#bottom mingyu

Mingyu sat up on the bench, reaching for his towel, and watched the figure emerge from the shadowed corridor onto the gym floor.

Broad shoulders first. Then the sharp jawline, the close-cropped dark hair, the easy confidence in the set of the mouth.

It's BM, Matthew moved through the equipment like he was walking into his own living room. He wore a sleeveless black hoodie cut wide at the arms, revealing the kind of triceps that came from years of obsessive discipline. His joggers hung low on his hips.

Their eyes met in the mirror before either spoke.

“Oh Hyung, I didn’t expect company tonight,” Mingyu said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Matthew’s laugh was low and warm, the kind of sound that made you want to hear it again. “Could say the same. Thought I was the only one crazy enough to lift at midnight.”

“Comeback prep?”

“Always.” Matthew stopped a few feet away, tilting his head as he took in the younger man’s frame. “You’re looking ridiculous, by the way. What’d they have you doing? Three-a-days?”

Mingyu ducked his head, that bashful canine smile breaking through despite the fatigue in his shoulders. The reaction was instinctive—a flicker of the offstage Kim Mingyu, the one who got shy when his hyungs complimented his cooking or when fans called him handsome. It was disorienting, honestly, the way his face could shift so quickly from runway intensity to boy-next-door warmth.

“Just the usual,” Mingyu said. “But I could say the same to you. Your arms are—wow” He gestured vaguely, a short laugh escaping. “You know.”

Matthew flexed one arm, posing with the exaggerated seriousness of a bodybuilding competitor. The hoodie fabric strained audibly. “These old things?”

“Yeah, those old things.”

The banter came easily, even though they’d never shared more than passing nods at music shows or awards night backstage. There was something about the hour, the emptiness of the space, that stripped away the usual formalities. No managers hovering. No stylists fluttering around with powder puffs. Just two men who understood the particular loneliness of pushing your body to its limits while the rest of the world slept.

Matthew claimed the squat rack. Mingyu moved to the cable station for his finisher. For the next twenty minutes, they worked in comfortable parallel, the silence broken only by the metallic rhythm of their respective exercises and the occasional grunt of effort that needed no translation.

At one point, Mingyu caught himself watching Matthew’s set through the mirror—the way the older man’s lats flared as he pulled the bar to his chest, the controlled violence of the movement, the bead of sweat that traced the corded muscle of his neck before disappearing beneath his collar.

Matthew’s eyes flicked up. Caught him looking.

Neither glanced away.

A small, knowing smile passed between them in the glass, and then Matthew unracked the bar with a grunt, letting the moment dissolve into the steam of their mutual exertion.

Mingyu finished first.

He gathered his towel and bottle, pausing at the edge of the floor. “I’m gonna hit the showers. Good session, hyung.”

“You too.” Matthew was mid-set, voice tight with effort. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Mingyu’s footsteps faded down the corridor toward the locker room, and the gym fell silent again, save for the steady iron percussion of Matthew completing his final rounds.

The locker room air was cooler, tinged with eucalyptus from the automated misters. Matthew stripped efficiently—shoes, joggers, hoodie, compression shorts—each garment peeled away to reveal another square inch of the physique that had earned him his reputation. His body was a study in contrasts: the overwhelming breadth of his shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, thick pectorals carved with definition, a roadmap of veins visible along his forearms and biceps even at rest.

He wrapped a single white towel low around his hips. It wasn’t a deliberate choice so much as a practical one—the club’s towels were regulation size, and on his frame, they covered little. The trail of dark hair below his navel was visible above the towel’s edge, and the fabric draped precariously, barely skimming the top of his thighs.

Barefoot, he padded across the tile toward the showers.

And then he saw him.

Mingyu, also towel-clad, his own white cloth riding dangerously low on the jut of his hip bones. His back was to Matthew as he pushed open a heavy cedar door at the far end of the corridor—the private sauna, a perk reserved for the club’s most exclusive tier of members.

Steam curled out from the gap, enfolding Mingyu’s silhouette before the door swung shut behind him.

Matthew stopped walking.

His pulse, already elevated from the workout, kicked up another notch. The decision wasn’t really a decision. His feet were already carrying him forward, the smooth floor cool against his soles, his hand reaching for the cedar door before his mind had finished constructing whatever flimsy justification it would offer later.

The dry heat hit him like a wall.

The sauna was intimate—a twelve-by-twelve cube of cedar paneling, the wood darkened by years of heat and humidity to a deep amber that seemed to absorb what little light the overhead fixture provided. Tiered benches lined two walls. In the corner, the heating element glowed faintly red behind its wooden guard, clicking softly as it cycled.

Mingyu was seated on the upper bench, leaning back against the cedar slats, eyes closed. His arms were spread wide along the bench back, opening his chest to the heat. One leg was bent, foot planted on the bench; the other extended, heel resting on the lower tier.

The towel lay across his lap like an afterthought.

Matthew’s throat went dry—from the heat, he told himself, only from the heat. But his eyes were tracing the long sweep of Mingyu’s torso, the defined ridges of his abdominals, the way his golden skin seemed to glow in the amber light. A single bead of sweat rolled from the hollow of Mingyu’s throat down the center of his chest, navigating the terrain of his sternum before disappearing into the thin trail of hair that led beneath the towel.

Very little was left to the imagination.

The door clicked shut behind Matthew, and Mingyu’s eyes opened.

Dark eyes. Alert. Unreadable for a beat—and then softening with recognition, though not surprise. As if he’d been expecting this. As if he’d left the door ajar on purpose.

“Hyung,” Mingyu said. Quiet. A statement, not a question.

Matthew crossed the small space and lowered himself onto the bench beside Mingyu. Close enough that he could feel the radiant heat coming off the younger man’s skin, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sauna’s heating element. Close enough that his thigh nearly brushed Mingyu’s knee.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

The sauna hissed softly. The cedar creaked as the heat worked its way deeper into the wood. Somewhere in the distance, a shower dripped with metronomic regularity.

Mingyu watched Matthew’s face with an intensity that felt physical, like a thumb pressing gently against the hollow of his throat. Matthew returned the gaze without flinching. The silence between them was heavy but not uncomfortable—more like water before it boils, that stage just before movement becomes inevitable.

A slow smile spread across Mingyu’s lips. Not the bashful canine grin from earlier. Something else. Something sharper.

Matthew’s answering expression was the mirror of it.

No words. None were needed.

Matthew’s hand moved first—not to touch, but to the knot at his hip. A single tug, deliberate and unhurried, and the towel fell open.

Mingyu’s gaze dropped. Lingered. Rose again.

His own hand followed. The white fabric slithered from his lap, pooling on the cedar bench beside his thigh.

They sat naked in the amber heat, the air between them charged with something that made Matthew’s skin prickle despite the temperature. His cock was already thickening, responding to the visual feast of Mingyu’s body with a frankness that made pretense impossible. Mingyu was in the same state—half-hard, impressive even in repose, his length laying against the cut of his hip.

Matthew shifted closer. The cedar groaned under his weight.

His hand found Mingyu’s jaw, palm curving along the sharp line of it, fingers brushing the damp hair at his temple. Mingyu’s breath hitched, barely audible over the sauna’s ambient hiss.

And then they were kissing.

Mingyu’s mouth was hot and soft, opening under Matthew’s with a readiness that sent a jolt straight to his groin. The kiss was messy from the start—tongues sliding, teeth clicking once before they found their rhythm, the faint taste of salt from the sweat glossing their lips. Mingyu made a sound, something between a sigh and a growl, and his hand came up to grip the back of Matthew’s neck, fingers digging into the thick muscle there.

Matthew’s other hand found Mingyu’s chest, palm flattening against the slick heat of his pectoral, feeling the hard nub of his nipple against the center of his hand. Mingyu arched into the touch. His skin was satin over iron, the sweat making every surface glide under Matthew’s fingers like oiled silk.

They explored each other with the focused intensity of men who’d been wondering, who’d been stealing glances for months—maybe years—across crowded waiting rooms and concert backstages. Matthew’s hands mapped the topography of Mingyu’s back, tracing the ladder of his spine, the flare of his lats, the twin dimples just above the swell of his ass. Mingyu’s fingers found the cleft of Matthew’s chest, dragging through the light sheen of sweat, following the trail of hair down his stomach.

“You’re—” Mingyu broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead dropping to Matthew’s shoulder. “You’re even more than I thought.”

Matthew’s laugh was ragged. “You’ve thought about this?”

Mingyu’s teeth grazed his collarbone in answer.

Then they were standing—how, Matthew couldn’t quite track; the moments were blurring, heat and touch and want overriding the part of his brain that kept chronological records. His back hit the cedar wall, the wood almost uncomfortably hot against his shoulder blades. Mingyu pressed against him, all six-foot-one-and-a-half inches of sweat-slick muscle and golden skin, and their cocks aligned.

The contact drew a hiss from both of them.

Hard. Both of them fully hard now, the friction minimal, just the slide of sensitive skin against sensitive skin. Matthew’s hands dropped to Mingyu’s hips, gripping hard enough to dimple the flesh, and he rolled his pelvis forward in a slow, deliberate grind.

Mingyu’s head fell back. The column of his throat was exposed, tendons standing out as he swallowed a moan. “Fuck.”

Matthew did it again, finding a rhythm, the base of his shaft sliding along Mingyu’s length with increasing friction. Pre-cum smeared between them, slicking the movement. The heat of the sauna wrapped around them like a third body, the air so thick it felt like breathing water.

Then Mingyu was sinking.

Matthew’s brain registered the movement in staggered frames: knees hitting the cedar bench below, hands sliding up the backs of Matthew’s thighs, hot breath ghosting over the head of his cock—

The first touch of Mingyu’s tongue was a stripe up his length. The second took him into the wet furnace of his mouth.

“Ah—” Matthew’s hand flew to Mingyu’s head, not pushing, just holding, fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands. Looking down was a mistake. Looking down meant seeing Mingyu’s lips stretched around him, those dark eyes lifted to meet his, the picture of submission and control all at once.

Mingyu worked him with surprising skill—tongue pressing flat against the underside, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke, one hand cupping his balls with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the filthy sounds filling the small room. Wet, obscene sounds. The kind of sounds that echoed off cedar walls and made Matthew’s thighs tremble.

“Good,” Matthew heard himself say, the word dragged out of him. “That’s—yeah, like that.”

Mingyu hummed around him, and the vibration nearly buckled Matthew’s knees.

He let it go on for another minute—two minutes, five, time had stopped meaning anything—before the need to reciprocate became overwhelming. His hand tightened in Mingyu’s hair, gently pulling him off.

“My turn,” Matthew rasped.

He guided Mingyu back onto the bench. Mingyu went willingly, sprawling with his back against the cedar, legs spread, his cock curving up toward his stomach—thick, beautiful, the head flushed a deep rose against the bronze of his skin.

Matthew knelt. The wood was hot against his knees, grounding him. He took Mingyu in hand first, stroking once, twice, feeling the weight and heat of him. Their eyes met.

Then he lowered his mouth.

Mingyu’s hand slammed against the bench beside him. His hips bucked, and Matthew had to press a forearm across his thighs to hold him steady. The taste was salt and skin and something muskier underneath, the intoxicating essence of another man’s arousal. Matthew took him deeper, jaw relaxing, tongue working the sensitive spot just beneath the head.

“Hyung—” Mingyu’s voice cracked. The honorific came out strangled, half-moan, half-prayer. His hands found Matthew’s shoulders, gripping hard enough to leave marks.

Matthew pulled off with a slick pop, looking up. “You okay?”

Mingyu’s chest was heaving. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Something in that please hit Matthew square in the sternum. Not the desperate begging of someone caught up in the moment, but the genuine, vulnerable request of someone who wanted this just as badly as he did, who had maybe wanted it longer, who was laying himself open in more ways than one.

He went back down.

This time, he added a finger—trailing it lower, past the tight sac of Mingyu’s balls, finding the cleft of his ass. Mingyu’s legs fell open wider, an invitation. Matthew’s fingertip circled the tight ring of muscle he found there, not pressing in yet, just teasing, feeling it flutter against his touch.

When he finally pressed the tip of his tongue to that same spot, Mingyu cried out.

Matthew ate him with the same intensity he brought to everything—methodical, patient, attentive to every twitch and gasp. The rim was pink and impossibly tight, and he worked it loose with broad strokes of his tongue, alternating with the press of a spit-slick finger. Mingyu’s thighs were trembling now, spread obscenely wide, one hand fisted in his own hair while the other clawed at the cedar bench.

“I’m ready,” Mingyu gasped. “I’m—hyung, I need you to—”

Matthew rose. His cock was aching, leaking steadily now, the head of it nudging against Mingyu’s prepared entrance. He paused, meeting Mingyu’s eyes one more time. A question without words.

Mingyu’s answer was to reach down and guide him in himself.

The first press was tight—impossibly tight, the kind of resistance that made Matthew’s vision white out at the edges. Then Mingyu exhaled, a long controlled breath, and his body opened.

The slide in was excruciating and ecstatic, inch by inch, until Matthew’s hips were flush against Mingyu’s ass and they were both panting into each other’s mouths.

“Move,” Mingyu commanded. “Now.”

Matthew fucked him in long, deep strokes that built into something relentless. The bench groaned under them. The sauna’s hiss became a distant drone, barely audible over the slap of skin and the guttural sounds tearing from both their throats. Mingyu’s legs wrapped around Matthew’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper on every thrust.

It went on until Mingyu’s hand pressed flat against Matthew’s chest.

“Pull out,” he said, voice wrecked. “Want to finish together.”

Matthew withdrew with a shudder, already missing the heat of him. Mingyu stood on unsteady legs, pulling Matthew into a kiss that was more teeth and breath than technique.

His hand found both their cocks, pressing them together—Matthew’s length, Mingyu’s girth—and stroked them in tandem.

The rhythm was rough, desperate. Pre-cum slicked the way, and the wet sounds filled the small cedar room like a final incantation. Matthew’s forehead dropped to Mingyu’s shoulder. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts against the younger man’s skin.

“Close,” he warned.

“Me too.” Mingyu’s hand sped up, twisting on the upstroke. “Together.”

Matthew’s orgasm hit like a blow to the spine—white-hot, vision-narrowing, pulling a sound from his chest that he didn’t recognize. He felt his release stripe across Mingyu’s stomach, felt the answering pulse of Mingyu’s cock against his own as the younger man followed him over the edge with a broken moan.

They stood locked together in the aftermath, chests heaving, mingled release cooling on their skin.

Mingyu’s forehead found the center of Matthew’s chest. He rested there, breathing hard, his body still trembling faintly. Matthew’s arms came around him, one hand cradling the back of his head.

The sauna’s heater clicked off. The silence that rushed in was absolute.

Outside, in the corridor, footsteps approached—the measured tread of a gym attendant doing rounds—and paused just beyond the cedar door.

“Gentlemen?” The voice was professional, polite. “The club closes in ten minutes. Please begin wrapping up.”

Mingyu’s head lifted. His eyes met Matthew’s in the dim amber light, and something passed between them—not regret, not exactly, but the sudden, sobering awareness of consequence. Of what they’d just done. Of who they were.

The footsteps retreated.