Work Text:
Sometimes Keonho acts a little… strangely.
It doesn’t bother Martin, necessarily. He’s fond of Keonho, most of the time. When Keonho isn’t screaming directly into his ear, or making fun of him for the upteenth time that day, he’s actually really sweet, and fairly good company. Martin laughs with him more than anyone else, cracks more jokes and smiles wider and he feels more like a hyung to Keonho than he has with anyone else. Net positives across the board, no matter how much Keonho clearly loves to test his patience.
But sometimes, Keonho does this thing. It’s not particularly hard to notice. He gets a certain look in his eyes, his posture changes and the way he carries himself through the world starts to shift. He becomes more relaxed, wider-eyed and a little more juvenile. He asks questions he should already know the answer to and sometimes, only sometimes, he gets this tone in his voice, sweeter and more docile and sometimes even more playful. He digs out fidget toys from Martin’s bag that he’s never been particularly interested in and messes with things on sets that he should know better than to.
It started as a joke, he thinks. Somewhere along the line he took to using the same voice he does when interacting with small children, and Keonho was oddly receptive to it. More so than he should have been, serious about it in a way that Martin was initially concerned was just another bit that Keonho would inevitably hold over his head for believing him. Once, and only once, he overheard James doing something similar. The baby-talk, ushering Keonho to a more appropriate activity and engaging with him in a way that Keonho would otherwise never tolerate.
Martin doesn’t have a name for it. Sometimes Keonho just gets small, acts younger than he is and lets things happen to him that maybe shouldn’t. That’s all it is, most of the time. All it’s been so far. All it should have been, if circumstances had been different.
Sitting in his bed, hand wrapped around his cock with Keonho’s wide, wet eyes blinking over at him, Martin contends that maybe it should have stayed the way it was.
He didn’t intend for things to get here. The others had gone out for food. Martin had stayed back because he was working on something and he didn’t even know Keonho was home too until he swung the door open to their room and jumped head first into Martin’s bed, landing across the stretch of Martin’s legs and narrowly avoiding crushing the screen on his Macbook where it was propped open.
Keonho had giggled when Martin huffed, shoved his thigh and cursed at him in a fit of half-warranted panic. He had been mad for all of five seconds before he saw the familiar glimmer in Keonho’s eyes and watched panic fleet across his face as he half-digested that Martin was upset with him.
It’s not entirely clear to Martin how they got here. Keonho’s a good boy, most of the time. But he can be aggravating, opinionated and a little coarse at the best of times. But like this, when he’s smaller and younger and carries less of the reservations he normally has, he’s sickeningly sweet. Eager to please, eager to be good for his hyungs and he listens remarkably well. It’s a type of power Martin feels as sparks along his spine even in small doses. Here, alone in the privacy of their dorm room, he feels drunk, practically overdosing on it.
Keonho’s just so grabby like this. He’s always been touchy, but that half-second of irritation had flashed across Martin’s face and Keonho had reached out with two hands on the stretch of Martin’s thighs, apologized so sweetly in that little voice he takes on and Martin had just acted, for once in his life, without worrying about every possible outcome of his decisions.
It’s easy to touch Keonho like this. He practically splayed himself across Martin’s sheets, head propped up against the wall and a pillow beneath his back. Hands resting on his stomach, flat, where Martin told him to put them and he’s so /good/ that of course he hasn’t budged. The hem is riding up enough that Martin is getting flashes of the pallid skin underneath, the hints of lines where he’s been working so hard on his abs and a thin stripe of hair that Martin knows will have to be waxed off tomorrow. Tonight, it’s the only thing on his mind.
Keonho’s watching him with a rapt sort of attention. Drawn to the lines of Martin’s body as he works the heel of his palm over his cock, just enough pressure that it feels like sparklers lit down each of his limbs. Keonho’s mouth is open, wide and spit-slack and Martin wants to shove a finger in there, maybe two. Not even out of perversion, entirely, just because he knows that like this, Keonho couldn’t even tell him no.
It’s less skeevy to be doing this — touching himself, letting Keonho watch, talking him through it — then the alternative. Keonho’s just so trusting like this, maybe a little slower, and Martin is acutely aware that he carries a sort of power here that he doesn’t hold anywhere else. At least not to this degree. It’s equal parts terrifying and borderline intoxicating.
Martin gropes himself properly, wraps a palm around his sweats and strokes through the fabric and Keonho watches with a doe-eyed sort of curiosity. Martin wonders in part if Keonho really knows what’s going on. If he’s all the way present when he reacts so innocently, rolls over like a puppy and presents himself belly-up to be mauled by wolves. It’s like the only thing he craves is approval, guidance, someone to show him things and praise him when he does them well.
Reactive, receptive, obedient, even. Martin’s mouth parts in a pant — the whole house silent except for their shared breathing. Keonho’s fingers twitch where they’re splayed against his stomach, restless hands and he’s got a pretty pout on his lips, jutting and pink and Martin thinks again about running his thumb against it, pushing in just to feel the heat and the weight of his tongue.
Another idea, Martin slides his free hand along Keonho’s thigh, up to his hands and it’s easy to lead him down, pressing his hand to the front of his own pants. Despite the layers, the skin between them, Martin swears he can feel the same heat that travels through Keonho’s body when he presses down.
“You too,” Martin says, and Keonho’s eyes are doleful, delightfully confused.
“I don’t know how,” he bleats, and Martin feels his pulse behind his eyes.
“Just watch me,” He encourages, ruts his hips up into his hand and a strange sense of pride strikes him when Keonho does the same. “It’s special. Do what I do. It’ll make you feel really good.”
Open mouth nodding, Keonho follows along as closely as he can. Mirrors the movement of Martin’s hand and the shifting of his hips. Even down to when Martin sticks a hand down his pants, teases his tip under his boxers and Keonho makes a pathetic little sound in the back of his throat.
He’s a natural at following along, quick to learn just like he is with everything else in life. Martin’s always been a little awkward touching himself. Until this point, the idea of ever showing someone else would have been mortifying. For some reason, it’s different with Keonho. Maybe somewhere deep down Martin does believe that he’s really teaching him, showing Keonho something he’s never done before. Watching him discover how good it feels in real time. It almost makes him proud.
It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, teasing himself and watching Keonho and listening to the sweet sounds that fall from him. He’s flushed to his ears, sweat beading in his temple and he’s biting at his lip, pink bleeding to white as he tries to do exactly as Martin does. His bangs fall into his eyes, too long without a haircut and he’ll probably get one tomorrow, with the wax. It makes him look particularly boyish, juvenile in the same way he acts like this.
Martin’s cock is heavy, leaking in his palm and it’s slick as he strokes from base to tip, down again with as much movement as he can manage in the confines of his boxers. Keonho’s staring at him so intently it burns, and when Martin rubs over the tip to slick his glide Keonho mewls, scrunches his face and grimaces.
“Tinnie-Hyung,” he babbles. “Hurts.”
Martin watches him struggle for a second, sees him continue to rub himself under his pants with wild eyes. Sweet, docile Keonho, who wants to be good so bad he’ll touch himself for Martin even when it hurts.
Third idea of the night, far easier to follow through on with inhibitions this low. Martin feels like he’s on a cloud, detached from his body and observing from the outside. He grabs Keonho’s wrist, pulls it from his boxers and gathers saliva under his tongue. Keonho’s eyes go wide again when Martin lets it dribble from his lips and into his open palm.
“Try now, baby,” Martin soothes, and Keonho puts his hand right back around himself and whimpers so loud it makes Martin’s head spin with delight from how well that worked.
Keonho gets whinier the longer it goes on. Small sounds bubbling up from him every few seconds, breath starting to hitch and a wheezing as he exhales. Once Martin starts talking again, it’s hard to stop. Encouraging, soft and wet and dumbed-down in the ways he knows Keonho needs. Keonho’s face is beet-red, blush lines flowing up to his ears and at some point, it’s like he almost forgets to breathe properly. Martin watches him so intently it must feel suffocating, notices every little thing and catalogues all of the reactions he’s getting, eyes fixed on the way Keonho’s stomach tenses and his lashes flutter every time he drags his hand along himself.
No point in restricting himself from what he wants, Martin slides his free hand open top of Keonho’s, tugs his pants down enough his long, spindly fingers completely encompass his, slots against his knuckles and presses down harder, tighter. Guides him just a little faster.
Keonho jolts with a broken little sound, hips twitching off the mattress. Too much, all at once.
“No, hyung — nonono,” he stutters immediately, voice thin and overwhelmed, but he never actually stops. If anything, he tries harder to keep up with the pace Martin sets for him, frantic and clumsy and desperate to not disappoint even when the pleasure is clearly starting to blur into something strange and unfamiliar.
“It’s okay,” Martin soothes, taking his hand out of his own pants to drag Keonho’s further down his thighs.
The pace that’s set after becomes impossible for Keonho to follow. Everything’s so intense for him, like this. Pleasure sharpened into something almost painful with how sensitive he’s gotten. His movements lose their rhythm entirely, thighs twitching and legs jerking helplessly against the sheets every few seconds. Martin feels starved as he devours every reaction, feels every part of the feral wolf Keonho so willingly presented himself belly-up for.
It’s not long before he stops moving his own hand entirely, letting the guide of Martin’s fingers wrapped around him as he trembles and shakes beneath it, overwhelmed down to the marrow.
“Relax,” Martin tries to soothe again, acutely aware of the fact that Keonho obviously has no idea how to right now. Not when every movement has him reduced to thin, uneven gasps.
His whole body gives a sharp jerk when Martin palms over his head, sticky from dried saliva and admittedly cruel. Martin shifts the hand on his thigh up, pressing him back against the mattress with a firm palm low against his stomach when the thrashing gets too rough.
The reaction is immediate. Keonho folds in on himself with a pathetic sound, shaking so hard the mattress shifts beneath him. Warmth spreads suddenly between his legs and the expression on his face crumples almost instantly after, humiliation flashing hot and miserable through his watery eyes when he realizes what’s happened.
He immediately tries to jerk away, and for the first time, Martin is glad he’s put on a little bit of weight recently, a little more muscle. Something animalistic inside him wills him to stay, holding Keonho firm and refusing to let him get away.
“No, no. Don’t. Let me,” Martin sounds like he’s pleading, though he knows that he’s not giving Keonho much of a choice in the matter. The glide is slicker, messy and wet and a little gross. He wants to do it again. He wants to see what else, what other reactions he can pull from Keonho when he’s like this. “You’re okay. Keep going.”
Keonho sobs outright at that, loud and throaty in a way that Martin knows he would normally never let himself be.
“I can’t—,” He chokes in that little voice, small and still so sugar-sweet. “Tinnie-hyung. I can’t—I’m—I think I’m gonna throw up.”
The sounds tear from his throat without restraint, chest heaving hard enough it almost looks painful while Martin keeps his hand locked over his, keeps guiding him through the slick, oversensitive drag of the motion even when Keonho twists weakly like he can’t bear another second of it. A power trip, a boost to the ego unlike one he’s ever felt before. There’s something borderline deranged building inside of him, obsessive in his mission to tear Keonho limb from limb, gore him completely when he’s his most vulnerable.
It only lasts a few more seconds before Keonho breaks completely. His back arches hard off the mattress with a choked cry, fingers spasming helplessly beneath Martin’s as another violent shudder tears through him. The climax hits him almost immediately after the humiliation does, too much all at once, leaving him shaking so badly Martin can barely keep him still through it. It coats his stomach, the tips of Martin’s fingers and Keonho’s white knuckles beneath them.
Martin should stop after that. He knows it somewhere beneath the rush still clawing through his bloodstream, beneath the dizzy, ugly swell of satisfaction that comes from seeing Keonho so completely unraveled beneath him. But the feeling is intoxicating now that he’s had a taste of it, impossible to let go of so quickly.
Keonho is so reactive like this. So frighteningly easy. Every touch draws something from him immediately — another twitch, another watery blink, another helpless sound caught behind his teeth. Martin’s never seen him this open before, this confused and uncertain and just a little frightened around the edges. Usually Keonho pushes back against the world with claws out, loud and opinionated and impossible to pin down. Right now he just looks up at Martin like he’s waiting to be told what happens next.
The sight of it sends another sharp pulse through Martin’s chest. He’s so hard it hurts. He tugs his pants down, frees himself from his boxers and grabs for Keonho.
“Here,” he murmurs softly, guiding Keonho’s hand to wrap around him, still coated in his drying spend and piss and spit. “Just like I showed you.”
Keonho nods immediately despite the dazed look in his eyes. Earnest to the point of heartbreak. He tries so hard even now, glassy-eyed and exhausted and still desperate to prove he can be good for his hyung. Martin guides him carefully at first, slower this time, and Keonho watches with that same rapt concentration like he’s terrified of getting something wrong.
Then, Keonho blinks down at Martin, scrunches his eyes a little and he looks wonderfully soft, even still.
“It’s bigger,” Is all he says, soft and still wet around the edges from crying.
Like a live wire to the chest, Martin reels, dizzy. Something hot and gratifying twists through him instantly, immediate enough that he has to duck his head with a breathless laugh. His cock twitches in Keonho’s hand, so desperately close already.
“Yeah,” he manages after a second, using a light brush against Keonho’s knuckles to prompt him to keep going, just a little tighter, a little faster. “It’s ‘cause I’m bigger.”
Keonho giggles at that. Actually giggles — small and airy and ditzy in a way that makes him seem even younger somehow, reduced down to something unbearably sweet and trusting. Martin’s already crumbling resolve disintegrates entirely, and it’s seconds later he’s spilling into Keonho’s hand, joining the drying mess they made just moments earlier.
By the time the tension finally leaves Martin’s gangly frame, Keonho is still staring over at him with blown-wide eyes, flushed from head to toe and looking completely awed by the entire experience. Martin can barely think straight through the fading adrenaline, through the strange possessive tenderness still curling hot beneath his ribs.
Keonho blinks once, twice, then breathes out a tiny, almost astonished, “Wow.”