#bottom jooheon

The company headquarters loomed silent against the Seoul skyline, most of its windows dark except for the scattered glow of overnight production rooms. BM’s sneakers squeaked against the polished lobby floor as the security guard waved him through, Joohoney had left his name, apparently. The elevator ride to the ninth floor took long enough for him to check his reflection in the brushed steel doors.

He wasn’t vain. He was aware. Six-two, two hundred and change, shoulders that made doorframes feel narrower than they actually were. The black compression shirt did what it always did—hugged the architecture of his chest and arms without trying too hard. Gold chain. Minimal jewelry. He looked like he belonged here, or anywhere.

The elevator chimed.

The hallway beyond was dim, lined with studio doors marked by engraved plaques. He spotted the one he wanted immediately: a custom metal plate reading “JH” in aggressive, angular font, backlit by a thin strip of red LED. Before he could knock, the door swung inward.

“You’re punctual. Respect.”

Joohoney stood in the doorway, and the first thing BM registered was the energy. Compact but coiled, the man radiated a kind of high-frequency intensity that made the air around him feel charged. He wore an oversized white tank top that draped off one shoulder, revealing the dense architecture of his traps and delts, and gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. His smile split wide, dimples carving deep parentheses into his cheeks.

“Bro, you think I’m gonna be late to see the legendary setup?” BM stepped inside, already scanning. “This is the one you’ve been posting on IG for months.”

“Months of curation.” Joohoney closed the door behind them and locked it with a decisive click. “Every piece in here has a purpose. Energy doesn’t lie.”

The main room opened up like a cathedral of controlled chaos. Overhead, the ceiling was paneled in alternating red and black acoustic squares—the checkered pattern BM had glimpsed in photos, but up close it felt almost hypnotic, the geometry pulling your eye across the room in waves. Pink and violet neon strips ran along the baseboards and behind the monitor setup, casting everything in a low, liquid glow that made shadows pool in the corners.

“The ceiling panels,” BM said, tilting his head back. “Custom-cut?”

“Imported from Germany. Each one’s a different density depending on placement—bass traps in the corners, diffusion in the center.” Joohoney’s voice pitched up with genuine enthusiasm, the producer-brain taking over. “I spent three weeks on that alone. The room breathes exactly how I want it to.”

He gestured toward the far wall, where his logo dominated the space. Hand-painted in black and metallic gold, the brushstrokes visible up close, giving it texture and weight. Below it, a glass display cabinet caught the neon and threw it back in fractured glints.

“Hold up.” BM crossed to the cabinet and crouched down. “Is that the Spider-Man 2099 figure? The limited Japan release?”

“Number four hundred and twelve of five hundred.” Joohoney’s reflection appeared in the glass beside him, grinning. “Next to the Bugatti Chiron model. And that—” He tapped the glass directly above a sleek black vehicle. “—is the Batman car Wonho hyung gave me for my birthday two years ago. He said it matched my ‘dark producer energy.’”

BM’s attention snagged on the name. He straightened slowly. “Wonho’s got taste.”

“Wonho’s got a lot of things.” Joohoney’s tone shifted almost imperceptibly—still casual, but with a new layer underneath. He moved past BM toward the private bar counter, all glossy black surface and minimalist shelving. “You want something? Water, soju, something stronger?”

“Water’s fine.”

Joohoney poured two glasses from a chilled bottle, and when he handed one over, their fingers brushed. Cold condensation. Warm skin. Neither man acknowledged it.

“Face Genius.” BM pointed to a framed award on the shelf above the bar, the Korean text ornate and official.

“Don’t laugh.” Joohoney did laugh, though, a bright burst of sound. “My mom still brings it up to strangers. Every item in this room—the awards, the figures, the panels, the neon—it’s all arranged to cultivate a specific energy. High intensity. No dead zones. Creativity needs friction.”

He said the last word with his eyes locked on BM’s.

The air changed. Subtle, but definite—like a bass frequency you felt before you heard.

“Show me the booth,” BM said.

he recording booth was smaller than he’d expected.

Insulated foam covered every surface in geometric waves, charcoal gray and textured like egg crate, swallowing the ambient light until the only illumination came from a thin strip of violet LED running along the ceiling seam. The space couldn’t have been more than seven feet across, dominated by a plush dark leather recliner positioned before a high-end condenser microphone on a counterweighted boom arm. The mic wore its pop filter like a mesh crown.

Joohoney slipped past BM into the booth, his shoulder brushing against BM’s chest in the tight quarters. “This is the heart. The actual heart. Everything out there—” He jerked his chin toward the main room. “—is just the circulatory system.”

“Soundproofed how well?”

“You could scream in here and they wouldn’t hear it on the floor below. Triple-layer insulation, air-gapped walls. I recorded half the last album’s ad-libs at three in the morning.” Joohoney settled into the recliner, spreading his knees wide, taking up space he didn’t physically have the mass to occupy. The confidence made up the difference. “You want to test it?”

“Test how?”

Instead of answering, Joohoney leaned forward toward the mic, his lips nearly brushing the pop filter, and dropped into something that wasn’t quite words.

“Gugu-chk chk Gugu-tacha.”

The beatboxing rolled out of him in a percussive cascade, impossibly textured—his throat producing bass hits and snare snaps and hi-hat rhythms simultaneously, the sound so dense it seemed to thicken the air. The acoustics caught every frequency and held it, no reverb, no decay, just pure presence. His voice dropped lower on the second pass, rougher, and the vibration traveled through the floor into BM’s sternum.

Then Joohoney looked up.

His eyes were dark, liquid, and entirely aware of what he was doing. “Well? How’s the sound?”

BM closed the distance.

Three steps in a space that barely allowed two, his frame swallowing the remaining square footage until he was standing directly over the recliner. Joohoney didn’t lean back. Didn’t flinch. Just tilted his chin up to maintain eye contact, the beatboxing dying on his lips.

BM planted both hands on the insulated wall behind Joohoney’s head, arms braced, boxing him in. The foam compressed under his palms with a soft crunching sound.

“Crystal clear,” BM said.

Joohoney’s gaze tracked down BM’s body with deliberate, unhurried attention. Across the breadth of his shoulders. Down the compression shirt’s strained seams. Over the chest his fans called “big matthews” and the arms that had become their own brand. The inspection was thorough. Professional, almost. Like he was assessing studio equipment.

Then he let out a low whistle.

“You’re massive,” Joohoney said. Flat. Factual. “Like, I knew you were big from photos, but in person? You swallow up the whole booth. There’s barely room for me to breathe.”

BM chuckled, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. “Man, you haven’t seen Wonho lately. He’s still way swoller than me. That guy’s built different.”

The name landed.

Joohoney’s expression flickered—something quick and knowing passing behind his eyes. His dimples appeared, but the smile that accompanied them wasn’t the bright, enthusiastic one from before. It was slicker. Sharper.

“Wonho hyung,” Joohoney repeated, drawing out the syllables. “Funny you mention him.”

“Funny how?”

“He’s brought you up before. A few times, actually.” Joohoney leaned forward in the recliner, closing the already minimal distance between them until his tank top brushed BM’s shirt. His voice dropped to something just above a whisper. “When we talk. About… certain things.”

BM’s arms stayed planted on the wall. His pulse kicked up eight notches. “What kind of things?”

“You really want me to spell it out?”

“I want you to tell me exactly what Wonho said.”

Joohoney’s tongue darted across his lower lip. “He said you’re competitive. Said you don’t back down from anything. Said if someone pushes, you push back twice as hard.” The recliner creaked as he shifted his weight forward. “But he also said you talk a big game and sometimes need someone to make you follow through.”

The challenge hung in the air between them, electric and waiting.

BM’s jaw tightened. “Wonho said that?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’m adding my own observations.” Joohoney’s knee pressed against the outside of BM’s thigh, intentional pressure through thin sweatpants. “You came here for studio advice. You’re getting it. The energy in a room matters. The tension matters. You can’t make great art without friction.”

“And you think you can provide that friction?”

“I know I can.” Joohoney’s hand came up and fisted into the collar of BM’s compression shirt, knuckles pressing against his collarbone. The gesture was aggressive but not violent—a claim, not an attack. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”

BM surged forward.

His mouth found Joohoney’s with the same precision he brought to everything else—not sloppy, not desperate, but exact. The kiss was a collision of heat and intent, Joohoney’s lips parting immediately, his free hand coming up to grip the back of BM’s neck. The recliner groaned under their combined weight as Joohoney pulled him down.

“This booth’s too tight,” Joohoney gasped against BM’s mouth. “Can’t—”

“Yeah.” BM pulled back just enough to breathe. “Yeah.”

They moved together in a tangle of limbs, Joohoney keeping his grip on BM’s collar as he dragged himself out of the recliner and backward through the booth door. His shoulder hit the frame, and he laughed—low and breathless—before pulling BM through into the main room.

The couch stretched long and low against the far wall, dark leather gleaming under the pink and violet neon. Joohoney backed toward it without breaking eye contact, his chest rising and falling in sharp, anticipatory breaths. The oversized tank top slipped further off his shoulder.

“Lose the shirt,” Joohoney said. Not a request.

BM stripped it off in one motion, the compression fabric peeling away to reveal the full scope of his physique—chest broad enough to cast shadows, abdominals carved in sharp relief, the gold chain catching neon and scattering pink light across his collarbones. Joohoney’s tank top followed a half-second later, dropped carelessly to the floor.

The contrast between them was obscene. Joohoney’s dense, explosive frame—shoulders like carved stone, torso compact and powerful—against BM’s towering, broad-shouldered architecture. Two different definitions of formidable, pressing into each other’s space.

“Couch,” Joohoney managed. “Now.”

BM’s hands found Joohoney’s hips and steered him backward until the backs of his knees hit the leather. They went down together, Joohoney’s back hitting the cushions, BM bracketing him with arms and chest, the couch wide enough to accommodate both of them but just barely. Joohoney’s sweatpants were already being worked down past his thighs, BM’s following in a graceless scramble of fabric and elastic.

The neon painted everything in shades of rose and amethyst. Joohoney’s skin looked almost otherworldly under it—flushed and gleaming, the sweat already starting to sheen across his chest and shoulders.

“Turn over,” BM rasped.

Joohoney complied, shifting onto his stomach, and BM’s breath caught somewhere in his throat. The man’s back was a landscape of muscle and definition, tapering down to a narrow waist and the curve of his ass—pale, firm, the cleft visible in the low light. BM’s hands spanned the width of Joohoney’s hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples just above his tailbone.

“Wonho said you were thorough,” Joohoney murmured into the leather, his voice muffled but unmistakably smug. “Prove him right.”

BM lowered his mouth to the base of Joohoney’s spine.

He worked downward, tongue tracing the path of vertebrae, heat blooming wherever his lips touched skin. Joohoney’s breath hitched when BM reached the swell of his ass, hands gripping the edge of the couch cushion. BM didn’t rush. He took his time mapping the territory—kissing, licking, letting his stubble drag just enough to raise goosebumps across the sensitive skin.

When he spread Joohoney open, the man let out a sound that was half gasp, half laugh.

“Finally. Been waiting for you to—”

BM’s tongue cut off the rest of the sentence.

Joohoney’s response was immediate and unguarded—a sharp, punched-out moan that he tried to muffle against the leather but couldn’t quite contain. His hips jerked involuntarily, and BM’s grip on his thighs tightened in response, holding him steady. The pink hole fluttered under his attention, tightening and releasing in rapid succession as BM laved over it with broad, flat strokes.

“Fuck,” Joohoney breathed. “Fuck, your mouth—”

BM hummed against him, and Joohoney’s back arched, his spine curving into a deep bow. The sounds he made were exquisite—high and breathless, completely unlike his deep rap register, a private frequency that only this room would ever hear. His fingers scrabbled against the leather, seeking purchase, finding none.

BM worked him open with patient, relentless attention. He alternated between pointed precision and broad sweeps, reading Joohoney’s body like sheet music—the tremor in his right thigh meant harder, the way his breath caught meant slower, the desperate roll of his hips meant don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop. The room filled with wet, obscene sounds and the rhythmic creak of leather.

“I’m—okay—enough.” Joohoney’s voice cracked on the last word. He pushed up onto his elbows and twisted to look over his shoulder, his face flushed, dimples carved deep with something between ecstasy and impatience. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

BM didn’t need to be told twice.

He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against the slick, prepared opening, and Joohoney’s eyes fluttered half-closed. The initial push met resistance—and then yielded, Joohoney’s body opening for him in a slow, tight slide that pulled a groan from somewhere deep in BM’s chest.

“Jesus,” BM managed. “You’re—”

“I know.” Joohoney’s voice was strained, triumphant. “Keep going.”

BM sank deeper, inch by excruciating inch, until he was fully seated and Joohoney was trembling beneath him, his forehead pressed to the leather, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. The fit was impossibly tight, slick and hot and clutching around him with every involuntary clench.

Then he started to move.

The rhythm built naturally—not the frantic, rushed pace of a hookup, but something more deliberate. BM’s hips rolled in deep, grinding thrusts that pushed Joohoney forward into the cushions with every stroke. The leather groaned beneath them. The sub-bass from the monitors, still on from earlier, vibrated through the floor and into their bones, a low hum that matched the pulse of blood in BM’s ears.

Joohoney was vocal in a way that BM hadn’t anticipated. Every thrust pulled a sound from him—sharp, high moans that he tried to stifle, breathless curses in Korean that BM didn’t need to translate to understand, a litany of “yes” and “there” and “don’t stop” that got progressively less coherent as the pace increased. When BM hit a particular angle, Joohoney’s whole body seized and he bit down on his own forearm to keep from screaming.

“Nah,” BM grunted, reaching forward to pull the arm away. “Let me hear you. Room’s soundproofed, right?”

Joohoney’s laugh dissolved into a moan. “Arrogant—ah—bastard.”

“Confident. There’s a difference.”

BM shifted his grip to Joohoney’s hips, fingers digging into the dense muscle there, and increased his pace. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the main room, obscene and rhythmic, undercut by Joohoney’s increasingly desperate vocalizations. Sweat dripped from BM’s chest onto Joohoney’s back, mingling with the sheen already there, and the neon caught the moisture and turned it into liquid light.

He was close. They both were—he could feel it in the way Joohoney’s body tightened around him, in the frantic pitch of his moans, in the way his own thrusts were starting to lose their rhythm and become something more urgent, more primal.

“Come on,” Joohoney gasped, pushing back against him. “Come on, Matthew. Give it to me.”

BM’s vision narrowed to a single point of focus. The man beneath him. The heat. The friction. The sound of his own name in Joohoney’s wrecked, desperate voice.

He drove forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as a ragged grunt tore from his throat. Joohoney’s entire body went rigid, his back arching dramatically under the sudden, searing heat of BM’s release, a long, high-pitched whine echoing off the studio walls before he collapsed face-down into the leather.

For several long minutes, the only sound in the sanctuary was the heavy, synchronized sound of their breathing, heavy and uneven against the faint, persistent hum of the idling subwoofers.

Slowly, the frantic edge of the adrenaline began to dull, replaced by a heavy, syrupy exhaustion. BM shifted his weight, carefully pulling out with a wet, quiet sound that made Joohoney let out a weak, appreciative murmur. Instead of getting up, BM reached down to the floor, blindly grabbing his discarded compression shirt and using it to lazily wipe away the slick sheen of sweat from their hips before tossing it back onto the hardwood.

With a low groan, BM slid onto his side on the plush leather couch, pulling Joohoney backward into his chest.

Joohoney didn’t fight it. He let out a breathless, tired laugh, his dense, muscular frame fitting surprisingly well against the massive breadth of BM’s chest. He reached back, his fingers loosely tangling with BM’s gold chain, tracing the heavy links as the pink and violet neon lights washed over them both.

"Friction," BM murmured into the damp curve of Joohoney’s neck, his voice deeper and more gravelly than usual. "You weren't lying."

"Told you. The acoustic design... unmatched," Joohoney wheezed softly, his eyes half-closed as he leaned heavily into the warmth of BM’s torso. He shifted his hips slightly, finding a comfortable groove against BM's thighs. "Though I don't think Germany engineered the panels for that specific frequency."

BM chuckled, a deep vibration that Joohoney felt directly against his spine. He wrapped one massive arm securely around Joohoney’s waist, pulling him even closer until there wasn't a single inch of dead zone between them. "We're gonna have to tell Wonho his advice was solid."

"Shut up," Joohoney muttered, though his lips curved into a soft, genuine smile, his dimples reappearing in the violet light. "Let me sleep for twenty minutes. If I don't get some sort of rest, the hair and makeup team is going to kill me at five a.m."

"Five?" BM blinked, a sudden reality check hitting his sleep-deprived brain. He checked the digital clock glowing on the studio monitor across the room. It was already past three. "Damn. I've got a concept shoot at six."

"Exactly. So don't move." Joohoney let his head drop back against BM’s shoulder, his breathing instantly slowing down as his body began to drift off.

Jooheon’s breath caught somewhere in his throat. His eyes dropped from the television screen—now showing a slow scroll of names against black—to the limb currently pinning him to the futon. Minhyuk’s shorts had ridden up slightly, exposing a stripe of shin, and the leg itself was…

“Hyung.”

The word came out rough. Not the playful whine Jooheon used when he wanted snacks, not the teasing lilt he deployed during variety shows. Something lower. Something that made Minhyuk’s toes curl against the blanket.

“What?” Minhyuk didn’t look at him. His voice was carefully light, his gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling. “I always do this.”

“You always did this when you weighed maybe sixty-five kilos soaking wet.”

A pause.

“I do not weigh sixty-five kilos anymore.”

Jooheon let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-something-else. He looked at the leg draped over him—really looked. The muscle definition that hadn’t existed in their early twenties, the solid weight of a body that had spent two years doing drills and carrying equipment and becoming something harder. Minhyuk had always been lean, had always been beautiful in that sharp, angular way that cameras loved.

Now he was substantial.

“I can feel that,” Jooheon said. His hand hovered over Minhyuk’s calf, not quite touching. “You’re heavy.”

“Sorry—” Minhyuk started to pull back.

“I didn’t say move.”

The words hung in the dark living room. Minhyuk’s leg stopped mid-retreat, suspended in uncertainty. On the television, the screen had gone fully black, and the apartment was lit only by the pale orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains.

Jooheon’s palm made contact.

It was a simple touch—fingers wrapping around Minhyuk’s ankle, thumb pressing into the ridge of bone just above his sock. But the pressure was different from the casual, fleeting skinship of their trainee days. This wasn’t a pat on the back or a hand ruffling hair. This was deliberate. Grounding.

Minhyuk’s stomach tightened.

“You’ve got calluses now,” he said, because saying something about calluses was easier than addressing the way Jooheon’s thumb was slowly tracing the tendon along the inside of his ankle.

“Push-ups,” Jooheon replied. “The sergeant had a thing about push-ups.”

“How many?”

“Enough that my hands will never be soft again.”

Minhyuk turned his head then, finally meeting Jooheon’s eyes. The younger man’s face was half in shadow, the streetlamp catching the edge of his jaw and the glint of his dark eyes. There was something in his expression that Minhyuk couldn’t immediately name—an intensity that hadn’t existed in the boy who used to cling to him during thunderstorms, who cried at sappy dramas, whose dimples appeared at the slightest provocation.

The dimples weren’t appearing now.

“You’re staring,” Minhyuk said.

“Yeah.”

“That’s creepy.”

“You’re the one with your leg in my lap.”

“I’m older. I’m allowed.”

Jooheon’s grip shifted, sliding up from ankle to calf. His fingers pressed into the muscle there, and Minhyuk felt the touch radiate upward—through his knee, his thigh, settling somewhere deep in his lower belly. The pressure wasn’t painful. It was just… a lot. More than the casual contact they’d shared in the past. More than the playful wrestling that had always ended in breathless laughter and accusations of cheating.

“You’ve been home three weeks,” Jooheon said. His voice had dropped another register, words coming slower. “We’ve hung out six times.”

“I’m aware.”

“And every time, you’ve done something like this. Touched me the way you used to. Leaned on me. Thrown your arm around my shoulder.” His thumb found a knot of tension in Minhyuk’s calf and pressed into it. “But you pull back before it goes anywhere. Like you’re unsure of whatever.”

Minhyuk’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not unsure of anything.”

“Liar.”

The word landed soft—no accusation in it, just recognition. Jooheon was looking at him with that unreadable expression, and Minhyuk felt his carefully maintained composure start to crack at the edges. Two years. Two years of texts that arrived sporadically, of phone calls squeezed between training exercises, of lying in his bunk and wondering if things would feel the same when they both got out.

And now they were here, and things didn’t feel the same. They felt bigger. Heavier.

“Hyung.” Jooheon’s hand had stilled on his calf. “Look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

“You’re looking at my forehead. Look at me.”

Minhyuk dragged his gaze downward. Eye contact in the near-darkness. Jooheon’s expression wasn’t unreadable anymore—it was hungry. Carefully contained, but hungry. The kind of look that made Minhyuk’s pulse jump in his throat.

“There,” Jooheon murmured. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“You’ve gotten bossy.”

“I’ve gotten a lot of things.”

The hand on Minhyuk’s calf released, and Jooheon turned his body fully toward the older man. The movement shifted the futon, made the blankets bunch between them, and Minhyuk had approximately half a second to register the change in dynamic before Jooheon was moving again—this time, planting one hand on the mattress beside Minhyuk’s head and the other on his hip.

Not pinning him. Not yet. But the potential was there, written in the breadth of Jooheon’s shoulders and the deliberate slowness of his movements.

“You’re hovering,” Minhyuk said.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“About how you used to do this to me.” Jooheon’s thumb pressed into the jut of Minhyuk’s hipbone through his thin t-shirt. “In the dorms. After schedules. You’d get bored and decide I was your personal stress ball, and you’d just—” He broke off, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “You’d just climb all over me and dare me to do something about it.”

“You never did anything about it.”

“I was twenty-two and terrified of you.”

“Terrified of me?” Minhyuk’s eyebrows rose. “You?”

“Not physically. I wasn’t scared you’d hurt me.” Jooheon’s voice went quieter. “I was scared I’d break character. That I’d stop playing along and actually— ” He stopped. Swallowed. The sound was audible in the silence of the apartment.

Minhyuk’s chest felt tight.

“Actually what?”

Jooheon’s answer wasn’t verbal. His hand slid from Minhyuk’s hip to his waist, fingers spreading wide across the plane of his stomach. The touch was firm—firmer than it had ever been in their twenties, when everything had been rushed and giggly and half-suppressed. There was no suppression now. Jooheon’s palm pressed down like he was studying the shape of Minhyuk’s body through the cotton, the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his abdominal muscles tensed at the contact.

“Actually this,” Jooheon said.

Minhyuk’s exhale was shaky. "Honey.”

“Don’t ‘Honey’ me when you’re the one who started it.” The younger man’s voice had developed a gravel edge, that rasp he usually reserved for the stage, and hearing it in the dark quiet of his living room did something devastating to Minhyuk’s composure. “You threw your leg over me. You always start it. But you never—”

“I didn’t know if you still wanted—” The words tumbled out before Minhyuk could stop them, and he clamped his mouth shut, heat flooding his cheeks.

Jooheon went still. The hand on Minhyuk’s stomach didn’t move.

“If I still wanted?”

“Things are different now. We’re different. We’re not—I don’t know what we are anymore, but we’re not those kids who used to—” Minhyuk’s hands came up, not to push Jooheon away but to grip the front of his hoodie. The fabric bunched under his fingers. “I didn’t want to assume.”

For a long moment, Jooheon just looked at him. Then his free hand came up, and his knuckles traced the line of Minhyuk’s jaw—lightly, almost reverently.

“You’re an idiot,” Jooheon said.

“Excuse me?”

“An idiot. A beautiful, broad-shouldered, incredibly dense idiot who spent two years in the military and somehow came back thinking I wouldn’t—” He broke off, jaw working. “Hyung, I wrote you hundreds of texts. Hundreds. I even put heart emojis.”

“You send hearts on all the members’.”

“I put different hearts on yours.”

Minhyuk blinked. “Different how?”

Instead of answering, Jooheon leaned down. Not to kiss him—not yet—but to press his forehead against Minhyuk’s, the bridge of his nose brushing the older man’s. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between their mouths. Minhyuk could smell the faint remnants of the beer Jooheon had drank with dinner, could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

“We’re not boys anymore,” Jooheon murmured. “You’re right about that. Everything’s different.” His hand slid from Minhyuk’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. “But hyung. I didn’t spend two years thinking about you just to come home and be your dongsaeng.”

Minhyuk’s fingers tightened in Jooheon’s hoodie.

“What did you come home to be?”

The question hung between them, raw and honest. Jooheon pulled back just enough to meet Minhyuk’s eyes, and the smile that curved his mouth was small but real—dimples barely ghosting the surface.

“Let me show you,” he said.

And then his weight shifted, and Minhyuk found himself being guided backward onto the mattress, Jooheon’s body settling over his with a deliberateness that made his head spin. Not pinning—not quite—but surrounding. Jooheon’s knees bracketed Minhyuk’s hips. His hands planted on either side of the older man’s shoulders. The streetlamp threw orange light across his features, catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the darkness of his gaze.

Minhyuk’s hands were still fisted in the front of his hoodie. He didn’t let go.

“You’re heavier too,” he managed. “For the record.”

“Push-ups,” Jooheon said again, and the smirk in his voice made Minhyuk want to hit him. Or kiss him. Maybe both.

“Shut up about the push-ups.”

“Make me.”

The challenge landed like a physical blow—and then Minhyuk saw it, the flicker of uncertainty beneath Jooheon’s confidence. The younger man was holding himself carefully, muscles coiled with restraint, waiting to see how far he was allowed to push. Waiting to see if Minhyuk would pull back again, retreat behind the safety of platonic skinship and hyung-dongsaeng dynamics.

Minhyuk didn’t pull back.

His hands released Jooheon’s hoodie and slid upward, palms flat against his chest. Beneath the soft cotton, he could feel the topography of muscle that hadn’t existed three years ago—the defined pectorals, the ridge of his sternum, the steady thud of his heartbeat. Jooheon’s pulse was racing. Fast and urgent, like a snare drum.

“Your heart’s pounding,” Minhyuk said.

“I’m aware.”

“Nervous?”

“No.” A pause. “Yes. Shut up.”

“You told me to make you.”

Jooheon’s laugh was startled out of him—a genuine, dimpled laugh that briefly cracked the intensity of his expression. For a second, he was just Jooheon again, the one who did aegyo at the drop of a hat and screamed at horror movies.

Then the laugh faded, and the intensity returned, and Jooheon’s knee nudged Minhyuk’s thigh wider.

“The day before I discharged,” Jooheon said, voice dropping back to that stage-rasp, “I lay in my bunk and tried to imagine this. What it would feel like. If it would be the same as before.”

“And?”

“And my imagination was garbage.” His head dipped lower, mouth brushing the shell of Minhyuk’s ear. “Because I couldn’t account for this.”

His hips rolled downward—slow, grinding.

The friction was devastating. Two layers of sweatpants between them, but Minhyuk felt the pressure like a shock to his system, his spine arching involuntarily off the mattress. A sound escaped his throat that he hadn’t made in years—something between a gasp and a groan, deeper than the breathless laughter of their twenties, more honest.

Jooheon’s breath hitched at the sound.

“That,” he said. “I couldn’t account for that. The way you’d sound. The way you’d—” His hips rolled again, and Minhyuk’s hands flew to his shoulders, gripping hard. “—respond. You used to be so in control, hyung. What happened to that?”

“I’m still in control,” Minhyuk gritted out, but his voice cracked on the last word.

“Sure you are.”

“I am. I’m older. I’m always in con—”

Jooheon’s mouth found his throat.

Not kissing, exactly. Just pressure—lips and tongue and the scrape of teeth against the tendon where Minhyuk’s pulse hammered. Not hard enough to mark, but hard enough to threaten it. Hard enough to make Minhyuk’s train of thought derail completely.

His fingers dug into Jooheon’s shoulders. The muscle there was dense, unyielding.

“You’ve been working out,” Minhyuk breathed.

“Mm.” Jooheon’s mouth traveled up to his jaw. “Noticed, did you?”

“Hard not to.”

“Good.” The word was hot against his skin. “I wanted you to notice.”

Minhyuk turned his head, and their mouths were suddenly close—close enough that if he moved half an inch, they’d be kissing. He could see the slight part of Jooheon’s lips, the gleam of his teeth, the way his pupils had blown wide.

“You could have just said something,” Minhyuk whispered. “Instead of waiting for me to put my leg in your lap.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

And then Jooheon shifted his weight to one arm, freeing his other hand to slide beneath the hem of Minhyuk’s t-shirt. His palm made contact with bare skin—the soft dip of Minhyuk’s waist, the sensitive stretch just above his hipbone—and Minhyuk’s whole body jolted.

Not from ticklishness. From the sheer intensity of the touch, the roughness of Jooheon’s callused palm against his skin.

Jooheon noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Sensitive,” he murmured. Not a question.

“It’s been a while.”

“For me too.” His fingers traced a path upward, pushing the shirt higher, exposing a stripe of Minhyuk’s abdomen to the cool air of the apartment. “You’re shaking.”

Minhyuk was. Fine tremors running through his frame, barely visible but unmistakable under Jooheon’s hand. He wanted to blame it on the cold, on the adrenaline, on anything except what it actually was—the overwhelming awareness that this was Jooheon touching him. Jooheon, who he’d known for over a decade. Jooheon, who he’d watched grow from a scrawny teenager with oversized dreams into this broad, deliberate, devastating man currently pinning him to a futon.

“I’m not going to break,” Minhyuk said. It came out steadier than he felt.

Jooheon’s eyes flicked to his. “I know.”

“So stop being so careful.”

Something shifted in Jooheon’s expression. The restraint that had been holding his shoulders tight—loosened. His hand on Minhyuk’s stomach pressed down harder, palm flat, fingers splayed.

“Careful?” he repeated. “Hyung, I’m not being careful. I’m being patient.”

“What’s the difference?”

Jooheon’s mouth curved. The dimples appeared, deep and devastating.

“You’re about to find out.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Minhyuk felt something click into place in his chest. Not fear. Not uncertainty. Recognition.

He’d waited two years for this. Had lain in his barracks bunk imagining what it would be like to have Jooheon look at him with exactly this expression—patient, hungry, utterly focused. The reality was sharper than any fantasy.

“Show me, then,” Minhyuk said.

Jooheon’s dimples deepened. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“I do.” The admission came easy, warm. “I always have.”

And then Jooheon’s mouth was on his.

The kiss wasn’t tentative. Wasn’t the careful, testing press of lips that Minhyuk had half-expected. Jooheon kissed like he rapped—precise, rhythmic, devastating. His mouth slanted across Minhyuk’s with the kind of confidence that came from years of wanting and months of planning, and Minhyuk’s response was immediate and involuntary.

His hands slid up from Jooheon’s shoulders to his jaw, fingers pressing into the sharp bones there, holding him in place. Jooheon made a sound against his mouth—low, approving—and deepened the kiss. His tongue swept across Minhyuk’s lower lip, and Minhyuk opened for him without thinking, without hesitation.

The taste was familiar and foreign all at once. Beer and something sweeter underneath. The faint salt of the popcorn they’d shared hours ago. The heat of him.

Jooheon’s hand was still under Minhyuk’s shirt, and now it moved—pushing the fabric higher, exposing his chest to the cool air. Minhyuk shivered, but not from cold.

“Off,” Jooheon murmured against his mouth. “This needs to come off.”

“You’re the one on top. Do something about it.”

The challenge earned him a sharp exhale—half laugh, half something darker. Jooheon sat back on his heels, thighs bracketing Minhyuk’s hips, and looked down at him. The streetlamp caught the angle of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders straining against his hoodie. He looked like a sculpture. Like something Minhyuk wanted to climb.

“Arms up,” Jooheon said.

Minhyuk complied. The t-shirt came off in one smooth motion, tossed somewhere into the darkness beyond the futon. The air hit his bare chest and his nipples tightened, and he watched Jooheon watch him—watched the younger man’s gaze track down his torso with the intensity of a spotlight.

“You’re staring again.”

“You’re gorgeous.” No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just fact. “You got so broad, hyung. Look at you.”

Minhyuk’s face heated. “It’s just the military training—”

“It’s not just anything.” Jooheon’s hands came down on his chest, palms flat against his pectorals, fingers spread wide. The calluses caught on his skin. “I thought about this. The weight you’d have. The way you’d feel under my hands.” He pressed down, a deliberate pressure that made Minhyuk’s breath stutter. “Reality’s better.”

“Jooheon—”

“Shh.” His thumb found Minhyuk’s nipple, circled it once, watched it pebble further. “Let me.”

Minhyuk let him.

He let Jooheon explore—callused palms mapping the topography of his chest, tracing the ridge of his collarbone, pressing into the soft give of his waist. Each touch was slower than it needed to be, more deliberate. Jooheon was cataloging him. Learning him. And the focus of it, the sheer undivided attention, made Minhyuk’s head spin.

“Your turn,” Minhyuk managed, when he could form words again. “Fair’s fair.”

Jooheon’s mouth twitched. “You want me naked?”

“I want you naked.”

“Then ask nicely.”

Minhyuk’s eyes narrowed. “I’m older than you.”

“And yet you’re the one on your back.” But Jooheon was already moving, already reaching behind his head to grab the collar of his hoodie and pull it off in one fluid motion. The undershirt followed, and then there was nothing between Minhyuk’s palms and Jooheon’s skin.

Nothing.

Minhyuk’s hands found him immediately—fingers spreading across the plane of his chest, tracing the lines of muscle that hadn’t existed three years ago. Jooheon’s body was a revelation: harder, denser, the soft edges of his youth replaced by sharp definition. But underneath the new muscle, there was still the warmth Minhyuk remembered. Still the way his heartbeat quickened when Minhyuk touched him.

“You’re shaking too,” Minhyuk said.

“I know.”

“Nervous?”

“Excited.” Jooheon’s voice had dropped to that gravel register, the one that made Minhyuk’s stomach tighten. “There’s a difference.”

He leaned down again, and this time when their mouths met, there was no restraint left. Jooheon kissed him deep and thorough, tongue sliding against his, teeth catching his lower lip just hard enough to make him gasp. Minhyuk’s hands roamed—over his shoulders, down his back, fingers pressing into the muscle along his spine.

Jooheon’s hips rolled down.

The friction was electric. Minhyuk could feel him through the layers of their sweatpants—the heat of him, the growing hardness pressing against his own. His hips bucked up instinctively, seeking more pressure, and Jooheon groaned into his mouth.

“Hyung.”

“Again,” Minhyuk demanded. “Do that again.”

Jooheon did. A slow, grinding roll that dragged their lengths together through the fabric, and Minhyuk’s head fell back, his throat exposed. Jooheon’s mouth found his neck immediately—not biting, not yet, just pressure. Lips and tongue tracing the tendon, the pulse point, the hollow of his collarbone.

Their sweatpants were too much. Too thick. Minhyuk’s hands found Jooheon’s waistband.

“These,” he said. “Off.”

“You too.”

“Fine.”

The negotiation was breathless, clumsy in a way that made Minhyuk’s chest ache with familiarity. They’d always been like this—challenging, pushing, turning everything into a competition. But the stakes felt different now. Higher. Jooheon lifted his hips and Minhyuk shoved his sweatpants down, and then Jooheon was returning the favor, tugging Minhyuk’s shorts off with an efficiency that suggested practice.

The cool air hit Minhyuk’s bare thighs.

They were both nude now, sprawled across the rumpled futon, the blankets kicked somewhere toward the foot of the mattress. Jooheon settled on top of him again, and the sensation of skin against skin—chest to chest, hip to hip—drew a sound from Minhyuk that he couldn’t have suppressed if he’d tried.

“Yeah,” Jooheon breathed. “That. That’s what I couldn’t imagine.”

His hips rolled. No fabric this time. Just heat and hardness and the slick slide of pre-come smearing between them. Minhyuk’s fingers dug into Jooheon’s shoulders.

“You feel—” His voice cracked. “You feel different.”

“Good different?”

“Heavy different.” Minhyuk’s hips bucked up. “Good. Yes. Good.”

Jooheon kissed him again, messy and uncoordinated, his rhythm stuttering as pleasure overtook precision. They ground against each other like that for long minutes—kissing, panting, the wet sounds of their mouths and the rustle of the futon filling the dark apartment. Minhyuk’s world narrowed to the weight of Jooheon on top of him, the heat of his skin, the steady pulse of their cocks sliding together.

Then Jooheon stopped.

Minhyuk made a sound of protest—actually whined, which he would deny later—but Jooheon was already moving, already shifting his weight to the side.

“I want to taste you,” he said. “And I want you to taste me. At the same time.”

Minhyuk’s brain short-circuited. “Sixty-nine?”

“Unless you have objections.”

“No objections. No objections at all.”

The rearrangement was awkward and perfect. Minhyuk shifted onto his side and Jooheon climbed over him, positioning himself in the opposite direction. Minhyuk found himself face-to-face with Jooheon’s cock—close enough to see the flush of the head, the pearly bead of moisture at the tip. Close enough to smell him, clean and musky and undeniably male.

Behind him, he felt Jooheon’s breath ghost across his own erection.

“You have no idea,” Jooheon said, his voice muffled, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Show me anyway.” Minhyuk’s hand wrapped around the base of Jooheon’s cock, and the younger man’s hips jerked. “Tell me.”

Jooheon’s answer was a groan as Minhyuk’s tongue traced the underside of his shaft.

He was beautiful. Pink and pretty, just like Minhyuk remembered from half-glimpsed locker room moments and the hazy boundaries of their twenties. The head was flushed deep rose, smooth and slick, and Minhyuk took his time exploring—licking at the ridge, tracing the vein that ran along the underside, pressing his tongue against the frenulum just to hear Jooheon gasp.

“I missed this,” Minhyuk murmured against his skin. “Missed your pretty pink cock, Jooheon-ah.”

Jooheon’s response was a shudder that ran through his entire body. “Hyung.”

“What? You wanted me to talk.”

“I wanted—” His voice broke as Minhyuk’s lips closed around the head. “I wanted you to—”

Whatever he wanted was lost in a moan as Minhyuk took him deeper. The weight of him on his tongue, the stretch of his jaw, the way Jooheon’s hips twitched like he was fighting the urge to thrust—it was overwhelming in the best way. Minhyuk hollowed his cheeks and pulled back slow, and Jooheon’s hand gripped his thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints.

Then Jooheon’s mouth found him.

The first touch of his tongue made Minhyuk’s vision white out. Jooheon licked him like he was savoring something—slow strokes from base to tip, pausing to circle the head with devastating precision. His hand cupped Minhyuk’s balls, thumb pressing gentle circles into the sensitive skin behind them, and Minhyuk had to pull off his cock just to breathe.

“Fuck.”

“Missed yours too,” Jooheon said against his shaft. “Your fat cock, hyung. Thought about it. About how it would feel in my mouth.”

“You thought about this?”

“Every night.” His tongue traced a vein. “Every night for two years.”

Minhyuk groaned and took Jooheon back into his mouth. They moved together in counterpoint—when Minhyuk sucked, Jooheon licked; when Jooheon took him deep, Minhyuk’s rhythm stuttered. They learned each other’s bodies through trial and error, through the involuntary jerks of hips and the sharp inhales that signaled pleasure.

Jooheon’s technique was different from what Minhyuk remembered. More confident. More demanding. He took Minhyuk deeper than he’d ever dared in their twenties, throat relaxing around him in a way that spoke of practice, of determination, of those two years of imagining. His hand worked what his mouth couldn’t reach, and the combination—wet heat and rough palm and those devastating calluses—had Minhyuk teetering on the edge within minutes.

He pulled off Jooheon’s cock with a gasp. “Stop. Stop, I’m going to—”

Jooheon’s mouth released him immediately. “Too much?”

“Too close.” Minhyuk pressed his forehead against Jooheon’s hip, breathing hard. “Not yet. Not like this.”

There was a pause. Then Jooheon was shifting, turning, repositioning himself until they were face-to-face again. His lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and there was a smear of moisture at the corner of his mouth that Minhyuk wanted to lick away.

“How do you want it?” Jooheon asked.

The question made Minhyuk’s chest tighten. Jooheon had always deferred to him in the past. Always let him lead. But this wasn’t the past, and Jooheon was asking with an intensity that suggested he already knew the answer.

Minhyuk reached up and cupped his face. “On your stomach.”

Jooheon’s breath caught.

“Bend over,” Minhyuk said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. “Arch your back for me.”

The shift was instant.

Jooheon’s dominant confidence cracked like a mirror. His eyes went wide, and then soft, and the dimples that had been missing all evening suddenly appeared—not in a smirk, but in something vulnerable. Something familiar.

“Hyung,” he whispered.

“You’ve been so bossy tonight.” Minhyuk’s thumb traced his cheekbone. “So in control. But you’re still my baby, aren’t you?”

Jooheon’s exhale was shaky. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m still yours.” His voice dropped, small and earnest. “I’m still your baby.”

The words landed in Minhyuk’s chest like a physical blow. He pulled Jooheon down for a kiss—softer this time, sweeter—and then gently pushed at his shoulder.

“Then bend over.”

Jooheon complied immediately. He settled on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow, and when Minhyuk’s hands guided his hips up, he arched his back with the kind of submission that made Minhyuk’s head spin. The streetlamp painted orange stripes across his skin, highlighting the dip of his spine, the swell of his ass, the dark shadow between his thighs.

And there—pink and tight and perfect—was Jooheon’s hole.

Minhyuk’s mouth went dry.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hands settled on Jooheon’s ass, thumbs spreading him open. “You’re so beautiful, Jooheon-ah.”

Jooheon whimpered into the pillow. A sound that went straight to Minhyuk’s cock.

He lowered his mouth and licked.

The first touch of his tongue made Jooheon’s whole body jolt. His hips bucked forward, then back, chasing the sensation, and Minhyuk’s hands held him steady. He licked again—a broad stroke from perineum to tailbone—and Jooheon’s whimper became a moan.

“Hyung, please—”

“Please what?” Minhyuk’s tongue circled his rim, feather-light. “Use your words.”

“More. Please, more.”

Minhyuk gave him more. He ate Jooheon out with the same patience Jooheon had shown him earlier—slow and deliberate and utterly focused. His tongue traced circles around the tight ring of muscle, pressed flat against it, teased at the center. Jooheon’s moans filled the apartment, muffled by the pillow but unmistakable, and the sounds he made were deeper than Minhyuk remembered. Rougher. A man’s sounds, not a boy’s.

The tip of his tongue pressed inside.

Jooheon cried out.

“There,” Minhyuk breathed against him. “There’s my baby.”

He worked him open with tongue and patience, with the kind of devotion that made up for two years of absence. Jooheon’s hips rocked back against his face, seeking more, and Minhyuk gave it to him—gave him everything, licking into him until his jaw ached and Jooheon was trembling beneath him.

“Hyung,” Jooheon gasped. “I need—I need you inside me.”

Minhyuk pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock was aching, leaking, desperate. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Please. Fuck me.”

The words went through Minhyuk like a current. He positioned himself behind Jooheon, one hand on his hip, the other guiding his cock to that slick, waiting heat. The head pressed against Jooheon’s entrance, and they both held their breath.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Minhyuk said.

“It won’t be. I want this. I want you.”

Minhyuk pushed inside.

The heat was staggering. Tight and wet and perfect, and Jooheon’s groan was the most beautiful sound Minhyuk had ever heard. He sank in slowly—inch by inch, giving Jooheon time to adjust—until his hips were flush against that perfect ass.

“Okay?”

“More than okay.” Jooheon’s voice was wrecked. “Move. Please move.”

Minhyuk moved.

The rhythm came naturally, the way it always had between them. Slow at first, then building. Minhyuk’s hands gripped Jooheon’s hips hard enough to bruise, and Jooheon pushed back into every thrust, meeting him with the same desperate need.

The apartment filled with the sounds of their bodies—skin on skin, the wet slide of Minhyuk’s cock, the broken moans falling from Jooheon’s lips. Minhyuk leaned over him, chest pressed to his back, and bit gently at the curve of his shoulder.

“You feel so good,” he breathed. “So tight for me.”

“Only for you. Only ever—ah—”

Minhyuk’s hand found Jooheon’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. The angle was awkward but the sensation was devastating—Jooheon’s body clenching around him, Jooheon’s cock pulsing in his grip.

They moved together like that for long minutes, lost in each other. Then Jooheon was pulling forward, slipping off Minhyuk’s cock, and Minhyuk barely had time to protest before Jooheon was flipping onto his back. His legs spread wide, knees drawn up, exposing himself completely.

“Like this,” he said, eyes dark and desperate. “Want to see you. Want to kiss you.”

Minhyuk settled between his thighs, guided himself back inside, and watched Jooheon’s face as he sank home. The pleasure that flickered across his features—the way his mouth fell open, the way his eyes fluttered shut—was the most erotic thing Minhyuk had ever witnessed.

He leaned down and kissed him.

They moved together with Jooheon’s legs wrapped around his waist, mouths fused, sweat-slick chests sliding together. Minhyuk’s hand found Jooheon’s cock again, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, and Jooheon’s moans vibrated against his lips.

“Close,” Jooheon gasped. “Hyung, I’m close—”

“Me too. Together. Come with me.”

“Yes, yes, please—”

Minhyuk’s rhythm stuttered, and then Jooheon was arching beneath him, and the heat of his release spilled across Minhyuk’s hand at the same moment that Minhyuk’s own climax crashed through him. He buried himself deep and came with a groan that was swallowed by Jooheon’s kiss.

They lay there afterward, tangled and breathless, the futon a wreck beneath them. Minhyuk pulled out carefully and collapsed beside him, and Jooheon immediately turned into his chest, face pressed against his throat.

Neither of them spoke.

The credits had long since stopped rolling. The television screen was black. The streetlamp outside cast its steady orange glow through the curtains, and Seoul hummed quietly beyond the window.

Jooheon’s hand found Minhyuk’s in the dark. Their fingers interlaced.

“Don’t make me wait for years again next time,” Jooheon murmured against his skin.