brazen might. 10.
threats&truths | bm x wonho | last chapter
explicit, smut, mdni, chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
Wonho and BM navigate their growing jealousy and unspoken passion until a explosive confrontation leads them to commit exclusively to one another, officially marking the end of BM's era as a "community top."
The bass vibrated through the soles of Wonho's boots, a low pulse traveling up his legs to anchor deep within his chest.
He hadn't seen BM arrive.
That was the thing that bothered him most. Not the crowd, not the noise, not the way industry parties always made him feel like he was performing even when he wasn't on stage. No. What bothered him was that he'd been scanning the room for twenty minutes with a drink in his hand he didn't want, and BM had materialized without Wonho catching the moment of entry.
And now BM was leaning.
Against the bar, one elbow propped on the polished concrete, his body faced toward a guy Wonho recognized but couldn't immediately name. Young. Pretty in that way that made stylists fight over who got to dress him. Sharp cheekbones and something soft around the mouth. He was laughing at something BM said, touching BM's forearm with fingertips that lingered.
Wonho's jaw tightened.
He wasn't jealous. That would require some kind of claim, some kind of understanding between them that extended beyond gym sessions that ended with BM's mouth on his throat and studio nights that devolved into Wonho on his knees between BM's thighs. They'd never talked about it. That was the arrangement. Convenient, casual, two men who understood the demands of their bodies and the scarcity of people who could match that intensity.
Over the past few weeks, Wonho and BM had settled into an easy, magnetic routine. Heavy lifting sessions where encouragement was shouted across the weight room, quiet dinners tucked into the corner booths of late-night joints, spontaneous studio sessions running well past midnight, and joint dance practices where they traded choreography until their shirts were soaked through. The hookups happened in the spaces between. Against a studio desk after a good run of tracks, or on the couch after a long day of training, lingering and familiar. The distance between them had erased entirely, replaced by a deep, unspoken closeness forged in sweat, late hours, and shared warmth. The arrangement didn't include the hot twist in Wonho's gut as he watched BM's head dip closer to the other idol's ear.
The arrangement didn't include the way Wonho's hand tightened around his glass.
He set it down on a passing tray with more force than necessary and turned away from the bar, away from the spectacle of BM's easy smile directed at someone else. His gaze swept the room, eyeing exits and faces, and landed on a familiar figure near the VIP section.
Jackson.
Alone, for once. No entourage, no cluster of hangers-on. Just Jackson in a leather jacket that probably cost more than Wonho's first apartment, scanning his phone with the faintest furrow between his brows.
Wonho moved before he could think better of it.
"Jackson-ssi."
The look Jackson gave him when he glanced up was pure calculation wrapped in charm. "Oh hey. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Mm." Wonho stepped closer, into Jackson's space, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. "Here I am."
Jackson's smile sharpened. "Here you are."
They fell into conversation easily, comeback schedules, rumors about a new survival show, the impossibility of finding good tteokbokki in Seoul at three in the morning. Wonho laughed when he was supposed to laugh. He tilted his head, let his eyes drop to Jackson's mouth, let the space between them shrink increment by increment. The choreography of flirtation was second nature by now, muscle memory from years of fanservice and variety shows and the particular kind of performance that happened in dimly lit clubs at industry parties.
But his peripheral vision stayed locked on the bar.
BM had straightened. The pretty idol's hand had dropped away from his forearm. And BM's shoulders—those impossible, mountainous shoulders—had squared toward Wonho like a satellite dish finding its signal.
Wonho leaned into Jackson's space and said something low enough that Jackson had to bend closer to hear.
Let BM watch.
Let him see what it felt like.
The air outside the club hit Wonho's face like a cold palm, shocking after the humid crush of bodies inside. The alleyway smelled of cigarettes and fryer oil from the restaurant next door. He breathed it in anyway, letting it clear his head, letting the bass fade to a dull throb in his ears.
Jackson had invited him to an after-party. Wonho had said yes before the sentence was fully out of Jackson's mouth, and something in his chest had curdled at how easily Jackson's hand had found the small of his back.
Now he was outside, alone, pulse still too fast, waiting for his driver to pull around.
The door slammed open behind him.
"Where the hell are you going?"
Wonho didn't turn. "After-party. Jackson invited me."
Footsteps. Heavy. The kind of weight that announced itself through concrete. "Why?"
"Does it matter?" Wonho finally looked over his shoulder, letting his expression settle into something bored. "You found your entertainment for the night. Thought I'd do the same."
BM stopped two paces away. His chest was rising and falling in a rhythm Wonho recognized—short, controlled breaths that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with restraint. The club's neon sign threw pink and blue across the hard planes of his face.
"That's not—" BM's jaw worked. "That kid at the bar was just—"
"I don't need an explanation." Wonho turned fully now, crossing his arms. The pose pushed his biceps against the seams of his shirt, and he saw BM's eyes track the movement. "We're not anything, right? That's the deal."
The word deal landed between them like a slap.
BM's hand shot out and closed around Wonho's wrist. Not painful. Not gentle either. Just there, a circle of heat and calloused fingers that made Wonho's pulse stutter.
"We're going home."
"Your home?"
"My home. Our home. I don't care." BM's grip tightened. "You're not getting in that car with Jackson."
Wonho should have pulled away. Should have laughed, made a joke, deflected with the easy banter that had always been their default. Instead he stood frozen in the alleyway with BM's hand around his wrist and something wild and wounded flickering behind BM's eyes.
"Fine," Wonho heard himself say.
The drive was silent.
Twenty-three minutes that stretched like taffy, filled with the hum of the engine and the occasional flash of streetlights across BM's knuckles where they gripped the steering wheel. Wonho watched Seoul slide past the window—convenience stores and closed cafés and the distant glow of Namsan Tower—and tried to remember how to breathe.
BM's car smelled like him. Sandalwood and something warmer underneath, something that made Wonho's throat tight.
They didn't touch. BM's hands stayed at ten and two. Wonho's stayed folded in his lap. The space between them on the center console felt like a held breath.
When BM pulled into the underground parking garage, the tires squealed on the concrete ramp.
The front door latched with a sound like finality.
Keys hit the console table—a clatter, a slide, then silence.
Wonho heard his own breathing first. Then BM's, heavier, behind him. The apartment was dark except for the ambient glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul's skyline reduced to a scatter of gold and silver through half-drawn blinds.
He opened his mouth to say something—a joke, maybe, or an accusation, he hadn't decided—
BM's palm slammed against the wall beside Wonho's head.
The impact vibrated through the drywall. Wonho's next breath caught in his throat as BM's other hand found his hip and shoved, pinning him against the entryway wall with the full weight of a body that outweighed him by fifteen kilos of pure muscle.
"You think you can just walk out with Jackson?"
BM's voice was gravel, low and scraped raw. His mouth was a centimeter from Wonho's ear, breath scorching.
Wonho's spine arched against the wall. "You were the one—"
"I wasn't doing anything." The hand on his hip tightened, fingers digging into the meat of Wonho's obliques. "He was talking to me. That's all. That's all."
"And I was talking to Jackson."
BM pulled back just enough for Wonho to see his face. The angle of his jaw in the half-dark. The way his eyes had gone black, pupils blown wide, the easy California-boy charm stripped away to reveal something sharper underneath.
"It didn't look like talking."
"It didn't look like talking when you were whispering in that boy's ear either."
The silence that followed was electric.
Then BM's mouth was on his.
It wasn't a kiss. Kisses were soft, exploratory, the kind of thing you eased into. This was an invasion, teeth and tongue and the copper tang of a split lip, BM's stubble scraping across Wonho's chin as he angled his head and took and took. Wonho's skull knocked against the wall and he didn't care, couldn't care, because BM's hand was fisting in his hair and BM's hips were pinning his and the solid heat of him was everywhere at once.
Wonho bit BM's lower lip and swallowed the sound BM made.
Jackets hit the floor. Wonho's shirt came next—buttons pinging somewhere into the darkness, fabric tearing along a shoulder seam that gave way under BM's impatience. BM's shirt went over his head in a single motion, the hem catching on his ears before Wonho yanked it free and threw it aside.
Skin.
Finally, skin—the furnace heat of BM's chest pressed against Wonho's, the slide of sweat already beading between them, the shocking contrast of BM's darker complexion against Wonho's pale sternum. Wonho's hands found BM's shoulders and dug in, fingertips sinking into the dense muscle that capped those impossible deltoids.
"I hate you," Wonho gasped against BM's mouth.
"No you don't."
BM's hands dropped to Wonho's waistband. Belt unbuckled. Button popped. Zipper down in a single, practiced slide that sent a shudder through Wonho's thighs. His pants pooled around his ankles, and BM's followed seconds later—a heap of designer denim and tangled boxer-briefs that they both stepped out of like shedding skin.
Then they were naked in the dark hallway, and BM was looking at him and Wonho was looking back, and the weight of what they were about to do pressed down on him like atmosphere.
"Bedroom," Wonho managed.
"No."
BM's hands found the backs of Wonho's thighs and lifted.
Wonho's legs wrapped around BM's waist on instinct—ankles locking behind the small of BM's back, the leverage pulling their bodies flush. The position pressed Wonho's cock against the ridges of BM's abdomen, and the friction drew a sound from his throat that he didn't recognize.
"Got you," BM murmured against his collarbone. "Got you right here."
The hallway wall bit into Wonho's shoulder blades as BM ground against him—slow, deliberate, nothing rushed about it. Every ridge of BM's body mapped itself onto Wonho's skin. The thick slabs of his pecs. The ladder of his abdominals. The heavy heat of his erection trapped between their stomachs.
Wonho's head fell back.
BM's mouth found his throat and bit.
Not gentle. Not playful. A deliberate sink of teeth into the junction of neck and shoulder that made Wonho cry out, his hands flying to BM's hair, his hips bucking forward without permission.
"That's mine," BM said against the bruise he'd just made. "That mark is mine."
"Possessive bastard."
BM bit him again, higher this time, just under his ear. Wonho's vision whited out for half a second.
"You like it."
He did. God help him, he did—the claim of it, the territorial press of BM's body pinning his against the wall, the way BM's hands had spread to cover the entire span of his ass and were kneading the muscle there with a rhythm that bordered on punishing.
The hallway tilted.
BM was moving, carrying Wonho's weight like it was nothing, like Wonho's seventy kilos of dense muscle was an afterthought. The bedroom door swung open under BM's shoulder, and then the mattress was rising to meet Wonho's back, and BM was coming down on top of him with all the momentum of a body that had no intention of being gentle.
The impact drove the air from Wonho's lungs.
BM didn't let him catch it. His mouth was already working down Wonho's sternum—open-mouthed kisses that left wet trails cooling in the AC's chill, followed by the scrape of teeth, the suction of lips pulling blood to the surface. Wonho looked down and watched a bruise bloom purple under his left collarbone, then another beside it, then another.
"Marking me up," Wonho breathed. "What are you, a—"
"Yours." BM's voice was muffled against his chest. "Make me yours too."
Wonho's hands found BM's back and dragged down, nails catching on the topography of muscle, leaving eight red tracks from shoulder blade to kidney. BM arched into the sensation with a groan that vibrated through Wonho's ribcage.
BM's mouth found Wonho's left nipple and closed around it.
The sound Wonho made wasn't a moan. It was something closer to a sob—high and wrecked and completely involuntary, pulled from somewhere behind his solar plexus. BM sucked, gentle at first, then harder, his tongue working the tightening bud while his free hand found Wonho's other nipple and rolled it between thumb and forefinger.
"Matthew—"
"Say it again."
"Matthew"
The suction intensified. Wonho's hips rose off the mattress, seeking friction, finding only the solid plane of BM's stomach. His hands scrambled for purchase—sheets, headboard, BM's shoulders, anything to ground him—and BM just kept going, switching sides, giving the right nipple the same relentless attention until Wonho's chest was slick and swollen and so sensitive that even the brush of BM's breath made him twitch.
"I could do this all night," BM murmured against his sternum. "Just this. Just watching you fall apart."
"Don't you dare."
BM lifted his head, and their eyes met. Something passed between them—an acknowledgment, a permission, a door swinging open onto a room neither of them had been brave enough to enter before.
"You sure?" BM asked.
It was the first moment of hesitation, the first crack in the aggression. Wonho saw it for what it was—not uncertainty, but care. The real BM peeking through the territorial fury, checking in.
"I'm sure." Wonho's voice was rough. "I want—" He swallowed. "I want you to stop holding back."
BM's expression shifted.
Then he was reaching for the nightstand, and Wonho was spreading his thighs, and the click of the lube cap was the loudest sound in the room.
Two fingers became three. Three became the slow, inexorable stretch that made Wonho's jaw go slack and his eyes lose focus on the ceiling.
"I know your body," BM said, his voice a low rumble. "I know exactly what you can take."
He proved it with every motion—the angle that made Wonho's spine bow, the curl of his fingers that brushed that spot with unerring precision, the way he read Wonho's gasps like sheet music and adjusted his rhythm accordingly. They'd done this enough times now that there was no fumbling, no guessing, no polite negotiation.
Just the devastating efficiency of a man who had memorized every inch of Wonho's pleasure.
"Now," Wonho demanded. "I'm ready, just—now."
BM withdrew his fingers, and the emptiness made Wonho's thighs tremble.
Then BM was positioning himself, and the blunt pressure of him was at Wonho's entrance, and Wonho was grabbing the back of BM's neck and pulling him down and saying something that might have been please or might have been more or might have been just BM's name stripped of everything but need.
BM pushed inside.
It was a single, long stroke—no stopping, no adjusting, just the inexorable slide of flesh into flesh until BM was seated to the hilt and Wonho's body had no choice but to yield. Wonho's mouth opened on a silent cry. His heels dug into the small of BM's back. The fullness was enormous, a pressure that bordered on too much and then tipped over into something his body recognized and welcomed.
"Look at you," BM breathed. "Taking all of it."
"Move."
BM moved.
The rhythm was slow and deep—none of the frantic, staccato pace that Wonho had expected. This was grinding, rolling, the kind of sex that left you bruised from the inside out. Every stroke drove BM's full weight through Wonho's hips, pinned him to the mattress, made the bedframe groan in protest.
Wonho's hands slid over the broad expanse of BM's back, fingers tracing the geography of muscle, the heat of skin, the sweat that was beginning to slick their bodies together. He could feel BM everywhere—inside him, around him, the solid cage of arms bracketing his head, the heavy rhythm of breath against his throat.
"Harder."
BM gave it to him.
The headboard struck the wall—once, twice, a percussion that matched the pace of BM's thrusts. Wonho's legs hitched higher, opening himself further, and the new angle punched a sound out of him that was closer to a growl than a moan.
"That's it," BM grunted. "That's—"
His rhythm stuttered. Wonho felt the telltale tension in BM's shoulders, the way his thrusts were losing their precision, becoming something more desperate and less controlled.
"Don't stop."
"Can't—"
"Don't." Wonho's hands fisted in BM's hair and pulled. "Don't you dare stop now."
BM buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, grinding deep, the friction pushing Wonho toward a peak that was building low in his pelvis. His own cock was trapped between their stomachs, leaking against the ridges of BM's abdominals, so hard it ached.
BM's hand closed around both of Wonho's wrists and pinned them above his head.
The restraint was the final straw. Wonho arched off the mattress, every muscle locking, his vision fracturing into shards of light and shadow as his orgasm ripped through him. He was dimly aware of BM following a heartbeat later—a guttural sound torn from somewhere primal, the pulse of heat flooding inside him, the full-body shudder that wracked BM's frame as he emptied himself.
They collapsed together.
BM's weight settled onto Wonho like a living blanket, heavy and hot and so thoroughly present that Wonho couldn't tell where his body ended and BM's began. Their breathing synchronized—harsh at first, then slowing, the rise and fall of their chests falling into the same rhythm.
The AC kicked on, cold air washing over sweat-slicked skin.
Wonho shivered.
BM lifted his head, and something in his face had cracked open. The aggression was gone. The territorial fury had burned itself out. What remained was raw and unguarded and so vulnerable that Wonho's chest squeezed.
"I hated it," BM said, his voice a rasp. "Seeing you with him."
"I know."
"No, I—" BM's jaw worked. "I hated it. I've never hated anything like that before."
Wonho reached up and traced the line of BM's jaw with his fingertips. "I only did it because of you. Because I saw you with that baby and I couldn't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I've never been jealous before. Not like that."
BM pulled out slowly, and Wonho winced at the loss. But before he could move away, BM was rolling them onto their sides and dragging Wonho back against his chest, one massive arm clamping around Wonho's waist like a seatbelt.
"Stay here."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"No." BM's lips brushed the back of Wonho's neck. "I mean stay. Not just tonight. Not just when we're hooking up in studios and gym bathrooms and wherever else we've been sneaking around."
Wonho's heart stopped.
"I'm done," BM continued, his voice dropping to something almost inaudible. "Done with the games. Done pretending I don't care who you talk to. Done watching you from across the room and acting like it doesn't kill me."
"You want—"
"I want you. Only you. Exclusively." BM's arm tightened. "Is that something you want too, or am I about to make a complete idiot of myself?"
The silence stretched for three heartbeats.
Then Wonho was twisting in BM's grip, turning until they were face-to-face, until he could see the fear hiding behind BM's carefully neutral expression.
"I've never wanted anyone else," Wonho said. "Not really. Not since the beginning."
The smile that broke across BM's face was the same smile Wonho had seen a hundred times—on stage, in variety shows, across gym equipment and studio consoles. But this time it was different. This time it was his.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, you idiot." Wonho pressed his forehead to BM's. "Now shut up and hold me."
BM's laugh was a warm gust against Wonho's lips.
The arm around his waist pulled him impossibly closer, and Wonho let himself be gathered, let himself be held, let the exhaustion of the night finally catch up to his bones. Outside the window, Seoul glittered on in its endless, indifferent rhythm.
Inside the apartment, two bodies curled together in the tangled sheets, and the silence was the most honest thing either of them had ever shared.
