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NDA: Hyungwon (Wet and Wild)

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."

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