IKRRR
The Friction of Fame
The neon lights of the Seoul after-party were a blur of violet and electric blue, reflecting off the polished marble floors and the expensive glass in everyone’s hands. For Stella, the center and visual of the rising girl group H2H, the atmosphere was suffocating. She was tired of the cameras, tired of the forced smiles, and especially tired of the man standing across the VIP lounge.
Martin Cortis, the lead rapper of the globally dominant boy group Getty, was currently leaning against a velvet pillar, nursing a drink with a smirk that screamed arrogance. To the world, they were the "Golden Rivals" of the industry, often pitted against each other for the top spot on the charts. To Stella, he was just a persistent thorn in her side who knew exactly how to get under her skin.
"You're staring again, Stella," Martin said, his voice cutting through the thumping bass of the house music. He didn't even look at her as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the dance floor. "If you want an autograph, you just have to ask."
Stella scoffed, adjusting the strap of her silk dress that clung to her curves in all the right places. "I was actually wondering how someone with so little talent manages to take up so much space. It’s a scientific mystery."
Martin finally turned, his dark eyes raking over her with a predatory slowness. He stepped closer, invading her personal bubble until she could smell the expensive cologne and the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. "Is that what you tell yourself when you’re watching my fancams at night? That I’m untalented?"
"In your dreams, Martin," she hissed, though her heart gave a traitorous thud against her ribs.
"My dreams are much filthier than this, sweetheart," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "And you’re usually wearing a lot less than this dress."
Before she could slap the smirk off his face, he gripped her wrist, his fingers firm and warm. He didn't lead her toward the exit, but toward the heavy oak doors of a private hallway used by the venue staff. Stella should have pulled away, should have made a scene, but the adrenaline of their mutual hatred—and the underlying tension that had been building for two years—was a drug she couldn't refuse.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them in the dimly lit corridor, Martin slammed her against the wood. The impact wasn't painful, but it was authoritative. His mouth crashed onto hers, a desperate, bruising collision of teeth and tongues. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a battle for dominance.
Stella groaned into his mouth, her hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer. She hated him. She hated how he looked in a suit, hated his chart-topping lyrics, and hated how much she wanted him. She reached for the buttons of his shirt, popping them in her haste, her palms meeting the hard, warm planes of his chest.
"I can't stand you," she gasped against his lips, her breath hitching as his hands slid down to cup her rear, lifting her up.
"Then scream about it," Martin growled, his voice dropping an octave into that gravelly tone that drove his fans wild. "Scream my name so I know exactly who you’re thinking about."
He carried her into an empty dressing room, kicking the door shut and locking it in one fluid motion. He set her down on the edge of a mahogany vanity table, scattering makeup brushes and perfume bottles. Stella’s legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling his crotch flush against her heat.
Martin didn't waste time. He reached down, hiking up the hem of her designer dress until it was bunched around her waist. He made a low, guttural sound in his throat at the sight of her—the swell of her breasts pushed up by her corset and the thin lace of her underwear.
"You've been begging for this since the MAMA awards," he muttered, his fingers hooking into the lace and tearing it aside.
"Shut up and move," she challenged, her eyes defiant even as her body trembled.
Martin stripped out of his trousers with frantic movements, revealing the sheer size of him, thick and already leaking prep. He didn't use a condom—they were both clean, both paranoid enough about their careers to be careful, but tonight, the fire was too hot for caution. He gripped her hips, his knuckles white, and guided himself to her entrance.
He pushed inside with one long, agonizingly slow thrust. Stella’s head hit the mirror behind her with a dull thud as she let out a sharp cry, her back arching. He was too big, filling her so completely that it felt like she was being stretched to her limit.
"God, Stella," he groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He stayed still for a moment, letting her internal muscles clench around him. "You're so tight. Do you even know what you do to me?"
"Less talking, more work, Daddy," she bit out, the title slipping out in the heat of the moment.
The word seemed to snap something inside him. Martin’s eyes darkened, turning almost black. He began to move, his thrusts turning rough and rhythmic. He wasn't being gentle; he was claiming her, each hit of his pelvis against hers sounding like a wet slap in the quiet room.
Stella’s breasts, full and heavy, bounced with every movement. Martin reached up, his large hands engulfing them, squeezing the soft flesh as he watched himself disappear inside her. He loved the contrast of his tanned skin against her pale, porcelain glow.
"That's it," he urged, his voice a rough command. "Take it all. Show me how much of a brat you can be when you're being filled up."
He shifted his grip, pulling her legs higher onto his shoulders so he could go deeper. The new angle allowed him to hit her G-spot with every punishing shove. Stella was a mess of incoherent moans, her fingers digging furrows into his shoulder blades. The friction was intense, the heat between them rising until the air felt thick.
"Martin, please," she sobbed, her climax beginning to roll over her in waves.
He didn't stop. If anything, he sped up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He turned her around, forcing her to lean over the vanity, her forehead resting against the cool glass of the mirror.
"Look at yourself," he commanded, his hand coming down in a sharp sting against her buttock. The sound echoed, and the brief flash of pain sent a fresh jolt of electricity through her.
From behind, the view was devastating. He watched her reflection—her eyes blown wide, her lips parted—as he delivered heavy, bone-deep back shots. Each thrust made her breasts sway and her body tremble. He reached around, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing it with a cruel, expert rhythm that sent her over the edge.
Stella screamed, her vision white-paling as her orgasms tore through her. She felt the internal walls of her vagina pulse and squeeze around him, dragging him toward his own finish.
Martin let out a low, animalistic growl, his movements becoming frantic. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his hands bruising her hips as he poured himself into her, his hot seed filling her up. He slumped against her back, his heart hammering against her spine, both of them drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
For a long minute, the only sound was the muffled bass of the party through the walls and their synchronized breathing. The hatred was still there, perhaps, but it was buried under a thick layer of satisfied lust.
Martin withdrew slowly, the sound of it making Stella shiver. He reached for a silk scarf on the table, gently wiping her down before helping her adjust her dress. The arrogance hadn't left his face, but there was a new glint in his eyes—a flicker of something that looked dangerously like possession.
"Same time next week?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk as he buttoned his shirt.
Stella straightened her hair in the mirror, looking at the flushed, well-fucked version of herself. She turned to him, a sharp, beautiful smile returning to her face.
"Only if you promise to get better at it, Martin. I’d hate for you to be a disappointment in two areas of your life."
Martin laughed, a genuine, dark sound. He leaned in, kissing her one last time—a quick, biting nip on her lower lip. "Careful, Stella. You keep talking like that, and I might never let you leave the room."
She watched him walk out first, waiting the required five minutes before smoothing her dress and following. They were still rivals. They were still enemies. But as she walked back into the neon light, the weight of him still heavy inside her, Stella knew the charts weren't the only thing they’d be fighting over from now on.