#big matthew

— Hand jobs

Touching you everywhere possible is one of the artist’s addictions. He always makes sure to run his big, strong hands over your skin, caressing, squeezing, and tugging at your full flesh. It’s no different in intimate moments, where Matt can use and abuse your body freely, rubbing his digits all over your pussy and enjoying every inch to spank and leave the marks of his palms for hours… maybe even days.

— Recording

BM finds it very useful to use his phone camera to record your sex, sometimes focusing only on the huge cock going in and out of your wet pussy, and other times capturing the expressions on your tearful little face, forced to reveal yourself after repeated, hard slaps on your thighs. Matthew would never do anything to harm you — the trust between you is the foundation of your relationship — so you never feared it. After all, he only films you with your permission.

— Teasing

Teasing is a mutual habit between you, but Matt enjoys it even more when he can taunt you in public or when nothing can be done. The pouty, pleading look on your face is one of the wonders of the world for him, and he loves pushing you to the edge until you beg him to fuck you. When that happens, the older one can’t help but enjoy your desperation, always smiling and commenting on how delicious you are when begging for his cock.

— Multiple orgasm

"Let her cum thrice before I bust, that’s a gentleman." — Motion, BM.

He doesn’t lie in his songs when he drops bold lines like these. Luckily for you, he always makes sure you cum three times or more during sex, whether with his cock pressing into your vagina or with his soft tongue and wide, skilled fingers stroking and licking your clit. For him, it’s vital that you melt entirely in his mouth; the taste of your honey is the fuel that makes him burn your bodies together.

— Oral

Do I need to mention how addicted this guy is to your pussy? Sucking, licking, and devouring your intimacy drives him harder than anything else (except for fucking you doggy style), and he wastes no time when it comes to this. Or rather, he loses track of time between your thighs, so focused and immersed in the pleasure of feeling you twitch on his thick tongue that he barely notices when you’re overwhelmed from cumming too much.

— Orgasm denial

At some point in his long 32 years of life, he discovered that denying orgasm a few times intensifies your pleasure. Thrilled by this, he enjoys teasing you before finally satisfying you, pulling his lips away from yours just as he notices the climax approaching. “My good girl wants to cum?” he teases with a sly, drunken smile, letting a few seconds pass before plunging his face back into your core, sucking with such devotion that the room fills with the sounds of suction and moans, finally giving you what you’ve been craving.

— Fingering

Did I mention how much he loves feeling your vaginal walls tighten around him? Be it cock or fingers, he never misses a chance to finger you, using his ring and middle fingers to caress the interior, massaging slowly and pressing the tips on that spot that drives you wild. He learned a long time ago that just fucking isn’t enough for you; he needs to stimulate every little detail that makes your eyes roll back.

— Unprotected sex

Though not recommended (even by him), sometimes all this man needs is to feel your skin on his, with no barrier — just two intimacies colliding as the heavens intended. The sensation of entering your core with his glans and the soft length of his cock is intoxicating, and he needs it to be happy. You won’t deny him, will you?

— Aftercare

Wonho invited him a few days ago to this party, his way to celebrate for winning Best Male Artist in an international awards show.

BM didn’t care about any of it.

His focus had narrowed to a single point of gravity, and that point was currently moving through the crowd like liquid, all bare shoulder and sheer cream fabric and a smile that could charm a firing squad.

Wonho.

The shirt was the problem. Or maybe the solution, depending on how you looked at it. Loose-knit, the kind of thing that draped and clung in alternating currents every time Wonho moved—lifting a soju bottle to top off someone’s glass, tilting his head back to laugh at something a dancer said, reaching across the counter to grab a lime wedge. The fabric slipped off one shoulder, a broad, muscular shelf of trapezius and deltoid, and BM’s grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles blanched.

One button. His own black polo was held together by a single button at the collar. He’d undone the rest an hour ago, the penthouse heat and body count turning the air syrupy. His shorts sat low on his hips, and he’d caught Wonho’s gaze snagging on the exposed V-line above his waistband twice now.

Twice.

The first time, Wonho’s eyes had flicked away fast, a host’s reflex. Smooth. Professional. The second time, though—that one had lingered. Two seconds. Maybe three. Long enough for BM to feel the back of his neck prickle, for the ghost-memory of a different room, a different city, to rise unbidden.

Busan.

Few months ago. A hotel suite after a music festival, the adrenaline still singing in their veins, and Wonho had looked at him exactly like that—a question dressed up as a glance. BM had answered it. Hard. Twice.

Now he watched Wonho glide past the couch, a hand brushing a producer’s arm in easy camaraderie, and the shirt slipped again. Lower this time. The knob of his shoulder joint, the ridge of his collarbone. The faint sheen of sweat that made his skin look lacquered under the ambient mood lighting, purples bleeding into deep blues.

BM lifted his glass to his mouth. Didn’t drink. Just held it there, the rim cold against his bottom lip, and let himself look.

The hallway to the guest bathroom was narrow. Deliberately so, some architect’s idea of intimacy, maybe, or just a space-saving compromise in a penthouse that prioritized the open-plan everything. Whatever the reason, it meant that when BM pushed off the kitchen island and made his way toward the back of the apartment, the collision was inevitable.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Wonho was coming the other direction, fresh from refilling an ice bucket, and the hallway compressed them together for one humming second. The sheer knit of his shirt rasped against the cotton of BM’s polo. Heat bled through both layers immediately, a bloom of warmth that had no business being so specific, so localized, so—

“Sorry,” Wonho murmured. The smile he wore was the host smile. Polite. Easy.

His eyes said something else entirely.

“Don’t be.” BM’s voice came out lower than he’d intended, gravel in the bass register, and he didn’t move. Didn’t step aside. Let the hallway contain them for one breath longer, two, until Wonho’s host-smile flickered at the corner and something rawer pushed through.

Then Wonho was past him, and the bass drop in the living room swallowed whatever sound BM might have made in response.

He stood in the hallway for a beat too long, the back of his neck burning.

The party rolled on.

By one-thirty, the crowd had thinned. The producer left, citing an early studio session. The girl group maknae peeled off with two dancers, their laughter echoing up the stairwell. The future-bass gave way to something slower, deeper, a track with a sub-bass line that felt like a finger drawn down your spine.

BM had moved to the sectional. Sat with his legs spread, one arm draped along the backrest, the picture of casual. Wonho was across the room, seeing off a cluster of backup dancers, his host persona still running at full wattage. Hugs, back-slaps, promises to text, to grab lunch, to collaborate soon.

The front door closed behind them.

The silence that followed was a physical weight.

BM heard the click of the lock, the sudden absence of music—someone had killed the speakers—and then nothing but the distant hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of the air conditioning cycling on.

Wonho turned.

The host persona was gone. Stripped away between one breath and the next, leaving something quieter. Something that looked at BM across the expanse of the living room with eyes that held five months of waiting.

“Balcony,” Wonho said. Not a question.

BM pushed himself off the sectional.

The Seoul night sprawled beneath them, a latticework of light and shadow stretching to the Han River’s dark ribbon. The balcony was wide enough for a small seating area—two chairs, a low table, a potted plant that looked expensive and barely alive—and the railing was cold when BM rested his forearms on it.

The city hummed. Distant traffic, distant lives. Up here, the air tasted thin and clean, cutting through the alcohol-warmth that had settled in BM’s chest.

The sliding door opened.

Closed.

Wonho’s footsteps were nearly silent, but BM felt each one in the subtle vibration of the balcony decking. Felt him stop a meter away, a careful distance. A distance that felt absurd after Busan, after the hallway, after every glance that had passed between them tonight like a secret handshake.

“You’re still wearing that shirt,” BM said without turning.

“You noticed.”

“Hard not to.”

The railing creaked under a shift of weight. Wonho had leaned beside him, close enough that BM could smell him—something clean and slightly citrus, undercut by the warm, salt undertone of a body that had been moving all night. The sheer knit shirt billowed in the breeze, and his shoulder was still bare, and BM’s resolve—what little remained of it—snapped like a guitar string.

His hand found Wonho’s hip.

Not gently. Not tentatively. His palm connected with the jut of bone beneath fabric, his hands clamping tight around his hips with a grip that said stay. The heat that radiated through the knit was staggering. Wonho’s breath caught, a small hitch that he tried to swallow and failed.

BM pulled.

Wonho came, the railing forgotten, his body colliding with BM’s side in a press of muscle and shared warmth. Up close, the sheer shirt was translucent enough to see the shadow of his chest, the discs of his nipples, the way his abdomen tensed as BM’s thumb stroked a slow arc over his hipbone.

“Matthew.” Wonho’s voice had dropped an octave.

“Yeah.”

BM bent his head. The gap between them narrowed to centimeters, to a breath, to the almost-there brush of lips—

The door keypad chimed.

Digital. Sharp. A sound like a needle scraping across vinyl.

They froze.

The heavy front door swung inward, and Shownu stepped into the entryway.

He looked like he’d walked out of a photoshoot that had been designed to ruin lives. Leather jacket slung over one shoulder, hanging from a crooked finger. Black tank top stretched across a chest that seemed to defy physics—too broad, too thick, too much. Hair disheveled, a few strands plastered to his forehead with residual sweat from a schedule that had clearly run long. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion, and he moved with the quiet, rolling gait of a man who could break you in half but had decided, for the moment, not to.

He stopped.

The leather jacket slid from his finger.

It hit the floor with a soft thump that sounded like a gunshot in the ringing silence.

BM didn’t let go of Wonho’s hip.

Shownu’s gaze moved from BM’s face to the hand on Wonho’s hip, then to Wonho’s face—flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow sips of air. The silence stretched. Coiled. A rubber band pulled to its limit.

Most people would have apologized. Backed out. Made an excuse, a joke, a retreat.

Shownu was not most people.

He kicked off his shoes. Two economical movements. His eyes, when they lifted again, had gone from exhausted to something else entirely. Something that made the air on the balcony feel like it had dropped ten degrees.

“Hyung,” Wonho breathed. Just that. Just the honorific, but it came out unsteady, a question wrapped in a title.

Shownu crossed the living room in four strides.

He was bigger up close. That was the first thing BM registered—the sheer mass of him, the way he blotted out the city lights behind him. His presence wasn’t aggressive. It was worse than that. It was certain.

“I have the door code,” Shownu said. Quiet. Level. His voice had a texture like stones rubbing together underwater. “Hoseokie gave it to me years ago. I was just at a late night shoot. Decided to check out the party, actually was planning to crash on the couch.”

He stopped behind Wonho.

His hands came up. Settled on Wonho’s waist—not the hip, the waist, higher, his thumbs bracketing the small of his back—and the contrast in size was obscene. Wonho had been a presence all night, broad and commanding and magnetic. Now, caught between BM at his front and Shownu at his back, he looked small.

He looked breakable.

Shownu’s mouth found the curve of Wonho’s neck, just below the ear.

Wonho’s whole body jerked. A gasp tore out of him, high and thin and nothing like any sound BM had heard him make before. His head fell back against Shownu’s shoulder, baring his throat, and Shownu’s lips moved over the tendon there in a slow, open-mouthed kiss that was more claim than affection.

BM’s grip on Wonho’s hip tightened. His thumb pressed into the hollow where hip met thigh, and Wonho shuddered, caught between two points of pressure, two points of heat.

“Look at you,” BM murmured. The English rolled out, low and textured, his voice barely above a rumble. “Caught.”

Shownu’s eyes met his over the curve of Wonho’s shoulder. Dark. Assessing. A conversation passed between them without a single word—an acknowledgment, a negotiation, a shared decision that settled into BM’s bones like a second heartbeat.

Shownu’s hands tightened on Wonho’s waist.

“Couch,” Shownu said. The word was for both of them.

They moved as a unit—Wonho stumbling, his legs apparently forgetting how to function, bracketed by the two of them. The leather sectional was deep and oversized, big enough to swallow a body, and when they reached it, Shownu’s hands left Wonho’s waist only to find the hem of the sheer knit shirt.

He pulled.

The fabric gave with a soft ripping sound—not violent, just decisive, a seam somewhere giving up—and then Wonho was bare from the waist up, his chest heaving, his skin flushed pink from collarbone to navel.

BM went for the waistband. Wonho’s pants were expensive, some designer thing with complicated fastenings, and BM didn’t bother figuring them out. He just worked his thumbs under the fabric and pushed, and Wonho’s hips lifted to help, and then those were gone too, kicked aside along with his underwear, and Wonho lay naked on the dark leather, his body a landscape of dense muscle and taut skin and visible tremor.

“Fuck,” Wonho whispered. The curse came out breathless and reverent.

Shownu leaned over him from the front.

His hands found Wonho’s jaw, cradling it with a gentleness that felt almost incongruous given the sheer size of them. Calloused palms, thick fingers, and they framed Wonho’s face like a portrait. His thumbs stroked along the sharp line of Wonho’s cheekbones, and Wonho’s mouth fell open, a sound escaping that was half-whimper, half-plea.

Shownu kissed him.

Not gentle. Not tentative. His mouth covered Wonho’s and swallowed the moan that followed, and Wonho’s hands flew up to grip Shownu’s shoulders, his short nails digging into the black cotton of the tank top.

BM watched for a moment—the way Wonho’s body arched, the way Shownu’s back muscles shifted under his shirt—and then moved around to the other side of the sectional. Positioned himself behind Wonho’s head, which was thrown back over the armrest, throat working as Shownu kissed down his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his collarbone.

Shownu’s mouth found Wonho’s chest.

The sound Wonho made was pornographic. A high, broken cry that echoed off the penthouse walls as Shownu’s lips closed over one nipple, his tongue working in slow, wet circles. His other hand found the neglected side, rolling the nub between thumb and forefinger with a precision that spoke of practice.

“Sensitive,” BM observed. His voice was a rumble, appreciation and dark amusement threaded together. He reached down, let his fingers trace the shell of Wonho’s ear, the line of his jaw. “He’s always been sensitive here.”

Shownu hummed against Wonho’s chest. The vibration made Wonho buck, his hips lifting off the leather, his cock slapping against his stomach—hard already, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of moisture pearling at the slit.

Shownu’s mouth continued its path downward. Over the ridges of Wonho’s abdomen, tracing each valley and peak with his tongue. Wonho’s stomach muscles jumped under the attention, fluttering like a startled animal, and his hands had moved to Shownu’s head, fingers threading through disheveled dark hair and gripping.

BM shifted position. Slid down the sectional until he was behind Wonho properly, the other man’s body cradled between his spread thighs. His hands found Wonho’s shoulders, worked the knots of tension there with slow, knowing pressure.

“Breathe,” BM murmured against the shell of Wonho’s ear. “You’re going to need it.”

Shownu’s hands hooked under Wonho’s knees. Spread them. Settled between them with the heavy, inevitable gravity of a tide coming in. His tank top was still on, the black fabric straining across his shoulders, and Wonho’s fingers fisted in it, pulled.

“Off,” Wonho managed. The word was wrecked. “Please—off—”

Shownu sat back on his heels. Peeled the tank top over his head in one fluid motion. The body beneath was a monument—heavy pectorals, a waist that tapered dramatically, abdominals carved so deeply they looked like channels. His sweatpants were next, shoved down and kicked aside with a practicality that was almost dismissive.

His cock was thick. Proportionate to the rest of him—which was to say, overwhelming.

Wonho stared. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a gesture that was entirely unconscious, and Shownu’s dark eyes tracked the movement with predatory focus.

Then Shownu was leaning over him again, his weight settling onto Wonho’s body in a controlled descent, and his hips aligned, and his hand moved between them, and—

Wonho’s scream was muffled by Shownu’s mouth.

BM held him through it. Hands on his shoulders, anchoring him as Shownu’s hips drove forward in a single, unbroken stroke, the thickness of him parting Wonho with a slick, wet sound that was barely audible over the broken keen tearing from Wonho’s throat.

Lube. Someone had found lube. BM didn’t remember seeing it happen, but Shownu’s fingers were glistening when they’d first pressed inside, working Wonho open with two, then three digits that scissored with surgical patience. Wonho had sobbed into Shownu’s shoulder then, his hips rolling down onto the intrusion, begging in a stream of Korean that BM only half-understood.

Now Shownu was fully seated, his hips flush against the backs of Wonho’s thighs, and Wonho’s eyes were glassy, his mouth slack, his chest heaving with the effort of accommodating.

“Look at me,” Shownu commanded.

Wonho’s gaze dragged upward. Obeyed.

Shownu moved.

The rhythm was slow at first—deep, grinding thrusts that rolled Wonho’s body against the leather, that pushed the air out of his lungs in rhythmic gusts. Wonho’s hands scrambled for purchase on Shownu’s back, his arms, the couch cushions, anything. Found nothing stable. Ended up gripping BM’s thighs, his nails leaving crescent marks.

BM’s cock was a hard line against Wonho’s lower back. He hadn’t undressed yet, still wearing his shorts and that ridiculous single-button polo, and the friction of fabric against his own arousal was a steady, pulsing ache that he ignored. His focus was on Wonho—on the way his lashes fluttered, the way his hips tried to meet Shownu’s thrusts and couldn’t quite coordinate, the way his mouth kept forming words that never made it past his lips.

Shownu’s pace increased. His hips snapped forward with more authority now, the wet sounds of their joining growing louder, and Wonho’s head thrashed against BM’s stomach.

“Please—I can’t—it’s too—”

“You can.” Shownu’s voice was steady. Unmoved. His hand slid up Wonho’s chest, over his sternum, curled around the front of his throat with just enough pressure to feel the flutter of his pulse. “You will.”

The orgasm caught Wonho by surprise. BM saw it happen—the sudden arch of his spine, the way his mouth opened on a silent scream, the violent clench of his abdominal muscles as his release painted stripes across his own chest. Shownu didn’t stop. Drove him through it with relentless, measured strokes until Wonho was twitching, oversensitive, his whimpers taking on a desperate edge.

Shownu pulled out.

Wonho sagged, boneless, into BM’s lap.

“Switch,” Shownu said. The word was directed at BM.

BM didn’t need to be told twice.

He eased out from behind Wonho, the other man’s body slumping onto the cushions with a soft, involuntary moan. Stood. Stripped with an efficiency that was almost mechanical—the single button of his polo popping open, the shorts hitting the floor, his boxer briefs following. His cock sprang free, flushed and aching, the tip slick with pre-cum that had been building since the balcony.

Wonho’s eyes tracked him. Glassy, but present.

“Hey,” BM said, climbing onto the sectional, positioning himself. “Still with us?”

Wonho’s answer was a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and his legs spread in invitation.

BM took it.

The position was different this time. Wonho on top, straddling BM’s hips, his body still loose and slick from Shownu’s attention. BM guided himself to Wonho’s entrance, and Wonho sank down with a broken cry, taking him to the hilt in one slow, inexorable motion.

The heat was staggering. Wet and tight and fluttering around him, the residual contractions of Wonho’s first orgasm still rippling through his walls.

BM’s head fell back. His hands found Wonho’s hips, the bones sharp under his palms, and he let Wonho set the pace—a rolling, grinding rhythm that was slower than Shownu’s but no less devastating. Wonho’s thighs bunched and released with each movement, the dense muscle flexing visibly under his skin.

Shownu watched.

That was the thing. He didn’t move, didn’t touch himself, just stood at the edge of the sectional with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes tracking every roll of Wonho’s hips, every flutter of BM’s eyelids. His own cock was still hard, still slick, jutting from his body in a curve that was almost aggressive.

And then he moved.

Behind Wonho. His hands found the globes of Wonho’s ass, spreading them, and BM felt the pause—the moment of stillness—before Shownu pressed the head of his cock against the tight rim that was already stretched around BM’s girth.

Wonho stopped moving. His eyes flew open. Met BM’s.

“Hyungwoo hyu—” he started.

“Breathe,” Shownu said, the same word BM had used earlier, and then he pushed.

The sound Wonho made was not human.

A scream, a sob, a prayer—something that tore itself from the deepest part of his chest and hung in the air like smoke. His body seized, caught between two thick cocks, two points of impossible fullness, and BM felt every inch of Shownu’s intrusion through the thin membrane separating them.

Pressure. Heat. A stretch that bordered on pain and became something else entirely.

“Oh god oh god oh god—” Wonho’s chant was barely audible, his voice shredded, his forehead pressed to BM’s shoulder.

Shownu bottomed out. Held.

The three of them stayed like that for a heartbeat. Two. Three. A tableau of sweat and muscle and shared breath, Wonho’s body impossibly full, impossibly surrendered.

Then BM moved.

A shallow thrust, barely a roll of his hips, and Wonho’s cry was muffled against BM’s neck. Shownu echoed the movement behind him, pulling out a fraction and sliding back in, and Wonho’s whole body convulsed.

They found a rhythm. Not synchronized—that was impossible—but alternating. BM’s retreat was Shownu’s advance, and Wonho was caught in the center of it, a vessel for their combined pleasure, his voice rising and falling with each stroke.

The sounds were obscene. Wet flesh, ragged breathing, the creak of leather under shifting weight. BM’s grunts were low, guttural, punctuated by English curses that spilled out without his permission. Shownu was nearly silent, just the heavy exhalation of his breaths and the occasional deep groan that rumbled through Wonho’s body and into BM’s.

Wonho was not silent. Wonho was a symphony of whimpers and pleas and broken versions of their names, his sweat-slick body writhing between them, his second orgasm building visibly in the tension of his shoulders, the desperate clutch of his inner walls.

“Close,” BM gritted out. “I’m—”

“Together,” Shownu said. The word was a command.

His rhythm fractured. Became erratic. His hips snapped with a force that pushed Wonho down harder onto BM’s cock, and BM felt the answering surge in his own belly, the tightening that started in his groin and radiated outward like ripples in a pond.

Wonho came first. A second time, dry now, his body clenching with such violence that BM saw stars. The contraction pulled Shownu over the edge—a deep, grinding thrust that stilled, buried to the root, his release pulsing hot and wet into the already overstuffed channel.

BM followed. Couldn’t help it. The dual sensation of Wonho’s spasming body and Shownu’s pulsing finish sent him careening into his own orgasm, a white-out of pleasure that erased thought, erased time, erased everything except the hot pulse of his seed joining the mess already inside.

They collapsed.

A tangle of limbs on the leather, chests heaving, skin slicked with cooling sweat and viscous release. Wonho was sandwiched between them, completely boneless, his eyes closed and his lips parted and his breath coming in shallow, shuddering sips.

The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that follows a storm, heavy and humming and thick with the aftermath.

Shownu’s forehead rested against Wonho’s damp shoulder. His arm was draped across Wonho’s waist, a possessive curve of muscle and bone, and his thumb traced idle circles on Wonho’s hip that seemed entirely unconscious.

BM leaned back against the opposite armrest, one leg tucked under him, the other sprawled. His hand moved without thought, tracing the deep valleys of Wonho’s abdominal muscles—the ridges of the rectus, the sharp descent toward the navel. His fingers came away sticky.

No one spoke.

The first pale light of dawn crept through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the penthouse in shades of charcoal and rose. It caught on the empty glasses scattered across the coffee table, the discarded heap of shredded knit fabric on the floor, the gleam of Wonho’s skin where sweat still clung.

Shownu stirred. Lifted his head just enough to look at BM over the curve of Wonho’s shoulder. His eyes were still dark, still assessing, but something softer moved beneath the surface now.

BM met his gaze. Held it.

Something unspoken passed between them—a recognition, a promise, a question that neither was ready to voice.

Wonho shifted between them, a small sound escaping his throat, and both of them looked down. His lashes fluttered. His lips curved in the ghost of a smile, hazy and unguarded.

“Stay,” he murmured. Not a question.