ˋ°•*⁀➷ i will never understand you, when will i stop trying?

.⋆❦ tags: popular skaterboy! martin x weird girl! reader | SCENARIOS | highschool setting | reader has morbid curiosity (into dark stuff) | mentions of bullying | kissing (say less from me) | martin’s down horrendous | skinship !! | the sneaking-out-and-climbing-up-your-window agenda persists (w.c. 10k)

.⋆❦ Martin Edwards has a plan. He's had a plan ever since that day his skateboard almost rendered you unconscious. To charm and maybe even ensnare one wonderfully and hauntingly pretty girl. Now, he can only hope that you see him through whatever sorcery or keen intuition you wield.

᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ mari here! this idea came to me after third wheeling with an irl and her normie skater bf and watching a grown man become so mesmerized while she talked ab the lizards she kept preserved in jars <33 ROMANCE IS ALIVE AND WELL I PROMISE YALL !! anywho to the ppl in my inbox asking for part 4 of coalg i swear its gonna come hahahaaa been busy so a hiatus is not impossible for me now...

🎶 ”Nice to meet you”. Is it really, though? ᯓ★

People put a lot of faith in first impressions, don’t they? Apparently, one quick look is enough for you to think you’ve got them figured out. It’s not always accurate, of course. In fact, it rarely is. But these impressions make up most of our social perceptions. 

Which makes Martin wonder what your first impression of him was.

After all, the first time you two met, he almost killed you. 

Okay, backtrack, that sounds terrible. 

But unfortunately for Martin, it’s also kind of true. 

That day crawled by like molasses. Most of the teachers were stuck in some endless faculty meeting, which meant no classes, and no real reason to be anywhere in school. So naturally, while everyone was trying to kill time, Martin and his friends had taken over the bleachers by the field. 

Their boards were strewn across the concrete, Keonho had somehow smuggled in a couple pizza boxes, and the group had settled into that easy groove of accomplishing absolutely nothing. 

“Man, this place is dead. You think we can leave?” Seonghyeon groans, sprawled across the bench under the relentless afternoon sun. 

James glances up from his console and shakes his head. “Can’t. Gotta wait till 3.”

Martin clicked his tongue as his board rattled along the same ledge, over and over, five minutes of nothing but perfect repetition. He was so bored out of his mind, he could feel it crawling under his skin. 

Security had started pacing near the entrance as well, which meant he’d have to be a little more strategic.

“I’m hitting the back stairs.” 

He skates past the guard's line of sight and cuts around the back of the gym. The pavement’s uneven back there. Curbs to clear, small bumps perfect for all sorts of tricks. The wind hits him square in the chest as adrenaline sparks a million veins, and he feels like pure electricity. 

There’s a slim alley tucked behind the building, with a side entrance that leads to a stairwell plunging downward. The rails ran smooth, and the ledge solid. He could make this drop sound twice as impressive. 

So Martin commits and pushes off, grinds the ledge like he’d been born to do, smooth and–

And then there are candles. 

In a split second of panic, he leaps forward, loses control, and lands all wrong. His body hits the concrete with a harsh thud, and his board slides across the floor, clattering to an abrupt stop. 

“Hah–shit.” He pants, muscles trembling in protest as every nerve vibrates in alarm. 

“Are you alright?”

He lets out another groan, rolls to one side, and finally turns toward the source of the voice.

Your hair curled and stuck out in wild angles from the way you’d ducked, a notebook splayed open before you, looking like some darkly painted muse plucked straight from one of those moody Gothic portraits he’d seen in museums. 

Martin had never put much thought into the idea of destiny. Sure, he was a bit of a hopeless romantic, but he was also a pretty straightforward guy at heart, so his loyalties were simple: pizza, Nirvana, and the privilege of an occasional nap.

But that day, he had decided to thank it, because when you looked at him how you did then, he thought, without complication or any pretense at all, that you were beautiful. 

And he also thought you were a witch. 

In his defense, you did look like you were trying to summon something. 

“I–yeah, yeah I’m alright.” He scrambles upright, brushing off dust from his pants and trying (failing) not to stare at the intricate symbol in the center of your little candle circle.  

There really are normal ways to meet someone. This was not one of them. 

“What is all of this?” 

“Nothing.” You barely looked at him, tapping the pen one last time against the notebook before snapping it closed and tucking it into your bag. With a shrug, you hoisted the strap over your shoulder and tilted your head in his direction, a small nod of acknowledgement.

“I should get going.”

“Woah, hey, wait–” He stumbled forward like a complete fool, grabbing the railing as he dragged his skateboard by foot.

You look back, eyebrows arched in confusion. “What?”

“Aren’t you gonna clean all this up?”

“The candles will burn themselves out. And the chalk, well, it’s not like it's permanent.”  

You flicked a hand so casually, as if the whole setup were no more consequential than the ordinary. Martin, for his part, didn’t know much about the paranormal other than that it usually meant no good. But there stands a contradiction in front of him. Here you were, as startlingly breathtaking as you were strange. 

“Were you trying to perform a ritual? What if something crawls out of the ground or–”

You clicked your tongue sharply to interrupt him. He must have pissed you off, that much he was certain of now. 

“Relax. Thanks to your little stunt, the energy’s all disrupted. Crisis averted.”

“Ah… right.” He picked up his board, peeking around the dim space before looking back at you, a spark of something like hope and desperation in his expression. 

“Can I get your name at least?”

“No.” Not a second thought. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel like getting reported today.”

“I wouldn’t do that, I swear, I just–”

Think, Martin. Any excuse. It could be stupid. Literally anything that'll keep her from leaving.

“Can you read palms?”

“I can read your face just fine.” You say dryly. “And I’ve predicted that you’re going to experience quite an embarrassing moment later today, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

All Martin managed to process from that was the part where you’d been looking at his face. 

“Okay, psychic.”

“Not psychic.”

“Then tell me your name?”

“You don’t really need it.”

And just like that, you turned and left. 

Never has Martin felt so boyishly alive, a dizzy sort of teenage rush as he wanders towards where the guys are waiting. He comes back with a dreamy shine catching in his eyes and a lopsided grin he hasn't been keen on shaking off, making Juhoon ask what on earth had happened while he was gone. 

“Pretty girl,” was all he could say, and all he could think, really. Pretty, weirdly mysterious, hopefully a student here and not some ominous trespasser, because he very much wanted to see you again. 

Hours later, he’s riding his board home, mind still circling around one obvious subject. Then, in front of his friends, and unfortunately a handful of other onlookers, he attempts a trick and promptly eats pavement. 

As his friends gather around to ask if he’s okay, he stays sprawled on the ground as he traces back to what you said to him earlier, then stares up at the sky in pure burning embarrassment, and a little disbelief.  

“... You’ve got to be kidding me.”

🎶 And there’s a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear. Have I known you 20 seconds, or 20 years? ᯓ★

The next time Martin bumps into you, you were burying something.

It’s in the stretch of trees across the field. He had PE before that, and he’d been cutting around the back to head to the cafeteria when something strange caught his eye near the hedges lining the path. The shrubs rustled faintly as if something, or someone, was crouched behind them. 

Curiosity had a way of making him do it’s bidding. Like now, creeping forward, tilting his head, and peering through the leaves at whatever was causing the movement. 

He’d just been thinking about you, and now here you were. Maybe you really were a witch. 

“Hello again.”

You froze mid-motion. Slowly, you looked up at him from where you were crouched, and he could see something tiny cradled in your gloved hands. 

“Are you following me?”

“No,” he said quickly, lifting both hands in defense. “But you’re pretty hard not to notice when you’re–”

His eyes had finally discerned what you were holding. 

“...Is that a dead frog?” 

“Robert.” You said calmly. “He died of unknown causes.”

Martin’s unsure what the correct response to that was supposed to be. 

Not knowing what else to do, he shuffled closer and crouched beside you while you carefully lowered Robert into the small hole you had dug. 

“So was that your… pet?”

“Mmh.”

The image of a dead frog resting in someone's hands should have been enough to make him look away.

And it was, so he settled on looking at you instead. 

Meanwhile, you’d been busy wondering when this 6 foot something prying lurker might finally take the hint and leave. Or better yet, when one of your friends might show up and rescue you. He’d run into you twice now, which meant he was clearly onto you.

And he seemed eager. You couldn’t quite figure out why. 

But anyway, the main event: Robert's burial. If this guy wanted a front-row seat, you weren't going to stop him. Might as well put him to some use.

“Could you hand me the shovel?”

“Oh, yeah sure.” 

Martin scanned the ground for a tool, and when he spotted it, picked it up and handed it to you. You began scooping dirt to cover the small hole where Robert had been laid to rest. Once the earth was level, you pressed it flat with the shovel, then carefully placed a flower and shoved a tiny wooden cross in the dirt. 

Now that he thought about it, he’d seen similar tiny crosses around school before, some tucked at the edges of the soccer field, others hidden between shrubs in the gardens. Had they all been your doing? 

“So listen, about–”

“A moment of silence for the dearly departed.”

Martin quickly shut up. When he looked over, you’ve pressed your hands together, eyes closed, head in a faint bow. Albeit a little awkwardly, he follows suit. Goodspeed, Robert. 

After what looked like a solemn farewell to some unseen spirit, you brushed off your jeans and rose to your feet. 

“I’m leaving.”

“Wha–again?” He stumbled over his words, unable to hide the mix of surprise and frustration. “You did this last time too.” 

“I did it last time… because I was leaving then too.” You picked up the bag you always carried, wiping at the faint layer of dirt clinging to it. 

“You don’t just leave people hanging, y'know."

“What were you hanging around for, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know? Thought you were interesting.”

You stay quiet for a few seconds, weighing whether to respond, before muttering, “Whatever you say.”

You hear him sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“So how many of these pets of yours have you buried around school?”

You wonder briefly how on earth he managed to figure that out. 

“12, at most.” You admit. 

He whistles low, then lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “You can’t bury them in your backyard?”

You shrug, tugging the strap of your bag even tighter over your shoulder. 

“My mother thinks it's weird. I've tried preserving them in jars, but I can’t seem to figure out how to get rid of the smell.”

Martin grimaced, nose wrinkling at the thought of dead reptiles and rodents sitting preserved in glass jars, suspended in some strange liquid. He’d always assumed that stuff was just weird propaganda the movies fed him about these kinds of people. Clearly, he’d been wrong.                                          

But you had actually told him something that had nothing to do with escaping the scene this time, so he figured you were really into this sort of stuff. Not that he could judge. Everyone’s passionate about something, after all. If he’s into rock bands and vintage vinyl collections, you’re into… well, whatever this was. It’s not so different in the end. 

He actually thought it was kind of cute. Strange girl with even stranger hobbies. 

“That does sound like a problem, huh?” He tries to sound casual, though the edge of unease still leaks into his voice.

“It is.” You reply curtly, looking anywhere but at him as you tap your fingers against the strap of your bag. 

A few seconds of awkward silence stretched between you, filled only by the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of the football team on the field. You huff out a breath, shoulders stiff, and turn sharply on your heel. 

“Goodbye.”

“Wait!” He lunges a step forward, heart hammering faster than he’d like to admit.

You pause mid-stride, one foot hovering as if to turn and leave anyway, eyes darting back to him. 

“What is it?” you ask, skeptical. 

“Are you heading to the cafeteria?” 

“Uh… yeah? It’s lunch.”

“Perfect. I’m going there too. Let’s go together.” He says it smoothly this time, mentally patting himself on the back. 

You glance at him, noting that he hasn't really left you any room to argue. With a small, resigned sigh, you reply,

“Sure.” A touch too reluctant. 

Martin finally finds out your name and that you’re both in the same grade. It strikes him as off that he’s never seen you around before. You explain, in your usual understated way, that you’re good at staying unseen. Because of that, you then hint at why circumstance keeps bringing him across your path. 

He walks you through the crowded halls leading to the cafeteria, receiving a bunch of greetings and some very pointed stares. He doesn’t quite understand the looks, but they register for barely a second anyway. His thoughts are entirely on something else, because for once, he’s got you talking, and that, more than anything, has to count for a win. 

When you both step inside, he immediately notices the space you put between the two of you. Just a step or two, but enough that he feels the intention in it. Your eyes dart left and right, scanning the room with a kind of awareness he hasn’t seen from you before.

That’s odd. 

Martin glances around the crowded cafeteria. “So where were you—”

“Y/N!”

A girl breaks through the noise of students and strides straight toward you. She’s dressed almost exactly like you, and something about her demeanor feels eerily similar too. Actually, the table she came from looked like an entire gathering of that similar variety.

So you’ve got a whole group to be weird with. Good to know.

The girl glances between the two of you, clearly confused. You shake your head, waving it off, and turn your back to Martin just long enough to give him a small, acknowledging nod before walking away.

“Thanks.”

He smiles, lifting his hand in a quiet wave. 

“See you around.”

He meant it and wished it would be true. He isn’t sure if you even like him much, and the uncertainty gnaws at him. He tried being as welcoming as his demeanor could get, if snooping around your business was anything to go by. 

You, on the other hand, have already started to figure things out as you walk next to Martin. He’s very well-known, charming, and people respond to him instantly. And you can’t help but notice how those same critical glances aimed at you turn warm and admiring when they fall on him. So artificial. 

For whatever reason he was here, you just wished he’d leave you alone. 

🎶 I can’t do the little things I hold so dear, ‘cause it’s all those little things that you fear, ‘cause I’m just a girl I’d rather not be. Oh, I’m just a girl, guess I’m some kind of freak. ᯓ★

After much persistence and scheming on his part, lingering glances, and the occasional shove through the cafeteria line just to exchange a word or two, you finally agreed to teach him of this “new interest” of his. Really, it wasn’t the witchcraft he was thinking about. What he really meant by ‘interest’ was you. 

Martin just hadn’t thought he’d be sitting across from you in an empty classroom with a Ouija board when he told you that. 

What’s in front of him is, so to speak, absolutely terrifying. The board is covered in neat little letters, numbers, and the words YES, NO, and GOODBYE, all circling a tiny wooden planchette that suddenly looks far too imperative for something that probably came from a novelty shop. It’s roughly on par with the weirdest things he’s ever seen on Gravity Falls. 

“You’ll be alright.”

“Famous last words, Y/n.”

You finish arranging the candles and the other little things you insisted were necessary: salt in a small dish, a matchbox, and the board set perfectly between you. Martin watches the whole process with a mix of dread and fascination. 

Yes, this was kind of creeping him out. But he’s also at that age where a pretty girl sitting across from him is reason enough to ignore most of his better judgment.

Then you reach for his hands. 

You place them lightly over the planchette before settling your own fingers there, too. When you’re done, you look up at him and give a small, confirming nod. 

“Ok. Ask it something.”

Martin glances down at the board like it might suddenly bite him. 

“Anything?”

“Yes, Martin.”

“And you’re sure it’ll come true?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think the spirits are gonna lie to you?”

“Let’s hope not.”

The two of you lower your heads slightly, concentrating, while Martin keeps his question tucked quietly inside his mind. He shifts in his seat, trying to think of something worthy of consulting the dead for, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then the planchette stirs beneath your fingers and begins to glide slowly across the board, straight toward YES.

You gently lift your fingers from it and look up at him. 

“Well?” you ask. “What’d you ask for?”

“I asked the spirits if you’d agree to going on a date with me.”

You blink. 

“What?”

He shrugs, trying and failing to keep his grin from reappearing. 

“You said spirits never lie, Y/n. Your word against mine.”

Suspicion settles over your face. “You moved the piece yourself, didn’t you?”

Martin gasps and places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Accusing me now? It’s as real as it can get. These are omniscient beings we’re talking about Y/n. Have some respect.”

“You’re just giving me shit, Martin.”

He pushes his chair back, standing up like the matter has already been settled. 

“I’ll text you. Wear something cute.” He says witha“Never.”

Martin flashes you an easy grin as he grabs his bag. 

“Then have fun getting possessed.”

He leaves the classroom before you can throw something at him. It seems you’ve been cornered into this.

You pack the things away slowly, sliding the planchette back to the center like you’re resetting something that had no business moving in the first place. On the way down the hallway, your footsteps echo louder than usual.

“Stupid spirits,” you murmur to yourself. As if they had anything to even do with it. 

Still, hours later, when your phone lights up from your desk with a message, your hand reaches before you can think better of it. 

🎶 Why do you act crazy? Not an act, maybe. So close a lady, shifty eyes shady. ᯓ★

He shows up in full skater fit, two iced coffees in hand, like meeting up at a cemetery is the most normal Saturday activity imaginable. It probably was for you, though. 

Of course, you had come prepared. A small blanket to sit on, sandwiches wrapped neatly in wax paper, strawberries, and, tucked in between the picnic items, your growing collection of obituaries.

Well, at least you actually did wear something cute today. 

Martin blinks at it once, then twice, trying to reconcile the fact that he likes this about you but also doesn’t understand a single thing about it.

You fan them out beside the food the same way someone might deal a deck of cards. Martin leans forward, fingers hovering uncertainly above one, as if touching it might wake something besides the photograph of the dead woman printed on the brittle paper. 

“This woman was a nurse.” You begin, voice calm. “No kids, but there is a husband.”

Martin feels a little queasy. “Mmh. May she rest in peace.” 

The combination of your calmness and the macabre intrigue makes him feel lightheaded. 

“So,” he says after a pause. “D’you bring all your dates here?”

You lift a brow at him as you take a bite of your strawberry. “Besides my friends, you’re the first.”

You add: “This isn’t a date, though.”

Martin tilts his head as a grin spreads. “It’s not? I could’ve sworn you agreed to it yesterday.”

“You threatened me.” You fire back.

He laughs and holds his hands in mock surrender. “The ouija board wasn’t my idea, now was it?”

You can’t help but notice how out of place he looks here. Between the tombstones and the long shadows, his bright hair seems to almost glow. His clothes, patterned and lively, and that skateboard of his splattered with graffiti stand out sharply against the pale grey earth. You wonder if this is how the rest of the world sees you when you leave your own little corners behind. 

“Why do you persist with this…” You lower your voice and stare dwn at your lap, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on the blanket.

Martin turns to you from where he's leaning against the rough bark of a tree. “With what?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug lightly. He notices a strand of hair fall over your eye, and itches to draw it back. 

“Don’t you have those friends of yours? The real rowdy ones?”

He laughs at that. “What about them?”

You search for the right way to say it.

“I don’t exactly… fit that criteria.” 

He tilts his head, as if to say it was obvious. “I know. I like it that way.”

The wind rustles the leaves overhead, carrying a faint scent of dirt and grass, and you shift your weight on the blanket, unsure of how to follow that.

“So what's your deal with me?”

Martin exhales slowly, scratching the back of his neck like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing, 

“Oh y’know,” A question he’s too shy to answer, but his attempt at restraint is useless. 

 “Just really like you.”

You look down flatly. “Alright.”

Martin thinks, Great. Fantastic. Kill me now. 

“That’s your reply?” He asks.

“Is something the matter?” You sound genuinely confused, which only makes it worse. 

“No… nevermind..” He mutters quickly, glancing away as he nudges a stray pebble with the tip of his shoe. 

Martin tries not to dwell on how thoroughly he’d been shot down by the most neutral response imaginable. He quickly learns that it’s not hard to get you talking. Ask the right questions, and you'll ramble endlessly, laugh at yourself, share stories, debate infinite nonsense. 

You both hadn’t noticed the day passing, and by the time you’d realize, night had arrived without so much as a warning.

So here Martin was, walking you up the steps to your front door, the picnic basket balanced in one hand, his skateboard tucked under the other. He’d draped his jacket over your shoulders to fend off the chill and insisted on carrying your things as well. His father had taught him once about how a proper date worked. The only things she should carry are herself and maybe a bit of lipstick. The rest would have to be on him. Of course, Martin intended to follow that rule to the letter. 

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way here.” You say, pulling the jacket tighter over your frame.

Martin shakes his head. “Yeah? It’s alright. I live kinda close by.”

You squint at him immediately. 

“Liar. You said you lived twenty minutes the other way.” You point vaguely down the street.

Martin flashes a grin as he sets the basket down on the porch. “I know my shortcuts well.” 

A small laugh slips out of you. “Then maybe use them more often. You were late earlier.”

“I know.” 

He shifts his weight and takes a small step higher onto the porch, just enough that he becomes eye level with you. The contact makes you shiver, though it’s not hard to tell whether the reason could be the night air creeping from under the sleeves of his jacket, or him. 

“So,” You clear your throat and glance toward the door behind you. “I guess you can leave now?”

“I probably should.” But he doesn’t move, and rocks back slightly on his heels “Unless you want me to hang around until your parents come find us.”

You snort softly and shake your head. “Don’t get any ideas, Edwards.”

“I never do.” He says through his helpless smile.

You bend to pick up the basket from the porch. Before stepping inside, you glance back at him one last time, giving a small wave and mouthing a quiet bye before turning to open the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Slowly, you turn back around with a look of confusion. You try to retrace the night in your head, but nothing seems to stand out. Still, Martin’s watching you expectantly, and now you’re beginning to wonder.

Was I forgetting something?

You think of those movies your mother used to watch, the ones where the boy walked the girl to her door, and something sweet would happen that'd make her hide behind a pillow in her room. Maybe that’s what Martin was hinting at. 

Before you can overthink it, you take a few quick strides back toward him. You pause for half a second before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to his cheek. Before Martin’s brain can catch up with what you’d done, you’ve already slipped inside your house. 

A crooked grin spreads across his face, as slow and disbelieving as the time he took to comprehend all that. He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head to himself as he picks up his skateboard from where it rested against the railing. 

Martin meant the jacket, really. You’d forgotten to give it back. But as he makes his way home, he realizes he can’t complain much. The jacket looked good on you anyway. The traces of lipstick on his cheek, even more so. 

🎶 “Heard a lot about you” from a couple of friends. What I hope I’ll never hear again. ᯓ★

You were terrible at skateboarding. 

This realization comes to you as you lie sprawled on the cement, your bum throbbing from the impact and every ounce of hope draining out of you like water through a sieve. 

Martin walks over from the bleachers, hands stuffed in his pockets as he tries not to laugh. 

“You’ll get the hang of it.” Martin says, crouching down to pick up his skateboard, the sunlight of the first hours of noon glinting off the edges of its wheels. 

“I won’t. Better to give up early.” You mutter, brushing a streak of dirt off your bottoms. 

“No, seriously? It’s only been a couple of days.”

“Yeah,” you snap back, crossing your arms. “You’d think I could at least stand without falling by now.” 

Your voice is stubborn, but your cheeks betray you, pink in your frustration and something else. Right now, neither your balance nor your pride feel particularly steady. 

Martin steps closer and holds out a hand. “C’mon. Up.”

You let out a reluctant sigh and take it, letting him help you back to your feet. He steadies you, and together you shuffle toward the bleachers where your things are waiting. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, you look to him and throw a look. Stop laughing at me. His barely contained smile does little to save him. 

“Going to lunch with some friends for a bit.”

“Ok. I gotta go someplace too. Text me if you need help carrying some stuff home, alright?”

Your eyes roll as you tug your bag a little higher on your shoulder. “I don’t need you to carry my stuff home, Martin. I did it everyday before I met you.”

He shrugs, as if conceding the point. “Then text me just because.”

You pretend to consider it as you brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah sure. See you.”

See you.

You’re not entirely sure why he still seeks you out. You hardly share any classes, and your circle of friends don’t exactly overlap. On paper, you barely seem alike. How he’s managed to stay this consistent with you is still something of a mystery. 

 The thought nags at you as you drift toward the cafeteria. 

“Hi!”

A quick tap on your shoulder snaps you out of your thoughts. You turn around to find a girl standing there, and she’s pretty, unmistakably so. She looks familiar, though you can’t quite place where from. For a moment, you’re almost in awe of her.

And then something about her felt… off. 

“Um, hello.” You say as you force a polite smile.

The girl in front of you looks you up and down for a split second before speaking. 

“Y/n, right?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m Ji-Ah. Martin’s friend.”

It clicks then. You’ve definitely seen her before. She’s usually on the sidelines during games, bright cheer uniform, high ponytail. More often than not, she’d be on that same field you were at earlier, pom poms flashing with the rest of the squad.

“Ah, I recognize you now. You’re in cheer, right?”

“How’ve you been?”

Well, she completely swerved my question. 

“Been good. You?”

“Great.”

You try to step around her, thinking the conversation may be over. But Ji-Ah is still looking at you like she’s waiting for something. So you stop. 

“Did you need something?” you ask, gesturing vaguely.

Ji-Ah smiles like she’d been hoping you’d ask.

“You and Martin seem close, huh?”

You blink. “Oh. Right, he’s very persistent.”

Ji-Ah hums softly.

“Speaking of, I saw you both at the bleachers earlier.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, he was teaching you how to use that skateboard of his, right?”

She pauses, eyes flicking over your expression.

“And you were laughing like you’ve known him forever.”

You shift your weight. There’s something strange about the way she’s saying it. 

She cuts you off before you can respond. 

“But don’t you think it’s kind of weird?”

You didn’t. Not anymore. 

“What do you mean?”

Ji-Ah shrugs lightly, like she’s simply stating the obvious. You hate how naive it makes you feel.

“I’d hate for you to get caught up in something silly. He’s… well, Martin is… he’s not really the type to stick around, you know?”

He’d stuck around for a few months already, and you weren't exactly the type of person his friends would gravitate towards. You figured that had to count for some kind of exception. 

“I don’t think that's fair.” You reply, oddly defensive. “He’s been nothing but kind.”

“Kind? Sure. But maybe you’re just reading too much into it. He’s him, and you’re… you. You have your friends too, right?”

What did she mean by that?

“I just wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”

“Comfortable.” You repeat flatly.

“Yeah.” 

She flashes a bright smile, suddenly cheerful again. The shift is so abrupt it unsettles you. 

 “Well, I’ll see you around!” 

You did think it was kind of weird before. There was no point in lying to yourself. But once you got into hanging out with Martin, it hardly seemed to matter. He didn’t seem to notice, and eventually, neither did you. At the heart of it, you were just two people hanging out. 

Maybe there's more to it. Martin wasn’t exactly the subtle type. You could feel the intent behind him, but it was never cruel or selfish. In your mind, he could never be anything less than good. 

But these ugly doubts had been planted in your mind, and the thought wouldn’t leave you alone. 

🎶 Hung down with the freaks and ghouls. No apologies ever need be made. I know you better than you fake it, to see that we don’t even care. ᯓ★

You had dragged Martin out into the woods today. The voicemail he received said nothing but ‘I want to listen to the birds’, and naturally, he obliged. Birds were clearly a serious matter. 

“Be honest,” Martin says, glancing around the trees. “You didn’t bring me out here to murder me, right?”

“Martin, what?”

“Sorry. This place is freaking me out.”

“Technically speaking, if you were to drag someone out here, how would anyone even notice? Most people vanish in the woods before you hear a thing.”

“Comforting,” he mutters. Martin’s never quite sure why you know things like that. 

You cross a small stream and wander past a few more trees before the woods open into a quiet clearing. A patch of grass sits in the middle as sunlight pours through a break in the canopy above. Martin tries to show off by doing a trick on a fallen log. He slips and nearly eats dirt, and you laugh, because laughing around Martin had always been far too easy.

Eventually, you settle into the grass and begin idly plucking at the wild trilliums, pulling their petals apart little by little while the birds chatter somewhere above. 

Martin drops down onto the grass beside you, brushing dirt from his hands after his failed skating attempts 

“Oh yeah. There’s a party at James’ this weekend. He told me to invite you.”

You look up from the flower you’d been slowly dismantling between your fingers.

“You sure you didn’t just invite me yourself?”

Martin scoffs, leaning back on his elbows. “I’m serious! The guys seem to find you really interesting.”

“They’ve never even met me.”

“That’s because,” He points accusingly at you, “everytime they try, you, like, vanish.” 

You roll your eyes and place the bare flower stem on the ground. 

“Don’t you wanna go with Ji-Ah? She seems to really like you.” You say, nudging him lightly.

Martin shakes his head and brushes a hand through his hair. “Well I don’t like Ji-Ah. Not like that.”

“But she cares a lot. Always smiling at you.” She hates me too. 

“Not my style.” It couldn’t be any clearer.

After a few minutes of quiet, Martin asks the question.

“Come with me?”

“Absolutely not.” 

He tilts his head. “Why not?”

You throw up your hands in exasperation. “Why not? Because! Martin–me being there is staining. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t even know what I’d do there.”

“So? Just stick with me.”

“And that'll help how? Now I’ll just look even more out of place.”

Martin scoffs. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because I already heard your friend call me a weirdo. I don’t want everyone to think you’re with a–”

He leans forward, sudden and quick, until he appears to you in small details. He’s so close now that you want to twist your stomach into knots. 

“A what?”

You look into whatever flicker of understanding Martin’s eyes hold. It was obvious. It had already been so obvious what. 

“A what, Y/n?”

Martin’s eyebrows pull together like you've lost your mind. But you haven't. You know you haven’t. Otherwise, the stares wouldn’t stand out to you the way they do, or that you wouldn’t have to remember the things your friends said they’d heard people joking about. 

“When will you understand–Christ, I don’t care who thinks what.”

You forgot how careless Martin can be. It’s something oddly refreshing to you, and maybe that’s why you liked him so much. You’ve always been the complete opposite. 

“Not of you, not of me.”

Not of either of you. You’d always been a little envious of that. 

“I’m so sick of coming up to you in school, and sometimes all you’d tell me is ‘people are watching’ before you leave. That’s not even something I think about.”

Martin drags his hands over his face and lets out an exasperated breath before looking at you again. If he was going to say it, it had to be now. He thought you’d already understood, from the way he was always the one starting things with you, even if it made him look a little pathetic. Especially then. 

“Or,” He exhales again, this time a little helplessly. “Or when you let me hold your hand sometimes, and when someone passes by you act like my fingers are on fire.” 

He doesn’t know how long it'll take for you to believe him, but he needs you to know that these things mean little to him. Compared to wanting you, nothing does. 

“What's the matter? Why does it have to be a big deal–”

You cut him off. “What do you think?” 

“I don’t think anything!” His voice comes out louder than he means it to, and he hopes you know it doesn’t come from a place of frustration. His hands twitch restlessly, his whole body lit up with nerves. 

“I think of…you? That’s all.” He breaths out. 

“That’s all.”

Just so you’re sure. 

When you tilt your head down, he follows suit, searching for a hint. It’s just some stupid party, you tell yourself. A couple of hours tops. You can survive that. 

“Okay.” 

Martin’s caught off guard. “What?”

“I’ll go.” You finally look up.

“With me?” He leans closer. You hope he doesn’t hear it, the wild drum in between your ribs.

“Unless you want me to go with the other guy that asked me–”

“Who?”

You huff out a small laugh. 

“Martin, I’ll go with you. Happy?”

A slow grin spreads across his face. 

“Very.” 

That weekend, you really tried your best to dress the part. Your friend who's been helping you get ready said you were practically unrecognizable, so much so she doubted Martin would even be able to find you. You told her he still would. 

And Martin did recognize you, albeit a little surprised. 

“Oh. Is that you?”

“Yeah, and I know you’re already thinking it. I look ridiculous but my friend told me I’d blend in fine looking like this.”

“No, I think you look great. Not that you already didn’t look great before. I mean it's you, but–yeah don’t worry about it.” 

He’d caught the faint stutter in his own voice and prayed you hadn’t noticed. 

Watching you now, though, he finds that you actually do get along quite well with others. Every time he looked for you, you were always mid-conversation, no frown in sight, whatever their intentions were. 

And when he found you again, you were chatting with a guy he recognized from senior year. Martin knew the type: flashy, narrowly opinionated, a little self-important, and it struck him as strange. You, so kind, talking so easily with someone like that. You weren't someone to waste on him. 

Or maybe he’s just jealous. Oh well, the cat’s long since been out of the bag anyway. 

You, meanwhile, are managing alright. You’re not exactly sure what you’re supposed to do here. Martin warned you not to accept drinks from anyone and avoid sitting on chairs, or you might stain your jeans with… something. Beyond that, all you can do is talk to people, which hasn't been too difficult tonight now that they’re actually giving you a chance. 

In hindsight, the ease of it all should have set off alarms. It was always only a matter of time before things would go downhill. You knew that better than anyone. 

You were in deep conversation with a girl by the drinks aisle, bonding over shared interests. She was fun, easy to talk to, and you’d gone through the usual friendship ritual: swapping socials, trading gossip, joking over recent happenings. 

And then you’re soaked. 

You freeze, and everyone from your near vicinity seemed to have paused too. Mostly though, you freeze because your body won’t stop shivering. The water from your soaked clothes seeps into your skin, and the air conditioning was only making it worse. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the girl you’d been talking to rushing for a towel, but before she could even reach you somebody was already yanking you away by the arm.

“What the hell, Ji-Ah?” 

Through the still-blaring music, you recognize Martin’s voice cutting through the noise. Then comes a laugh, Ji-Ah’s most likely, right as the bucket once full of ice water hits the floor. 

“Ice bucket challenge!” someone from the crowd yelled, the drunken cheer in their voice betraying how staged the moment was. 

“Who the fuck even does that anymore?” Martin called back. 

“We thought she was someone else!” Ji-Ah says, her grin stiff as she flicks a glance at you, then back at Martin.

“I didn’t see her, Mars. No one can, really.”

Martin’s stare is sharp. “Then take my advice and get some prescriptions the next time you show up here.” 

“Mars, c’mon. You’re missing out on the fun–”

The rest of what she said barely caught on to you as you get pulled away again. You had no idea if anyone was watching, and you really hoped they weren’t. 

You’re pulled into a quiet room, not sure whose, probably whoever owned this house. Martin makes you sit on a chair and couches in front of you as he tries to make you look at him. He notices the faint traces of tears in the corners of your eyes and gently brushes them away with his thumb. He knows you hate looking like you’ve just cried in public. 

“Hey, you’re okay.” Martin brushes your hair away from your face. You shake your head, and it falls back down.

“I’m not.” You pull your arms over your body in an effort to fight the cold.

“People are so mean sometimes, I never know why.” 

Martin knows he wouldn't be able to handle the sight of you crying. He could barely handle the disappointed look on your face earlier. All he wants now is to get you out of here, god, you were smiling not that long ago. 

“Let’s leave, yeah? We’ll leave. Here, put this on.” 

Martin shrugs off his hoodie and gently pulls it over your head. Now, he’s left standing in a thin tank, and you’re pretty sure it’d been freezing cold outside before you came in.

“I can hitch a ride you don’t have to—“

“But I want to.” The words come out steady and certain.

He nods towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Martin leads you out the back door and around the house to the street up front where his dad's truck is parked, the same one he used to drive him and the others here earlier. 

“Your friends got a ride back?”

“Told me they'll figure it out. Hop in.” He nudges the passenger door open. 

The ride was quiet, broken only by the occasional glance Martin threw your way. You could feel it every few minutes. It’s the quietest you’ve ever been around him, save for the day he first met you. 

You thought, dimly, that maybe trying to fit a certain mold never really worked. Parts of you will always stick out. You turn toward the window to let the wind rush over you, and wish it would swallow you whole. 

The truck rolls to a stop outside a small burrito place, and Martin steps out without a word. He figured you hadn’t really eaten much at the party. Truthfully, he wishes he’d never mentioned that party at all. 

When he comes back, he drops a wrapped burrito into your lap. Eat, he said, and as you peel the foil open to take a bite, he turns the ignition once more and moves the truck into a proper spot in the empty parking lot. 

“It’s good?” Martin asks as he unwraps his food as well.

“Yeah. A little soggy.” 

“I mean,” He says through a mouthful, “It’s pretty late.”

You nod, take another bite of your food, and the truck falls quiet again. 

When you turn to Martin, you find he’s already looking at you. You want to ask him why he’s doing all this, or why he even persists at all. 

But I want to.

The words loop in your head over and over, but no matter how many times you hear them, you’re still not sure what they’re meant to mean. 

“You got curfew?” He considerately asks. 

“Not really. Why?”

“I don’t know.” He looks out the window when he says it. 

“Just wondering how long I can keep you here for.”

Here where? The parking lot? The truck? With him?

“Pretty long.” You say. 

You want to tell him to stop saying things like that, or at least stop saying them in that way. There’s too much room to overthink them. 

Instead, you ask if he can put on some music. If there's one thing Martin knows how to do well, it’s that. He leans over and rummages through the middle compartment and pulls out a few CD cases, muttering something about the radio not being able to pick up signals. He chooses one after a second and pushes it into the player, hitting play. 

In the summertime driving up the West Coast. Me and my Valentine, we ain't got no place to go. Nothing ahead but the open road, oh. 

Martin starts the truck again and drives you both up to an open field where a few other cars are also parked. Beyond the grass and the dark outlines of trees, a bright full moon hangs high in the sky. 

You finally turn to him. “So what's the deal with Ji-Ah?”

Martin exhales through his nose, leaning back slightly against the seat. 

“Sorry about that.” 

“It’s not your fault though.”

His voice breaks through the music. “It kind of is. She’s tryna get with me, y’know?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s getting a bit… persistent.”

“You’re saying that like you’re not.”

He glances at you, a sheepish smile tugging at his face. “D’you think I’m being persistent?”

“Absolutely.” There isn’t a hint of hesitation in your voice. 

She’s determined, you'll give her that. Awful at showing it, sure. But she must like him enough to pull other people into the fallout. You’re not sure if that's something to admire, considering you were one of the unfortunate casualties. 

Martin hops out to take a leak, mentioning offhand that there are more CDs in the front compartment if you ever wanted to change the song. When the door shuts and you’re alone again, you lean over, pull open the small compartment to your front, and start flipping through the cases inside. 

Among the scattered CDs, you find a small notebook with a familiar pattern on the cover. It’s the same one you’ve seen Martin carrying around from time to time. He’d always kept it a little secret from you, had always been a little guarded about it. 

Secrets, you believe, aren’t meant to sit around waiting to be found like this. So you glance through the windshield to make sure he’s nowhere near, then flip it open. 

You’d half expected it to be a diary. Which, granted, makes it sound pretty bad that you were so willing to snoop. Maybe it was just a notebook full of lyrics. That would've made much more sense. Martin loved scribbling random song lines into your notebooks whenever he got the chance. 

What you weren't expecting was to flip through the pages, trying to find one that didn’t have your face on it. 

You found one, and then another, and another.  

There are several. Some quick, some careful. In each one, you look different from the other. A certain angle, a slight change in expression. But they’re all captured in the same soft, striking strokes. The lines are messy in places, but the resemblance is unmistakable. 

You don’t recall ever posing for any of them, which meant he must’ve drawn them when you weren't looking, or from memory alone. The thought makes you want to tear your chest open from the pounding. You’re still a girl at the end of the day, and some guy had been paying attention. You wished you knew what to do with the feeling. 

Caught up in your own mind, you barely hear the door open. Martin steps back in, settles into his chair, and his eyes fall on the little secret you’ve uncovered. 

He’d forgotten that was there, and now he wished he hadn’t. Seeing you so quiet and avoiding his gaze, he knew this was going to be painfully awkward to explain.

“So about tha–”

“They look really nice.” You cut him off steadily, finally putting the notebook down to look at him.

He wants to say they do. He’d made sure you looked exactly how he’s always seen you, or the way you looked when you weren't there and all he could do was imagine. Pretty, so very pretty. 

“Yeah?” He breathes out.

“Yeah.” . 

He looks at you then with the same persistence you’d called him out on before, one he’s determined to make real. Before he realizes it, and because he can never resist when it comes to you, he grabs you by the arm, pulls you into the driver's seat with him, and kisses you in a fit of unconstraint. 

Martin goes back to the day he almost gave you a concussion with his skateboard to now, thanking whatever cosmic force made him stumble through some improbable timeline that's got you kissing him back. As he pulls you closer, he thinks with a kind of awe, that the Ouija board must have worked, because what he actually asked that day was if you’d want him back. 

Between his heavy breaths you breathe in and the warmth that has already dried the dampness of your clothes, you think of a few things:

That you want him to think of you. You want to strike yourself into the crooks of his mind so subtly he’ll forget it was even you. To bite at the rims of his voice until it shivers. To set his shadow on fire, press your hands against his chest until his thoughts spill out. You want to drag his pulse into you, stitch them into your own, so that they may never go anywhere else. 

I, I know what to do, 

Now that I’ve got a man like you

In the summertime, it can be so cruel

Baby, don’t be cruel

You lean onto him in the driver's seat, your ribs against his, and whisper it: that you want to eat him alive. Martin doesn’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled, but he’s counting you on that now. 

🎶 Hold on to love, that is what I do now that I’ve found you. And from above, everything’s stinking. They’re not around you. ᯓ★

It’s late into the night when Martin scales the fence to your back gate. He’d made it a small mission to get to you before eight, knowing you’d already be asleep by then after the long day you’d had. The cold air nips at his hands as he lands on the other side, but something warm sparks in his chest when he looks up and notices your window is still faintly lit from the inside. 

What else can a boy in love do, after all, but sink? Martin is learning this the slow way, and it’s the first time he’s ever had the chance. It comes to him in different forms: some in waves, sometimes in pain, but most of the time it’s a tender feeling.

So, driven by the sort of desperate determination he seems capable of only when it involves you, he tucks his skateboard behind the shrubs by your house, pulls his backpack snug against hi`back, and begins climbing, making a sincere effort not to fall to his death halfway up. 

Meanwhile, you lie awake long past a reasonable hour, reading through a book your friend had lent you. Astrology, of all things, It was only half familiar territory, something you were trying to dabble in more seriously. You figured it was worth learning if only to justify the astrolabe you’d impulsively bought at a vintage shop. Something that expensive ought to be useful for something.

There’s a faint rustling outside your window that catches you off guard, followed by a soft knock, knock, knock. You freeze. If kidnappers are capable of climbing, then this is most definitely how you die. 

Grabbing the nearest weapon available, a broom, you creep slowly toward the window, and another knock follows. It’s strangely polite, almost patient. The quietness of the night makes the whole thing feel suspiciously calm.

With a sudden motion, you yank the curtains aside and raise your broom–

It’s just Martin. 

You let out a sigh, half in relief, half in irritation, and let the broom clatter to the floor. Carefully, you slide the windows open, wincing at the chilly evening air rushing in. 

“What the hell was that?” 

You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed. “You really need to tell me before doing these things, Martin. I was ready to smite a serial killer.”

He smiles an easy one. “You’d like that, huh?”

You can only roll your eyes. “Just get in.”

Martin makes quick work of the ledge and somehow compresses his towering frame into your very modestly sized window. You swing it shut behind him, ready to launch into a scolding, but he’s quick to lean in and press your lips together, and you forget about it altogether. 

Before he can coax you into another form of distraction, you pull away and give him a steady look.

“What are you doing here?”

Martin blinks at you. He thought the answer should’ve been obvious. 

He shrugs. “I came to see you.”

You cross your arms together. “I can see that, but why? It’s not exactly the weekend.”

“I don’t know. Just wanted to.”

Then, as if remembering something important, he lifts his backpack and gives it a little shake.

 “I also burned some CDs for you.”

You tilt your head at him. “How romantic.”

A crooked grin spreads across his face. “Only for you.”

Despite the fact that it was a school night, you kept your room locked and let the hours drift later and later. Martin was in one of those oddly bright moods, restless in the way he usually was, so he busied himself however he could. Eventually, you had him lie with his head on your lap while the two of you rested on your bed. As you talked him through the things unfolding in your little book, he idly traced small shapes against your stomach, half listening, mostly content. 

Martin glances around your room, noticing it looked much the same as the first time you’d let him inside. The walls are still crowded with symbols and odd bits of ephemera: old newspaper clippings, obscure pictures, and strange signs that probably mean something he’ll end up asking you about later. Above it all hangs your display board of carefully pinned dead and dried insects. The sight of it had unsettled him the first time, though he realized it hardly ranked among the strangest things you keep. 

He’s been making an effort to learn about what fascinated you. He isn’t entirely knowledgeable as you are, and the same abstruse books you read might as well be written in another language to him. Still, he likes seeing you like this. So absorbed in some never-seen-before world. There are only so many things that could frighten him when it came to you. He thinks there might not be any at all. 

Finally, he turns to look at you. In a room filled with oddities and peculiar little relics, you are as captivating as they come. It was hard not to watch, even harder not to wonder, and impossible not to imagine. So he pushes himself up from the bed, reaches for your CD player, and begins shuffling through the stack of CDs in the box by your desk, all from him. He picks one at random and slides it into the player. 

He’d never had the chance to go to a school dance with you. Last year he went with a girl whose face he can hardly recall now. This year, you’d been away on a family trip, so he ended up going alone. Because of that, he’s never gotten to pull you into a slow dance the way he’s imagined plenty of times. 

Tonight, though, your parents are asleep, and the floorboards don’t creak as much. There’s only one thing he wants from you now. 

“Get up.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the Beatles.” 

“So?”

“I wanna dance.” 

You don’t bother asking why anymore. Martin does things like this sometimes, things that don’t always follow a clear line of reasoning. But they’ve never come from a bad place. You’re fairly certain he isn’t built for that. So you indulge him. Besides, now that you think about it, you wouldn’t mind dancing either. 

He stretches out a hand for you, and you take it. When he pulls you in, your arms slip around his neck, until the space between you is almost nothing. 

You wonder if this is why he wanted to dance with you. Maybe he loves you. He’s said it before, so you don’t know why it’s still a question of ‘maybe’ in your head. A while ago, the idea would have twisted your stomach into knots. But now that he’s here, the thought doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore. You want to be closer, and maybe admitting it would finally take you there. 

“Martin.” 

“Hmm?” He hums softly, distracted by the sway of your body in his arms.

“I love you.”

A lump rises in your throat. Now you understand why saying them felt like stepping off a cliff like how people described it to be. 

“Just wanted to say it before I step on your foot, or something, and you hate me afterwards.” You add, and your voice shakes.  

He swallows, and the tip of a nervous grin tugs at the corner of his lips. But his eyes, bright and endless as you saw them, are on you.

“I couldn’t even if I tried.” 

When the song comes to an end, Martin’s impatience breaks loose. He presses himself against you with all the clumsy, stupid urgency of someone entirely done for, and kisses you stupid. In no time at all, you’re both collapsing onto the bed, limbs to breaths, hearts tangled and racing. 

Tiny, the little gecko he’d given you a while back, watches silently from its terrarium. You’d told him once that you named it Tiny because Martin was anything but. And it’s true. He’s large in presence, in thought, in feeling. Since meeting you, the world seems only big enough for extremes, so he can’t do anything in halves. He feels in torrents, in leaps, in the kind of degree that has no middle ground. 

So it might have looked odd, even to those who knew you both best. Martin Edwards, tall, dreamy, a little wild, threading through the crowded halls with his arm around you, or catching a crooked smile tugging at his lips whenever he passed you by. Your friends may have questioned it, and he understood. His friends had done the same. 

But what no one could ever know was the sweet weight in his chest when he looked at you then, and the pull of something bright he longed to keep forever. You made him want to ask questions he feared answers to, and perhaps this was love’s truest cost: the audacity to be completely unafraid. 

Ahn Keonho x f!reader

synopsis: A day at the Olympics with your 10 year old brother leads to an unexpected encounter with Keonho, the young swimming champion

tags: Light fluff, low romance, everyday situations

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.