#coerblr

please DO NOT copy, repost, or claim as yours.

CREDITS: divider above from @/pixopix, any and all photos from pinterest (excluding the tomodachi martin)

maia’s note: im back !!! ok but first of all, i am not a tomodachi life larper, i’ve loved it since it was released on the ds and the photos of martin’s mii is from my actual game. anyways, i really love how this work ended up turning out not only bc of the concept of it but bc i’m genuinely just happy i finally finished a work. yes, this smau is not my finest… and there could’ve been more development… but nonetheless i like it and i hope you all enjoy reading it too ! reblogs and feedback are always appreciated !! 🩶

TAGLISTS: @bambisnc @mungbeancoups @starriniqhts @lusayyawnn @chrrific @winteringdream @w3willris3 @rickyshensgirlfriend @kaiyunsim @missingsarinha @lefttrashstrawberry @lovemashu

The words still rang in his ears as he walked away from your porch, the door slamming shut between him and your father's scowling face.

He couldn't blame the man, really. Martin knew what kind of person he was: a teenage delinquent that only gets himself into trouble, and would likely drag you straight into it sooner or later.

He himself still couldn't quite understand what about him had actually managed to win you over initially. You were everything he was not: a rule follower, an academic, someone with a much more promising future than the one Martin possessed. So how you found him to be anything other than a walking red flag was a mystery that kept him up at night.

He remembered the first time you'd spoken to him behind the gym in your second year of high school, his knuckles were bloody and his temper was still running hot. You'd appeared out of nowhere, holding out a crumpled napkin from the cafeteria.

"You're bleeding," you'd said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Not your problem," he'd muttered, trying to brush past you.

But you'd grabbed his wrist before he could fully turn the corner and pressed the napkin into his palm. "Just clean it up," you'd said. "You'll get blood on your shirt."

You then walked away, leaving him standing there with a bloody napkin and a strange feeling in his chest that he'd never quite managed to shake.

Martin had tried to push you away at first. He knew what people said about him: the troublemaker, the burnout, the kid who'd end up in juvie before graduation. He'd heard your father's warnings from across the street, loud enough to carry, "Stay away from that boy, Y/N. He's nothing but trouble."

Despite all of that you kept appearing.

You showed up at the diner where he worked, sitting in his section and ordering coffee you barely touched, just so you could talk to him during his break. You showed up at the auto shop, claiming your car needed an oil change, even though it was perfectly fine. You showed up at his apartment after he got suspended the second time, bringing takeout and a stubborn expression that said you wouldn’t leave under any circumstance.

"Why?" He’d finally asked you, exhausted and confused. "Why do you keep doing this? You know what I am. You've heard what everyone says."

You'd looked at him then, really looked, and said, "I see something they don't."

"What?"

"Someone who's trying."

And that was it. That was the moment Martin knew he was a goner.

It hadn't taken long for your father to work out that you had ignored all his prior warnings, though truly he should have realised it sooner.

You had been staying out much later than before, coming home with an almost lovesick grin. Your father knew you were in love—that wasn't hard to tell. Just in his own mind, the thought of you falling in love with the one boy he had forbidden you from even talking to was a concept so foreign, so utterly incomprehensible, that he simply refused to entertain it.

But the signs were all there. You'd rush through dinner just to get to your room and stare at your phone, waiting for a message whilst also deflecting his questions about your day with vague answers and quick subject changes.

It was only when your father found the crumpled napkin in your laundry with Martin's name scrawled on it in your handwriting, surrounded by tiny hearts, that the truth finally crashed down on him.

He'd confronted you that night, voice shaking with barely contained fury.

"Are you seeing that Martin boy?"

You'd looked at him, and for a moment, he only saw defiance in your gaze. "Yes," you'd said quietly. "I am."

The argument that followed was the worst you'd ever had. Your father had shouted until his voice went hoarse, listing every reason why Martin was wrong for you: his record, his reputation, his lack of prospects. You'd shouted back, defending him with a passion that only made your father angrier.

"He's not who you think he is, Dad. He's trying so hard. He's working two jobs, he's studying for school as best he can, he's—"

"He's a delinquent, Y/N. He's always been a delinquent, and he always will be. I won't let you throw your life away for someone like him."

"He's not a delinquent. He's just... he's just someone who never had anyone believe in him. Until me."

Your father had gone silent at that. Not because he agreed, but because he realised something crucial: you were in too deep. No amount of arguing would change your mind.

So he'd done the only thing he could think of. He'd banned you from seeing Martin, forbade you from leaving the house except for school and work, and took your phone, your laptop, everything that connected you to the outside world.

For a few weeks, it seemed to work. You and Martin had never shared a class at school, so he didn’t need to worry about that. Additionally, with so much surveillance surrounding you, you had practically given up even thinking of trying to find a way around it.

That was until one night a few weeks later when you were laying under the covers of your bed, staring at the ceiling with not a thought on your mind when the sound of something knocking on your window echoed through the room.

You sat up, heart pounding, and stared at the window. The blinds were drawn, but through the slats, you could make out a familiar silhouette you knew all too well crouched on the fire escape.

You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket tangled around your ankles, and yanked the blinds open. There he was—grinning like an idiot, dirt smudged on his cheek, a small bag of takeout dangling from one hand. He was wearing that worn leather jacket you loved with the torn sleeve he refused to sew back together.

"Hey, princess," he whispered through the glass. "You miss me?"

You fumbled with the lock, pushing the window open as quietly as you could. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and city streets.

"What are you doing here?" You hissed. "My dad could hear you!"

"Your dad's probably knocked out asleep right now." He climbed through the window with practiced ease, landing silently on your bedroom floor. 

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his jacket. "I thought I'd never see you again," you whispered, your voice cracking.

"Hey." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I told you. Nothing's keeping me away from you. Not your dad, not the cops, not anyone."

"Martin—"

"Three weeks, Y/N. I spent three weeks without you and I was going insane." He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "I thought about calling your house, but I knew your dad would just make it worse. I had to wait until I could figure out a way to see you."

"You figured out the fire escape."

"I figured out the fire escape." He grinned, but there was something softer underneath it. "Took me two days to find the right route. Nearly fell off the third-floor landing, but hey—" He shrugged. "Worth it."

You laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "You're insane."

"Only for you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled back to hold up the takeout bag. "I brought food. Your favourite dumpling place with the spicy sauce you like. Figured you probably haven't been eating much."

You hadn't. The past three weeks had been a blur of forced dinners and silent meals, your father's disapproving gaze boring into you from across the table. You'd lost weight, and Martin had noticed it the moment he climbed through your window. 

"You're too good to me," you said.

"Not possible." He set the bag on your desk and pulled you over to sit on the bed. "Now eat. I'll keep watch."

You sat together in the darkness, sharing dumplings and whispered conversations. 

"One day," he said, "I'm going to have a real place with a good job and be something your dad can't complain about."

"I don't care about any of that."

"I know." He smiled, but there was something serious in his eyes. "That's why I want to give it to you anyway. You deserve the world, Y/N. I'm going to figure out how to give it to you."

"I just want you," you said softly.

"Good." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "Because you've got me. For as long as you want me."

It was reckless and dangerous and every time you heard a floorboard creak, your heart stopped. But as you sat there in the dark, wrapped in Martin's arms, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Your father never caught the two of you, and gradually he granted you back your privileges, though that also stemmed from your absolute refusal to even look at him until he did so.

A part of you secretly knew that your father had probably worked out you were still seeing Martin. He wasn't stupid—he'd raised you, after all. He knew the stubborn set of your jaw, the defiant glint in your eyes when you were hiding something. He'd seen the way you'd started leaving your window unlocked again, the way you'd come downstairs with pillow creases on your cheek and a sleepy smile that had nothing to do with a good night's rest.

But he never said anything and you remained in this strange stalemate situation for the following couple of years.

It was an unspoken agreement, really. Your father pretended not to notice the faint smell of motor oil that sometimes clung to your clothes in the morning. He pretended not to hear the soft thud of footsteps on the fire escape at midnight. He pretended not to see the way your eyes lit up whenever your phone buzzed. And you, in turn, pretended not to notice the way your father started leaving the back door unlocked, or the way he'd conveniently be in the living room with the TV turned up too loud whenever Martin was climbing the fire escape.

It was a strange kind of peace. Fragile, particularly tenuous. But it was peace nonetheless.

Then, finally, graduation day arrived.

You walked across the stage in your cap and gown, your father watching from the front row with a carefully neutral expression. Martin was a few students behind you, wearing his best clothes underneath the gown that you had bought for his birthday, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face.

After the ceremony, you found him in the parking lot, still in your gown, your diploma clutched in your hands.

"We did it," you said, laughing. "We actually did it."

"We did." He pulled you into his arms, spinning you around. "High school graduates. Can you believe it?"

"I can't believe you didn't drop out."

"Me neither." He set you down, his hands still on your waist. "But I had a good reason to stay."

"And what was that?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "You."

You and Martin had separated before your father emerged between the cars with the promise of seeing each other tomorrow, however you failed to fully notice the strange glint in Martin’s eyes as he parted with you

The next morning, Martin showed up at your door, his hands shaking as he knocked.

You answered, still in your pajamas, your hair a mess. "Martin? What are you—"

"I'm here to ask your father for permission to marry you."

You stared at him for a few seconds. "Now? At eight in the morning?"

"Time's ticking." He tried to smile, but it came out nervous. "I've waited long enough. Three years. I'm not waiting anymore."

Your father appeared behind you, coffee mug in hand. He looked at Martin, then at the suit, then at the determined set of Martin's jaw.

"Y/N, go to your room," he said, his voice flat as you gave Martin a wary look before retreating, "you again."

"Yes, sir." Martin straightened his spine, watching you disappear into the background. "I'm here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Your father set down his coffee mug, and for a long moment he just looked at Martin. "You must be out of your damn mind," he said slowly, "if you think I'd let you marry my daughter."

"Sir, I know I'm not what you wanted for her. I know I've made mistakes. I know I don't have much—"

"You've barely got a diploma, an unsecure job at an auto shop, and a reputation that makes me want to lock my daughter in her room until she's thirty-five."

"I know, sir. But I love her. I've loved her since I was fifteen, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of her."

"You think that's enough?" Your father's voice was rising. "You think love is enough? You have no future, no prospects, no—"

"I'm going to marry her anyway."

Your father stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

"I said I'm going to marry her anyway." Martin lifted his chin, his voice steady. "With or without your blessing. With or without your approval. I love her, and she loves me, and we're getting married. I'm just sorry you won't be there to see it."

"Get out." Your father's voice was ice. "Get out of my house before I call the cops."

Martin nodded slowly. He'd expected this. He'd prepared for this. It still stung. He turned and walked down the steps, the door slamming behind him.

Five hours later, Martin stood in front of you at the courthouse, him having snuck you out of your room through the very window he had spent years crawling through.

You'd changed into a simple white dress that you had worn a few times in the summer. Martin was in his navy suit from the graduation, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Dearly beloved," the officiant droned, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."

Martin barely heard the words. He was too busy memorising the way you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

"Martin," you whispered, "you're crying."

"Am not."

"You totally are."

"It's allergies."

"You're such a liar."

He laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Fine, maybe I'm a little emotional. You're marrying me, Y/N. Me. The guy who couldn't even pass English without your help."

"I think you're pretty great," you said softly. "I always have."

The officiant cleared his throat. "The rings?"

Martin fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the simple silver bands he'd saved up for. He slid one onto your finger—it was a little too big, but you didn't seem to care, you just stared at it like it was the most expensive piece of jewelry in the world.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Martin’s lips were on yours before you could fully process the words.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. He was savouring the reality of this, you in his arms finally calling yourself his. Gradually it deepened, the years of longing and wanting pouring into every second your mouth remained on his.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless and grinning like idiots.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice rough and cracking. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you more than anything. More than I ever thought I could love anyone."

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "I love you too. Even though you're insane."

A wet laugh escaped him, his shoulders shaking. "Especially because I'm insane?"

"Especially then." You smiled, soft and radiant. 

He kissed you again, softer this time, because he felt he had all the time in the world, and, really, he did. Nothing else mattered to him except the way your lips moved against his, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way your heartbeat matched his own.

When he finally pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot, tears still tracking down his cheeks. "Mrs. Edwards," he said, testing the words. "That has a nice ring to it."

You laughed, bright and beautiful. "Mr. L/N. That would have an even nicer ring to it."

"Hey." He poked your side. "I proposed first, that means you take my name."

"Fine." You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "But only because I love you."

"That's the only reason I need."

The courthouse was small and dingy, the officiant was already shuffling papers, clearly eager to leave, the neon sign outside flickered and buzzed. It wasn't the wedding either of you had dreamed of. There were no flowers, no guests, no white dress with a long train.

But it was yours.

And as Martin pulled you into his arms, his lips pressed against your temple, he knew he'd never regret a single moment of it. "I'm going to give you everything," he whispered against your skin. "I don't have much now, but I will. A home, a future, a life you can be proud of. I promise."

"I already have everything I need," you whispered back. "I have you."

He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his smile shaky, his heart laid bare on his sleeve. "You really mean that?"

"Every word."

He kissed you one last time: deep, slow, full of all the promises he'd spend the rest of his life keeping.

Your father was going to be absolutely livid when he found out, though Martin didn't care.

a few hours ago you’d been walking one of the biggest shows of fashion week at only eighteen. the flash of cameras still stung your eyes and the makeup the stylists had spent hours perfecting was still half on your face.

martin swore up and down that he loved seeing you like how he did now though, cute pajama shorts that didn’t cover much, one of his oversized shirts, and hair pulled up.

"what?" you folded under his intense gaze and peculiar silence between the two of you.

"just saying," he said, kicking off his shoes, and shutting the door. "i think this is my favorite look of today.”

you laughed which only brought a stupid grin to his face. the room was comfortably quiet compared to the chaos of outside. it was finally just you guys for the first time all day with no paparazzi, no staff, no prying eyes everywhere.

"how'd you even get away?"

martin dropped onto the edge of the bed with a loud groan. "i told my manager i didn’t feel good."

your eyes widened, this idol shit was crazy strict, something you’ve definitely picked up on over time.

"you lied?"

“i would call it,” martin paused, scratching his head, “a little white lie.”

"you’re telling me you skipped the saint laurent after party?” you hurriedly said in complete horror, who in their right mind would want to miss something like that?

"i did." he shrugged.

"martin."

you shook your head, trying not to smile. you both hadn’t gotten a single second together all day, there was only secret longing glances shared.

it was hard, especially when all you wanted to do was tell him all about the show and he wanted to tell you that you looked breathtaking in response.

at least now you finally could as you sat beside him causing the mattress to dip a little.

"if your manager finds out—"

“trust me, i’d rather be here,” martin cut you off immediately, taking your hand into his own. “i’m sure james is having a blast at the party anyway.”

you laughed like always.

"god, you're terrible!”

"i know."

the silence was nice . . . the city lights shone through the big hotel window as traffic sounds echoed in the distance. paris looked beautiful at two in the morning.

but martin wasn't looking outside, he was looking at you, something he always seemed to do. for a model like yourself, you’d gotten used to people staring at you from every angle, but with him it always felt different.

"stop,” you huffed in annoyance, covering your flushed face with two hands.

"stop what, baby?"

"all the staring."

a smile tugged at his mouth. "you know i can't."

you rolled your eyes and felt his hand find yours once again.

"you were incredible today."

“thank you.” you looked down cheekily. “i know.”

“oh, do you now?” he tilted his head teasingly.

you looked back up and martin was already looking at you again. your bottom lip slid in between your teeth at the sight of his hooded eyes.

a second later your lips were on his, catching him by surprise as he didn’t reciprocate for a beat. your hands tangled in his disheveled hair before you pulled back.

your attempt to wipe the smug look off his face ultimately didn’t work very well since he was only smiling even more now.

“you’re impossible.”

his laugh filled the room, making you laugh too. neither of you cared about the cameras or staff anymore. you were just happy to be together at two in the morning in the middle of paris.

his voice came out muffled against your shoulder. you felt his grip tighten slightly when you shifted.

your fingers automatically slipped into his hair, brushing lightly through the strands near the nape of his neck. the reaction was immediate. his shoulders loosened beneath your touch, tension melting just a little.

you smiled faintly. “what happened?”

“nothing.”

“seonghyeon.”

he sighed dramatically against you before finally lifting his head enough to look at you. his expression was somewhere between irritated and exhausted, brows pulled together slightly while his lips pressed into a quiet pout.

honestly, he looked more sulky than angry.

“practice was annoying,” he muttered. “everyone kept messing around and we had to redo the same part like fifty times.”

“mhm.”

“then manager hyung got mad because we were behind schedu—”

his words cut off abruptly.

your fingers had scratched lightly against the back of his neck without thinking, and the reaction was immediate. his eyes fluttered shut briefly before a quiet breath left him.

silence.

you stared at him for a second. “…you good?”

seonghyeon frowned like he was annoyed you’d noticed.

“…anyway,” he muttered quietly. “my in-ears stopped working.”

you winced sympathetically. “that’s actually terrible.”

“exactly.”

he looked genuinely offended by the entire situation. a quiet laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

immediately, his eyes narrowed further. “don’t laugh.”

“i’m not laughing.”

“you literally are.”

despite the accusation, he shifted even closer. one of his hands slid beneath your hoodie absentmindedly, resting warm against your waist like he needed physical confirmation you were still there.

you tried leaning away slightly to grab your drink from the table.

instantly, his arm tightened.

“where are you going?”

you blinked. “…three inches away from you.”

“…don’t.”

there was something almost childish about the way he said it. quiet. stubborn.

your lips twitched upward. “you’re clingy when you’re mad.”

“i’m not mad.”

“you’re literally attached to me right now.”

“maybe i want to be.”

his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth right afterward.

then lingered.

and suddenly he looked significantly less interested in defending himself.

you turned your head fully toward him then, finally catching the faint pout still sitting on his face. the irritation in his expression had already softened around the edges, worn down slowly by your fingers moving through his hair.

and suddenly, the earlier annoyance didn’t seem very important anymore.

not when your fingers were still moving through his hair like that.

the way his expression eased whenever you touched him. the way his grip kept tightening every time you moved even slightly away. like all the frustration from earlier had nowhere to go except here.

to you.

your hand slid gently down to the back of his neck. “baby,” you murmured softly.

his eyes fluttered for the briefest second at the name alone.

yeah. definitely one of those moods.

“come here,” you said quietly.

he didn’t hesitate.

his hand came up immediately, fingers brushing along your jaw before settling against your chin. gentle. careful. he tilted your face toward him slightly until your eyes met his fully.

“stay here,” he murmured.

the irritation in his voice from earlier was completely gone now. all that remained was exhaustion and something softer underneath it.

your stomach flipped a little despite yourself.

“i wasn’t planning on leaving,” you whispered.

“good.”

his thumb brushed slowly along your jaw once. twice. his eyes stayed fixed on yours the entire time, heavy-lidded and quiet in that way that always made your chest feel tight.

you hated how pretty he got when he was sulking.

“you know what your problem is?” you murmured.

his brows lifted slightly. “what?”

“you get clingy instead of angry.”

a tiny frown appeared immediately. “that’s not a problem.”

“for you maybe.”

“mhm.”

he moved to rest his forehead against yours. and for a long moment that’s how you stayed.

close enough that you could feel every slow breath he exhaled against your lips. close enough that his hand still curled loosely around your jaw, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore.

“you make it hard to stay annoyed,” he murmured quietly.

something warm twisted painfully in your chest.

“that’s kind of the point,” you whispered back.

the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, like he wanted to say something else.

then apparently decided kissing you was easier.

so he kissed you.

slowly.

not rushed or desperate. just tired and lingering and warm in a way that made your stomach ache a little. his hand slid properly against your cheek as he tilted his head, kissing you like he needed a minute to forget about everything else first.

you felt the tension leave him piece by piece.

especially when your fingers slipped back into his hair.

a quiet sound escaped him instantly. barely there. more breath than noise.

your lips curved against his. “better?”

“mhm.”

“you still look pouty.”

“do not.”

you laughed softly.

and apparently even that was enough to distract him completely because his eyes immediately dropped back to your mouth.

“…come here.”

your lips twitched. “you were literally in the middle of complaini—”

he kissed you before you could finish.

longer this time.

his arm around your waist tightened until you were practically halfway in his lap without realizing it. the earlier frustration lingering in his expression had melted completely now, replaced by something softer. needier.

every time you pulled back even slightly, he followed immediately.

one more kiss.

then another.

like he couldn’t quite let the moment end.

“seonghyeon,” you laughed quietly against his mouth. “you’re actually using me as stress relief.”

“mhm.”

not even denying it.

his lips brushed yours again, softer this time, and the warmth of it spread straight through your chest. he kissed like he was slowly getting sleepy from it. lazy and clingy and completely unconcerned with anything except keeping you close.

your hand scratched lightly at the back of his neck.

he practically melted.

his shoulders dropped fully for the first time since he got home, a quiet sigh leaving him against your lips before he buried his face briefly against your jaw.

“see?” you murmured, smiling a little. “you’re basically a giant cat.”

he frowned immediately against your skin. “don’t ruin this for me.”

you laughed again, and he kissed you just to shut you up.

it worked embarrassingly well.

his hand slid from your jaw into your hair, fingers careful as he tilted your head back slightly for another kiss. slower. deeper. not messy or rushed, just enough to make your thoughts blur pleasantly at the edges.

and honestly?

it was unfair how affectionate he got after bad days.

because somewhere between the soft kisses and the way he kept pulling you impossibly closer, all the earlier irritation had disappeared entirely.

replaced by this quiet, clingy affection that always seemed reserved just for you.

eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you properly.

his lips were slightly pink now. hair messy beneath your fingers. expression soft in a way he only ever let himself be around you.

then quietly—

“okay, i’m over it now.”

you blinked at him once before laughing. “that’s all it took?”

“mhm.” his thumb brushed lazily across your cheek. “needed kisses.”

©young2keu, 2026

keu is typing...

i should probably write smth for james n martin soon... but i'm having tm fun doing kono n sean drabbles... u cant make me stop yet... n anon said they wanted more. so its okay.