back, keeping your face painfully straight while your eyes were panning around anywhere else but her. "I'm appreciating it from my soul"
Her lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Liar. Let me see the box.”
You quickly snapped the lid shut, holding it to your chest protectively. “Nope. This is mine now.”
“Mine,” she corrected. “I made it. Hand it over.”
“Not until you try it too.”
She froze. “…Excuse me?”
“You heard me. If you’re so confident, you should have a bite yourself.”
"Tsk." Her cool façade cracked instantly. “Why would I? I know what it tastes like.”
“Do you?” you pressed, grinning. “Or are you scared?”
“Scared? I’m older than you. Why would I be scared of a muffin?”
“Because you made- I mean, because it tastes so good.”
Her glare could have killed you, but her cheeks were tomato red. Finally, with a huff, she snatched the box, tore off a chunk, and stuffed it in her mouth like she had something to prove.
And then… her entire face changed.
Her eyes went wide. Blinking rapidly. Her jaw froze mid-chew. Slowly, she rushed for the nearest water bottle on the table and chugged half of it in one go.
“...What the hell did I put in this?!” she finally sputtered, coughing.
You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “Salt. You used salt instead of sugar.”
She stared at you, horrified. “I—I measured everything! I followed the stupid recipe!”
“Except you get the damn salt!” you wheezed.
She threw the box away, but somehow it landed at your chest. “Don’t eat it then!”
But you caught it, still laughing, and tore off another piece just to prove a point. “Are you kidding? Of course I’m eating it. Best salty muffin I’ve ever had. ”
“God damn it, my dummy.” she muttered, covering her red face with her hands. “You’re going to die.”
“Then I’ll die happy, life ended by my girlfriend's salty muffin.” you said smoothly, and she groaned, burying her face against your shoulder to hide how hard she was smiling.
“Ugh. You’re insane,” she whispered.
“You love me anyway.”
“…Unfortunately.” Her voice was muffled, but her arms circled your waist tighter, betraying the truth.
And even as the taste of salt lingered in your mouth, you swore you’d never had anything sweeter.
