#bottom rui

His phone buzzed against the desk. The screen lit up with a KakaoTalk notification—Rui and Wumuti’s group chat, a string of emojis and a message in Korean that roughly translated to coming to spoil our favorite hyung.

BM snorted, thumbs tapping out a quick reply with his studio address and a casual door’s open, I’m just mixing. He tossed the phone back onto the desk, its screen still glowing against a scatter of USB drives and empty energy drink cans.

The loop played on. Kick, snare, hi-hat ghost notes that danced between the beats. He closed his eyes, letting the groove settle into his bones, his head nodding with the rhythm that had become muscle memory over the past three days of near-constant studio isolation.

The door clicked open behind him.

BM didn’t turn around immediately—he was mid-adjustment on the snare reverb, dragging the decay time down by milliseconds, chasing that tight, dry crack that would sit right in the pocket. But the shift in the room’s chemistry was immediate, impossible to ignore. The air changed, carrying a sudden freight of expensive cologne, hair product, and something under that: clean skin, stage makeup, the particular electricity of people who had spent the last several hours being photographed and adored.

“Hellooooo~”

Wumuti’s voice, bright and warm, with that characteristic lilt that made even a simple greeting sound like a melody. BM spun the chair around.

The visual hit him square in the chest.

Rui and Wumuti stood just inside the doorway, backlit by the harsh fluorescent of the hallway, looking like they’d stepped out of a luxury brand campaign. Wumuti was draped in a silk button-up the color of champagne, unbuttoned dangerously low, the fabric catching the dim studio light and throwing it back in soft, liquid ripples. His black trousers were tailored to within an inch of their life, hugging his slender hips and thighs, and there was a dusting of silver glitter beneath his eyes that made his gaze seem almost wet, almost too bright. His hair—swept back from his forehead in soft, deliberate waves—framed the symmetry of his face like a painting.

Rui stood half a step behind him, taller, more severe. His stage outfit was darker: a charcoal blazer worn over nothing but bare skin and a single silver chain that dipped into the hollow of his sternum. His trousers were wide-legged, flowing, the kind of garment that moved before he did, and his jawline—sharp enough to cut glass—was set in that quiet, observant expression he wore when he was cataloguing a room and everyone in it.

BM looked down at himself. The sweat-stained tank top, the ratty shorts, the bare feet with one sock half-off. He barked out a laugh, low and genuine, spreading his arms wide.

“You two look like you just robbed a fashion week,” he said, his English slipping into the easy, slang-heavy cadence he reserved for off-camera moments. “And I look like I just crawled out of a gym bag.”

Wumuti’s smile widened. His eyes tracked down BM’s exposed arms—the thick swell of his biceps, the dark ink of his shoulder tattoo peeking out from beneath the stretched cotton strap—and there was nothing subtle about the path his gaze took. A deliberate, unhurried inventory.

“You look comfortable,” Wumuti said, switching to English with that fluid, accent-softened delivery that somehow made every word sound like a compliment. He stepped forward, extending a beautifully wrapped box tied with a black ribbon. “We brought you something. A proper thank-you for the video.”

BM rose from his chair, the height difference becoming immediately apparent as he straightened to his full six-foot-one. His tank top lifted slightly with the motion, exposing a strip of his lower stomach, the deep tan skin and the trail of dark hair that vanished beneath the waistband of his shorts. He caught Rui’s eyes flicker there. Caught it and filed it away.

“You didn’t have to do this,” BM said, taking the box. His fingers—thick, calloused from years of grip training—brushed against Wumuti’s slender ones. The contact lasted a beat too long.

“We wanted to,” Rui said, his voice lower than Wumuti’s, smoother. He moved into the room properly, and the door swung shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss. The studio suddenly felt much smaller.

BM set the box on the desk, pulling at the ribbon with careful fingers. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, sat XLOV’s latest merchandise collection—a signed CD, a photobook, and a handwritten letter on thick, cream-colored stationery. He unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the neat Hangul, the polite expressions of gratitude, the formal honorifics that belonged to the group as a whole.

“The letter is from the group.”

Wumuti’s voice came from much closer than BM expected. He’d circled around to the side of the studio chair, one hand resting casually on its back, leaning in so that his breath ghosted against the shell of BM’s ear. The sensation—warm and damp and startlingly intimate—made the fine hairs on BM’s neck stand up.

“But the real thank-you,” Wumuti whispered, still in English, each word dropping like a pebble into still water, “is just from the two of us.”

BM lowered the letter. Turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Wumuti in his peripheral vision—the glitter beneath his eyes, the slight curve of his lips, the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

“Yeah?” BM’s voice had dropped into a lower register, the playful edge still there but tempered now with something heavier. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his sweat shorts, a deliberately casual gesture that made the muscles in his forearms cord and flex. “Is that right?”

Rui stepped forward then, closing the distance with that dancer’s glide, all liquid precision and controlled momentum. He positioned himself directly between BM’s parted knees, his long, lean frame blocking out the glow of the studio monitors, casting them both in shadow. Up close like this, his scent was overwhelming—sandalwood and amber, the faint chemical sweetness of hairspray, the clean salt of skin that had been performing under hot lights for hours. "You came here just to tease me?", Matthew asked jokingly.

Rui’s elegant fingers lifted, slow and deliberate, tracing the edge of the cotton strap on BM’s tank top. Right where the fabric met the dark ink of his shoulder tattoo where the skin had stretched with muscle. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a cascade of sensation rippling down BM’s arm, his chest, settling low in his gut.

“We’re not teasing,” Rui said softly. His deep-set eyes held BM’s gaze without blinking. “We’re just showing our appreciation.”

Somewhere behind Rui, a door lock clicked shut with a sound like the period at the end of a sentence. BM’s eyes cut to Wumuti, who had moved to the studio entrance, his hand still resting on the deadbolt. Wumuti met his gaze and smiled—not the bright, media-trained beam from earlier, but something slower, something that curled at the edges.

“The shoot was torture,” Wumuti said, walking back toward them with a loose-hipped stride that made the silk of his shirt sway. “Two days of watching you in almost nothing, hyung. Two days of professionalism.” He spat the last word like it had personally offended him. “Rui couldn’t stop talking about it in the car.”

“Yah,” Rui said, but there was no heat in it. His fingers were still on BM’s shoulder, tracing the dragon’s coiled tail now, following the ink like a roadmap.

BM’s chest expanded with a slow, deep breath. The tank top strained audibly across his pectorals, the cotton pulling taut. He could feel his own pulse in his throat, in his temples, in the thickening pressure that was starting to press against the loose cotton of his shorts.

“So this is what?” BM asked, his voice a low rumble. “You two doll up, bring me presents, lock my studio door—what’s the play here?”

Wumuti laughed—a soft, musical sound that seemed to fill the cramped space. He settled himself on the arm of a nearby equipment case, crossing one elegant leg over the other, his posture both relaxed and deeply intentional.

“The play is,” Wumuti said, “we’ve been thinking about this since the fitting. The first day of the shoot, when the stylist wrapped those straps around your chest and tightened them?” He paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “Rui had to excuse himself to the bathroom.”

Rui made a small, noncommittal sound, but his cheeks flushed distinctly—a dark pink bloom that spread from his cheekbones down to the elegant column of his throat. He didn’t stop tracing BM’s tattoo, though. His fingertip had moved up to the strap of the tank top now, slipping beneath it slightly, the pad of his finger pressing into the ridge of BM’s trapezius muscle.

“Don’t act like you were any better,” Rui muttered, but his voice was thicker now, rougher. “I saw you watching during the solo shots. You nearly walked into a light stand.”

BM laughed—a genuine, full-chested sound that shook his shoulders and made Rui’s finger slip off his skin. The tension in the room cracked slightly, but only for a moment. When BM looked back up at Rui, his expression had shifted. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it was something hungrier, something that had been coiling in his gut since the first day of the video shoot, when he’d watched the stylists buckle XLOV into their leather and silk and thought this is going to be a long week.

“You know what I thought,” BM said, his voice dropping, “when the stylist was strapping me into that harness? When you two were standing across the room in those open-back silk shirts?” He leaned forward slightly, closing the few inches of space between his face and Rui’s. “I thought, they have no idea what they look like right now. The whole room was holding its breath.”

Rui’s pupils had blown wide, eating up the deep brown of his irises. His hand had stilled on BM’s shoulder, but his thumb was moving now—small, unconscious circles against the cotton strap.

“We knew,” Rui whispered. “We knew exactly.”

And then Wumuti was there, slipping off the equipment case and pressing up against BM’s other side, his slender body a warm line of heat along BM’s arm. The contrast was dizzying—BM’s bulk, his sweat-damp skin and exposed muscle, bracketed by these two polished, perfumed, deliberate creatures.

“Hyung,” Wumuti said, and the word came out breathier than before, less controlled. “Can we show you? Can we actually show you?”

BM looked at Rui. At those intense, dark eyes, the barely-there tremor in his elegant fingers. He looked at Wumuti—the soft, pleading curve of his mouth, the way his chest was rising and falling just a little too fast beneath the champagne silk.

“You locked the door,” BM said, and it wasn’t a question anymore.

Rui moved first. His hand slid from BM’s shoulder up to the side of his neck, his palm pressing flat against the thick column of muscle there, his thumb finding the hinge of BM’s jaw. The touch was firmer now, more certain, and it sent a jolt of electricity straight down BM’s spine, pooling at the base of his stomach.

“I want to taste you,” Rui said, and the words were so quiet they were almost swallowed by the bassline still thumping through the monitors. “I’ve been thinking about it for a week. I’ve been—”

BM’s hand shot up, his thick fingers wrapping around Rui’s wrist—not hard, not restraining, just there, a point of contact that made Rui’s breath catch audibly.

“You’ve been thinking,” BM repeated, his voice a low growl. “Show me. Both of you. Show me what you’ve been thinking.”

Rui leaned in.

His lips brushed BM’s jaw first—just beneath the ear, where the skin was warm and salt-tinged—and the contact was so light it could have been mistaken for an accident. But then his mouth opened, his tongue tracing a slow, wet line down to the corner of BM’s jaw, and BM’s head fell back against the studio chair with a sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh.

Behind Rui, Wumuti had dropped to his knees on the studio floor, the silk of his shirt pooling around him like spilled champagne. His hands—slender, expressive, the hands of a vocalist who conducted his own performances—settled on BM’s bare knees, fingers slipping just under the frayed hem of the grey sweat shorts.

“Is this okay?” Wumuti asked, looking up through the glitter beneath his eyes, his voice stripped of all performance, nothing left but raw, aching want.

BM’s answer came out as a rumble, a vibration that Rui could feel through his lips where they pressed against his throat.

“Yeah,” BM said. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Wumuti’s fingers tightened on his knees. Rui’s teeth grazed the tendon of his neck.

The bassline thumped on, steady and relentless, and somewhere in the back of BM’s mind, he registered that he’d never finished adjusting the snare reverb. The thought dissolved almost immediately, washed away by the sensation of Rui’s mouth moving lower, tracing the edge of his tank top’s collar, and Wumuti’s hands sliding up his thighs with a deliberation that bordered on reverence.

The studio lights flickered—a power fluctuation, the city grid straining under the summer heat—and for a split second, the room plunged into near-darkness. In that momentary blackout, BM felt two mouths on his skin, two sets of fingers mapping the landscape of his body, and the contrast between Rui’s sharp, claiming precision and Wumuti’s soft, exploratory touch made his head spin.

The lights came back.

Rui was straddling his thigh now, the flowing black trousers pooled around BM’s knee, the silver chain swinging forward to tap against BM’s chest. Wumuti was still on the floor, his face hovering just above BM’s lap, his breath hot through the thin cotton of the sweat shorts.

“You’re sure,” BM said, and it came out ragged, his chest heaving, his hands gripping the armrests of the studio chair with white-knuckled force. “You’re sure this is—”

Rui kissed him.

Full on the mouth, open and hungry, his tongue sliding against BM’s with a desperate, practiced heat that tasted like mint and the faint bitterness of espresso. BM’s hand came up to grip the back of Rui’s neck, fingers tangling in that perfectly styled hair, pulling him closer, deeper, and Rui made a sound against his lips—a high, breathy whimper that vibrated in his throat.

When they broke apart, Rui’s carefully composed expression had shattered. His lips were pink and wet, his eyes glassy, his chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.

“We’re sure,” Rui breathed.

On the floor, Wumuti’s fingers hooked into the waistband of BM’s sweat shorts. He looked up—at Rui, at BM, at the space between them—and the glitter beneath his eyes caught the light like unshed tears.

“We’ve never been more sure of anything,” Wumuti whispered, and pulled.

Wumuti’s fingers hooked into the waistband of BM’s sweat shorts and tugged.

The grey cotton slid down thick thighs, catching for a heartbeat on the ridge of his arousal before pooling around his ankles. The studio air—warm, stagnant, heavy with the ghosts of a hundred burned incense sticks—hit his bare skin and made him shiver despite the heat. Rui’s mouth never left his throat. A wet trail mapped the tendon from jaw to collarbone while those elegant fingers worked the hem of the tank top, shoving it upward with an impatience that bordered on furious.

BM lifted his arms. The shirt peeled away, damp with sweat, and Rui flung it somewhere behind the console. Now the contrast was obscene—BM’s massive bare chest, the dragon tattoo curling down his shoulder, the flat planes of his stomach sheened with moisture, bracketed by two fully dressed idols still gleaming with stage makeup.

“Couch,” Rui murmured against his sternum. “You’re too big for this chair.”

Wumuti laughed, that bright musical sound, and rose from his knees in one fluid motion. Together they guided BM across the cramped studio, past the rack of untouched synthesizers, past the vocal booth with its fogged glass, to the worn leather couch pushed against the far wall. The cushions sagged under his weight as he sat, legs spread, cock standing thick and flushed against his belly.

Rui and Wumuti stepped back.

They exchanged a glance—some private, wordless communication born of countless stages and shared van rides—and then Rui’s blazer hit the floor. The silver chain followed, pooling on the charcoal fabric like mercury. His bare chest was lean and carved, pink nipples tight in the cool air, the sharp lines of his hip bones vanishing into the waist of those flowing black trousers. He undid the clasp with one hand, never breaking eye contact with BM, and let the fabric slither down his long legs.

Beside him, Wumuti slipped the champagne silk from his shoulders with a dancer’s grace. The shirt fell away, revealing a slender torso, smooth and golden under the dim track lighting. His trousers came next—peeled down slowly, deliberately—until he stood in nothing but the silver glitter beneath his eyes and a pair of briefs so sheer they left nothing to the imagination. Those, too, he hooked his thumbs into and drew down.

Two naked bodies. One sharp and angular, one soft and lithe. Both achingly beautiful.

“You planned this,” BM said, his voice a low scrape. His hand had found his own cock without conscious thought, palm resting against the base, not stroking, just holding.

“Since the fitting,” Rui admitted. He stepped into Wumuti’s space, one hand finding the smaller man’s waist, and pulled him into a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and shared breath. Wumuti’s fingers tangled in Rui’s disheveled hair, tilting his head, deepening the angle, and a slick, wet sound filled the studio that had nothing to do with the monitors.

BM’s grip tightened. His jaw ached from clenching.

They broke apart with a string of saliva connecting their lips. Wumuti’s chest heaved. Rui’s pupils had swallowed his irises entirely. And then they turned—in perfect synchronization, like a choreographed stage moment—and dropped to their knees between BM’s spread thighs.

Two mouths. One cock.

Rui reached first. His long fingers wrapped around the base, tilting the thick shaft toward his lips, and he pressed a kiss to the very tip—gentle, almost reverent. Wumuti ducked lower, his tongue tracing the vein that ran along the underside, a wet, dragging heat that made BM’s hips jerk involuntarily.

“Fuck,” BM breathed.

Rui’s mouth opened. He took the head between his lips, his tongue circling the ridge, and then sank down—inch by deliberate inch—until the blunt tip hit the back of his throat. His jaw went slack, eyes fluttering shut, and a single tear escaped from the corner of his eye and tracked through his makeup.

Wumuti’s mouth found his balls. Soft suction, his tongue working the sensitive skin, one hand sliding up to cup them while the other stroked the spit-slick shaft that Rui’s lips couldn’t reach. Their rhythms synced—Rui’s head bobbing, Wumuti’s tongue lapping—and BM gripped the edge of the couch cushion with both hands, the leather creaking under his fingers.

“Both of you,” he ground out. “Both of you at once.”

They understood. Rui pulled off, gasping, and shifted sideways. Wumuti rose up, and together they pressed their mouths to either side of BM’s cock—two tongues tracing parallel lines from base to tip, meeting at the crown in a wet, messy kiss. Rui’s hand joined Wumuti’s around the shaft. They stroked together while their tongues tangled over the slit, and the visual—the two of them debauched and gleaming, sharing him like something sacred—made BM’s vision tunnel.

Then Rui was climbing onto the couch.

He straddled BM’s lap in one fluid motion, knees bracketing those massive thighs, and braced his hands on the broad shoulders. “I need you inside me,” he said, and the words came out cracked, desperate, stripped of every ounce of his usual composure.

BM’s hand found Rui’s hip. His other hand guided his cock, pressing the tip against the tight heat of him, and Rui sank down with a sound that was half-moan, half-sob. The fit was obscene—so tight that BM could feel every pulse of Rui’s heartbeat around his shaft.

Rui began to move. Slow at first. Experimental rolls of his hips that dragged exquisite friction along BM’s length. BM leaned forward and sealed his mouth over one of Rui’s nipples—that sharp pink peak he’d been fixated on since the blazer came off. He sucked hard, laving the bud with his tongue, and Rui cried out, his rhythm faltering.

A hand landed on the back of BM’s neck. Wumuti, still kneeling beside the couch, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like salt and precum and something sweetly floral. BM kissed him deeply while his hips thrust upward into Rui’s tightness and his teeth grazed Rui’s nipple.

Wumuti’s other hand found Rui’s cock—abandoned and leaking against BM’s stomach—and wrapped around it. He stroked in time with Rui’s bouncing, a relentless counterpoint of sensation, and Rui made a sound like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“I’m— I can’t—”

The first pulse of hot cum striped BM’s chest. The second hit his collarbone, dripping over the dragon’s open jaw. Rui’s body clenched around BM’s cock in rhythmic spasms, milking him, and BM had to grit his teeth against the urge to follow.

Rui collapsed forward, forehead against BM’s shoulder, chest heaving. BM kissed his temple—soft, almost tender—then eased him off, pulling out with a wet sound that made them both groan.

“Hyung.”

Wumuti’s voice. Low. Insistent.

BM looked. Wumuti had moved to the center of the studio floor, on hands and knees atop the discarded silk of his shirt, spine arched like a cat. The glitter beneath his eyes caught the glow of the monitors, and he was looking back over his shoulder with an expression that was pure invitation.

“Please,” Wumuti said.

BM crossed the floor on his knees. His hands found the cheeks of Wumuti’s ass and spread them apart, and he lowered his mouth to the exposed center, dragging his tongue—broad and flat—over the tight ring of muscle. Wumuti’s arms buckled. He dropped to his elbows with a muffled cry, and BM worked him open with lips and tongue, with patient, penetrating strokes that turned the muscle soft and yielding.

Only then did he rise up, align his slick cock, and push inside.

Wumuti’s back bowed. His fingers scrabbled against the floor. “Yes— yes, right there—”

BM built a rhythm—deep, rolling thrusts that bottomed out with the slap of skin against skin—and it was then that Rui appeared in front of him. Still flushed, still trembling, but standing, his softening cock hanging heavy between his thighs. He cupped BM’s face in both hands and kissed him, open-mouthed and slow, while BM fucked into Wumuti from behind.

The kiss deepened. Tongues slid. Breath mingled. And BM felt the pressure building at the base of his spine—a tightening, a gathering—until he couldn’t hold it anymore.

He tore his mouth from Rui’s. His hips slammed forward once, twice, and then he was spilling, a hot flood emptying deep inside Wumuti’s clenching body, and his groan was a raw, broken thing that filled the whole studio.

He pulled out. Wumuti collapsed, rolling onto his back with limbs gone loose, chest splattered with sweat and Rui’s drying cum. His own cock stood rigid against his stomach, untouched and weeping.

Rui sank down. Took Wumuti into his mouth—not teasing, not gentle, just a deep, hungry swallow that made Wumuti’s heels skid against the floor. His cheeks hollowed. His head bobbed. And Wumuti’s voice cracked on a sob as his hips bucked up and he came, flooding Rui’s tongue, his throat working around the taste.

BM watched. His spent cock twitched. His chest was a mess of cum and sweat, and his heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted out.

“You two,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked, hoarse, entirely un-moderated. “You two are the wildest, craziest—” He broke off, shaking his head, a disbelieving laugh rumbling up from somewhere deep.

Wumuti’s bright eyes found his, glitter now smeared, mouth curved in a wobbly, blissed-out smile.