⋆˚꩜｡ DIARY OF A DORK WHO IS HOPELESSLY IN LOVE WITH HIS NEIGHBOUR FROM ACROSS THE HALL ╱ pedri 𝑥 𝒻!reader 𝄞 warnings: he’s a stuttering mess + gratuitous use of italics + pacy writing!
you moved in six months ago and pedri still doesn’t know what to do with himself.
it’s not like you’re a stranger: he’s passed you countless times in the hallway. exchanged short and sweet “hi”s and “bye”s by the dawn’s early light whenever you leave for your part-time job at the bakery you work at, and when he leaves for early morning training. he’s helped you carry your heavy boxes when you just moved in and couldn’t carry them to the eighth floor all by yourself.
hell, pedri even let you borrow his screwdriver when you wanted to assemble a little shelf for your frivolous little fiction books.
and still, pedri doesn’t know what to do with himself. because here he stands, in front of your mahogany door, the golden numbers of your flat number glaring back at him in the bright sunlight. pedri genuinely can’t believe that he, maybe the most promising midfielder in the world right now, is scared to knock on his cute neighbour’s door.
what is he supposed to do with his face? should he smile? look serious? no, his teammates constantly tell him he looks cross when he looks serious. a poker face, then? oh, and his arms. why does he even have arms? what are they good for?
pedri doesn’t have time to think, because just as he’s about to draw his fist up to knock on your door—
“oh, hey, neighbour!” you chirp, almost instantly, as you open your door. did you cut your hair? or dye it? it looks so flowy and your lashes are doing that fluttery thing he likes—
pedri almost tumbles into your flat. your normally 1,74, agile, stable and steady neighbour stumbles into your fucking doorpost like an idiot. he still smells like that putrid smell of sweat from training today. why couldn’t he just spritz some cologne on his shirt, he thinks dourly. and you smell like vanilla clouds on a sunday morning.
“oh— hello! hi, neighbour,” he laughs awkwardly, cheeks all blushy and eyes squinted as he smiles. “i was wondering when you’d be home. not that i— i waited for you to come home. i was just, y’know— you’re my neighbour and all. just, looking out for the good ol’ neighbour,” the brunet trails off, physically feeling his brain shut down as he stares at your pretty, expectant face.
pedri scrapes his throat to brush off the awkwardness. and you? you just stare and giggle lightly at his antics. “anyway— here’s— here’s your package.”
“you good over there, big man? coach wearing you out too much nowadays?” you tease as you accept the parcel.
whereas pedri is awkward, you’re full of self-assuredness. where pedri is a little nervous and jittery every time he finds himself in a conversation with you, you are stable and confident.
not too much, but enough to see through the peephole that your neighbour across the hall has stood in front of your flat door for at least five minutes, too nervous to knock. pacing back and forth, practicing what he should say to you.
“what? no— i’m good. i’m fine— just, champions league prep, you know?” pedri stutters, the redness on his cheeks deepening and the smile on his face wobbly yet straining at the same time.
at his comment, you briefly squint your eyes, a little skeptical. “it’s… july? i thought the champions league didn’t start until september?” you absentmindedly cradle the little cardboard box between your arms, still with an amused look on your face.
fuck. he’s digging his grave deep. very deep. pedri lets out another airy chuckle, waving his hand all dismissively. “you can never be too… prepared? anyway— uhm—” he swallows audibly, pretending he didn’t just blather on about whatever the fuck. “have you eaten yet?”
you shake your head silently, leaning your hip to the doorpost. “was just busy with some paperwork.” you sling your arm towards your little dinner table for two, where your laptop is, and pedri envisions himself sitting there, next to you. maybe there’s a candlestick placed on top of the table while you two eat spaghetti, and there’s some frank sinatra playing in the background—
“whaaaaat? it’s like—” he passes a curt look at his watch, “ten? you gotta eat something.” he huffs out humorously, his big eyes unwavering when they connect with yours.
pedri’s undeniable caring side instigates a warmth — a flame that can’t be put out — within the dark chamber of your heart. and you know what he’s about to do.
fucking finally, you think.
“just forgot.” you jerk your shoulders up, pursing your lips together in a small smile.
damn, even with sleepy eyes and a mellow smile you look precious.
“if you’re down— only if you’re down— we could grab a — y’know — a bite,” pedri proposes, “there’s like, a— uhm, pasta place down the main road. but if you’re busy, i can leave you alone—”
this guy. he’s so endearing, but so, so, so dorky and clumsy. it pains you, but it also melts something solid and untouched within you. before pedri can make himself even more of a stuttering mess, you interrupt him with a simple touch of your fingertips to his forearm to still his wobbly movements.
pedri’s expressive eyes flit to your face. your touch burns him. it sets free at least ten thousand little butterflies in his stomach. it’s the same feeling as going down a rollercoaster.
“sure. give me a couple of minutes,” you say calmly, stepping aside so that pedri can enter your flat. you watch how your cute neighbour from across the hall looks around your space as if it’s a museum.
a tiny smirk spreads across your face upon seeing him in your flat, your humble abode. “now you can tell me aaallll about that champions league prep you’re doing in july.”
va händer ?¿ Ꮺ SUMMARY
you've never been good with words, with actions, and martin sees this as disinterest, as disgust. but in his anger and tender sadness, he finds the real profession of your love for him
va sa du ‼ Ꮺ GENERAL
ᝰ── childhood friends to lovers | angst | hurt/comfort | fluff | argument | martin realizing that you do in fact love him | you being bad at love | making up | kissing | teenage love
Ꮺ REQUESTED BY 2 anons
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Ꮺ sin talking listen to me
ALLLRRIIIGHTYYYY
okay so this is a laaate little birthday special for the amazing martin. it doesn't have a birthday theme persay but it is a martin fic, so whatevs 😋😋😋
AND I'M BAAACK it's literally been like over a month, and I'm so happy to finally be back after literal hell back at school I'VE MISSED YOU GUYSSS 🤧🤧🤧
enjoy my lovelies !! 😽
"you can't possibly still be mad at me?"
but yes, he was still mad. "you have to understand that you did something wrong."
a quiet beat passes, and MARTIN'S able to take in the sight of you. your hair is perfect, as always, and your makeup is flawless, even at the end of the day. you were unattainable. people at school wished and dreamed of either being you or having you.
so what do you have to do with MARTIN of all people? he asks himself that question every day.
MARTIN is, to put it simply, an outsider. people don't look twice as they pass, and they never give him a second thought. he has a few friends, one guy in his class, two in the year below, and then someone who graduated a year ago. but these people, they were it. group projects never lead to new friendships, passing words by the lockers never matter in the long run.
so he took pride in these people, these few guys that cared and showed it. barely two weeks after he met juhoon, the guy in his class, they decided to kickstart a small band from their shared love of music. juhoon on drums and MARTIN on mic and guitar.
two weeks later, juhoon introduced him to two friends who were a year younger, and they were quick to join the band. james kind of just melted into the band eventually, being a neighbor of MARTIN'S, he constantly overheard their rehearsals in his garage. he'd walk up the driveway, saying something like, "I had some leftover cookies I thought you guys might want," and after a few weeks, it turned into him picking up a guitar and playing with.
MARTIN felt as if he had achieved something. he now had somewhere to belong: his overflowing garage, with instruments, amps, and a few wonderfully weird people.
so he'd go from quiet conversations with juhoon at the back of math class to loud beats of music and echoing lyrics. for once, life was a little airy, going from secluded and ignored to having a part he loved and loved him.
and then, you came along. you lived on the same street, MARTIN knew this. back when you were kids, the two of you would even play in the streets from time to time. but as time passed, and social constructs grew in your teenage years, your mellow contact broke; waves in the hallways and gentle smiles came to a halt.
you were never close, but it hurt MARTIN a little to have to go from sheepish waves to nothing. but life goes on, and he learned to let it go, let you stay unattainable.
you didn't think much of him, that is, until that one day. you'd been cramming in study time at the school library for what felt like an eternity. the sun shone encouragingly at first and began to set when you decided to call it a day. chemistry was screwing you sideways, and of course, the teacher was a punishment sent from hell, so you were stuck teaching yourself the syllabus the day before the exam.
you ended up packing up at around 5pm, approximately five hours after your classes ended. your last lesson had been canceled, and instead of your usual departure to the corner shop or hanging out in the courtyard with your group of girl friends, you decided to make camp in a pile of chemistry books and notes, and the sterile light of your laptop.
your friends had laughed, dragged you by the arm towards the exit in protest, but you insisted, and, with a sigh, they left you to your misery as they celebrated their early end to school.
when you finally collected your things, defeated by the pain that is chem, it was too late to go to the corner shop and too late to find any of your friends still available. so you retorted to going home. you took the bus to the closest stop, but it still made your walk home ten minutes.
this walk was often relaxing, a way to start your morning or end your school day, but now, it feels like a death sentence. each step takes more and more out of you. the sky's turned beautifully orange and purple, the spring ─nearly summer─ sun shining everything in comforting tones. but you can't find any energy to actually appreciate the warmth.
the day had defeated you, you're tired, you feel clammy, and you yearn for the shower waiting for you at home.
so what could possibly put you in the position you're in now? stopped dead in your tracks; unmoving, mesmerized.
MARTIN, that's who. the sun hits him in a way that makes his blond-dyed hair golden and his dark brown eyes shine. he's pretty; painted nails strumming his electric guitar, lips close, intimate with the microphone; the mic stand stretched tall to reach him.
you remember him, of course, you do. the boy who'd always come up running to you with the brightest smile on those warm summer days when you two and a couple of the other neighborhood kids would swim and play around in your pool. the boy who'd always share his pocket money with you so you could also buy a popsicle when the ice cream truck came around.
he's sweet, he always has been. but when reputation and standards caught up, letting people go felt non-optional. MARTIN came with that "non-negotiable" ruling, and your friends convinced you not to care. and you haven't cared, not for five years, but now, when you're witnessing him at his best, it's hard not to look away. he's effortless in his strumming and plucking of the guitar; he's cool and natural with the mic that's nearly touching his lips.
you're not the first to stop and stare. a whole crowd has formed in his driveway, clapping in rhythm, and a few shouting the lyrics with MARTIN. he looks so happy, so in his element.
you don't join the crowd; you're too intimidated to, you stay on the sidewalk, a good few meters away from the ordeal. but you stay, you stay for the entire show. over the thirty minutes they play, they don't miss a single time. every song gets the crowd hyped, gets people singing, dancing, and applauding.
MARTIN is quiet, from what you've seen nowadays anyway. soft-spoken in class, on the low-key in hallways. but here, he's loud and catches everyone's attention with as much as a striking smile and an encouraging shout. time passes quickly with his on-stage charm, and after he lands his last chord with a confident strum, he says his thank yous as people start filtering out with newly found smiles and pleased ears.
you however, you're stuck, you can't bring yourself to move, to leave. the crowd grows thin, and the people who once blocked your appearance have left. you ─in your school uniform, imperfect hair, and a mountain of textbooks in your hands─ still stand on the pavement, teetering on the edge of his driveway. you stand out like a sore thumb against the astray people dressed in black and studs.
MARTIN spots you. spots you in your pretty white blouse and plaid skirt, that somehow manages to look better, different on you than on everyone else. you and your ─in his eyes─ perfect hair, holding a pile of school work tight to your chest.
time doesn't slow, sparks don't fly; it's rather clumsy. shivers of shock rush through him at the sight of you, and in his flabbergastment, he drops his guitar, the neck bumps into a cable, tearing it from its socket in the amplifier. feedback screeches for a few seconds at the commotion, echoing and causing the rest of the band to shout annoyances.
"sorry," MARTIN insists, picking up his fallen guitar.
when he starts making his way over, hand grasping his guitar, your body yells at you to move, to leave before you do anything you'll regret, but you're suddenly face-to-face, and it's too late to flee.
when he's close enough, you truly realize how much older the two of you have gotten, because he towers over you, and he's no longer dressed in playfully colorful clothes or wearing hairclips his sister dressed him in.
you see him in the hallways from time to time, his glasses and painted nails, but the fact has never clicked in your head. you realize that MARTIN'S not stuck in some memory in your head. he's real and there.
"you play," is all you can get out, the first words you've spoken to him in five years, and he chuckles, sounding embarrassed.
"yeah, I do," he says sheepishly, glancing down at his red guitar.
"you were great," you say. he smiles, looking down at you.
"we, uhm," he stutters, pointing back to the garage with the guys tidying up and grabbing cans of soda from a red cooler. "this's our first gig, kinda," he laughs awkwardly. he leans his guitar on his shoe so he doesn't have to hold all its weight. "we were playing and people sorta just gathered y'know."
you find yourself smiling. "really?" he glances at your eyes, but looks away after a second. "that's.." you lose your words, the thought of your group's voices taunting you. they make fun of people like MARTIN, the glasses-wearing, note-taking, alone-sitting somebodies that are so easy to ignore and even easier to point and laugh at with the excuse of feeling pity.
it's the fact that you're standing here, in front of this tall, gentle, glass-eyed guitarist, and you don't really care what they'd have to say. you've missed him, a fact only ever made apparent right in this moment when he's close, and the sunrise gleam shines him rosy and flushed, and his glasses are still a little lopsided from past commotion.
you two grew from that, this small interaction. subtle, sheepish waves in the hallways, to you stopping by his house when they were playing. sitting in a nearby armchair, drinking a dr. pepper that MARTIN always offered the minute he saw you walking up his driveway.
you were welcomed in a way you haven't been before, and that just led to you two. a late august evening, the sun mere inches away from hiding under the horizon. just the two of you are left after juhoon said his goodbyes. an innocent conversation turned romantic with the help of a sunset, a blush, and far-too-cute glasses.
one detail that always reminds you of that evening is the fact that he gave you a diet dr. pepper rather than an original. seeing that white can, always reminds you of that smile he gave you, of that kiss you shared.
"you got any studying to get home to?" MARTIN asks as he puts down his guitar on its stand. you chuckle at the question, because you do, quite a lot at that. you have a book seminar in english this friday, and you've got half the book left. it's constantly been slipping your mind thanks to your newly frequented stops at MARTINS and the fact that the book is just mind-numbingly dull.
"just a bit of reading," you lie, taking a sip of your diet dr.pepper. his eyes land on yours again after having put his guitar down, and he's wearing a pleased smile.
"so, maybe you can stay a little longer?" MARTIN proposes, and there's something about the way he looked in that very moment. eyes aglow by the setting sun and glasses beaming.
you end up sitting on his driveway, the gray concrete cold underneath you, and the can in your hand humid with condensation. there are no words to really describe the moment. sunset shining the world golden, laughter blessing your ears. it's simple, yet your flushed skin is nothing but complex. he's sitting close enough for your shoulders to touch, and it makes all his words so foggy.
he chuckles as he makes a remark, and you nod with a smile, but you're lost in him. in his glasses that mirror the sun, the smile that fits him so well, and the hands that are so close. if you were to stretch your pinky, you'd touch his, and wasn't that a little bit too tempting?
he laughs again, a deep, colorful chuckle that infects you with a warmth; a warmth that gives you courage. your pinky touches his, subtle, but undeniable. it makes him trip over his words a little, and the blush that inches up his face is enough to make you reach over properly, your palm against his outer hand.
his words dissolve before they can reach his tongue, and he's left with only breath and a warm pulse. "I-," he chuckles, his throat bobbing as he looks down at your touching hands.
your contact lies there; open for him to acknowledge and pursue. what you expect is him to slowly intertwine your hands, to give you a smile. but before he even tries, he looks to you, and he holds your eyes so carefully, his gaze so gentle.
"I'm happy we get to hang out so often," he nearly whispers, because if he were to speak any louder, when he's this near, it'd ring in your ears.
you smile, and you see the desperately subtle glance he gives your lips. what you want to say is something along the lines of gratitude and a form of reciprocation, but "prove it," is what you end up saying instead.
he blinks at your response, an airy exhale leaving him, but he dares to glance down at your lips again, lingering a little longer, making it obvious. obvious enough that when he does lean in, his lips on yours already feel natural. it feels like instinct, like the easiest thing to do. when his hand finally engulfs your own, and his other dares to reach for the brink of your neck, that's when it melts into you. him and his presence and warm skin.
his glasses bump into you, but it doesn't grow tense; the two of you merely giggle into each other. your hand that's not holding his reaches up to lay on his chest, but through the humidity of your mind and warmth of MARTIN, you forget about the dr.pepper in your grasp. as your hand moves and your fingers grow loose, the can spills onto your uniform and his jeans.
you both yelp, lips disconnecting, touch leaving, but the hand that's holding his managed to grow tighter, safer. you see the now-dented white can roll down the slanted driveway with a clunky, uneven sound. you meet his wide eyes, pink lips, and slanted glasses, and you laugh. your head clunks into his chest, which is now dressed in a wet t-shirt. his chest rumbles with laughter under your temple.
you walked home that day with one of his old, dry t-shirts. and a kiss goodbye at your front door, as he had insisted on walking you the ten meters to your house. you felt blessed, MARTIN thought it was too good to be true.
the two of you grew into something gentle, into something that was just your own. you wanted to keep your relationship on the low-key, and who was MARTIN to object? he didn't mind having you when no one else saw. he blamed it on different circles, on schedules. but you, you realized, that you do in fact care what your friends have to say.
in the beginning of your relationship, it was giggles and soft touches, secret kisses and passing glances when nobody could see.
a month passed, and then three. it was careful what you two had, something you cherished, but nowadays, over the past few weeks, your friends have gotten to your head.
"god, I feel like I see that blond wannabe wherever I look."
you look up from your lunch plate, the comment landing wrong in your chest. "MARTIN?" you inquire.
your friend scoffs a grimace. "that's his name?" the rest laugh. "I swear if I hear him and his little band-geek friend laugh in math one more time, I'm losing it."
the table erupts in further comments and laughs. you utter a forced snicker, but you cower into your plate, the laugh tasting sour on your tongue.
ever since then, it's continued, it's grown. remarks have gotten rougher, laughs tetering on mockery, cruelty. it all sinks into you with bitter force, with a truth you don't want to face. so subconsiously, sharply, your behavior shifted. subtely, your hands started to hesitate rather than assure. your kisses grew fewer and fewer. your glances, your contact, it grew strained. you tried, you begged yourself to get yourself together, but now there's really no denying your behavior.
it leads you to where you are right now. you got home a while ago, been home for a few hours, MARTIN ended just twenty minutes ago. so you're in comfy loungewear and barefaced, while MARTIN'S tense in his school uniform.
"I want to know why," MARTIN says with a yearning urgency. you don't look him in the eye, you can't. you try to muster up an answer, your arms crossed and your eyes on the living room wall.
he says your name with this desperate hurt, and it hits you beneath your ribs, all flesh and close tears. "why is it so hard to give me a glance. a sliver of your attention."
you swallow, close your eyes hard. "MARTIN, please, as if you don't ignore me too." he scoffs, quiet yet obvious.
"I'm not the one that let's go of your hand when we're out." you clear your throat, sight falling to your hardwood floor. "I'm not the one who refuses to look you in the eye as soon as anyone's near. or no one, for that matter."
this is where all this came from. the two of you crossed paths in the hallway today, no one around. when MARTIN smiled at the sight of you and privacy, you saw it as too risky and steered away, not even as much as glancing his direction.
it was silly, dumb. not a hello, not even eye contact.
"I feel like I'm the only one in this relationship," he chokes on his words; they feel too honest, because deep down, MARTIN knows that this really is a possibility.
"please, MARTIN, a glance doesn't mean much," you defend, but you still can't bear the thought of looking him in the eye.
"to you, of course it doesn't," he states. you exhale, holding back a begging urge at your eyes. "because, you-." he inhales, breathing to withhold what's begging to come undone. "you could leave any day."
you do the unbelievable, the unmistakable, you meet his eyes. they're glassy, they're hurt beneath the furrow of his brow. you swallow.
"a glance doesn't matter when you have the choice to go as you please."
you switch your weight from one leg to the other and shift your arms around in their crossed position, you do anything to do something. "and how come you can't, huh?" he huffs, head turning to the wall. "hm, why can't you leave any day you please?"
"because I love you," he confesses, his tone rough with an urge to hold back what leaps forward. but it still comes out as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
it settles deep in your abdomen, harshly in your throat as your brows furrow and your arms grow loose.
he sniffs. "that's why," he proclaims, meeting your eyes before walking off to the nearest door; your bedroom door, and closing it behind him.
the echo of the door clicking shut is what makes both of you crack. tears fall slowly, hands cover, your body grows limp. you sink into the couch, tears mixing with your skincare, brows folding under the pressure of your head and aching waterline.
MARTIN, he glides down the door, landing with a quiet thud as tears fall with vigor. his lashes crimp, his glasses bend and lift as his hands rub and cover his eyes.
he might be able to choke the excuse that he needed an argument, he needed a way out, but the raw, uncovered truth was that he loves you. every time he sees you walking up that driveway, everything else falters. every time your hand grazes his, nothing else can itch a frown out of him. you make him feel like himself, unfiltered and protected.
but the past few weeks have made him believe that he's not yours, and you're not his. everything you do seems to be in compliance with others. MARTIN knows people think of him as weird, that his dyed-blonde hair is outlandish, and that if he wears glasses, his personality should fit the bill. but he's never believed that you did too. you've convinced him that you're not like your friends, that your surroundings aren't a reflection of who you are.
yet here he is, sobbing against his palms and uneven glasses, having come to the conclusion that it was, in fact, too good to be true. because who could see their lover and not smile, who could see their lover and not care.
MARTIN takes a deep breath, sighing into his palms in an attempt to stop his tears from flowing so harshly. he feels dumb, rather silly, sitting here so insatiably affected by something you don't even seem to classify as an issue.
he huffs, standing up as a way to shake this grimy layer of anxiety off him. the simple action doesn't help at all; it only makes him dizzy behind his cloudy glasses. immediately after standing up, he sits down, your bed comfortable underneath him. it's lacy and pink, it radiates you. you and your pretty outfits with matching colors and jewelry. he sniffs, bringing his nail between the knaw of his teeth.
he bites at the chipping color on his nail. it was you who painted them cherry red. "it matched your guitar," you had said, happy after having found the right color in your large collection. MARTIN smiles bittersweetly, looking down at the almost-gone paint. you're just behind that door, so close yet still so abundantly unreachable.
he bites his lip, wrapping his hand around the old polish on his nails, almost as a desperate attempt at preserving something he believes is nearly over.
through his choked back tears and humid waterline, he catches a glimpse of a blue strip of paper hanging on the edge of your vanity mirror. a vibrant blue he recognizes from his own room. on one of your first dates, you went to this arcade. the usual old and modern games. that one dance battle game, where he won by a landslide, and the racing game, where you came first, and he came last.
they had this photobooth. it cost a dollar for a strip of three pictures. you took one, he took one. MARTIN got the black-and-white pictures of you in that pretty sweater you wore, and peachy eyeshadow that turned white and glittery in the photo. while you got his picture, the one that started off serious before he got childish with his poses. him, and his spiky hair and black-painted nails. here it was, displayed right where you do your makeup every morning.
MARTIN makes his way over, taking a seat in the chair by the white vanity. just a simple glance makes him notice the little chikawa plushy hanging right beside the black-and-white photo. this dumb little white plushy with a taiyaki head.
he chuckles, grazing the wide black eyes on the plush. MARTIN won it that day at the arcade. you had laughed, said it was ugly, in which MARTIN acted offended. it wasn't ugly, it was cute; at least MARTIN thought so.
he finally notices the many differently colored post-it notes stuck to the edges of the mirror. a mix of yellow, green, and pink sticky notes tucked into the slants of the white frame. MARTIN leans in, catching the clunky pencil lines of his handwriting. they were his notes, the ones he had sneaked into your locker and managed to discreetly pass to you in class.
"one you've never tried," one said, accompanied by a heart. he wrote that one on a redbull can he bought you with flavor you'd been wanting to try. which he then put in your locker for you to find on a gloomy thursday morning.
"I like your outfit." MARTIN chuckles reading this one. he had given it to you sneakily in class, and you had giggled, knowing you were wearing the uniform of every single other person in the school.
each one was a little stupid, a quick quip, things that didn't really matter too much, yet here they hung proudly, accompanying you every morning when you get ready.
MARTIN sighs, bottom lip sore under his teeth. was all this really futile? wasn't this affection? keeping parts of him without the need to brag about it. he never knew you kept that plushy, or that blue strip of pictures, or a few silly notes.
MARTIN is taken aback by your preservation of a few gifts and a couple of anecdotes, but why should he be? if you care, how come it doesn't show? why do your touches skim and hesitate? why does your smile falter? why do you cower at the tiniest bit of reciprocation?
in the midst of MARTIN'S quick conclusions and bustling brain, he sees it: the white, dented dr.pepper can sitting so innocently in an empty space on your bookshelf. he sits there for a while, just looking. it's scratched, silver metal peeking through the white cover. the dent is obscure and obvious.
it's only when MARTIN stands up from the small vanity chair that he realizes he's been holding his breath. he exhales abruptly, the breath burning his throat. he walks over to the wooden bookshelf. the can has been cleaned, the debris and dirt washed off. it's meticulously taken care of.
he raises a hand, grazing the roughed-up white surface with a red knuckle, and the cold metal takes him back to that day on his driveway, to you and your perfect hair and deep eyes and soft kiss; his first kiss.
never did he think back to that day and let his thoughts land on that spilled dr.pepper. if only it didn't happen, but here you were, displaying it, taking care of it. did the useless really matter? or was it just because it had a part in the moment? he picks the can up, letting it sink into his palm; both its smooth and rough edges.
MARTIN hears a knock at the door; it's soft, attentive. he turns to the sound and takes a second to breathe your barely-there presence in.
"MARTIN?" he hears you say, crooked and cowardly. his heart palpitated, aches at the sound. he takes the leap and opens the door.
there you are, tear-stained and beautiful.
"I hate my friends," you proclaim, and it stifles a breath from him. "they're so mean to you." you wipe your nose, tears continuing. MARTIN'S never seen you cry, and what some would consider revenge is what he sees as failure, because how could he let you end up feeling like this?
"their words keep coming back to me every time we're together, and it's-." you lay your face in your hands. "it's affected how I treat you."
MARTIN'S hold of the white can tightens the slightest.
"and it shouldn't." you brush your hair back. "you don't deserve that because-." your eyes meet his. "because you're so great, MARTIN," you sigh. "you're so sweet to me, and I just answer with being cold, and it's just cruel-."
he looks at you, really looks at you, and all he sees is passion. passion for him of all people. and love. love for him. isn't he lucky?
"please believe me when I say that-." he envelops you before your words can escape you. his arms wrap around you, your flushed and stained cheeks imprinting on his blue blazer.
"I love you," you say, finishing your sentence. MARTIN smiles into your neck where he's nuzzled into you, a final tear managing to escape and land on the fabric of your tank top.
you let your arms take a slow trip up around his neck, holding him tight against you. you sigh into him, closing your eyes beneath your furrowed brows. "I don't want to leave any day, MARTIN."
he still has a hold of the can, keeping it tucked into him, keeping the cold surface from touching your skin. he looks down at the metal from your shoulder, at its dented, imperfect, useless presence.
"I know," he says, knowing you're honest. he plants a reassuring kiss on your collarbone.
a beat passes, a quiet moment that holds you with such certainty. "I didn't know you kept all this," MARTIN mumbles into you.
you barely hear his words. "kept what?"
you two disconnect, you're still close, but there's enough space between you for him to show you the can in his hands. you exhale a laugh at the sight.
"I've kept prettier things from you," you chuckle. he smiles, planting a kiss on your temple.
"I saw," MARTIN answers, and your ears light up with a subtle pink. "my picture." he kisses your cheek, wrapping one arm around your waist as he delicately sets the white can on the vanity. "some of those sticky notes."
"I kept all of them," you're quick to confess.
MARTIN'S brows furrow, eyes widening. "all of them?"
you laugh, a hand going up to cover your mouth. "I have a box full of 'em in my desk." your cheeks have bloomed pink. "I switch the ones up on my mirror from time to time."
MARTIN'S the one who's blushing now. he cowers in the crook of your neck, and you laugh at the contact of his warm skin.
"and what?" he laughs through his blushing state, steering the subject away from his flushed embarrassment. "the chikawa's still ugly?"
you laugh, hugging him properly as your arms go around his neck once more. "as ugly as ever," you giggle. "but at least the guy that won him is kinda cute." MARTIN laughs, glasses a little crooked as he raises himself from your neck.
you smile contentedly. both of you are blushing, both of you are close. of course, your lips inevitably connect, comfortable and warm in the company of the other.
you don't want to leave, MARTIN doesn't want to leave. not someday. not any day.
Ꮺ sin's masterlist
Ꮺ schedule ; future fics
Ꮺ talk to sin
synopsis: James just wants to protect you from other guys, no matter what the cost.
tangs: yandere, dark romance, blood.
a/n: I’M BAAAAAACK! I’m sorry for not uploading anything or letting you know, but I finally finished it. I know it’s not very long, but I’ve done the best I could D:
English isn’t my first language, if something is wrong, feel free to tell me
Next Yandere Cortis is Juhoon
You never believed in fate.
It just seemed like a pretty word people used to justify their bad decisions. Dongseo University was just another place full of people trying to pretend they actually knew where their lives were going.
And then, James showed up.
The first time you even noticed him was at the campus cafeteria. You were sitting by yourself, scrolling through TikTok, when someone set a coffee down in front of you.
“You ordered a vanilla latte, right?”
You looked up. He had short dark hair, a calm expression, and glasses that made him look totally innocent.
“I didn't order anything…” You frowned. “But that is actually my favorite coffee...”
James let out a small smile.
“Then I guessed right,” he said, sitting across from you without even asking, like the whole thing had been rehearsed.
“I’m Zhao Yufan, but just call me James.”
“I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you, James,” you said politely.
James was polite and a little shy, he wasn't pushy at all, and that was the first thing you liked about him.
The second thing was that he always listened. He never interrupted or tried too hard to impress you, he just watched you though sometimes, he watched a little too closely.
What you didn't know was that that conversation wasn't an accident. James had been watching you for weeks, planning everything.
James POV:
The first time I saw her, I thought she was perfect.
I know, it sounds cliché, but my mind classifies people, they’re either useful, useless, a threat, or perfect. In my twenty years of life, I’d never met anyone perfect, until I found her, until Y/N.
I watched her for weeks before I finally spoke to her. I kept track of her schedule on my phone, her routes between classes, everything she bought, who she talked to.
I wasn't a stalker, I was just preparing myself to approach her.
By the time I finally sat across from her, I already knew she hated coffee without milk, that the sound of pencils scratching on paper annoyed her, and that she bit her lip whenever she got nervous.
I was just trying to understand her, there was nothing wrong with that.
When she smiled at me for the first time, I felt something weird inside, I felt relieved, like the universe was finally on my side.
But that feeling didn't last long. And that made me furious.
The first "rival" appeared way faster than I expected.
POV:
Oh Minho
He was tall, one of those guys who knows he’s attractive and uses it to be social. You guys met because he sat next to you in History class, and you just clicked.
Minho was charming. He invited you to an art gallery and made you laugh until your stomach hurt. There was basically nothing wrong with him.
When you casually mentioned you were going out with Minho, James smiled.
It was too slow.
“I’m glad you’re making more friends,” he said. His smile was there, but his voice sounded dry, and his knuckles were white as he gripped his cup.
“Are you okay?” You couldn't even finish the question because Minho shouted your name.
“Y/N! I found a new exhibit, let's go check it out!” he said, smiling ear to ear as he walked up to you and James.
JAMES POV: Rival 1
Minho was an idiot.
He loved to show off, posting every single detail of his life on social media without a filter.
I didn't even have to touch him, I just had to nudge him off the edge.
I watched him for days. I found out about his little online gambling addiction and his constant need for validation. I dug up info. I made sure certain conversations reached the right ears. A rumor here, a screenshot there.
Minho destroyed himself.
A bar fight, a badly managed debt, and a temporary suspension that turned into a forced transfer to another university.
I didn't kill him.
I didn't have to.
When she told me Minho “got into some weird trouble,” I just nodded sympathetically.
Internally, I felt pure satisfaction.
I had protected something valuable that belonged to me.
And I’d do it again.
POV:
It was weird how fast Minho disappeared from your life, but that’s just how college is, people come and go like it’s nothing.
But then came the second one.
Yoshida Tenko.
A quiet, smart Japanese guy. You shared literature classes, he’d lend you books and underline his favorite quotes for you.
That was when James started to change. It wasn't obvious at first, it was gradual.
He started asking where you were more often. He’d send "casual" texts that just happened to arrive exactly when you were with Tenko.
“Everything okay?”
“You look tired today.”
“Be careful getting home.”
They weren't threats, but something felt... off.
Tenko looked at you and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You seem distracted. Are you okay?”
“I just don't get this book. It makes me feel so stupid,” you said, thumping your head against the table, making him laugh.
“I can explain it to you. Want to hit up a café after class?” You nodded, liking the idea.
JAMES POV: Rival 2
Tenko was different. He wasn't a stupid like Minho.
He was attentive, which made him a threat. For the first time, I felt something I hated.
Jealousy.
It was this nasty feeling that made me want to claw my own chest open. I couldn't let him get close to her. I couldn't let her get attached to him.
Tenko was walking down a lonely hallway after studying in the library. He was a creature of habit. It was disgusting how predictable he was.
Honestly, i didn't plan anything complex, I just got in the way.
A push at the right moment. A floor that had just been mopped. A badly calculated fall down the stairs that cracked his head open and stained the clean floor with blood.
Accidents happen every day. People underestimate how easy it is to twist fate with the smallest touch.
I didn't stay to watch, I didn't need to.
The next day, the campus was full of whispers.
Accident. Such a convenient word.
When my Y/N cried, I felt something strange. It wasn't guilt, it was annoyance, because the pain she felt was pulling her away from me.
POV:
Tenko’s death hit you harder than you wanted to admit, and James was the one who stayed by your side.
He went to the memorial with you, holding your hand. He brought you food when you didn't want to leave your room. He was just there, even when you tried to push him away.
Eventually, you started talking to Ahn Jihoon. He was the typical overachiever, always smiling, polite, the kind of guy any mom would love. He helped you with math, left motivational notes on your locker, and sent the occasional “just checking in” text.
“Thanks for helping me again, Jihoon,” you said one Tuesday in the library, sipping the coffee he’d left on your desk.
“It’s nothing,” he replied with a smile that could melt anyone’s heart. “I just like seeing you focused.”
You felt your cheeks get hot.
James was sitting a few tables back, listening to music. But you noticed his eyes shifting toward you with this calculating look, like he was taking notes on every breath you took.
“Why is he looking at me like that?” you whispered. Jihoon just shrugged it off.
JAMES POV: Rival 3
Jihoon was dangerous, just like Tenko, but this time it was because he was always around her. He even waited for her outside the girls' restroom.
I noticed Jihoon always brought his own lunch and left it on his desk before eating. The problem was the classroom was always full, which made "getting rid of him" difficult.
Back in my room, I started planning how to clear the room so I could move forward with my main idea.
I ran my hands through my hair in frustration until my phone buzzed. It was Y/N.
“Sorry Yu, I can’t meet up tomorrow after all. I’m going to Jihoon’s house for lunch.”
I slammed my phone onto the floor, shattering it into a million pieces. I threw the books and papers off my desk, biting my thumb until it bled.
“Fuck…”
The blood didn't bother me. It wasn't pain; it was a reminder. A reminder that every second Jihoon spent with her was a second I was losing.
I looked at the wreckage of my phone. Shattered screen, deleted notifications, ruined plans. But none of it mattered. Nothing mattered but her. Her laugh, her gestures, the way her hands moved when she talked… it all belonged to me.
My room was a disaster. But I couldn't leave. I couldn't breathe. Not until I figured out how to take Jihoon out of the picture.
I thought about his routine. He was always one step ahead. It’s what made him so hard to eliminate.
“Always so… annoying,” I muttered, clenching my fists. “But nobody… nobody touches what’s mine.”
I sat on the floor amidst the chaos and started mapping out the classroom in my head. He always left his food before going in. I could manipulate that. I could use it. I just needed one moment where no one was looking.
My mind didn't stop at the violence. Everything had to be perfect so no one would suspect a thing.
“Just one more step,” I whispered to myself, tasting the metallic tang of blood mixed with adrenaline. “Just one more step and he’s dead.”
The walls felt like they were closing in. Every poster on my wall felt like it was judging me. But it wasn't fear. It was anticipation. The sweet, cold realization that nothing would stand between us.
I messed up my hair aggressively again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
Finally, I lay back on the floor and breathed. I counted. One, two, three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine. Every rival just added to the stress.
“She can’t lose me,” I whispered. “No one can have her. No one.”
The broken phone was a symbol. Everything else could wait. Everything else was irrelevant. Only she mattered.
And tomorrow… tomorrow I’d finally move the piece that would change everything.
Y/N POV:
I was walking through the halls after classes were over. I’d texted James the night before, he saw it, but never replied, which was weird. To make things worse, I hadn't seen him all day, and I was starting to get worried.
I sighed as I walked toward the classroom where I was supposed to meet Jihoon, he told me his mom was a great cook and I had to try her food.
I finally reached the room, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open.
“Jihoon”
JAMES POV:
I couldn't stop. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. I was supposed to poison him, but hearing his answer made my blood boil.
“Yeah, I really like Y/N. I’m planning confess my love to her.”
That sentence looped in my head while I drove a pair of scissors into both of his eyes. My hands were stained red, blood was splattered across my face and clothes, and a pool was spreading under him from the first stab to his neck.
“Jihoon.”
I froze at the sound of that soft voice.
Y/N.
I turned around slowly to look at her. I watched the folder she was carrying hit the floor. Her beautiful eyes were wide with terror.
“Y/N… stay calm… don’t be scared…” I said, standing up slowly and walking toward her. The more I stepped forward, the more she backed away.
“Don’t come near me… please…” my beautiful girl said, her voice shaking, clearly terrified.
She turned to run, but I didn't let her. I lunged, hitting her until she blacked out in my arms.
“You’re going to be mine, Y/N. You can’t escape me.”
I licked the blood trickling from her nose as I gathered her into my arms. I started walking out of the empty university, leaving Jihoon’s lifeless body behind.
a/n: English isn't my first language, If something is wrong, feel free to tell me
You were awake early that morning. It wasn’t just any day, because today you would be watching the swimming Olympics since your little brother Yejun, who is 10 years old, was obsessed with Ahn Keonho, the 17 year old swimmer representing Korea at the Olympics. Your brother hadn’t stopped talking about him ever since he found out Keonho would be competing, and you had agreed to accompany him. Not because you were a fan of swimming, but because seeing him so excited was reason enough to get up before the sun even rose.
You got up slowly, as usual. You packed your bag with three essential items: your wallet with some money, water, and a towel, just in case.
You walked to the metro station with him, listening to his theories on why Keonho was the best swimmer in the world.
You arrived at the Olympic complex early. It was huge. Flags from different countries were hanging everywhere. Your brother squeezed your hand tightly, excited but also a little nervous. You smiled at him, trying to reassure him, telling him everything would be fine.
The wait was long. There were thousands of people, shouting, and people wearing the shirts of their countries. Your brother alternated between checking the time on your phone and whispering, “Do you think he’ll arrive on time?” “Do you think he’ll warm up first?” “What if he breaks his own record today?” You nodded, responding calmly and keeping your patience.
Finally, they announced that the competition was about to begin. Your brother stood on the chair to see better, and you helped him up without anyone scolding you. Suddenly, a cheer rose from the other side of the pool, as all the swimmers began entering the area.
And there he was.
Keonho walked toward the warm-up lane with a towel around his neck, adjusting his swimming goggles, walking with calm steps. His hair was damp from the water of the pool where he had been warming up. He had the same focused expression your brother always described—pure concentration.
Your brother shouted his name so loudly that a group of people nearby turned to look at him strangely. You bent down to hold him, a little embarrassed inside because his voice had gone out of control with excitement.
The competition went by quickly. Everyone was tense, hoping their own country would win. When Keonho jumped into the water, you wished he would finish first.
It was impressive. He swam with a speed and smoothness that was astonishing. When he touched the wall at the end, you knew he had won even before the results were announced.
The stadium erupted in applause and cheers. Your brother shouted with happiness, and you stood up too, clapping with a huge smile. The scoreboard confirmed what everyone already knew: first place, gold medal for Ahn Keonho of South Korea.
After awarding the bronze, silver, and gold medals, the crowd began to disperse a little, while fans waited to see the athletes leave or sign autographs. Your brother insisted on staying near the exit area, hoping for one more glimpse. You looked at the clock; several hours had already passed since the event began. You were tired, hungry, and your back a little sore from carrying your brother in the stands.
And then it happened.
Your brother, with his boundless energy, grabbed your arm and pulled you forward. “There he is!” he whispered, pointing with his finger. You couldn’t believe it, but yes, it was Keonho, now wearing a sports shirt and a light backpack, walking toward the locker rooms. He had a calm expression, like he was just walking down a normal street and not being celebrated by thousands of people.
Your brother let go of your hand and ran toward him. Like a rocket. You shouted his name and followed, your heart racing because you knew this wouldn’t end without your intervention.
“Wait! Yejun! Don’t run!” you yelled, but Yejun didn’t stop.
He reached Keonho’s feet, out of breath, his eyes shining. Keonho looked at him surprised, with that gentle expression of his, and then smiled. It was a reassuring smile, like he already knew your brother’s purpose was to see him.
“Hey…” your brother panted a little, “…can I have your autograph?”
Keonho looked at you, and you were right behind him, taking a deep breath. “Sorry…” you said, a little embarrassed.
“Don’t worry,” he said. His voice was calm. It sounded like he was talking to someone he already knew, even though he had never actually seen you before.
Your brother held out his notebook with trembling hands as Keonho took the pen. He wrote carefully, then looked up and glanced at you too. Something in his gaze was curious.
“Do you like swimming?” he asked sincerely.
Your brother nodded vigorously, still out of breath.
You smiled and said you didn’t swim, but your brother admired him very much.
Keonho closed the notebook and handed it back with a soft smile, looking the boy in the eyes. Your brother paused for a moment, clutching the notebook to his chest.
“Thank you!” he finally said. “You’re amazing.”
Keonho laughed and shook his hand.
“Thanks,” he replied.
They said goodbye with a simple “take care,” and Keonho continued calmly toward the locker rooms. Your brother looked at you, a mix of awe and satisfaction on his face.
You placed your hand on his left shoulder and walked back toward the exit with him.
Yejun looked up at you, his eyes wide, reflecting surprise mixed with excitement. “Noona…” he murmured softly, pointing at the notebook, “look… look at this.” You bent over carefully, making sure not to push him, and looked at the page with Keonho’s signature. The signature was there, but you noticed a small number written in the corner, with neat handwriting.
Your brother pointed with his trembling finger. “Look! There’s a number here… and a text next to it.”
You took the notebook closer and read quietly.
“Give my number to your sister.”
You froze for a second, processing what you just read. Your brother, 10 years old, didn’t fully understand the meaning, but he was thrilled as if he had discovered a secret treasure.
“Keonho… he’s giving me his number?” you asked, smiling. Your brother nodded vigorously, almost jumping in place:
“Yeah! Yeah! He says to give it to my sister!”
You looked at him and smiled, your heart beating a little faster.
bf!martin x reader ( not proof read sorry 🙂↕️.. )
warnings: none
— ｡､ BF!MARTIN .. who makes sure to send you voice messages about his day and listen as you do the same . he loves hearing how your day went, loving just hearing your voice.
— ｡､ BF!MARTIN .. who gets very nervous around you for no particular reason. something about the way you smile at him casually makes his heart do summersaults. he could stare at your smile forever.
— ｡､ BF!MARTIN .. who loves to buy you jewelry. has a matching bracelet with you, having your initials on it.
— ｡､ BF!MARTIN .. who loves it when you send him pictures of you throughout your day ( especially if your long-distance ) ect : he saves them to his phone and has an album just of you.
— ｡､ BF!MARTIN .. who is the type to do the most when you ask him to take pictures of you, suddenly on the ground with your phone to get a “captivating angle” ( he believes you look good in every angle )
— ｡､ BF!MARTIN .. who loves to help you pick out your outfits for the day. he loves being able to dress you up, happy you trust him enough to do so.
— ｡､ BF!MARTIN .. who loves being the little spoon, despite being so big and tall. loves when you hold him and pet his hair until he falls asleep.
sin talking ──
inspired by their bts for the mama awards 2025, cuz martin's a whole different breed, holy moly
all interactions are appreciated ۶ৎ
you're gonna mess up. you're gonna mess up.
his thoughts taunted him relentlessly.
lace adorned him, his hair was meticulously styled, spots were covered with concealer, and subtle eyeshadow embraced the corners of his eyes. he looked show-ready ─but he was anything but the sort.
nerves weren't ever really an issue. excitement was what fueled his movements and confidence, the passion to have a good show. but this time, the pressure in his chest didn't keep him smiling or balanced. it dug into him with ferocity, with a cruel anxiety.
starting their entire performance wasn't something that MARTIN took lightly. he's spent hours upon hours in front of that board, repeating the same rhythm, the same chords. it was tedious in its preciseness, mocking in its simplicity.
he knew he could do it, deep down ─now that he's done it nearly six times correctly in a row─ doing it on stage would be no different. but it still burned in him, fire against fire in his blood.
he lays a palm against his chest, rubbing the clothed skin with a firm hand, the fabric scraping at his skin. he breathes in, holding onto the oxygen tight as if it'll run away if he doesn't beg too sincerely.
the crowd applauded, and it echoed and jumbled into a mess in his ears. it all perked at his skin, nipped at his shaking fingers. they'll call him on anytime now. oh god. he was practically cold-sweating, waves of unease pulsing down him in harsh truth.
he suddenly feels a gentle touch spark at his shoulder, fingers that felt engraved in his memory.
he turned, meeting the blessed sight that is you. you have this sweet smile, these joyous eyes. you're not carrying luggage, proposing the idea that you've already booked into some form of hotel, and it fills MARTIN such undeniable glee.
"hi," you spoke, smile insatiable, and it washed over him in a gust of relief.
"oh my god," he laughed in disbelief, taking no time to engulf you in a man-killing hug.
you chuckled at the determined contact. "I didn't feel like missing another concert," you sigh into his cologne.
his brows furrow, eyes sparking with dust of tears. there's nothing he could be more grateful for. he detaches himself from your waist, letting his hands move up to cup your jaw. you're so full of admiration, and yet he's the one looking at you as if you hung the stars in the sky and built the ground where he stands.
you're so pretty. it occupied his brain with a welcoming shout. he kisses your cheek, and then your temple.
"thank you, baby," he said against your skin. tone soft in its genuine gratitude.
you lead your hands to the sides of his face, your eyes meeting his. there's something so indescribable in his glance. it overwhelmed you into a kind mirth.
"you look really good," you stated, and he giggles that girlish snicker of his whenever you compliment him. "you're always so handsome on stage," you professed.
he chuckled into your lips, kiss whole-hearted and warm.
anxiety melts at the sight of you, worry shudders at the calling of your name. you make calm so accessible, so justified.
then finally, they call his name, and a part of the staff comes over to usher him away. it pierces him beneath his ribs, but what he was embarking on wasn't what blared through his body; missing you is what did.
"watch me?" he voiced, nodding his head towards the tv-like screen viewing the stage.
you smile. "of course," you endorse, giving his cheek a final kiss. "you'll do great."
the words leave your mouth right as he's forced to leave, but the reassurance strikes him deep despite its muffled nature.
he walks onto that stage with a guaranteed bliss, and he nails that intro like second nature.
he praised you for his win, for his success. because god, didn't you make staying calm oh-so easy?
sin's masterlist ⅋ schedule ; future fics
talk to me
a/n: English isn’t my first language, If something is wrong, feel free to tell me
You’re seventeen, not an idol, and have no intention of becoming one. You go to school, hate waking up early, and live on complaints. Your life has nothing to do with the entertainment world, and yet, you end up going to the Big Hit building often because your aunt works there as a cleaner.
You walk behind your aunt down the long hallway of the building. She pushes the cleaning cart like it’s part of her body. The wheels squeak loudly and you make a face.
“Auntie, this place always smells the same” you say “Like expensive cleaner.”
“Because it is expensive” she replies without looking at you “Don’t touch anything.”
“I’m not touching anything.”
“That’s what you always say.”
You sigh and look around. Everything is modern, clean, and way too quiet. From one of the rooms, you can hear loud music and heavy footsteps on the floor. Curious, you peek a little to see.
“Is he training?” you ask.
“He trains all day” your aunt says “You sit there and don’t get in the way.”
“But I’m not in the way.”
She looks at you over her shoulder, frowning.
“Uh-huh.”
You sit on a bench against the wall, take out your phone, and pretend you have something important to do. The music keeps playing. Suddenly it stops. Then starts again. Then stops once more.
Curious, you stand a little and peek through the slightly open door of the room. Inside there’s a boy alone. He’s practicing in front of the mirror. He repeats the same move, messes up, runs a hand through his blond hair and tries again.
“Again…” he mutters to himself.
You watch silently.
“Y/n” your aunt calls from the hallway, sounding tired. “Don’t go in there.”
“I’m just looking” you whisper.
“Then look from a distance.”
You lean against the wall, still watching the room. The boy suddenly stops. He lifts his head and sees you reflected in the mirror. He freezes for a second. Then turns around.
“Ah… hi” he says.
You freeze, feeling your cheeks heat up.
“Hi” you reply, embarrassed.
He steps a little closer to the door, not fully coming out. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
“Did you get lost?” he asks.
“No” you shake your head quickly. “My aunt works here.”
As if summoned, your aunt appears behind you with the cart.
“Everything okay?” she asks, looking at the boy.
“Yes” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Sorry if I bothered you.”
“You’re not bothering” your aunt responds. “Just don’t get distracted too much.” She looks at you while saying it. “Come on.”
“okay” you say, but glance at the boy one more time.
“I’m Martin Edwards” he says quickly before you leave.
You say your name. He repeats it slowly.
“Nice to meet you, Y/n.”
“Nice to meet you, Martin.” you respond.
Your aunt clears her throat. “Let’s go.”
You walk a few steps with her and then return to sit on the same bench. A few minutes later, Martin comes out of the room with a bottle of water. He sees you and hesitates for a second.
“Can I sit?” he asks.
“It’s a bench” you reply. “It’s not mine.”
He sits, leaving space between the two of you. Silence.
“Do you train a lot?” you finally ask.
“Too much” he replies. “Do you come here often?”
“Sometimes” you shrug. “When there’s no homework or my aunt drags me here.”
“Ah…” says Martin, taking a sip from his bottle “Lucky. I’m always running from one thing to another.”
“So exhausting” you mutter, watching another drop of sweat drip from his hair.
“Yeah…” he says, putting the bottle aside. “And there are still hours left.”
You shrug and lean back a little, resting your back against the wall.
You talk for a while. You share short laughs, silly jokes about his training and your classes, comments like “this is boring,” how it really feels to be an idol, and ordinary things from everyday life.
Suddenly, your aunt appears from the hallway, clears her throat, and looks at you.
“Y/n… it’s time to go” she says, with that voice that’s a mix of patience and authority.
You freeze a little and glance at Martin. He looks at you the same way, with an awkward smile.
“Ah… yeah” you say, standing up. “Sorry, auntie.”
Your aunt approaches, looks at Martin, and says something quickly:
“Hey, why don’t you ask for her number? That way, you don’t have to chase her around here every time you want to talk.”
Martin freezes for a second, blinks, and then slowly nods.
“Yeah… good idea” he says, a little nervous.
You look at the three of you, sigh a little embarrassed while your aunt gives you a gentle push toward the exit, leaving you with Martin so he can do what your aunt just suggested.
“Well… uh…” he says, looking at his phone and then at you. “I guess… can I have your number?”
You laugh a little, half-amused at how awkward he is.
“Sure” you respond, taking out your phone. “But I don’t promise I’ll reply fast.”
“Don’t worry” he says. “I’m not great at replying quickly either.”
You exchange numbers. He double-checks that you typed it right, and you do the same.
“Done” he says, finally relaxed. “That’s it.”
“Good” you say, putting your phone away. “Now I can leave without feeling guilty for watching your training disaster.”
He laughs again and nods.
“Well… see you next time” he says, putting his phone away.
“Yeah, see you” you reply, while your aunt calls you to leave.
You walk down the hallway, leaving Martin in his spot as you head out of the building with your aunt.
I’m thinking of making a part two. Let me know in the comments if you want it :3
𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 ㅤ─── your boyfriend takes care of you while you’re sick
★ boyfriend ! martin × fem!reader
fluff .ᐟ teasing love .ᐟ comfort
word count ── 1k
˖᯽ ݁˖ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 coco speaking here! THIS IS LOWKEY DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND WHO IS CURRENTLY SICK RN… SHE WANTED ME TO WRITE A MARTIN FIC SO I TOOK THIS CHANCE TO MAKE ONE SINCE I HAVENT WROTE A MARTIN FIC 𖧧 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
You knew you were sick-sick when even the thought of getting up felt like too much.
Your body felt heavy beneath the blankets, limbs aching, head foggy in that dull, cottony way that made time stretch. The room was dim, curtains half-drawn, afternoon light slipping in quietly like it didn’t want to bother you. Your throat burned, your nose was stuffy, and your eyes were tired.
And you were alone, by choice.
Because Martin shouldn’t have been there.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the vibration making your head throb. You squinted at the screen and groaned when you saw his name lighting it up. You answered, voice rough and weak.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Martin said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Open the door.”
Your heart sank a little. “No,” you croaked. “You’re not here. Go home.”
A pause. Then, softer, amused. “Baby. I’m literally outside.”
You rolled onto your side and buried your face into the pillow. You had told him. You had warned him. You had even said please.
Before you could argue again, you heard the familiar sound of the door unlocking.
You were already preparing your speech by the time he stepped into your room like he owned the place, which, honestly, he kind of did. Hoodie on, grocery bag in one hand, keys dangling from the other. His expression softened immediately when he saw you curled up like a sad little burrito.
“There you are,” he said gently. “God, you looked miserable.”
“Martin,” you rasped. “I told you not to come.”
He dropped the bag on the counter and crossed the room in three steps. “I guess you did, but you know I would still be here.”
“You were gonna get sick,” you insisted, trying to sit up and failing halfway. “I didn’t want that.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to your forehead, brows knitting slightly. “You were warm. Not too bad, but still.” His thumb brushed your hair back. “And you really thought I cared about getting sick when my girlfriend looked like this?”
“That’s not romantic,” you muttered.
He smiled anyway. “Strongly disagree.”
He gently nudged you back down, tucking the blanket around your shoulders like you were fragile. His fingers lingered, brushing your hair out of your face, thumb tracing your temple.
“You eat anything?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“Drink water?”
Another shake.
He sighed dramatically. “Unbelievable. This is tragic.”
You glared weakly. “You’re annoying.”
He laughed. “I’m still taking care of you.”
Before you could argue again, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Warm. Grounding. Familiar. Your annoyance melted instantly, despite yourself.
“Rest,” he murmured. “I’ll handle everything. Okay, baby?”
You hesitated. “…You promise you won’t stay long?”
He grinned. “Nope.”
He spent the next hour moving around your apartment like he had always lived there, opening windows just enough for fresh air, lowering the lights, setting a humidifier near your bed. He talked the whole time, narrating his actions in that upbeat, comforting way of his.
“Alright, soup coming up, lowkey might be basic, but Doctor Martin says broth is good for the soul.”
You watched him from the bed, eyes heavy but fond. Even sick, you felt safe with him there.
When he brought the bowl over, he sat beside you and helped prop you up with pillows.
“Slow,” he reminded you, holding the spoon up to your lips. “Don’t rush it.”
You blinked at him. “You were feeding me?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Open up.”
You did, cheeks warm, not from the fever this time. He smiled like he’d won something.
“There we go. See? Easy.”
Between bites, he wiped your mouth gently with a napkin, his thumb brushing your cheek. Every small touch felt amplified, intimate in the quiet room.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said softly.
He hummed. “I wanted to.”
After you finished, he helped you lie back down, then climbed in beside you without hesitation. You protested weakly.
“Martin—”
“I’m not scared,” he said, already pulling you into his chest. “Plus, you were freezing. Feel that?”
His arm wrapped around your waist, hand warm through your shirt. You sighed despite yourself, nestling closer.
“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
He stayed like that for hours. Let you nap on him. Pressed kisses to your forehead whenever you stirred. Whispered dumb little jokes when you coughed, just to make you smile.
“Still alive?” he asked at one point.
“Barely,” you mumbled.
“Wow. Brave soldier,” he teased, kissing your hair. “I’m proud of you.”
When night fell, he insisted on staying.
You fell asleep to his heartbeat.
The next morning, you woke up feeling… better.
Not perfect, but lighter. Less foggy.
And Martin was very much not okay.
He was sprawled dramatically across your couch, hoodie discarded, hair a mess. When he heard you shuffle in, he squinted at you.
“Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck,” he muttered.
You blinked. “…Martin?”
He groaned. “Yeah. Think you cursed me, baby.”
Guilt flooded you immediately. “Oh my god. I told you—”
He sat up slowly, sniffing. “It was worth it, though.”
You hurried over and pressed a hand to his forehead. “You’re warm.”
“Yeah?” He smirked weakly. “Guess it’s your turn now, huh?”
You laughed softly and helped him lie back down, grabbing a blanket and tucking him in just like he had done for you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly.
He reached out, catching your wrist and pulling your hand to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, eyes tired but still bright.
“I know,” he said. “But I’d do it again.”
Then he added, teasing even now, “Plus, now I get spoiled. Win-win, hm?”
You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Rest,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He smiled, eyes fluttering shut, his hand still holding yours.
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