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brazen might. 07.

big&baby | bm x hyeongjun

explicit, smut, mdni, chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

As the industry's most high-demand secret, Big Matthew maintains his status as K-pop’s "community top" by effortlessly handling the desires of every idol who seeks a piece of his legendary dominance.

After rescuing a drunk Hyeongjun from a group of aggressive clubgoers, BM brings the younger idol back to his penthouse for safety, leading to a passionate, uninhibited night that shatters their industry boundaries.

The bass from the main floor had dulled to a distant thrum by the time BM reached the back corridor.

He rolled his shoulders, working out a knot that had nothing to do with muscle fatigue and everything to do with the two hours he’d just wasted. Another night at The Velvet Room. Another parade of people who wanted something from him—a feature, a connection, a photograph they’d never be allowed to take. The biometric scanner at the entrance kept out the press, but it couldn’t filter out the desperation.

His boots pressed quiet into the soundproofed carpet. The hallway stretched ahead, all amber sconces and black marble, leading to the private VIP exit that spat you out directly into the underground parking garage. No valets. No waiting town cars with curious drivers. Just BM, his luxury car, and the promise of his condo’s silence.

He tugged his leather jacket tighter across his chest and fished for his keys.

That’s when he heard it.

Glass. Sharp and sudden, followed by a laugh that curled wrong in his ears. Too high, too pleased with itself.

BM stopped. The alcove was twenty feet ahead, a semi-private recess with velvet curtains half-drawn, designed for the kind of conversation that needed to happen away from the main room’s open floor. Through the gap in the curtains, he caught movement. Three silhouettes. Broad shoulders, expensive cuts of blazer, the unmistakable posture of men who’d never been told no.

And a fourth. Smaller. Pressed against the wall.

“—just one drink. We bought it special for you.”

“I said I’m fine.” The voice was thin, strained at the edges. “Please, I just want to—”

A wrist was grabbed. BM saw it happen, one of the men snatch a delicate hand out of the air, yanking it forward, and the smaller figure stumbled, silk slipping off a shoulder, catching the amber light.

BM moved.

He didn’t run. Running implied urgency, and urgency implied they were worth his panic. Instead, he closed the distance in four unhurried strides, his 6’2” frame cutting through the dim like a blade, and when he pulled the curtain back, every head in the alcove turned.

The conversation died mid-breath.

Up close, the three men were exactly what he’d expected: wealthy heirs with too much gel in their hair and too little sense in their eyes. Early thirties, late tewnties, probably, though they carried themselves with the arrogance of men who’d never had to earn what they wore. One still had his fingers clamped around that fragile wrist.

BM didn’t look at them. He looked at the boy.

Recognition hit like a punch to the sternum.

Hyeongjun.

They’d never exchanged more than polite nods during music show finales, never shared a waiting room or a variety show segment. But BM knew him. Everyone knew him—CRAVITY’s main dancer, the one with the impossible doe eyes and the laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a breeze. The industry called him the nation’s little brother, and seeing him now, pressed against the marble wall with his silk shirt hanging off one shoulder and his pupils blown wide with terror, BM understood why everyone felt the urge to protect him.

He looked small. Small and pale and so clearly out of his depth that something hot and protective coiled in BM’s chest.

“Is there a problem?”

BM’s voice dropped into that register, the one his members joked could rattle windows. Deep. Calm. The verbal equivalent of a hand on a throat.

The heir holding Hyeongjun’s wrist went rigid. His fingers loosened.

“BM.” The name came out as a squeak, stripped of all the bravado that had been dripping from him seconds earlier. “We were just—it was a misunderstanding. We didn’t know he was with you.”

With you. As if Hyeongjun needed to belong to someone for his autonomy to matter.

BM stepped forward. It was a small movement, barely six inches, but it placed his chest directly between Hyeongjun and the man who’d grabbed him. The guy had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact.

“He’s not with me,” BM said. One corner of his mouth ticked up. “But I’m with him. So I’ll ask again. Is there a problem?”

Silence. The kind that tastes like retreat.

The lead heir exchanged a glance with his friends, a flicker of calculation, then dismissal. They knew the math. BM wasn’t just physically imposing; he was a established idol, a senior in an industry that worshipped hierarchy, and his reputation for being protective preceded him. Escalating would be stupid. Even they could see that.

“No problem.” The words came out tight, resentful. “We were leaving anyway.”

They shuffled past him like scolded schoolboys, shoulders hunched, one of them muttering something under his breath that BM chose not to hear. The heavy velvet curtain swung shut behind them, and then it was just the two of them in the amber-lit alcove, the shattered remains of a whiskey glass glittering at their feet.

BM turned.

Hyeongjun hadn’t moved from the wall. His chest was rising and falling too fast, each breath hitching at the top like his lungs couldn’t quite remember how to work. The silk shirt—cream-colored, expensive, definitely not his style—had slipped further down, exposing the elegant line of his collarbone and the pale slope of one shoulder. His cheeks were flushed a feverish pink, and his eyes, those famous doe eyes, were glassy and unfocused.

Drunk. Dangerously so, by the looks of it.

“Hey.” BM softened his voice immediately, the alpha register dissolving into something gentler. “Hey, you’re okay now. They’re gone.”

Hyeongjun blinked up at him. Recognition flickered behind the haze, and then his face crumpled with something that looked horribly like relief.

“Hyung—”

His knees buckled.

BM caught him before he hit the floor. One arm hooked around his waist, the other bracing his shoulder blades, and suddenly BM was holding a full-grown idol against his chest like he weighed nothing at all. Which, honestly, he barely did. Through the thin silk, BM could feel the delicate architecture of his ribs, the frantic flutter of his heartbeat.

“Okay,” BM murmured, more to himself than to the boy sagging against him. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

Hyeongjun’s fingers curled weakly into the lapel of his leather jacket. His head lolled against BM’s shoulder, and the scent of expensive whiskey and something sweeter—peach, maybe, or apricot—drifted up between them.

“M’sorry,” Hyeongjun mumbled. “Didn’t mean to, they kept buying me drinks, and I didn’t want to be rude, and then they cornered me, and I—”

“Don’t apologize.” BM adjusted his grip, hoisting Hyeongjun more securely against his side. “Can you walk?”

A pause. Then a tiny, miserable shake of the head.

Right. BM exhaled through his nose and made a decision. “I’m calling you a car. You need to get back to your dorm and sleep this off.”

He’d already pulled out his phone when Hyeongjun’s reaction registered.

The boy went rigid. His fingers, which had been clutching BM’s jacket with kitten-weak strength, suddenly tightened into claws. His head snapped up, and the glassiness in his eyes sharpened into something closer to panic.

“No.” The word came out high and tight. “No, hyung, please—I can’t go back to the dorm.”

“What? Why not?”

Hyeongjun’s throat bobbed. “The managers. They’re already stressed about comeback prep, and if they see me like this—” He gestured vaguely at himself, the smeared gloss on his lips, the wrinkled silk, the whiskey on his breath. “I’ll get in so much trouble. And my members, they’re asleep, but if someone wakes up and—I can’t, hyung. Please.”

The last word cracked down the middle.

BM stared at him. The professional, responsible part of his brain said take him to a hotel. Book him a room, leave a bottle of water and some aspirin on the nightstand, let him deal with the consequences in the morning. That was the smart play. The safe play.

But then Hyeongjun shivered. A full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the adrenaline crash, and BM found himself shrugging out of his leather jacket before he’d consciously decided to move.

He draped it over Hyeongjun’s shoulders. The jacket swallowed him—sleeves hanging past his fingertips, collar riding up to his ears—and somewhere in the back of BM’s mind, a door that should have stayed closed creaked open an inch.

“Fine,” BM heard himself say. “My place. But you’re drinking a liter of water and going straight to sleep. No arguments.”

Hyeongjun’s eyes, swimming with gratitude and something else BM didn’t want to name, fluttered shut. “Thank you, hyung.”

BM wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulled the jacket up to shield his recognizable face, and guided him toward the exit.

The drive home took twenty minutes.

Hyeongjun spent most of it slumped against the passenger window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, making small sounds that were somewhere between sleepy and nauseous. The car's heated seats were on low, and BM had killed the radio the moment they pulled out of the garage, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and Hyeongjun’s irregular breathing to fill the silence.

At a red light, BM glanced over.

The boy looked impossibly delicate in the dashboard glow. His silk shirt had slipped again, baring the curve of his shoulder and the thin strap of something dark underneath—an undershirt, maybe, or one of those inner layers stylists made them wear. His lips were parted, his lashes fanned dark against his cheeks, and his hands, small and fine-boned, were curled loosely in his lap like sleeping birds.

BM gripped the steering wheel harder.

He’s drunk. He’s a junior. He’s barely twenty-three, and you’re thirty-three, and you need to get a fucking grip.

The light turned green.

BM’s condo was on the fifteenth floor, a minimalist sprawl of concrete walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Han River. It smelled like sandalwood and the expensive candles his sister kept sending him from Los Angeles, and it was quiet—blessedly, mercifully quiet.

Hyeongjun blinked as BM guided him through the front door. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Your place. It’s so…” He wobbled on his feet, and BM’s hand shot out to steady him. “Big. Like you.”

BM snorted. “You’re still drunk.”

“Mhm. A little.” Hyeongjun’s head tipped back, his gaze wandering across the high ceilings and the abstract art on the walls. “But also. It’s nice. Doesn’t feel like anyone yells at you here.”

The observation landed somewhere between heartbreaking and dangerously endearing.

“Kitchen,” BM announced, steering them away from the living room and toward the marble island. “You’re drinking water. Then sleep.”

Getting Hyeongjun onto the counter was a logistical challenge that BM solved by simply lifting him—hands spanning his waist, setting him down on the cool marble like he was a centerpiece. The boy let out a startled squeak that softened into a giggle, and his silk shirt slipped again, and suddenly BM was standing between his thighs, and the visual was so arresting that he forgot to breathe for a second.

Hyeongjun’s legs dangled off the counter’s edge. Pale thighs, smooth and slender, bare beneath the hem of his oversized shirt. He was at the perfect height that his knees bracketed BM’s chest, and when BM reached for a glass from the cabinet, his forearm brushed against the inside of Hyeongjun’s knee.

Neither of them mentioned it.

“Drink.” BM thrust the water toward him.

Hyeongjun accepted it with both hands, looking absurdly childlike as he gulped it down. A bead of water escaped the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin and the elegant column of his throat before disappearing into the dip of his collarbone.

BM watched it travel. His jaw tightened.

“Your collar’s too tight.” The words came out rougher than he intended. “Here, let me—”

His fingers found the top button of Hyeongjun’s silk shirt. The fabric was slippery, expensive, and it parted easily under his touch, revealing more of that pale throat and the sharp angle of his clavicle. BM’s knuckles brushed the warm skin just above Hyeongjun’s collarbone, and the boy’s breath caught.

“Better?” BM asked.

Hyeongjun nodded. His glassy eyes had fixed on BM’s face with an intensity that hadn’t been there before.

“There’s—there’s a smudge,” he said. His voice had gone soft and slurry, but deliberate. “On your cheek. From the club.”

BM frowned and lifted a hand to wipe it away, but Hyeongjun’s fingers got there first. They were cool from the water glass, feather-light, and they traced the line of BM’s cheekbone with a tenderness that made his stomach clench.

“Got it,” Hyeongjun whispered.

His hand didn’t move. It slid sideways instead, palm settling against BM’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

The kitchen felt very, very quiet.

“You’re so big,” Hyeongjun murmured. His other hand came up to join the first, and then both of his palms were framing BM’s face, small and cool against the heat of his skin. “Like… everywhere. Your shoulders. Your neck.” His thumb traced the tendon on the side of BM’s throat. “So warm, too.”

“Hyeongjun-ah.” BM’s voice came out hoarse. “You’re drunk.”

“I know.” The boy’s gaze dropped to BM’s mouth. “But I’ve also wanted to touch you since forever. So. There’s that.”

The confession landed like a grenade.

BM’s hands, which had been resting on the counter’s edge, moved without his permission. They found Hyeongjun’s waist—the narrow dip of it, the heat of his skin through the silk—and he felt the boy’s breath stutter in response.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.” Hyeongjun’s grip on his neck tightened. “You saved me tonight. You put your jacket on me. You brought me to your home.” He leaned forward, and the shirt slipped again, and now BM could see the dark strap of whatever was underneath, and it definitely wasn’t an undershirt. “And right now, hyung, I really, really want you to kiss me.”

BM’s restraint, already frayed, snapped clean in half.

He surged forward.

The kiss was not gentle. It couldn’t have been—not with the way Hyeongjun gasped and opened for him immediately, not with the way his legs wrapped around BM’s waist and pulled him closer, not with the desperate, grateful sound that crawled out of the boy’s throat. BM kissed him like he was claiming territory, one hand fisting in the back of his hair, the other spreading across the small of his back to press their bodies flush together.

Hyeongjun tasted like whiskey and something floral, and he kissed with the clumsy enthusiasm of someone who’d been waiting a very long time.

“Bedroom,” BM growled against his mouth. “If we’re doing this—”

“Yes.” Hyeongjun pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His pupils had swallowed the brown of his irises, and his cheeks were flushed a deep, feverish pink, but his voice was steady. “Please. I want to.”

BM lifted him off the counter like he weighed nothing, carrying him down the hallway with Hyeongjun’s legs wrapped around his hips and his face buried in the crook of BM’s neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the tattooed skin there.

The master bedroom was dark except for the city lights streaming through the windows. BM laid Hyeongjun on the king-sized bed, and the boy sank into the white duvet like he’d always belonged there—dark hair fanned against the pillows, silk shirt rucked up to reveal a strip of pale stomach.

“Wait.” BM forced himself to pause. Hovering over Hyeongjun, forearms braced on either side of his head, he dragged in a ragged breath. “I need you to—you have to tell me this is really what you want. Not the alcohol. Not the adrenaline. You.”

Hyeongjun’s answer was not verbal.

He reached for the hem of his own shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

And BM froze.

The dark strap he’d glimpsed earlier wasn’t a strap at all. It was lace. Black lace, delicate as spiderweb, stretching over Hyeongjun’s slender torso in a bralette that cupped his chest with obscene precision. And when BM’s gaze dropped lower, he saw the matching panties—same black lace, same impossible delicacy—sitting low on Hyeongjun’s hips, the waistband cutting a sharp horizontal line across the jut of his hip bones.

“Fuck.” The word punched out of BM’s chest. “Hyeongjun. What—?”

“They make me feel pretty.” Hyeongjun’s voice was small, but his eyes were defiant. “I wore them tonight because I wanted to feel like myself. Not the idol. Not everyone's baby. Just… me.” His fingers traced the lace edge along his ribcage. “Do you hate it?”

BM’s answer was to descend on him like a man starving.

He kissed a path down Hyeongjun’s throat, his collarbone, the lace-draped swell of his chest. His tongue found a nipple through the sheer fabric, and Hyeongjun arched off the bed with a cry that was half-surprise and half-relief. His hands flew to BM’s hair, gripping the short strands.

“Hyung— ah —”

“You’re beautiful.” BM’s lips moved against his sternum. “You know that? Walking around with this underneath your stage outfits. Driving me insane.”

“Didn’t know you were looking.”

“I’m always looking.”

The confession, half-accidental, made Hyeongjun whimper. He tugged at BM’s shoulders, and BM understood the demand—sitting back just long enough to strip off his own shirt, letting Hyeongjun’s glassy eyes roam over the topography of his chest, the swirl of dark ink across his pectoral, the hard-cut abs that tapered down to his belt.

Hyeongjun’s small hands reached for him. “Want to touch you. Come here.”

BM came.

He let Hyeongjun explore—let those delicate fingers trace his tattoos, the ridges of his stomach, the trail of dark hair below his navel. When they reached his belt buckle, Hyeongjun’s movements fumbled, and BM’s hand closed gently over his.

“You sure?”

Instead of answering, Hyeongjun surged up and caught his mouth in another kiss. It was messier than the first—tongue and teeth, a whispered “please, hyung, please” swallowed between them—and when Hyeongjun’s fingers finally worked his zipper open and wrapped around him, BM groaned into the kiss like he’d been wounded.

“God. Your hands are so small.”

“Mhm.” Hyeongjun’s thumb swiped over the head, collecting the moisture there. “But I know what to do.”

He proved it.

Sliding down BM’s body, positioning himself between those massive thighs, Hyeongjun looked up at him with hooded eyes and a swollen mouth and then took him in.

BM’s head fell back. His hand found the back of Hyeongjun’s skull—not pushing, just resting, anchoring himself to something real as the boy’s mouth worked him with a sloppy, desperate enthusiasm that more than made up for any lack of finesse. Hyeongjun gagged, pulled back, went down again, his jaw stretching to accommodate BM’s girth.

“Fuck. Fuck. That’s—yeah, like that.”

The sounds Hyeongjun made were obscene—wet, hungry, interspersed with small moans that vibrated around BM’s length. His hands gripped BM’s thighs for leverage, and his panties, the black lace, were visibly damp.

BM couldn’t take his eyes off them.

“Come here.” He hauled Hyeongjun up by the shoulders, flipping their positions. “On your stomach. I want to see you in them when I—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Hyeongjun went willingly, rolling onto his stomach, hugging a pillow beneath his chest. The position arched his back, and the black lace stretched taut over the curve of his ass, and BM had to press his palm against himself and breathe through the wave of want.

“Drawer,” he managed. “Left nightstand. There’s—”

“I saw.” Hyeongjun’s hand emerged with the bottle of lubricant, and when he passed it back, their fingers brushed. “Hyung. Please.”

BM didn’t make him wait.

The first finger made Hyeongjun gasp. The second made him moan, low and broken. By the third, he was pushing back against BM’s hand, his fingers clawing at the pillows, babbling a stream of “yes, yes, more, right there.”

And when BM finally, finally lined himself up and pressed forward—

Hyeongjun cried out. A high, shattered sound that filled the dark bedroom, and his body clenched around BM so tight that he saw stars.

“Okay?” BM’s voice was wrecked.

Hyeongjun’s answer was to push back, taking him deeper, burying his face in the pillow and moaning something that sounded like BM’s name.

BM moved.

Slow at first, then faster—each thrust dragging another broken sound from Hyeongjun’s throat. The lace was still on, black against pale skin, and BM hooked a finger under the waistband and tugged, not to remove it but to feel the friction, to watch the way the fabric cut into Hyeongjun’s hips.

“Look at you.” His voice was a growl. “Taking all of me. Like you were made for it.”

Hyeongjun sobbed. “Hyung—I’m— ah —”

His hand scrambled backward, gripping BM’s hip, pulling him impossibly deeper.

The city lights flickered beyond the windows.

Inside the bedroom, there was nothing but skin and lace and the rhythm of two bodies finding each other in the dark—and the sound of Hyeongjun’s voice, rising higher and higher, about to shatter completely.

“Don’t stop,” he begged. “Please, please, don’t—”

BM’s hand slid down his stomach, lower, and then Hyeongjun wasn’t saying words at all anymore.

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