#fluff cortis

pairing: classmate!non-idol!martin x classmate!non-idol!reader

synopsis: the guy from your bio class won’t stop texting you…

TW(s): none i guess, horribly down bad martin, nonchalant reader, reader doesn’t like martin, martin doesn’t give up

a/n: finally doing a smau for martin! i’ll be making a fic/smau for james next :p

Late Night Whispers

James x fem!reader(established relationship/live alone together)

Y’all why is he such a bias wrecker🥴

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The apartment was quiet—except for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional sound of cars passing outside. The light in the bedroom was off, the door cracked open just enough for the dim hallway glow to spill in.

You were curled up under the blanket, phone on the nightstand, notes half-finished from studying before bed. Sleep had finally claimed you hours ago, though not peacefully—you’d stayed up worrying when James hadn’t come home on time again. Practice had been running late lately, and you tried to trust that everything was fine. Still, the knot in your chest never quite went away.

It must’ve been close to one in the morning when a voice—low, rough, and unmistakably his—broke through the quiet.

“…that’s not safe, do you even understand?” James’s voice carried from the living room, sharper than you’d ever heard it. “We can’t just brush this off. Someone could’ve gotten hurt.”

You blinked awake slowly, the fog of sleep still clinging to you. For a second, you thought you were dreaming—until another voice crackled faintly from a phone speaker, a man yelling something back.

You pushed yourself up, confused, heart thudding softly in your chest. He was home. You hadn’t even heard the door.

Sliding out of bed, you tugged his oversized hoodie tighter around you and padded quietly down the short hallway. The carpet muffled your steps, and as you got closer, his words became clearer.

“No, I don’t care what PR said—it’s not about our image, it’s about the group’s safety. That’s supposed to come first.”

He sounded tired underneath the anger, his voice heavy with frustration. You could imagine the way his brow would be furrowed, his jaw tight.

You hesitated near the end of the hallway, peeking around the corner into the living room. The space was dim—only the lamp by the couch was on. James stood with one hand braced against the back of the sofa, the other gripping his phone, tension radiating from his shoulders.

You took a small step forward, voice soft and sleepy:

“James…?”

He turned instantly. The shift in him was immediate—the sharpness in his face softened, his eyes flicking to you like he’d just been pulled out of a nightmare. You looked small and a little dazed in his hoodie, hair messy, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” he breathed out, running a hand through his hair. “Did I wake you up?”

You shook your head, rubbing your eyes with your sleeve. “I heard you talking. It sounded serious…”

The man on the other end of the call was still yelling something unintelligible, but James didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah, I’ll call you back,” he muttered, cutting the call mid-sentence. The sudden silence left only the low hum of the lamp and the sound of his sigh.

He sank onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

You stepped closer, voice small. “It’s okay… I just—are you okay?”

When you asked, your tone wasn’t probing or demanding. It was soft, genuine—like you were more worried about him than about whatever had happened. He looked up at you and saw the faint crease between your brows, the sleepy concern in your eyes.

His chest tightened. He didn’t deserve how kind you were.

“I’m fine,” he said after a pause. “It’s just some things with the group. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

You hesitated, fidgeting with the sleeves that hung past your hands. The worry didn’t leave your face, but you nodded anyway. You never wanted to push him when he looked that tired.

After a long moment, James sighed softly and leaned back on the couch, his expression easing just a bit. Then he looked up at you again.

“C’mere.”

You blinked, still standing near the doorway. “Huh?”

He tilted his head, voice gentler this time. “Come here, baby.”

You walked over, and before you could ask why, he reached out, took your hand, and pulled you lightly onto his lap. You let out a tiny surprised sound, hands bracing against his chest as he chuckled under his breath.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s better.”

You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. He wrapped an arm around your waist and let out another quiet sigh, eyes softening as he looked at you.

“Don’t worry about me so much, yeah? You’ve got enough on your plate with your studies and everything. I’ll handle my end.”

You looked up at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t help it. You’re an idol, James. You’re always out there, surrounded by people and cameras and—” you stopped for a second, cheeks warming, “—and you’re really dear to me.”

His lips parted slightly. For a moment, he just looked at you, something fragile flickering behind his eyes. Then, quietly, he smiled.

“You’re too sweet for your own good,” he murmured. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. “You know that?”

You looked down shyly, the softest smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe.”

He let out a small laugh, then tilted your chin up gently with his fingers until your eyes met again. His gaze held yours for a long, quiet second.

“I love you,” he said softly.

Your heart seemed to skip. “I love you too,” you whispered back.

The world outside felt distant, muffled by the warmth of that tiny apartment. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment before resting his chin on top of your head.

“Get some sleep, yeah?” he whispered against your hair. “I’ll come to bed soon.”

You nodded sleepily against his chest, curling into him, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away as he held you close. The argument, the fear, the exhaustion—all of it faded in the quiet comfort of that moment.

“Hold My Hand, Just Because”

Juhoon x fem!reader

Srry I haven’t posted. I still have requests to do. But here’s a juhoon fic hope you like 😝🤏

It was one of those afternoons where the sky looked like cotton candy—pinks melting into oranges—and the world felt a little too pretty to stay inside. Juhoon had texted you earlier, “Meet me by the corner store after class.” No emojis, no explanation. Just that.

You showed up anyway, your backpack still half-zipped, hair a little messy from running there. He was already waiting, leaning against his bike with that lazy smile that somehow made your stomach twist every time.

“You actually came,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your grin. “You told me to.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d listen that fast.”

You playfully shoved his arm, but he caught your wrist and didn’t let go. His fingers were warm, calloused from hours of practicing bass, and he looked down at the way your hands fit together like it was something brand new.

“Let’s go,” he said softly, tugging you toward his bike.

“Juhoon, I’m not sitting on the back of that thing again,” you laughed.

“You survived last time.”

“I almost fell!”

He grinned, handing you his spare helmet. “But you didn’t.”

You sighed dramatically but still climbed on, your arms looping around his waist. You could feel the faint rise and fall of his breathing, and it made your chest flutter. The ride wasn’t long, just a few blocks to the little park near the river, but he didn’t rush. The wind tangled your hair, and every time he turned slightly, you could smell the faint sweetness of his shampoo.

When you arrived, he dropped the bike stand and sat on the grass, patting the spot next to him. “Come here.”

You sat, knees brushing, and he handed you a small convenience-store ice cream. “For you.”

You blinked. “Is this why you called me out?”

He shrugged. “You said last week that you’ve been craving this flavor.”

You blinked again, smiling shyly. “You remembered that?”

Juhoon looked away, pretending to focus on the river. “You talk a lot. Some of it sticks.”

You bumped his shoulder lightly. “You’re actually kinda sweet when you try.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he muttered, a small smile creeping up.

The sun was setting now, and the light made his features glow—soft, golden, a little unreal. You caught him looking at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he quietly reached out, fingers brushing yours.

“Can I hold your hand?” he asked, voice gentle.

You giggled. “You already did earlier.”

He looked down, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “Yeah, but… this time I’m asking properly.”

You didn’t even answer—just slipped your hand into his. His thumb brushed against your skin, slow and careful, like he was memorizing the moment.

Neither of you said much after that. You just sat there, legs stretched out, sharing the sound of crickets and the rustle of wind through the trees.

And maybe it wasn’t a big moment—no confessions, no fireworks—but it was yours. The kind of quiet, simple love that only happens when you’re young, when every small gesture feels like the whole world.

i don’t really know like the plot, but maybe it could be:

-reader takes him latin snacks/food to try

-seonghyeon learns spanish/reader teaches sean spanish

guys where are the cortinas at i need mutuals ? 😔 anyways i hope you see my vision. thank you !

¿Cómo Se Dice… Love?”

Seonghyeon knew something was up the moment you walked in with a suspiciously heavy backpack.

You didn’t even sit down properly before whispering, “Sean… don’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “What did you bring.”

You unzipped your bag like you were revealing state secrets.

Out came:

— a bag of spicy chips

— pastelitos wrapped in napkins

— a small container of dulce de leche

— and something that smelled illegally good

His eyes widened. “You robbed a bakery?”

You gasped. “My mamá made these.”

That shut him up immediately.

“I brought you snacks to try,” you said proudly. “Cultural exchange.”

He picked one up carefully. “Is it spicy?”

“Yes.”

He stared at it. “…Why are you smiling like that?”

“You’ll see.”

Two minutes later he was coughing dramatically, eyes watering.

“You said snack, not weapon!”

You laughed so hard you had to hold onto the desk. “Drink the juice, drama queen.”

After he survived, he looked at you with betrayal and awe.

“…It’s good though.”

That’s how it started.

Now every few days, you brought him something new.

Empanadas. Pan dulce. Tamales. Churros.

And every time, he’d ask the same thing:

“What is this called again?”

“Say it with me,” you said. “Em-pa-na-da.”

“Em… pana… da.”

“Close enough.”

Somewhere between snacks and teasing, he decided he wanted to learn Spanish.

“I hear you talking to your mom on the phone,” he said one day. “It sounds… soft. I want to understand it.”

That made your chest warm in a dangerous way.

So you started teaching him.

You wrote words on scrap paper:

hola

gracias

bonita

“What does that one mean?” he asked, pointing to bonita.

“Pretty.”

He looked at you instead of the paper.

“…So I can call you that?”

Your ears burned. “Focus.”

He didn’t.

Every day he learned something new and misused it horribly.

“Hola, profe,” he said one morning, leaning too close.

“Estoy… hungry.”

“That sentence was illegal.”

He grinned. “But you understood me.”

Sometimes he practiced under his breath.

Sometimes he asked you how to say things just so you’d sit closer.

And sometimes…

“How do you say ‘I like you’?”

You froze. “…Why.”

“No reason.”

“Se dice… me gustas.”

He repeated it slowly. “Me… gus… tas.”

Then, very quietly:

“Me gustas.”

Your heart nearly fell out of your chest.

“…You’re practicing.”

“Yeah,” he said. “On you.”

You brought snacks.

You brought language.

You brought warmth into a boy who’d lived sharp and cold too long.

And now he was learning your words like they meant something.

——-