hiii!! i read ur martin fic and ur writing is soo goodš„¹š„¹ i wanna request another martin fic where he hasnāt been having the best day and just needs to recharge with reader and theyāre both js super clingy!! im looking forward to your future workk!! š¤š¤
MARTIN EDWARDS X GN!READER (1k words) ā established relationship, a teensy bit of sass from martin, lots of fluff & cringey-cute stuff, also yes the title is intended to be goofy lmao
āĖź©ļ½” daeās note: we LOVE clingy martin in this household!! thank you so much for your request and your kind words š„¹š«¶ i hope you enjoy!!
ā¹ ą£Ŗ Ė requests open for cortis ! i write headcannons, one-shots, text fics, and love to represent for my plus-sized readers. feel free to send requests, thoughts, or simply chat! <3
divider from @saradika-graphics ! i live for these button dividers, they are so so cute š„¹
Your voice is soft and weary as you sit next to your boyfriend, whoās got headphones half-on, and a frustrated, exhausted expression on his face.
Martin is almost always the happiest person in the room. Thatās part of why you love him so dearly, but right now, he looks so far from the ray of sunshine he usually is.
You know heās tired. The boys have been working non-stop between promotions, making new music, preparing for tour. Itās been hectic, and if you hadnāt been watching from the sidelines, youād know it from littler things. How Martin never has time to call, takes much longer to answer texts.
Youāve learned to cope with it ā afterall, he wouldnāt choose to have it this way, but he loves what he does, no matter how tiring it can get, and youāll always support him. Not to mention, when he does get time to spend with you, he tries his hardest to make sure you know just how much he misses you when heās busy, and how deeply he values his time with you.
Itās pretty rare that you join him on days like this. Heās technically working, but itās just you, him, and the dim light of his laptop, the repeating beat playing faintly through his headphones.
Martin has a pattern. Itās funny at first. He can laugh at himself, make fun of his own adlibs before removing them from the backtrack. Then, he hits that tired spot of the day, and from there, its determination and frustration combinedā¦which rarely pays off for the amount of energy and stress it causes him.
Which is probably why he managed to not hear your gentle call of his name. His brows are furrowed, and heās chewing on the inside of his cheek fervently. His fingers fly across the keyboard, perhaps more aggressively than they need to with each tap.
He sighsā¦probably for the hundredth time in the last hour. You sigh next, a frown tugging at your lips.
You repeat it, louder this time, reaching out to gently tug the headphones off of his head, and drop them on the keyboard of his laptop, stopping his hands in the same motion.
āWhat?ā he responds, in a dim, almost snarky tone that makes your stomach turn.
āDonāt be like that. You need a break,ā you muse, voice soft despite your displeasure with his tone; you know his frustration has nothing to do with you. Heās gotten mad at you maybe once the whole time youāve known one another.
He huffs, his sad, tired eyes flicking back to the screen of his MacBook. Ironically, as he goes to mess with it, the screen fades to black, the laptop dying.
āWhen the fuckāā his fingers instinctively feel over the charging port, where, evidently, there is no charger plugged in. He scoots back in his rolling chair, reaching down to grab the chord that had fallen, and plugs it back in with a seemingly more exasperated expression than before.
When he reaches to turn the computer back on, you grasp his wrist, gently stopping him. āA break, my love. Please. Youāre stressed, tired, probably hungry and dehydrated to,ā you reason, and fortunately for you, Martin is always putty in your hands.
He nods, slow and reluctant, but thereās no hesitance in the way he turns to you, and leans against your chest, his knees bumping yours as he does so. The position is anything but practical, but you still reach up to cradle his head, planting a kiss atop his messy hair.
He melts into you, eyes fluttering shut as he slides his hands up your thighs, resting them on your hips.
āEverything sounds like shit,ā he murmurs, making you sigh sympathetically.
āI think youāve been listening to yourself for several hours and are overwhelmed,ā you respond, shaking your head against his. āPlus, youāre supposed to be coloring outside the lines, eh?ā You tease, and he groans softly into your chest, before he stands up, grabs your hands, and tugs you towards the small, leather couch.
āColoring outside the lines doesnāt equate to spitting bullshit into a mic and calling it original and different,ā Martin huffs, as he plops down on the couch, and wraps his arms around you.
Itās a silent dance for comfort, until you find the perfect position. Your back rests against his discarded, balled up hoodie, and his legs hang off the couch, with his upper body draped over you, and your legs resting over his. Twisted up, smushed together, exactly the way you both like to be.
Close is never close enough, for either of you. Maybe thatās why youāre both so content, and grossly in love. You can never talk about enough, you can never kiss enough, can never get enough of one another. Youāre his safe place, as he is yours, a connection unique to you both as a pair.
Martin tilts his head up, his eyes pitiful and tired as he stares up at your face. However, despite the exhaustion present in his expression, he smiles slightly.
āYouāre so pretty,ā he hums. Your stomach turns in favor of butterflies, a fluttery, breathless feeling sprawling through your chest.
āSo are you,ā you murmur, gently cupping his cheek. His smile remains, small and fond as he looks up at you.
āNah,ā he shakes his head, gently nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, planting several kisses on your skin. He sighs, but itās different this time. Heavier, but with relief, not exasperation.
You know the sound all too well, that reassuring breath that tells you he feels better.
Your fingers card through his hair in gentle strokes, raking through the smooth strands. You donāt bother asking if he feels better ā itās obvious that he does, between the sigh of relief and the way heās melting into you.
Instead, you stay quiet, eyes fluttering shut as you snuggle with him on the small couch. Itās grounding, stable, and secure, the tension from earlier gone.
Martin kisses your skin again, lips traveling up your jaw, until he captures your mouth with his own. He kisses you softly, deeply, a lingering, silent show of gratitude.
What would he do without you?
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