Hyungwon x F! Reader | Idol x Fan
Mature | Explicit | MDNI | One-Shot
A drenched performance in Vietnam leads to a secret hotel encounter between Hyungwon and a fan.
The bass was still a phantom heartbeat in your chest as you stood in the designated “splash zone,” the VIP section that promised not just proximity but immersion. The air was thick with humid summer heat and the screams of thousands, a collective roar that vibrated through the concrete floor of the Ho Chi Minh stadium. The stage lights, sharp and blinding, cut through the haze of water spray hanging in the air like a suspended storm.
Then Shownu and Hyungwon emerged.
The energy shifted, became feral. It wasn’t just a performance; it was a takeover. Shownu’s powerful movements commanded the space, but your eyes, against all reason, locked onto Hyungwon. He was drenched already, the scheduled water cannons having already fired. His sheer white cropped baby tee was plastered to his skin, the fabric clinging transparently to every contour of his chest and abdomen. It left nothing to imagination, showcasing the hard-earned lines of his physique beneath the stage lights’ glare. Water droplets caught in his dark hair, on his collarbone, shimmering like scattered diamonds.
You were also wearing white. A simple, loose linen top that was now soaked through, rendered nearly as sheer as his. Your red bikini top underneath became a stark, bold secret visible to anyone who looked. But you felt only one gaze.
During “Love Killa,” his choreography was sharp, predatory. His eyes scanned the crowd, a performer’s sweep, but then they stopped. They landed on you. In that moment, the screaming around you faded into a muffled, distant noise. You were momentarily frozen, wiped clean of any pretense or fan persona, held captive by the sheer, unadulterated intensity of his stare. It wasn’t a fan-idol look; it was a recognition, a direct line drawn through the chaos.
He turned, grabbed the nozzle of a water cannon positioned at the stage edge, and didn’t spray the general crowd. He aimed it with deliberate precision toward your section. The jet of cold water hit you and the people around you, a shocking, delicious burst. But through the mist it created, his eyes remained locked on yours. The connection was electric, borderline voyeuristic. He saw the water make your top cling tighter, saw the red beneath become even more pronounced. A smirk, subtle and knowing, played at the corner of his lips before he turned back to the performance, leaving you breathless and vibrating with an adrenaline that was entirely your own.
The set ended with a final, thunderous chord. The cheers were deafening. Hyungwon, bowing with Shownu and the dancers, was visibly vibrating with leftover stage energy, his body still humming with the rhythm. You watched him lean close to a large, trusted security staffer near the stage exit, whispering something directly into his ear. The staffer’s eyes immediately scanned the VIP sections, landing squarely on you.
Ten minutes later, as the crowd began to disperse, a different staffer—younger, efficient—touched your elbow. “Come with me, please.” No explanation. You tell your best friend to go ahead and will update her about your whereabouts. You were led through a labyrinth of stadium tunnels, the concrete walls echoing with the distant thump of the next performer’s set. The air grew cooler, quieter. At a secured door, the staffer handed you a VIP pass—different from your festival one—and a sealed envelope. “Instructions,” he said simply. You were given a black SxH t-shirt to put over your wet top.
You were ushered into a waiting black SUV, its interior cool and silent. You thought he will be there but he wasn't. The driver didn’t speak. You watched the stadium lights fade behind you, replaced by the neon glow of Ho Chi Minh City at night. The envelope contained a single line: The Peninsula Hotel. Suite 4801.
The hotel lobby was a universe away from the festival’s fervor. Marble floors, soft piano music, the scent of orchids. A staff member in a crisp uniform met you, holding a digital tablet. “Before proceeding,” he said, his voice neutral. The screen displayed a non-disclosure agreement. The terms were strict, absolute: no photos, no social media posts, no mentions of location or interaction. It was a legal wall erected around a moment of pure impulse. You signed your name with trembling fingers, the electronic signature field blinking once before accepting it. The finality of it made the reality sink in: this was not a dream. This was a contract.
An escort to the elevators, a silent ride up to the highest floor. The penthouse suite door opened to a space of breathtaking silence. It was jarring, almost oppressive, after the hours of thumping bass. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented a panoramic view of the city, the Saigon River a dark ribbon edged with light. The suite was sprawling, minimalist, cool.
You felt the grime of the outdoor event on your skin—the sweat, the dust, the sticky residue of the “Waterbomb” spray. The sensation was suddenly intolerable. You needed to wash the day away, to shed the fan and become just a person in a quiet room. You retreated to the bathroom, a vast space of marble and chrome. The shower was a rainfall cascade, steaming and powerful. You stood under it for a long time, letting the heat scald away the memory of the cold stage water, the crowd’s energy, the shock of his gaze. You scrubbed your skin until it felt new.
Emerging, you wrapped yourself in the hotel’s heavy, plush white robe. It smelled of clean cotton and luxury. You tied it securely, but the fabric was thick and forgiving, hiding everything but the fact that you were bare beneath it. You sat on the edge of the expansive bed, your damp hair spilling over the collar, and watched the city lights through the windows. Your heartbeat had finally slowed. The quiet was a blanket.
Then, the click.
It was the only warning—the soft, electronic sound of a card key in the lock. The door opened.
Hyungwon entered.
He looked different. The stage electricity was gone, replaced by a deep, physical exhaustion. He was wired, though—the kind of tired that still buzzes with unmet energy. He’d changed into an oversized white shirt and loose gray sweatpants, his hair now dry and slightly messy. He dropped a small duffel by the door and sighed, a sound of relief from being unseen.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw you.
You, freshly showered, glowing from the heat, draped in a robe that he knew—with absolute certainty—hid nothing but skin. The power dynamic of the stadium, of him on stage and you in the crowd, evaporated instantly. Here, in this silent suite, you were the clean, waiting mystery. He was the arrival.
The exhaustion in his eyes was replaced by a dark, focused hunger. A slow, deliberate shift.
He didn’t say a word at first.
He simply closed the distance. The space between the door and the bed vanished in a few silent strides. His hands, when they reached for you, were still cold from the air-conditioned van. They found the lapels of your robe, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric where it met your collarbone. The touch was a shock, a contrast to your own warmth.
His eyes held yours. “You signed the NDA,” he said, his voice low, stripped of its stage bravado. It was just a voice, slightly rough, intimate in the quiet.
“I did,” you whispered, the sound barely leaving your throat.
“Good.” His thumbs traced the line of the robe’s overlap. “Because this… isn’t for anyone else.”
His cold fingers slipped inside the lapels, not pulling yet, just feeling the warmth of your skin beneath. A sharp inhale escaped you. He watched it happen, watched your lips part, your eyes widen.
“You stood there in white,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to where the robe loosely covered your chest. “All I could see was red. Like a flag. A target.” His hands tightened slightly on the fabric. “I couldn’t look away.”
He leaned in, his height overshadowing you where you sat on the bed. His face was close enough that you could see the fine details—the slight fatigue lines near his eyes, the dampness on his lower lip. The scent of him was clean, like soap and cold air, but underneath was the faint, lingering smell of performance—of sweat and effort.
“Tell me you wanted this,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. “Tell me you wanted me to see you.”
Your mind flashed to the moment, the water hitting you, his eyes through the mist. The yes was there, immediate and undeniable. “I wanted you to see me,” you breathed. “I wanted you to look.”
A satisfied, almost predatory smile touched his lips. “I did. And now I’m here.”
His cold hands finally moved, sliding the robe’s lapels apart. The fabric gave way, opening a V of exposed skin from your throat down to the knot at your waist. The air of the room, cool against your shower-heated skin, made you shiver. His eyes drank in the view—the line of your neck, your shoulders, the top of your chest where the red bikini would soon be visible.
He didn’t rush. One hand left the robe to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “You’re so warm,” he observed, his own skin still carrying that chill from outside. He leaned in, his breath mingling with yours. “Let me get warm too.”
Then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. It was heat and pressure and the immediate release of hours of pent-up, unspoken tension. His lips were firm, insistent, moving against yours with a rhythm that echoed the music that had bound you earlier. His cold hands framed your face, then one slid down to the open robe, his palm flattening against your sternum, feeling the rapid beat of your heart beneath.
You kissed him back, your hands coming up to clutch at the fabric of his oversized shirt. You could feel the solid muscle of his shoulders beneath it, the reality of him so different from the stage image. This was Hyungwon without the lights, without the crowd—just a man, tired and wired, kissing you in a silent hotel room because he’d seen you and decided.
The kiss deepened. His tongue touched yours, a hot, exploring stroke that made your back arch. A low moan escaped you, swallowed by his mouth. He guided you back, not onto the bed fully, but so you were leaning against the piled pillows, him kneeling on the mattress beside you, one leg bent.
He broke the kiss only to look down at where the robe had fallen open further. The red bikini top was now fully visible, a bright contrast against your skin and the white fabric. His gaze was hot, focused. “This,” he said, his voice thick. “This was the secret.”
One hand went to the knot of the robe at your waist. He didn’t untie it. He just held it, his fingers playing with the fabric ends. “Do you want me to take this off?” he asked, his eyes returning to yours. The question was direct, leaving no room for ambiguity.
You were past ambiguity. You were in the reality he had created. “Yes,” you said, the word clear and sure.
His fingers pulled the ends of the knot, and it came loose with a soft slide. The robe, no longer secured, fell open completely. He didn’t strip it away; he let it pool around you, a plush white frame for your body clad only in the red bikini top and your own underwear. The cool air touched your stomach, your legs, and you shuddered.
Hyungwon’s eyes traveled over you, a slow, appreciative survey. His own warmth was finally returning, his hands no longer cold as he placed them on your bare waist. His touch was firm, possessive.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. Then he leaned down again, his mouth leaving yours to trail down your neck. His kisses along your throat were slow, wet, punctuated by the soft scrape of his teeth against your skin. You gasped, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him there.
He moved lower, his lips brushing over your collarbone, then the upper edge of the red bikini fabric. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs tracing the underside of your ribs. The touch was electric, lighting up nerves you’d forgotten you had.
He nuzzled against the fabric, his breath hot through it. “This needs to come off too,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. He didn’t ask this time. He stated it, his intention clear.
His fingers hooked under the edge of the bikini top at your shoulder. He began to pull it down, slowly, revealing the swell of your breast inch by inch. The air hit the newly exposed skin, a fresh shock. He paused, his lips following the path his fingers had created, kissing the skin he had unveiled.
You were arching into him, your body asking for more without words. The tension was coiling tight in your core, a direct result of his methodical, focused attention. He was not rushing; he was savoring, exploring, claiming every inch with his mouth and hands.
He got the bikini top down over one breast completely, the fabric pooling at your waist. His mouth closed over your nipple, and the sensation was a sharp, stunning bolt of pleasure. You cried out, a short, sharp sound that echoed in the quiet suite. He sucked gently, then harder, his tongue circling, and your hands clutched at his shoulders, holding onto him as the world narrowed to this point of contact.
He switched to the other side, repeating the deliberate process of removing the fabric, of kissing, of sucking. Your breath came in ragged pants, your skin flushed everywhere. The robe was now just a blanket beneath you, utterly irrelevant.
Hyungwon finally drew back, kneeling between your legs on the bed, looking down at you. You were fully exposed to him now, bare except for your underwear. His own desire was plain in his eyes, in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his hands trembled slightly as he placed them back on your hips.
“I have to touch you,” he said, the statement raw and needy. “Everywhere.”
His hands slid from your hips down your thighs, then back up, inward, tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. They stopped just short of where your underwear covered you, his thumbs brushing so close to your core that you jerked, a reflexive plea for more.
He smiled, a dark, knowing smile. “Not yet,” he whispered, though his own breath was uneven. “We have time. The night is just starting.”
He leaned down again, kissing your stomach, the dip of your navel, his large hands spanning your waist as he moved lower, his intent clear even as he maintained that deliberate, teasing control. The anticipation was a live wire, buzzing through your veins.
His mouth left yours, a trail of heat on your skin as he moved. His hands, now warm from your body, held your hips firmly, anchoring you to the bed as he descended. His gaze, dark and intent, traveled down your torso—over the flushed skin of your chest, the flat plane of your stomach, the curve of your hips where the robe still lay useless. He paused at your thighs, his thumbs brushing the sensitive inner skin, and then his focus settled on the very center of you.
He knelt there, between your parted legs, a look of singular purpose on his face. The exhaustion from the stage was gone, replaced by a vibrant, predatory energy. He leaned forward, his tall frame folding over you, and his mouth found your core.
The first touch of his tongue was a revelation. Slow. Deliberate. A soft, wet circle traced around your clit, not yet touching it directly. The sensation was so acute, so focused, that your body jerked, a gasp tearing from your lips. He didn’t rush. He explored. His tongue traced the shape of you, learning the folds, the heat, the slickness that was already gathering there. Every movement was methodical, a dancer’s precision applied to a new kind of performance.
You writhed beneath him, your hands fisting in the sheets. The pleasure was a slow, building pressure, tightening your muscles, coiling your spine. He watched your reactions, his eyes locked on your face as his mouth worked. When you arched, when you moaned, his gaze sharpened, drinking in every response. He was studying you. Learning what made you shake.
Then, his tongue changed. It found your clit and pressed, flat and firm. A steady, rhythmic pressure that sent shockwaves through your pelvis. You cried out, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more. He allowed it, his hands sliding under your thighs to hold you open, to give him better access. His mouth became relentless, sucking gently, then flicking rapidly, then returning to that slow, circling torture. The alternating rhythms were maddening. Exquisite. You were lost in the sensation, in the wet, hot focus of his mouth on you.
He pulled back suddenly, leaving you gasping and empty. He knelt back on the bed, settled again in the middle of your legs. His expression was calm, controlled, but his eyes were blazing. One hand reached out, his fingers—long, graceful—teasing your folds slowly. Just a touch. A gentle parting. The contact was electric, a direct line to your nerves.
His other hand moved to your breast. His thumb brushed over your nipple, already hardened and sensitive from his earlier attention. He flicked it, a quick, sharp motion that made you gasp. Then he began to toy with it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, applying pressure, then releasing. The dual sensation was overwhelming—his fingers teasing your core, his hand playing with your nipple. You were being mapped, pleasured in two places at once, your brain struggling to process the twin points of intensity.
He watched your face intently, his handsome features composed in a mask of deep focus. He saw your lips part, your eyes flutter closed, then open again to meet his gaze. He saw the flush spread across your chest. He saw the trembling in your legs where he held them.
Then his fingers, still teasing your entrance, pushed inside.
One finger, curling deep, finding a rhythm that matched the flicking of his thumb on your nipple. The invasion was smooth, welcomed, your body opening for him without hesitation. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his pace slow and deep. The curl of his fingers inside you was a perfect, devastating mimicry of his tongue’s earlier circles. It pressed against a spot that made your vision blur. You squirmed, not to escape, but to take him deeper, to increase the pressure.
A low groan escaped him, a sound of pure satisfaction. “You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. “Every touch… you answer.”
He bent down then, his mouth leaving your nipple to suck on the other. He took it fully, his lips sealing around the peak, his tongue swirling. The suction was strong, purposeful. He continued, his fingers working inside you, his mouth on your breast, a synchronized assault on your senses. The pleasure built, layered, stacking upon itself until it became a single, towering wave.
You were panting, your head thrashing side to side on the pillows. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, then his hair, holding him to you. The coil in your core tightened unbearably. His fingers sped up, his curling movements becoming more urgent. His mouth sucked harder. You could feel the climax approaching, a seismic shift in your body, a gathering of tension that demanded release.
“Come for me,” he growled against your skin, his words a hot command. “Let me feel it.”
And you did. The orgasm broke over you, a sharp, blinding burst that started deep where his fingers were and radiated outward, shaking your legs, tightening your stomach, pulling a raw, loud cry from your throat. Your body convulsed around his hand, pulsing, gripping. He kept his fingers inside you, kept his mouth on your breast, until the last tremor subsided, until you were limp and breathing in ragged, shallow bursts.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching the slickness glisten on them. He brought them to his lips, tasting you with a dark, satisfied look. Then he knelt back, his own breathing uneven now.
His gaze dropped to his clothes. The oversized white shirt, the gray sweatpants. They were barriers now. He reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head in one smooth motion. His torso was revealed—lean, toned, the muscles defined but not bulky. The sharp lines of his abdomen, the ripple of his ribs as he breathed. Stage-lit perfection, now just for you in the dim suite light.
He stood for a moment, letting you look. Then his hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants. He pushed them down, along with the underwear beneath, letting everything fall to the floor. He was naked now, every inch of him exposed.
His cock was long and thick, fully erect, standing heavy against his stomach. It was a stark, beautiful contrast to his lean frame—a clear sign of his own need, his own pent-up energy from the stage now seeking its outlet. He knelt on the bed again, returning to his place between your legs.
He leaned forward, his body hovering over yours. He guided himself, his hand holding his cock, and rested the head against your slit. The warmth of him, the firmness, was a promise. He frotted himself there, using your own slickness to wet him, sliding the length along your sensitive folds. The friction was delicious, a teasing preview that made you gasp and arch again, your body craving the fullness it knew was coming.
He humped against you, the motion slow and deliberate, but he didn’t enter. Not yet. He just pressed, rubbed, teased, watching your face for every reaction. Your hips moved with him, seeking the penetration you desperately needed.
Then he shifted. One long, hard thrust, and he was inside you.
It was a sudden, complete invasion. He didn’t go slow; he filled you in one smooth, deep stroke, burying himself to the root. The stretch was intense, a breathtaking fullness that made your eyes widen, your mouth open in a soundless scream. He was all inside you, his body pressed flush against yours, his hips meeting yours.
For a moment, he stayed there, fully seated, letting you feel the entirety of him. Your body clenched around him, adjusting, accepting. The sensation was overwhelming—the heat, the pressure, the perfect fit.
He began to move.
His thrusts were deep and measured at first, a slow withdrawal and a powerful return. Each one dragged his cock along your inner walls, sparking pleasure at every point of contact. You could feel every inch of him, the way he curved, the way he filled you completely. Your hands grabbed at his shoulders, your nails digging into the firm muscle there. He bent down, his face close to yours, and kissed you.
His lips were pillowy, soft, a contrast to the hard rhythm of his hips. The kiss was deep, hungry, his tongue matching the thrusting pace of his body. It was a dual possession—his mouth claiming yours, his cock claiming your core. You kissed him back, moaning into his mouth, your breaths mingling, becoming one ragged sound.
His pace increased. The slow, deep thrusts became faster, harder. The bed began to creak softly beneath the force of his movements. His control was still there, but it was fraying, the adrenaline and desire taking over. His hips drove into you with a relentless power, each impact sending a shock of pleasure through your body. You could hear the wet, slick sound of your joining, a private, intimate rhythm in the silent room.
He moaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest into yours. His eyes were closed, his forehead pressed against yours. “You feel…” he gasped, breaking the kiss to speak. “You feel incredible. So tight. So warm.”
You could only nod, your words lost to the sensation. Your body was moving with him now, meeting each thrust, pushing back to take him deeper. The pleasure was building again, a new peak approaching, fueled by the sheer physicality of him, by the pounding rhythm, by the way his body covered yours completely.
His thrusts became erratic, losing their measured pace. He was chasing his own release now, his movements driven by pure need. He was panting, his breath hot on your neck. One of his hands left your hip to brace against the headboard, giving him more leverage, more force. The new angle was deeper, more direct, hitting a spot that made your vision white out for a second.
“I’m…,” he groaned, his voice strained. He pulled out suddenly, his cock leaving you empty and throbbing.
He didn’t withdraw completely. He stayed above you, his body shuddering. Then he spilled himself, his release hot and sudden, painting your mound and your stomach with his load. The sensation was warm, wet, a shocking contrast to the cool air of the room. He groaned again, a sound of utter release, his body trembling with the effort.
For a moment, he just stayed there, supported by his arms, looking down at where his own pleasure had marked you. His expression was one of dark satisfaction, of completion. Then he lowered himself, collapsing atop you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. His skin was hot, slick with sweat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath slowing.
You laid there, your arms wrapping around him, hugging him close. The smell of him—sweat, sex, clean skin—filled your senses. Your body was still pulsing with aftershocks, your core aching with the memory of him.
He kissed your shoulder, a soft, tender press of his lips. “You were…,” he whispered, his voice rough but gentle. “You were perfect. So good for me.”
You didn’t answer. You just held him, your fingers tracing the lines of his back. The silence of the suite returned, but it was different now—filled with the heat of your bodies, the scent of sex, the quiet exhaustion of shared pleasure.
He shifted after a few minutes, lifting his head to look at you. His dark eyes were soft now, the hunger replaced by a deep, tired contentment. “We have time,” he said again, echoing his earlier words. “The night is long.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, a lazy exploration of your lips. Then he moved, sliding off you to lie beside you, pulling you into his arms. Your skin stuck to his, warm and damp. He traced the mess on your stomach with his fingers, a possessive, intimate gesture.
“Again?” he asked, his voice a low murmur near your ear.
You turned to face him, your body already answering, your nerves still alive and eager. “Yes.”
The second round was slower, but deeper. He took you from behind, his body wrapping around yours, his arms holding you close as he moved inside you with a lazy, grinding rhythm. The third round was on the floor, against the cool glass of the window, the city lights a blur behind you as he drove into you with renewed urgency. Each time was different. Each time he found a new way to make you shake, to make you cry out, to make you clutch him as the pleasure took you apart.
You finally passed out in a tangled heap on the bed, his body half-sprawled over yours, your limbs intertwined. The last thing you felt was his hand, resting possessively on your hip, even in sleep.
The morning light was gray, filtering through the high windows. You woke first, the reality of the room settling over you with a cold clarity. The NDA. The important clause. You had to leave before he woke.
You extracted yourself from his arms carefully, his sleep deep and undisturbed. You found your clothes, the simple linen top and shorts from the festival, now dry and folded on a chair. You dressed quietly, every movement feeling like a theft. You didn’t look at him again. You couldn’t.
At the door, you paused. The city was waking up outside. You had your phone, your bag. You slipped out, the click of the latch the only sound.
The hallway was empty, silent. You walked away, the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body inside you, a vivid, burning brand on your mind. The secret belonged to you now. And to him. But only in the dark.
*
"NDA: The Series is a collection of one-shot stories, each featuring a member of Monsta X and a plot centered around a Non-Disclosure Agreement."
You were as beautiful as you were the day you left him.
Granted, you looked a little different, older and mature. Your curves had a devastating effect on Hyungwon's focus, leading him to over-appreciate how you filled out the leggings you wore. He was on his way over to you before he even realized it.
"Hey--" He called out. You stood at the backseat door of your car, focused on something inside. Right as he made it to your side, you pulled a baby out and into the sun. "Oh."
You noticed him immediately and your face lit up. "Hyungwon! Hey, how've you been?"
He couldn't keep the shock off his face. A kid? Had you really been apart that long? "Good…Not as busy as you, though." He cringed at his own awkwardness. "Who's this adorable little face?"
"This is my daughter." You lifted up her tiny fist and waved it at him. "Say hi to mommy's friend."
Friend. A reminder that though the split often felt like a fever dream, it was very real. You weren't his to love anymore.
He waved back shyly, smile strained. She was a splitting image of you, albeit with eyes he couldn't place. Must've been from the dad. It was easy to wish he was looking at a pair of eyes like his own instead.
"So, splurging on your day off or…?" He gestured to you.
"Just a day out. Hopefully, just window shopping, but if I see something cute for her…" You shrugged with a grin and he hated it. Hated how comfortable things were, how natural talking to you was after all these years. Hated how he still missed you. His fingers itched to touch your face. His lips longed to feel yours one last time.
"That's cute." As much as it hurt to think about, he had to get away before he made a mistake. "Well, it was great to see you again. And meet your precious daughter."
Your eyes widened. "Oh! Well, if you're not too busy, wanna head to the food court and grab lunch? I'd love to hear what you've been up to. Hear about your mom."
He knew he should've said no, but he found himself nodding anyway. "Sure, why not?"
My Idol is a South Korean competitive reality dating game show. It currently airs on Saturday nights on Jae-bummer’s blog. First broadcast in 2016, the show offers the opportunity for a lucky fan to go on seven blind dates with seven idols. The idol plans the date with the show throwing in a specific mission to complete during the day. At the end of the initial dates, the show opens up an audience vote to decide what four idols will move on to the second date.
My Idol 3: The Series
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"Don't look at me like that," you muttered, looking up at Insu moodily.
"It looked like he was trying to inhale your face," your bodyguard muttered, eyes wide. "That must have been terrifying."
"I can't tell if you're trying to be an asshole or not," you sighed. Shoulders dropping, you leaned against the wall that Jackson had you pushed up against. "Had it ever occurred to you that I was enjoying it?"
"Not really," he chuckled, leaning against the wall beside you and crossing his arms. "Did you?"
"I thought so," you nodded. "He's very handsome. And very sweet."
"I wasn't asking why," Insu scoffed.
"I didn't say you were," you said, narrowing your eyes at him. "Why are we even talking right now? I'm still irritated with you."
"Oh right," he grinned. "Because I was the one to tell a complete stranger that you had severe hemorrhoids."
"He wasn't your date," you shrugged.
"Is now a bad time to talk?" he asked, suddenly turning serious. You remained silent, the question hanging in the air.
You knew he wasn't referring to your recent statement, but "talking" as a whole to fix whatever had broken between the two of you yesterday.
"Insu," you started slowly, trying to get your thoughts together. "You don't know me."
"I have never claimed to," he sighed. Adjusting his stance against the wall, he moved to face you. "But I know enough about what type of men you're dealing with to give some sort of warning."
"You don't know them either," you said quietly. "I understand that you're inherently protective, but protecting my heart is not part of your job."
Turning to lean his back against the wall again, Insu looked up to the ceiling, silent.
"I admit," you continued, not at all wanting to admit anything. "That there is...a level of comfortability between us."
"How sweet," he muttered.
"But that's not something I can afford to explore at the present time," you breathed. "As there are seven other men who are currently vying for my affections."
"Only seven?" he hummed. "What's another one thrown in there?"
"This isn't a joke," you groaned. "We need to be more professional."
"We?" he asked, lifting his brows. "I've never once, in the entire time of being contracted with My Idol, neglected your safety based off of my feelings. I am always alert and aware of any threats, including, but not limited to those men "vying for your affections.""
"You're getting more invested than you should," you said wearily, feeling suspiciously close to tearing up. "My life is beyond complicated."
"As you've mentioned."
"Disregarding the whole dating thing," you sighed. "I'm homeless right now."
"I don't think you realize..." he began. "That I am working for a production that you are also technically working for, making us coworkers. Are coworkers not allowed to have friendly relationships?"
"We are," you nodded. "But tell me you weren't jealous of me and Jackson's interactions."
"I was not jealous," he said simply.
Crossing your arms, you turned slightly away from him. He had to know that was bullshit.
"I was selfish."
You could only turn and blink up at him. "What?"
"I want to get to know you," he continued quietly, avoiding eye contact. "So badly. When I took on My Idol, this was just another job. Then I met you at a time when you were so broken. I wanted to protect you and make sure no one would hurt you again. I'm generally protective of my clients, but my feelings for you have been beyond confusing."
You swallowed. You had been in a proverbial dry spell for years. Suddenly though, your dating life had gone from raining to pouring.
"Why do they deserve a chance while I don't?" he continued, his face contorting into sadness, then anger. "Because they're celebrities? Because they're what the audience wants to see?
If it's the right time, right place for them...then I'm also here. What makes me so wrong? Why can't I learn about you and see where it goes?"
"This isn't real life," you murmured. "I am contractually obligated to see these men. If something happens during that contracted period, then great. Dating has been hard ever since I stepped foot in Korea. It's not that I don't want to acknowledge you as a potential suitor, but-"
"I just don't fit into that part of the story," he breathed.
"Insu," you whispered, the tears now dangerously close to falling. "You're not being fair to either of us."
"I know," he muttered, turning away from you completely. "I know. I'm being selfish. I'm putting my wants before what you, well, legally have to do."
"It's not wrong to be selfish sometimes," you cooed, tugging on the back of his suit jacket. "But right now, I'm asking you not to be."
"That's a tough ask," he said quietly.
Sick of speaking to his back, you walked around his body to stand in front of him.
"We can be friendly," you said sternly. He had to understand. "We can be coworkers, but you have to stop with these pre-conceived notions you have of the contestants. They all seem genuinely kind and happy to be able to date without ridicule. They're just people searching for a connection."
Insu remained quiet, biting his lip, and looking anywhere but at you.
"I know it's hard not to be angry...when you don't get a chance at something...at someone," you corrected. "But please, if you really care like you say you do, just go easy on me."
Exhaling through his nose, he finally glanced down toward you. "I will. Only because it's for you."
Slowly nodding, you looked up at him with a sad smile. He really was lovely, and in another life, you may have bumped into him, and fallen hard. It was best to nip this in the bud before the two of you grew past flirting and casual jealousy. Whatever issue he had regarding celebrities was likely unrelated to you and more so to his career. You were certain there was much more to his story than wanting a chance to date. He didn't seem like the type to go after things so trivially.
"Can I go to sleep now?" you asked, the question quieter and more fragile than you had anticipated.
"Of course," he breathed. Pivoting and walking toward your door, he already had your room key in hand. "I shouldn't have forced you into a conversation. I'm sure you're exhausted."
"No," you sighed. "It was good we talked."
"I'm not sure if "good" would be the word I would use," he grumbled.
This caused you to smirk. "It can be a good conversation without actually feeling good about it."
Insu furrowed his brow. "Do you feel good about it?"
"Absolutely not," you laughed. "But I don't really have a say over my own life right now, do I?"
..
During a time where you should be worried about the four incredible men who had each whisked you off your feet, your thoughts were plagued with the conversation you had with Insu. Playing it backwards and forwards in your head, you tried to find a way to make everyone happy. No matter how much mental gymnastics you did, there was no conclusion. The situation was impossible.
You knew from the moment you had met your bodyguard that you had the fattest crush on him. In fact, it was easy to admit at this point. He was good looking, certainly had a tragic backstory, and in general, seemed morally grey. It was all of your favorite tropes about the male leads in every single book you had read. He was a protector and he made you feel so safe in a time that was so uncertain. Maybe it was a touch of Stockholm syndrome, but who could blame you?
But it was all over now. You had to put your adult pants on and squash the small kindling that had been ignited. It was what was best for everyone.
Spinning the ring that Hongseok had made for you around your finger, you paced the length of your hotel room. After a few days break, you were finally slated for another date. With an estranged Insu and a generally stuffy Hyuk, your days had been long. You had met a handful of times with producers, as well as your old apartment complex. The police were still trying to sort out what exactly had happened during your break in. Suspects were hard to find when the entire country's eyes were focused on you.
Thinking back to the dates you had already been on, a thought struck you. You were over halfway complete with the first round. Four men had graced your life, while only three men were left waiting in the wings. It was an odd thought that you had met so many different personalities in the past two weeks. At times, this whole experience felt like a fever dream.
Your evening with Jungkook had been so simple in the best way. When meeting someone with the level of star power he had, you were expecting a big personality. It was refreshing to find him to be so down to earth. He was so expressive and understanding with his words and actions. Talking to him was like talking to a childhood friend. You had been at ease instantly and he still acted as a calming balm to your soul. Running into him in the hallway had only confirmed that.
The day you spent with Hongseok, however, felt like a true first date. It wasn't that you were totally awkward with each other, but you definitely had to warm up. After a strained first interaction, it was easy to see that he was tooth achingly sweet. With an endless supply of jokes and stories, the butterflies in your stomach knew no peace with him. If there was any consolation to your apartment being broken into, it was that he was the one to help you through it.
Rebounding from the shock of losing most of your worldly possessions, San was a perfect date to follow. The man was quite literally a walking green flag. His innocence and naturally cute mannerisms made you feel like you had been dropped inside of a rom com. He was a soft boy. Even after he had been injured, he worried about how you were doing. Plus, you had to begrudgingly admit, you kind of liked the nickname he had given you.
Your last date had still left you reeling. Being with Jackson was like constantly holding your breath. He was incredibly kind, but also incredibly hot. He oozed sex appeal, and it was easy to get lost in the idea of a first kiss with him. His date had been a little more involved than the others, but you felt like it had represented him well. He had so many different sides to him that it was hard to peg down. He was an enigma, and you were hopeful that you would get to explore your relationship more.
You closed your eyes as you heard a knock on the door. "Y/N," Insu called softly. "It's time."
Taking a deep breath, you nodded to yourself. Another evening date meant another appearance of Insu the chaperone. You knew he was likely to behave better this time, but you still hated that he essentially had to watch you date other people. It was unfair.
Unlocking your door, he pushed gently against it, causing it to swing in toward you. Turning to face him, you were surprised to find a smile on his face.
"Well, aren't you cute."
"Insu..." you warned.
"He said in a totally platonic way," he smirked, motioning for you to come into the hall.
Rolling your eyes, you walked past him, instantly feeling lighter. He had been a bit quiet since your big conversation, so it was nice to see him getting back to himself.
"How are you feeling?" he asked as he took his place behind you.
"Nervous," you breathed. "But the good kind I think."
"Good," he hummed. "I know it's been hard to think of anything but the chaos going on around you, but you deserve to have a good time. Really enjoy what's happening."
Shooting a suspicious look over your shoulder, you quirked a brow. "Thanks."
Your expression caused him to laugh. "What?"
"I just..." you murmured, trying to pick your words carefully. "Wasn't expecting for you to be supportive after our conversation the other day."
"I've done my pouting," he sighed. "I just want you to be happy."
Stepping into the elevator at the end of the hall, your heart skipped a beat. He was too good for you anyway.
"Thank you," you said after a moment of silence. "Really."
"There's nothing to thank me for," he offered.
Unable to come up with a reply before the elevator doors slid open, you reached over and gave his bicep a quick squeeze. Shuffling into the lobby, you looked around, surprised to see the driver and camera men the only ones waiting for you.
"What-" you started but were immediately interrupted by Wu.
"Your date wanted to take a different mode of transportation," he sighed. "We're meeting him at the venue."
"Different mode of transportation," Insu clucked. "I wonder what that means."
...
Standing on the sidewalk in front of a record store, you watched the sun begin to set on the horizon. The colors were beautiful, but the lack of direct sunlight already caused the temperature to begin to plummet. Shivering slightly, you tried not to get annoyed. Where was your date?
After another five minutes of waiting, you were jostled from your thoughts by the revving of a loud engine. Looking up, you were surprised to see a large motorcycle easing smoothly up to the curb. Surely that couldn't be...
The driver began to fiddle with his bike, turning it off before reaching for the helmet he had been wearing. Freeing his head, he shook out his hair and ran his fingers through it. Honestly, it felt like you were watching a movie as he slid from the cycle and looked your way.
As soon as your eyes met, it felt like your breath had been stolen from your chest. Who was allowed to be that good looking? Even after popping off a helmet, he looked like a dream.
Shaggy black hair, pouty lips, and doe eyes, the man strode toward you, obviously in no hurry. Dressed in a black jean jacket with a grey hoodie underneath, black jeans, and converse, it looked like he had walked out of a magazine.
Remaining silent until he finally made his way before you, he offered a shy smile. "Hi."
"Hi," you choked out, suddenly overly aware of the lack of saliva in your mouth.
Tilting his head as he watched you curiously, he instantly noticed your arms wrapped around your torso. Without saying a word, he tugged off his jean jacket and held it in your direction.
"No, I'm fine-" you started, a natural reaction to not wanting to cause anyone trouble.
Lifting his brows, he shook it a bit. As you continued to stare, he heaved a sigh before walking around you and placing the coat across your shoulders. Stepping back in front of you, he grinned. "I'm Hyungwon, from Monsta X."
"I'm Y/N," you croaked. "From My Idol."
Hyungwon's smile grew in size as heat began to instantly creep up your neck. How did someone's simple existence make you so flustered?
"Nice to meet you, Y/N from My Idol," he chuckled. "Why don't we get you out of the cold and head inside?"
"Yes, inside," you said dumbly, already heated by your sheer embarrassment.
Hyungwon smiled again as he took a place beside you, putting his hand across your lower back to guide you into the building.
His fingers felt like they were searing a hole into the denim. You mentally chided yourself as you stumbled forward. Get it together, Y/N, or risk this being the most mortifying night of your life.
Pairing: Chae Hyungwon x Reader | Genre: angst & fluff | Warnings: mentions of drugs & alcohol | WC: 0.9k
Request: Can I request a best friend scenario with whoever you choose, where you call them really late at night to come get you, because you were uncomfortable at a party? Fluffy ending, please. Thank you for all your hard work, and wonderful pieces you put out. (:
You scrunched your nose up at the intoxicating scent of the atmosphere around you. You had tried to step outside for some air, but it was littered with stale air and smoke. A group of people smoking cigarettes and a small group sitting in a circle passing around a blunt, laughing and joking with each other.
“Y/N!” Your friend ran up to you with bloodshot eyes, “Come join us! You’ll love this.l,” Smiling awkwardly, you politely declined. It wasn’t something you were interested in doing or trying. Honestly, you just wanted to leave, it wasn't your scene and it probably never was going to be no matter how hard you tried.
Inside the house, the party was raging on and was no better. The music was blaringly loud and you were honestly surprised that the house hadn’t literally toppled from the vibrating base. There were sweaty bodies littered around the living room, grinding on one another and dancing. People leaned up against the walls, making out and shooting heart eyes to others. The stench of alcohol burned your nose and you sighed. You didn’t mind parties, but you felt this was going a little overboard. You were a small town girl and this wasn’t stuff you were used to seeing or participating in.
A few times, people you didn’t know had tried to offer you a red cup with whatever it was that was in it. You had declined and for some, they got a little irritated. Others just shrugged you off, calling you boring and a party pooper before downing the liquid and scurrying off to do whatever it was they wanted to do. Finally, you had enough. There was no way your friend was driving you two home tonight. You weren’t fond of having to sleep at some strangers house either probably with handful of others that wouldn’t be able to carry themselves home. Pulling out your phone, you smiled at the screen when you saw your best friend had texted you.
[Wonnie] having fun?
You immediately responded, wincing at the time. It was almost three in the morning and there was no doubt he was already asleep. You stepped outside to the front of the house, relieved there was barely anyone out here. Placing your phone to your ear, you silently hoped Hyungwon was still awake.
“Y/N?” His groggy voice answered and you immediately felt guilty for waking him up.
“Hey, turtle,” You jokingly teased, smiling when you heard him chuckle, “Are you home?” You sighed and told him truthfully about what was going on, “I don’t like it here. Everyone’s high or drunk and I don’t know anyone. I want to go home, Wonn-ie. But I’ll have to walk since there’s no way Mina can drive.”
You heard him sigh and then there was shuffling on the other end, “Send me the address, I’ll come get you,” You went to refute but he cut you off before you can speak, “Don’t tell me no and not to worry about it. I told you to call me if you needed to. I’m picking you up and taking you home, no arguments.”
You sighed, knowing you wouldn’t win even if you told him to just go back to sleep and hung up, sending him the address. He was there in ten minutes, his sleepy smile on his face as he reached over and pushed open the door for you. He snorted playfully as you slipped in and pulled on your seat belt.
“Nice outfit, country mouse,” He teased and you groaned.
“Mina made me wear it! She said I couldn’t come to the party in my jeans and t-shirt,” You pouted and Hyungwon laughed at you, patting your head, “I like your jeans and t-shirt better. I’m surprised you stuck around for as long as you did, especially without me there.”
You rolled your eyes and playfully swatted his shoulder, “I’m a big girl, turtle. I don’t need you to be with me everywhere,” He only laughed at you, humming in response, “Thanks for coming by the way,” You murmured and a warm smile spread across his face.
“What kind of best friend would I be if I wasn’t there to rescue you when you’re like a damsel in distress?”
You wrinkled your nose and rolled your eyes again, “I wasn’t in distress,” You muttered and he only gave you a wink before pulling into a McDonald’s parking lot and you eyed him curiously, “Aren’t you tired? Just take me home, I know how much you need your beauty sleep.”
He rolled his eyes at you. “Just get out of the car, dummy.”
You complied, smiling. McDonald’s had always been your favorite late night snack and of course, Hyungwon knew that, “You’re probably starving from fending off the wolves at that party. A burger and some fries would definitely perk you up a bit,” You linked arms with him, diligently leading the way into the establishment.
“Don’t forget my chocolate shake,” You said and he feigned dramatics, placing his hand on his head.
“How dare I forget the chocolate shake?! You’ll have my head if I don’t get that.”
You rolled your eyes playfully and he smiled, pulling the door open for you two. This is what you enjoyed most, just a late night with your best friend, fries and a burger, no need for those crazy college parties.
his hand comes up to ruffle his fluffy hair as he sits up out of bed. it’s late, so incredibly late, but he can’t sleep, not without you. he stumbles into the living room, where you were. even though he was upset, he insisted that you should take the bed and he would sleep on the couch. your stubbornness is a good thing, but it worries hyungwon sometimes.
“please come back to bed, y/n,” he mumbles before sitting on the floor next to the couch, resting his head near your stomach, “i can’t sleep without you.” he says, and he knows you’re already asleep, but that doesn’t stop him from muttering the words softly. he gives up and falls asleep right there on the floor, hoping that come morning, things will be easier.
