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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a/n : i loveeee this fic! might be my fav one yet..
synopsis : your group is known for being sweet and nothing less, while your new peer’s known for being the opposite. what will happens when the opposites date?
**
the first time you meet martin from cortis, you’re convinced the universe is playing some kind of joke on you.
because you’re standing backstage at one of the biggest year-end award shows, wearing a soft pink lace dress with bows trailing down the sleeves — literally the most illit-coded outfit of all time — and then he walks by like a walking contradiction to your entire aesthetic.
chains. black cargo pants. a mesh shirt layered under a graphic tee that looks stolen from an early 2000s rocker. silver piercings catching the blue stage lights. hair streaked with white blonde, styled in a messy, grungy way that somehow looks intentional.
he glances at you for half a second — just a blink — and you feel like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
you look away instantly.
your manager nudges you. “don’t be shy. you’ll be rehearsing with him.”
right. the collaboration stage. the one every fan has been screaming about since it got announced. illit x cortis — “glitter riot.” a mix of cute and edgy, sugary and sharp. a performance concept that looked insane on paper but somehow worked when the choreographer showed you.
still, no one warned you that martin was… well… martin.
you’re adjusting your mic when someone clears their throat beside you.
“uh. you’re from illit, right?”
you nearly jump. “oh— yes! i’m— uh— i’m y/n.”
you curse yourself internally. why are you stuttering? you don’t stutter. you’ve survived debut stages, encore lives, and fansign chaos. but suddenly one boy with smudged eyeliner has your whole nervous system glitching.
martin nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. “cool. i’m martin.”
you almost laugh. as if you didn’t already know.
silence drops between you like fog. he seems just as unsure as you — eyes flicking to your dress, then to the floor, then back to you.
“i like your style,” he says suddenly.
you blink. “what?”
“i mean— it fits you. it’s… cute.” he scratches the back of his neck. “not cute in, like, a weird way. cute in a— a cool way. not that cute is cool— well it is, but—”
he stops himself.
you smile — actually smile — because watching him unravel might be the funniest thing you’ve seen in weeks.
“thanks,” you say, trying not to giggle. “i like your style too. i could never pull that off.”
he glances down at his outfit. “this? i just threw it on.”
lies. dead, obvious lies. no one who “just throws on” clothes looks that coordinated in grayscale.
“still,” you shrug, “you look cool.”
he goes quiet for a second.
then he turns his head away — but not before you catch it.
the tiniest smile.
**
rehearsals start awkward but end… very much not
at first it’s stiff. your worlds are too different. your group giggles when he walks on set; his members tease him quietly in korean, nudging his shoulders because he keeps glancing at you.
you pretend not to notice.
during choreography blocking, you two are paired for a partner section — a quick spin, a hand-hold, a point toward the audience — but martin keeps messing up the timing.
“sorry,” he mutters after the fourth time. “i swear i’m better than this.”
“it’s okay,” you reassure. “we can go slower.”
“no— i can do it. i’m just— distracted.”
“distracted?”
his eyes flick to your hand in his.
and you get it.
you really do.
it makes your cheeks warm, but your voice stays steady.
“want to try again?”
he nods, jaw tightening in determination.
the next run-through is perfect.
and the choreographer says, “see? you two look good together.”
the entire room goes quiet.
martin goes pink.
you pretend to adjust your hair.
**
the performance is electric
no one expects your energy to match his, but on stage, it happens naturally.
your softness sharpens under the lights; his dark aura brightens just enough next to you. fans scream at every moment you two share — the way he steadies your waist during the spin, the way you grin at him during the camera close-up, the way he mouths “nice job” to you as the stage goes black.
afterward, he pats your head gently. too gently. too naturally.
“you did great,” he says.
“you too.”
and somehow, the sentence that slips out next feels inevitable
“we should hang out sometime. like… after all the award show craziness.”
he freezes.
“yeah,” he says softly. “i’d like that.”
**
you become rookie mcs together
you find out the same day he does — during a media announcement.
you’re practicing in your dorm when your phone explodes with notifications. your members scream.
“y/n! you’re going to be an mc! with martin!”
your jaw drops.
“me? with him?!”
the article headline reads:
“illit’s y/n and cortis’s martin selected as new music program rookie mcs — fans excited for unexpected pairing.”
unexpected is putting it lightly.
but when martin texts you — “did you see?? guess they liked our stage lol” — you can practically hear the smile in his words.
your first day as mcs is chaotic. neither of you knows where to stand. scripts keep being rewritten mid-show. martin forgets a line, panics, and you whisper it to him under your breath while cameras are on the other idols.
after the broadcast, he bows to staff, then turns to you.
“thanks. seriously. i would’ve died without you.”
“you’re doing great,” you say. “really.”
he looks at you for a long moment.
“you make this easier.”
the sentence sits warm in your chest for the rest of the night.
**
feelings grow in small ways
usually it’s subtle.
he gives you his hoodie when your outfit is too thin in the studio.
you fix his hair when his bangs fall into his eyes.
he buys you strawberry milk before every saturday broadcast.
you bring him black hair ties because he always loses his.
he sends you memes at 3 a.m.
you tell him about your favorite hello kitty plushies.
he pretends not to be obsessed with hearing you talk.
your aesthetics still clash brutally — his lockscreen is all neon edits and dystopian filters; yours is pastel sparkles — but somehow you match more than anyone could’ve predicted.
your members tease you relentlessly.
“you LOOK at your phone differently when it’s his name,” minju says.
“you SMILE at your phone differently,” moka adds.
you deny everything.
which is ridiculous, because meanwhile, martin’s members are giving him the exact same grief.
“bro just ask her out,” james groans.
“i can’t just— ask her out,” martin mutters. “she’s cute. and busy. and cute.”
“you said cute twice.”
“because she IS!”
they laugh at him the entire practice.
**
the night everything changes
it’s late.
broadcast filming finished hours ago, but both your groups are doing a joint backstage vlog challenge for fun — behind-the-scenes chaos for fans.
staff is busy. cameras are rolling, but unfocused. members are talking loudly in the foreground, blocking most of the shot.
and you and martin are standing behind them — just barely out of frame.
he’s leaning against a wall, head tilted. you’re standing close, too close to be casual, but neither of you moves.
he holds your hand.
not in a performance way. not in a gimmick way.
just… holds it.
thumb brushing your knuckles slowly.
you look up at him. he looks down at you. and everything feels suspended.
“we’re gonna get caught,” you whisper.
“probably,” he says, completely unbothered.
you try not to laugh. “martin…”
he shifts, stepping closer — hands still linked behind your skirts, your bodies hidden by the chaos of your groups.
“i like you,” he says simply.
your heart stops.
“i’ve liked you since the first rehearsal. and i keep trying to play it cool but i’m terrible at it.”
you swallow. “i like you too.”
he exhales like he’s been holding the breath for months.
“can i—?”
you nod before he even finishes the question.
he presses his forehead to yours. it’s not a kiss. it’s something softer, smaller, safer — but it sends warmth through you anyway.
you don’t realize a staff camera catches the corner of the moment.
not the words.
not the closeness.
just your hands intertwined for half a second before the camera pans away.
**
the scandal breaks
the next morning twitter is a mess.
#martinxy/n
#illitcortisbackstage
“are they HOLDING HANDS???”
dispatch releases an article analyzing the grainy footage like it’s cctv evidence.
comments flood in.
“how is the most dark boy and the most pink girl dating??? this is wild.”
“he looks like he steals street signs and she looks like she collects stickers???”
“honestly kinda cute though.”
“the contrast is insane but i’m living for it.”
your companies panic. meetings are held. statements are discussed.
but unexpectedly — shockingly — the public isn’t mad.
they’re fascinated.
the concept of “grunge boyfriend x fairy girlfriend” becomes a meme overnight.
edit accounts blow up.
fashion blogs call you “aesthetic opposites in the best way.”
and martin texts you:
“are we… trending because we’re holding hands???”
“apparently.”
“should we… talk? about us?”
your fingers shake as you type.
“yeah. we probably should.”
**
the talk
you meet on the roof of the broadcasting building — martin’s idea, which sounds rebellious until he admits it’s because he wanted privacy and fresh air.
he stands there in ripped jeans and a huge black hoodie. you stand there in a cream-colored knit dress.
you look like spring.
he looks like midnight.
and he smiles like he knows it.
“so,” he says quietly. “we’re in trouble.”
you laugh. “a little.”
“i’m not sorry though.”
you blink. “you’re not?”
he shakes his head. “i don’t want to hide that i like you. i know we have to be careful. i know dating isn’t easy for idols. but i’m not pretending i don’t feel what i feel.”
you don’t say anything at first — too busy staring at him, wondering how someone who looks like a walking rock concert can sound so gentle.
“i want to date you,” he says. “for real.”
you breathe out slowly. “i want that too.”
the relief on his face is visible.
he steps forward.
you meet him halfway.
and he wraps his arms around you — warm, surprisingly soft, holding you like you’re something fragile he wants to protect.
you bury your face in his chest. he smells like vanilla and cologne and something unfamiliar but comforting.
“we’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “we’ll be careful. but i’m not going anywhere.”
