Chapter Text
Martin spends the entire journey to New York spitefully ignoring Kiwon-hyung.
Not that it changes anything, but it does make him feel the tiniest bit better to send some sort of signal to the man that he’s not just rolling belly-up and taking it— and by it, he means—
“You two are on fucking lockdown until we land back in Korea,” Kiwon-hyung had ranted, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa. Martin tried, of course, but all protests— even Juhoon’s— fell on deaf ears; it didn’t seem to matter that they really were just working on music, and they really did just fall asleep. It was the principle of the thing, apparently.
“I don’t give a damn what the reason was— no more little midnight meetings. In fact, no sneaking off together at any time, do you hear me?”
Kiwon-hyung’s raving eventually drew Dongmin-hyung into the living room to see what the fuss was about— and that was how the last of Martin’s dignity died, suffocating in unbearable silence on the sofa cushion between his and Juhoon’s stiff bodies as their managers devised a freaking plan of action to keep the two of them out of each other’s pants.
Martin hates that Juhoon had to get dragged into this. He hates Kiwon-hyung trying to ruin something that had felt nothing but right, nothing but good. He really, really hates being told how he can and can’t spend time with his own packmate— and most of all, he hates the guilty little kernel of truth buried underneath everything else.
Because— although it stays locked up in the privacy of his own head, Martin does think about it.
He thinks about it a lot, sometimes.
But, like— that’s not even the point. It shouldn’t matter what he is or isn’t thinking about, because it’s not like he— ugh.
Kiwon-hyung is acting like that’s the only thing on Martin’s mind when he’s with Juhoon; like it’s his goal to get freaky the minute they’re alone, or something. Like that’s the entire purpose behind his urge to be with Juhoon— when Martin just wants to be with Juhoon, period.
It’s the hook caught inside him, tugging at his very core. It’s the one, singular direction gravity pulls him in— always.
It’s where Martin belongs.
And Kiwon-hyung just doesn’t. fucking. understand.
So Martin can be as petty as he wants, really. They trust him that little? Fine. The constant effort he puts in to control himself means jackshit to Kiwon-hyung? Fine. Maybe he won’t extend quite so much of it to the man himself, then.
He’s probably being too obvious— James leans in and whispers “You good?” to him while they’re stuck in the airport security line, tilting his chin toward Kiwon-hyung up at the front of the group, but Martin just shrugs.
“Yeah,” he mutters, avoiding his packmate’s searching look. “I‘m just tired.”
Without meaning to, his eyes drift over Juhoon, wedged securely between Seonghyeon and Keonho just ahead of them; he lingers on the soft lines of the omega’s side profile, wishing they’d at least had a chance to talk before they’d all been rushed out of the Airbnb— though Martin has no idea if Juhoon can even face him now, after getting served that two-for-one humiliation special.
Suffice to say, Martin isn’t expecting Juhoon’s gaze to flick sideways— meeting him head-on.
For a second he’s sure Juhoon will jerk forward, pretend it didn’t happen— but he doesn’t, and a jolt of surprise quivers through Martin. There’s something simmering behind Juhoon’s eyes, there; something that Martin can’t bring himself to look away from.
The line starts to move along, but Juhoon wavers, hangs back; held in place by the same thing drawing Martin forward, drawing him closer—
Dongmin-hyung cuts into the space between them, suddenly, shattering the moment before it even begins. “Passports in hand, everyone,” their manager announces— sending a brief, pointed look Martin’s way before ushering Juhoon along with his arm.
Martin forgets to even throw a scowl at the man; he takes a belated step to fall back in with James, confusion rising up to spill all over his previous thoughts.
That indecipherable message in Juhoon’s dark gaze plays on a loop around Martin’s head for the entire day— even once they’re in New York, being shuttled along crowded, unfamiliar streets; even when he knows they have a fansign and festival performance to prepare for, knows he needs to lock in expeditiously— but it’s just—
It’s driving him crazy, okay?
All he wants is to ask Juhoon what he meant with that look, wants to make sure he isn’t reading the vibes wrong; wants to check in and make sure they’re okay. But it’s impossible— every time Martin even thinks about leaning in close enough to exchange a hushed word with Juhoon, he feels the heavy, ever-watchful gazes of their managers bearing down on his soul.
Ugh.
Even after hours of grueling choreo runthroughs, Martin is downright twitchy with nervous energy by the time they’re all stumbling out of the tiny dance studio at the end of the night.
They follow Kiwon-hyung in single file down to the street, waiting at the curb for Dongmin-hyung to pull the van around and ferry them back to the hotel— another strange new place splitting Martin’s pack apart; floors full of strangers, rooms he can’t check, can’t patrol—
Just as he’s resigning himself to one more sleepless night of pins and needles pricking under his skin, the gentle lilt of a scent catches in Martin’s nose— and he’s turning his head before his brain even forms the thought.
Juhoon is there, quietly maneuvering himself to the alpha’s side. His dark eyes flash upward to Martin, then flicker to Kiwon-hyung— their manager is still distracted by the flow of traffic in the road, phone held to his ear. Juhoon keeps his gaze on the man, holds still for a breath; then leans in fully, nuzzles the side of his head against Martin’s arm in a firm, determined back-and forth.
The message is clear, even without words— and instantly, that clench of worry in Martin’s chest loosens. His frenetic, jumpy pulse eases, settles somewhere deep down within him.
And he doesn’t need to think about it— he’s already lifting a hand to Juhoon’s nape, already nudging his chin over the crown of the omega’s head, inhaling the notes of sugar there— a magnet, lured to its opposite pole—
Then the van rolls up to the curb, and their sliver of peace is snuffed out. Juhoon pulls away too soon, far too soon; Martin forces his hand back down, forces himself to ignore the burn of Kiwon-hyung’s disapproving stare. They all climb into the van, and the door slams shut with a heavy thud.
Just like he thought, Martin lies awake in his and Keonho’s hotel room that night— haunted into the early hours by the soft, warm weight that isn’t curled on his chest, and the sweet scent that’s achingly absent from his nose.
The thing is— the fansign could have been just fine.
It really could have, Martin thinks, if his nerves weren’t being held together by duct tape and a prayer; if he was well-rested, and had set foot in his own den sometime in the last three weeks, and hadn’t endured day after day after day of his packmates covered in scent patches, and didn’t have his managers breathing down his goddamn neck—
He’ll never know for sure, but it probably would have been fine. Or at least not— what actually happens.
It doesn’t start that way, though.
It starts out pretty great, actually. Most of the questions Martin gets are thoughtful, or funny, and he enjoys the conversations he has. His packmates are all in a row with him— not quite easy reaching distance, but close enough to keep from chafing at Martin’s frayed seams. Enough to let him revel in his excitement at the sheer amount of fans that come just to see them, to be thankful for each and every person that shows up.
Even the ones that instantly ping on a hidden radar in Martin’s brain, that have his spine snapping straighter with the first whiff of musky pheromones that reach his nose.
Not that it’s happened much yet— maybe a handful of alphas have shown up across all the fansigns so far, most of them clearly tagging along with their partner or a friend group; and it’s cool, really. Martin wants his team to have all different kinds of fans, from all different walks of life.
“We welcome everyone,” as James loves to say.
Totally. Yeah. It’s just— Martin can’t help reacting to other alphas, if only a little. Can’t help the sting of awareness that prickles at the back of his skull. Can’t help how his glands start to itch under the stupid scent patches— especially when he’s already stretched as thin as he is now.
He can still handle it, though. Of course he can. The alphas they’ve met have all been pretty chill, too, which is nice— and if Martin can only let his posture relax once they’re well past Juhoon’s spot at the table, if he can only breathe a sigh of relief once those pheromones dissipate from the air around him— well. He’s doing his best, okay?
That’s what Martin braces himself for as the line dwindles down to the last few fans, and his attention hones in on the alpha that’s finishing up his talk with Keonho; the one he already caught wind of, the one he’s been instinctually sizing up. Older than Martin, though not by a ton. Not as quite as tall, either, but makes up for it in bulk.
It looks like he’s alone, too. Ugh.
Take it easy, Martin reminds himself as the alpha takes a leisurely step over to his spot at the table. Take it easy, it’s all good, he repeats, readying a smile as he looks forward— right until the moment their eyes lock.
And suddenly, every hair at the back of Martin’s neck is bristling.
“Hey man,” the guy says, mouth quirked in an easy grin— but his gaze is solid as steel, boring into Martin’s with a weight that throbs through his skull, pounds in his ears; and he knows, instantly, in that deep-down place beyond words— he cannot look away.
Martin doesn’t reply, doesn’t even blink. All background noise goes fuzzy around him; the acrid smoke of alpha-scent in his nose has Martin’s muscles coiling up tight, his entire body rigid in his chair— but this alpha is looking down at him, and he needs to stand, needs to stretch to his full height, needs to show—
People start to shuffle on either side of them, then, as the line shifts forward.
The guy’s smirk widens, just enough to be noticeable. As leisurely as he’d stepped in front of Martin, he moves on to James— breaking the iron chain of his gaze all at once with a turn of his head.
And the taut rope wrought over Martin is severed, just like that.
Sound rushes back to his ears; his peripheral pans out again. He blinks, reeling to catch up with what just happened.
He’s not the one who looked away first, but the victory is strangely hollow; Martin just feels knocked off-balance as he struggles to focus on the new fan standing at his spot. Echoes of an alarm still thrum in the back of his head— close, close, that alpha is close, chatting oh-so-casually with James, his relaxed outline burning in the corner of Martin’s eye.
danger, something within him hisses; danger, danger, danger—
Martin bumbles through his conversation with the poor girl in front of him as best he can, he really does— but he’s completely, utterly cooked once the line moves along again; that alpha is standing at Juhoon’s spot, now, and every bit of Martin’s attention laser-focuses down the table.
That bastard is smiling at Juhoon, and he’s talking, and— fuck, Martin can’t make out the words with all the chatter around him, but whatever the guy says has Juhoon glancing down in surprise, lifting his hands from the table, palms up—
“—sorry,” Martin stutters to the fan before him, trying valiantly to swing his gaze back, “A song I’ve been listening to lately? Um—” he can’t help it, though; his eyes dart back down the table.
Just in time to see the other alpha reach out, quick and smooth— he slides his fingers around Juhoon’s wrist, places his thumbnail against the edge of the scent patch on Juhoon’s gland—
—and Martin is on his feet; lunging past James as that alpha digs under Juhoon’s patch without hesitation, digs until the adhesive gives way, until he’s touching— a bare second before Martin clamps his grip onto the alpha’s forearm, wrenches it away from Juhoon— and Juhoon yanks his hand back with a startled, wide-eyed jolt.
The sudden commotion has everything around them screeching to a halt; all noise drops to a curtained hush. Every pair of eyes in the vicinity flies their way.
Too fucking late, one of the venue security guards posted a few feet behind the table lumbers up, jabbing a finger out. “Hey, keep your hands to yourself,” he barks at the alpha, but the words don’t even register to Martin.
It all drowns under the sudden, roaring beat of fury.
Drumdrumdrumdrumming in his skull like a jackhammer; thumping through his blood; rattling Martin’s ribcage as he bares his teeth at the— threat, threat, danger— fucker who had the nerve to— who tried to scent-mark his omega, his omega, hishishishis—
The fucker twists in Martin’s grasp like he thinks Martin is just going to let him get away, get away with it— but another touch is on him, then; familiar, frustratingly grounding. James rises from his chair, too, his hand firm on Martin’s arm, but his eyes are fixed sharply on the alpha in front of them.
It pulls Martin back from the wild, howling call of violence pulsating down his fingertips— just enough to remind him of where they are.
He reluctantly lets the bastard shake out of his hold and instead plants his arm on the table directly in front of Juhoon; a message, like the gravelly rumble scraping to life low in his chest— a sound that runs far, far deeper than words— a sound of warning—
The growl is cut short before it fully takes shape, though; too much is happening around them.
Another security guard appears, rounding the table to the alpha’s side. A few frazzled convention staff step in as well, ushering the last remaining fans a good distance away. Their managers hurry over from the sidelines, and then everything is buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. Voices pierce through the red-tinged haze in his head— questions, Martin realizes.
“—saw the movement, but—” the first security guard is saying.
“No, definitely grabbed his wrist—” James insists, leaning around the shield of Martin’s arm.
From his left, Martin feels Keonho’s weight press in close to him; on the opposite side of the table Seonghyeon has already closed the gap between his and Juhoon’s chairs. Juhoon is hunched behind Martin’s partial cover, frozen in his seat.
“Our no-contact policy—yes, we take it very seriously—” Kiwon-hyung intones to the nearest staff member, “—but I do understand it isn’t acceptable for our artists to retaliate, either.” The man turns his cutting gaze on Martin, then; as though he expects Martin to feel one single, solitary iota of guilt for intercepting the fucker who put hands on his—
—and speaking of that fucker; the other alpha raises his palms up in a sign of surrender. “It’s my bad, really,” he offers, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I forgot that was a rule. Won’t happen again.”
If Martin’s jaw wasn’t clenched so tight, it might have dropped right open. He whips his head to face his manager, tremors of rage racing through his veins.
“This guy tried to peel off Juhoon’s scent patch, hyung,” Martin snarls, curling his fingers into a fist on the table’s surface. “He didn’t forget shit.”
A tiny shift ripples through the air, then; another hush of silence falls— because making deliberate contact with someone’s scent gland is very, very different from a quick grab of the hand, and everyone there knows it.
Kiwon-hyung drops his gaze from Martin’s face down to Juhoon below him. “Is that true?” he asks, quiet and serious.
Juhoon’s eyes flick upward, still looking half-stunned, but his nod to their manager is clear. His arms twitch in an aborted move, hands stuffed in his lap, and he hesitates— but then brings one hand into view, wrist-up.
The edge of his scent patch is curled away from his skin on one side, the adhesive seal obviously disrupted.
Seeing it again sends that same hot, brutal thing surging through Martin’s blood; he cranes his gaze back toward the— threat, danger— alpha, just to find the guy looking straight at him, like he was waiting, and— Martin’s limbs pulse with how badly he wants to lurch across the table, wants to take them to the ground, wants to sink in tooth and nail and show show show what he’ll do to any bastard who ever, ever dares touch—
But there’s a flurry of movement— both security guards are on the other side of the table, escorting the alpha away, and Dongmin-hyung is scurrying after them; Kiwon-hyung motions down the table with a harried wave of his hand, his mouth moving— Martin thinks he says let’s wrap this up, but it’s hard to hear over the haze in his own head.
He lets James pull his strained muscles away from their rigid set on the table, lets Keonho be tugged up next to Juhoon and Seonghyeon, lets them all be ushered off in a loosely connected heap— and suddenly that’s what Martin wants, needs, he needs his packmates somewhere quieter, safer, needs them together, needs to check— fuck, he has to check—
They barely tumble into the deserted pocket of the backstage area before Martin is grasping onto Juhoon’s arm, hoisting it up, and— he doesn’t need to ask; Juhoon turns his wrist willingly, urgently, almost colliding with Martin’s face as the alpha jams his nose against the lopsided scent patch there, because he just— he has to, has to see if there’s even a hint of that bastard’s stink on Juhoon’s skin.
He frantically noses around the corners of the patch; at first, the sweet fizz of Juhoon’s scent leaking out from the upturned edge is all Martin can smell, seeping into his senses, cooling his blood— but at that curled edge clings an acrid wisp of smoke, and his entire body halts.
From the corner of his eye he spots James pulling Seonghyeon and Keonho into a closer circle, but that’s furthest Martin can think outside the swelling, rushing thrumthrumthrum— he moves Juhoon’s wrist in a tug toward his neck before he stops, because it’s quicker to just—
Martin lets go long enough to rip his own scent patch off his wrist, but Juhoon pushes them back together almost immediately— makes a frustrated noise, scrabbles off the ruined, half-stuck patch from his skin, and— that’s it, that’s it— Martin drags his gland over the entire expanse of Juhoon’s thin wrist; side to side, up and down, scrubbing away every single trace of the other alpha from his, his, his—
His omega, who shudders out a soft breath, whose eyelids flutter; who lulls forward with the pull of the tide, who rests his forehead on Martin’s collarbone like he’s meeting the solid line of the shore.
Sweet, and good, and right, right, right—
“Oh for fuck’s— would you cut it out?” Kiwon-hyung snaps, and Juhoon’s shoulders bunch together with a sudden twinge. Martin feels a similar tension run down his spine as their manager tromps around the discarded patches on the floor.
“We don’t have time for this,” the man goes on, glaring up at Martin in exasperation. “We’ll be lucky to make it to the performance venue in time for soundcheck once I’m done dealing with this fucking mess— the last thing I need is you causing more of a scene!”
Instantly, the flames crackling low Martin’s core blaze red-hot again. “Me?” he bites, loosening his hold on Juhoon to turn his body sideways— blocking the omega from view, shielding all his packmates behind him. “That asshole touched—”
“I know,” Kiwon-hyung interrupts, the stress lines around his eyes going tight with agitation. “But we have protocol for situations like this, and for good reason! You want your group to go viral for you getting into some knotheaded pissing contest with the first lowlife that tries to provoke you? Because the company sure as fuck doesn’t!”
The words drum, drum, drum in Martin’s ears; he thinks of that alpha’s steel-heavy gaze, thinks of his thumbnail digging at the edge of Juhoon’s patch— and it drumdrumdrums—
James shuffles around to Martin’s side, then. “It’s not like he lunged for the dude’s throat or something, hyung—” he starts to say, but Martin is already taking a step forward, fists clenched at his sides.
“So you expect me to not protect my pack?” he grits out through his teeth; somewhere, on some level, he knows that’s not quite what Kiwon-hyung said— but the drumdrumdrumming batters the words around in his head until it’s all he can hear.
“You expect me to just— sit back and watch someone else put their hands on—” his omega— his packmates— his to keep safe, his to defend— his his his his his, and it’s always Kiwon-hyung who interferes, always this man who tries to dictate Martin’s role in his own fucking—
“I expect you to control yourself!” Kiwon-hyung’s hiss cracks through the air like a whip. He levels a colder, more severe look at Martin. “Because if you can’t keep your instincts in check, we have a problem.”
And that is what punctures through the haze— cuts down the beat of the drums, wraps an icy grip around the flames licking through Martin’s core.
A problem.
The silence hanging over them grows heavier. Martin uncurls his fingers from his palms; he opens his mouth to deny it, to buck against the very idea—
But Keonho pitches forward into view, suddenly; his face is twisted in an odd look, his complexion gone pale. “Guys,” he mumbles, voice bubbling like a clogged drain, “I don’t feel so…”
He spins on his heel and staggers toward the tiny single bathroom a few feet away; the door swings shut behind him, but it does little to muffle the sounds of abrupt, violent retching.
And that’s when Dongmin-hyung jogs in from the back hall, stopping to give the bathroom door a bewildered look.
“Great,” he exclaims, “what the hell’s going on now?”
Kiwon-hyung is forced to put a pin in the whole conversation for later, after that.
Priority shifts to whisking the four of them off to the festival venue, just in time for a performance that’s— okay, technically. They don’t make any mistakes, and they cover Keonho’s parts the best they can, but having a packmate missing from the group on top of everything else is just about the last straw for Martin’s nerves; it’s the only performance of their short career that fills him with a flood of relief when it’s finally over.
He knows they’re all relieved to make it back to the hotel and bombard Keonho— who’s curled up in bed around a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, way more miserable about missing the performance than he is about the food poisoning. The youngest beta’s grumpiness dulls the sting of pins and needles under Martin’s skin, just a little bit; he shucks off the replacement patch that had been slapped on his wrist earlier to ruffle his hand through Keonho’s hair as the others crowd the bed.
“Here’s all the pics I took backstage,” Seonghyeon announces, shoving his phone into Keonho’s face as he shimmies onto the mattress.
“You should try to drink a little more,” Juhoon urges from his perch on Keonho’s right, pushing the Gatorade bottle into the younger’s hand.
And his pack made whole again is enough to distract Martin— until Dongmin-hyung pops his head in, reminding everyone to shower and get to bed. When James and Juhoon reluctantly retreat to their own room, the alpha can’t ignore it any longer.
It’s like ants crawling over his entire body— the urge to gather everyone back to Keonho’s bed and scent scent scent— until he smells nothing but pack, until it’s almost as good as home, until he can forget anyone even came near them today—
But Martin has to settle for them being fractured apart, no matter how much it grates against everything within him.
He lets Seonghyeon shower first so the beta can take up his post as the designated Keonho-cuddler— but Martin rushes into the bathroom as soon as it’s free, ripping off the rest of his scent patches with a vengeance. The patch on his neck is particularly gnarly; he’s been wearing it the entire day, and it leaves his gland looking like a rash— bumpy, angry red, prickly to the touch.
Ugh. Whatever. He’s still gonna scent the daylights out of his packmates, no matter what.
He’s in and out of the shower in record time, beelining for the tangled heap in Keonho’s bed and thoroughly scuffing his scent over whatever he can reach— heads, shoulders, arms— until Seonghyeon starts to grumble and bat Martin’s hands away. Good enough; he switches tracks, leaving the maknaes in their blanket cocoon and slipping out the door into the hallway.
Martin half-expects one of their managers to be standing guard outside James’s and Juhoon’s room, waiting to freaking— chaperone him or something, but the hall is thankfully empty; the one thing they can’t forbid Martin from is scenting his pack at the end of the day, and he is very much not in the mood for them to try.
He stops in front of the door, raises his fist to knock, but the door swings open before he does— sending a surprised jolt through both him and Juhoon.
“Holy shit,” Martin utters, one hand flying up to catch the door and the other thunking to his chest. He pauses, looking at the omega. “Wait, did you know I was here?”
“No,” Juhoon replies, huffing the momentary fright out of his system. “I was about to go over to your room, but…” He must have just gotten out of the shower; his face is fresh and a little pink from the warm water, his hair blowdryer-fluffy— he looks soft, cozy, and the sweet, open bloom of his scent is already curling into Martin’s senses, down down down—
Their eyes meet; and Martin feels it, hooking right into his core.
Juhoon rocks back a step at the same time Martin tugs forward— in one, singular direction.
He steps in past the doorway, letting the door close with a quiet click behind him. Dim, warm light from a single bedside lamp shrouds the corners of the room in shadow, turning Juhoon’s dark gaze impossibly darker.
Under the pull of that gaze, Martin doesn’t even think— he leans forward, swipes his chin over the omega’s hair, and Juhoon nuzzles into the contact like he was waiting for it— instantly, eagerly.
And the brittle, strained threads of Martin’s nerves begin to slowly unwind.
“I have bad news,” the omega murmurs, tilting his head over to the bed nearest the window. “James-hyung didn’t make it.”
Their oldest packmate is lying flat on his stomach atop the bedspread, snoring softly. One hand loosely clutches his phone, the black screen still angled toward his face. A snort bursts out of Martin at the sight.
“First of all, the audacity,” he tuts, turning toward the occupied mattress. He trails his fingers down the length of Juhoon’s arm as he moves away, shuffling into the gap between the two hotel beds. “I don’t get how he can pass out before even a little scenting. Like, his brain actually lets him sleep?” Martin mumbles to himself; still, he reaches down and runs his hand along his unconscious packmate’s shoulders.
“It doesn’t…bother them the same way, I guess,” Juhoon says, drifting in close to Martin’s side. “I’m pretty sure the betas don’t count down the minutes until they can rip their scent patches off, at least.” His voice drops at the end, and an ache of understanding twinges through Martin; he wishes, more than ever, that they didn’t need to wear them at all.
The alpha pulls his hand back from James, satisfied enough; with only one packmate left, though, a realization dawns on Martin as he hovers in the silence, in the dim lamplight.
This is the most alone he’s been with Juhoon since that night in the Airbnb.
No watchful gazes, no disapproving stares, nothing but them— finally, finally.
It’s like gravity itself yanks Martin’s gaze down to Juhoon’s inner arm, suddenly itchy with the urge he’d been forcing down since Kiwon-hyung had cut their scenting short earlier—
The thought stops him in his tracks, though. Settles in his chest with a sobering weight.
“Hey,” Martin starts, turning to Juhoon; the omega lifts his head, meeting Martin’s eyes with a curious look. “Um, I know the others already asked, but…” he hesitates, staring into that depthless gaze. “Are you sure you’re…okay? After…y’know, what happened?”
The reminder of the day’s events makes Juhoon go a little stiff; he drops his gaze down to the floor. “Yeah,” he mutters, plucking at the seam of his sweatpants. “I just feel stupid for even…” he lifts his hands in front of him, palms facing upward. “Like, what did I think was gonna—”
“Whoa,” Martin cuts in, a note of alarm ringing through him. “That wasn’t— Jju, none of it was your fault.” He reaches out and wraps his hand around Juhoon’s, bringing the omega’s eyes back up to him. “It’s a thousand percent that asshole’s fault, okay? He had no right to touch you, even if—” Martin’s blood is starting to simmer again just talking about it; his fingers tighten around Juhoon’s. “—if you, like, peeled your patches off in front of his face, or something—”
Juhoon’s face screws up in a grimace. “Ugh,” he says, ducking inward. “I don’t even wanna think about that. Let’s stop talking about it, okay?” He shifts their hands, turning his wrist out in a clear request. “I just— can we—”
“Yeah,” Martin agrees in a rush, already pushing their wrists together— because if the omega wants his scent, Martin will damn well give it to him; always, always.
The slide of their glands immediately sends electric sparks over Martin’s skin, a shivery-sharp warmth; Juhoon shudders out an exhale, his eyelids nearly drooping shut at the sensation. It’s not enough, though, not nearly enough—
Martin drags his wrist upward, over, back, spurred on by the echo of a leftover rhythm in his ears; cover, cover, cover— and he will, he will. He’d cover Juhoon head to toe in his scent if he could— until every square inch of the omega carries Martin’s mark, until the scent patches can’t possibly cover it all up—
Juhoon retracts his wrist, suddenly, only to angle it up toward Martin’s shoulder— and a heated thrill rushes through his insides, because the omega wants his wrist on Martin’s throat, wants more, yes— he leans down to give Juhoon easier access, fumbling to yank his shirt collar back for good measure.
Juhoon moves his arm closer— but quickly stops, sucking in a startled hiss of air.
“Is— is that from the patch?” he asks, his eyes going wide; and after a long, blank moment, Martin finally remembers that his neck currently looks like he lost a fight with a poison ivy plant.
“Oh— yeah,” he manages, bowing down just a fraction more, “but it’s fine, don’t worry—”
Juhoon doesn’t seem to be listening, though; his dark eyes hone in on Martin’s throat, transfixed. The honeyed notes of his scent drench the air between them, drowning Martin’s senses.
“I…I wanna…” Juhoon trails off, his whole body swaying forward; Martin stays stock-still, watching Juhoon move in, haltingly— until he’s so close that his face disappears from the alpha’s line of sight—
—and the warm, wet press of Juhoon’s tongue shatters Martin’s remaining thoughts into a million pieces.
Almost instantly, the omega jerks away like he’s been burned. “I— sorry—” he gasps out, stumbling backward; his legs hit the empty bed behind him and he loses balance, plunks down on the edge of the mattress—
—and Martin follows, dragged by Juhoon’s magnetic charge.
It’s like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning; his shaky legs send him tumbling to his knees in front of Juhoon, strength sapped— he reaches up, scrabbles his hand into the locks of hair at Juhoon’s nape—
“Keep— keep going,” he rasps, urging the omega forward. “Please.”
Pulsing through his skull, thrumming in his veins—
needneedneed—
A tremor rocks through Juhoon’s frame; his lips part with a shaky breath. He lurches in, eyes glinting in the low light— one hand grips the fabric of Martin’s shirt, the other anchors his fingers around the back of the alpha’s neck— and then he’s licking a full, flat stripe over Martin’s scent gland.
There’s no restraint after that— the omega laps at Martin’s skin with a single-minded focus, and it’s all Martin can do to weather the conflict of sensations crashing over him; the touch of Juhoon’s tongue is a balm to his irritated gland, a soothing, cool gel on a sunburn— but that same touch is pure electricity for the rest of his body.
It buzzes through his organs, vibrates into his bones; melts his higher brain functions down like cheap plastic— Martin is pretty sure he’s literally panting, but he can’t think enough to care; he clings to Juhoon’s nape as everything narrows down, down, down— down to the pulsing beat in his ears, down to the need— the need to—
To give, give back to his omega what he’s getting— and to know in return, to have his mouth on the sweet-smelling gland that’s so, so close to his nose—
Martin doesn’t think; he dips down, nudges his face into the juncture of Juhoon’s throat, parts his lips, and—
The burst of pure, unadulterated sugar over his tongue snaps something deep, deep down within him.
Juhoon’s choked gasp fuels Martin forward— he surges up in a wave, rolling toward the shore. Juhoon pulls, and Martin follows— he’s on the bed, suddenly, and Juhoon is underneath him, still clutching him around the neck, still pulling him down, pulling him close— and Martin doesn’t have to think. It’s not even a question.
The sun can only set in one direction, after all— and Juhoon is the horizon Martin sinks into.
Always, always, always.
He swoops down, dragging his tongue against Juhoon’s gland with the same urgency of the fingers prodding the back of his neck; again, and again, and again. The omega’s taste is beyond any of Martin’s furtive imaginings— straight, raw honey, a sweetness that borders on decadent; it doesn’t just reach into Martin’s senses, it overtakes him completely— coating his mouth with every swipe, sticking to his insides when he swallows, dizzying his head, soaking down to his very core— and he wants, wants, wants—
But more dizzying than anything— Juhoon wants, too.
His head is twisted to the side, baring the pale, pretty column of his throat for Martin— short, high noises escape him with each trail of the alpha’s tongue, shooting down to that place beyond words in Martin’s depths; his grip on Martin tightens, and even though the alpha is already close, hovering in the space above Juhoon’s parted legs, their chests practically flush— Juhoon pulls, pulls him in closer, closer, and— all of it, every single signal tells Martin his omega wants, wants, wants.
And god, he’ll give Juhoon whatever he wants— anything he wants, anything at all—
That hazy urge spurs Martin to press back down, sucking the omega’s entire spit-slick gland into his mouth— and Juhoon whimpers, jerks beneath Martin; their chests are flush now, and one of Juhoon’s legs twitches up to hook over Martin’s calf, tries to drag him even closer, and— it drums in Martin’s skull, how he wants— more, more of that noise from Juhoon, so he does it again, and again, and—
There’s a different, deeper note starting to trickle into the sweet nectar of the omega’s scent; something rich and tangy that spills over Martin’s tastebuds, swells in his nose—
Something that calls, calls, calls to him like nothing else ever has.
It lights a fire low in his belly, it makes his blood sing, it drums and drums through him like the beat of his heart, and he needs more, more— buries his face into Juhoon’s neck and laps it up with his tongue, wants every last drop— and Martin can feel his omega’s shaky breaths quivering in his chest, can feel how his body trembles against him, can feel the leg hooked around his own trying to yank him down, straining at the last, splintered thread of Martin’s control holding his hips back, keeping their lower halves apart, because— because—
—why?
Martin can’t remember the reason anymore; it’s not important, not now— not when he wants, and his omega wants— is asking for it, is dragging him in— and Martin will always, always, always give his omega what he wants—
All it takes is Juhoon nudging him forward again— in one, single direction; and that final thread rips like spidersilk.
He falls into the pull of gravity, against the center of heat between Juhoon’s thighs— heat that he can feel, even through the layers of their clothes— and Martin nearly collapses under the torrid rush of pleasure that rocks through his core; Juhoon whines sharply in his ear, grips Martin’s shoulders tight tight tight, wraps both his legs around the alpha’s— and Martin has to break away from his omega’s gland with the low, rough groan that punches out of him.
He stutters forward instinctively, grinds their hips together again; his mouth slips clumsily along Juhoon’s skin, grazing his teeth over the swollen gland by accident— but the broken keen that tears out of his omega is ruinous.
Juhoon’s entire body jolts— his head snaps even further to the side, desperately jutting the curve of his throat out; his legs constrict around Martin, and he cants his hips up, and one of his hands haphazardly digs into Martin’s hair— urging, urging, urging the alpha down to his gland—
And Martin doesn’t have to think; he knows, all at once.
The taste on his tongue, the haze in his head, the pulsing rhythm in the depths of his being— what it’s all been steering him toward, this entire time; drum, drum, drumming like the beat of his heart—
to mark, to claim—
claim claim claim—
—make it undeniable, make sure no other alpha who looks at Juhoon can ever, ever even think about taking what’s his—
The very thought drives Martin delirious; he jams their bodies as close together as they can possibly be, lets his omega shove his head back down— sets his teeth on his omega’s gland because he can’t help himself— but no, he knows, in that wordless, deep-down place of instinct— he can’t just bite, not like this— the claim won’t take, they need to— he needs to—
to— be inside— to—
knot—
And just as the whisper of it shivers through Martin’s addled brain, a clear, sharp knock on the door resounds in the room.
“James, Juhoon,” an unwelcome voice follows, “is Martin in there?”
Martin tenses up at the unexpected noise, hunching his shoulders low; but his omega tenses, too, and that’s— Martin croons softly, nuzzles into his throat. It’s okay, they’re okay; he tries to soothe his omega, put him at ease— but another series of knocks cuts through the air.
“Wuh?” a familiar, sleepy mumble somewhere off to Martin’s side— James, pack— awoken by the racket at the door. His omega shrinks underneath him as the knocking grows more urgent, and Martin grits his teeth; always this beta, it’s always this— meddling, packless beta—
“Hello?” There’s an edge of impatience to the beta’s voice, now.
—scaring his omega, and disturbing his packmates, and intruding where he doesn’t belong— and Martin sees, now, he’s been far too lenient— he needs to show what happens to stubborn betas who overstep in an alpha’s territory—
He hauls himself up to his knees, lips already pulling back in a snarl— but the edge of the mattress dips too quickly under his weight, and he slips; tumbles to the floor, lands straight on his ass—
—and the force of it knocks a blow of reality through the thick, wild fog inside him.
“Hey,” Kiwon-hyung snaps, “I need one of you to answer me.”
Martin sits, stunned, as James drags himself into a sitting position on the opposite bed. Juhoon struggles to sit up, too, and he looks— wrecked; cheeks flushed, dark eyes glassy, his hair all flyaway, the gland at his neck red and puffy and— James is squinting through his exhaustion at them, back and forth; darts over Juhoon’s face, drops down to the tent in Martin’s sweats, blinks and blinks— his nose scrunching as he scents the air—
A heavier thud hits the door, then.
“What the hell’s going on in there?”
Martin knows he should be— doing something, anything— but his mind feels like it’s floating back together in jumbled pieces; a strange thrum still echoes in his ears as he stares up at Juhoon, seeing his own fuzzy shell-shock reflected back at him. They were— he and Juhoon were— and— and then—
Luckily, James takes the initiative to scoot off his bed and stumble for the door— but he halts, snatches a hoodie draped on the hotel’s desk chair and backpedals to shove it over Juhoon’s head; while he’s helping the omega wrestle his arms through the sleeves he kicks his foot against Martin’s knee, nodding down at his lap with raised eyebrows. Martin jolts from his spacy thoughts, gaze dropping down at the reminder. Oh, right—
“If someone doesn’t open this goddamn door right now—”
James rushes back to the door while Martin hurriedly adjusts the obvious tent in his pants, securing his dick up into his waistband— just before the handle clicks, and Kiwon-hyung barges inside.
“What in the fuck—” the man stops short just inside the doorway, though, thrown off by the scene he just walked into; Martin parked on the floor, Juhoon peeking out of his oversized hoodie from his perch on the bed. James stifles a yawn as he holds the heavy door open.
“Where’s the fire, hyung?” he asks, sounding a little miffed.
Their manager wheels on James in an instant. “What the hell took you so long?” he demands.
“We were watching the end of a video,” James replies, gesturing at his phone lying on his rumpled bedspread. “I didn’t know finishing it up first would be such a big deal.”
Kiwon-hyung does not seem amused by that. “And not one of you thought to answer me,” he shoots back, incensed, “the whole damn time I was banging on the door out there?”
“But we did,” the younger beta retorts smoothly. “Juhoonie said just a minute— didn’t you hear him?” Juhoon twitches up straighter at the mention of his name; James follows with a puzzled hum. “Maybe it got drowned out by all the knocking.”
Martin realizes, dimly, that he quite possibly owes James his life right now— but he’ll have to think of a way to thank his second-in-command when he’s not reeling his brain back into his skull; he still can barely form a coherent thought, even as he watches their manager flounder.
“Well,” the man stalls, clearly at a loss, “—just, answer the door first next time, alright?” He sweeps his suspicious gaze around the small room— almost like he knows there’s some sort of fuckery afoot, but he can’t prove it.
“And— anyway,” Kiwon-hyung pivots, pinning his eye on Martin this time, “remember what I said about lockdown? You’re pushing it.” He waves his hand in a terse, beckoning gesture. “Back to your own room, now.”
Martin rises on unsteady legs, avoiding the man’s hard look. Before he can stop himself, his gaze flicks down to Juhoon; his flushed skin, his dark, glassy eyes, and—
—he still feels it; the pull.
The one, single direction his body wants to sway in—
always, always, always.
And a slow twist of dread tightens within Martin as he stares at Juhoon, at that magnetic, bottomless gaze— because he knows, all at once; down to the very depths of his being, Martin knows—
If they hadn’t been interrupted earlier, he wouldn’t have stopped. Not for anything.
Not until—
“Tonight, please,” Kiwon-hyung grumbles.
Martin turns and wobbles for the doorway, his omega’s sweetness lingering on his tongue and a stone-cold pit forming in his stomach.
James tries to convey a pointed message with his eyes as he passes, but Martin can’t spare any part of his brain to decipher it; only one thing circles the alpha’s mind as Kiwon-hyung shuts the door behind them, sinking down, down, down to that cold pit, too heavy to deny any longer.
There might, in fact, be a problem.