96kwonsoons

[96kwonsoons]

definitely not! ๑ mingyu one shot.

pairing: photographer!mingyu x fem reader!annika

overview: you and your personal photographer (and best friend), mingyu, gear up for more daring shoots for a change. when a little accident slips during shoot, both you and mingyu couldn’t hold it anymore.

genre: smut MDNI

word count: ~4k words

author's note: i tried putting in a little playlist as you read along for more intimacy and feel. hope u enjoy!

◣⏯️_world - seventeen◥

Your tumblr blog was a gallery of carefully curated sensuality. Satin sheets, sunlit windows, lingerie that clung to your curves—yet it wasn’t vanity. It was a reclamation. After years of boyfriends who left you with words like “not enough”, you’d decided to create your own narrative.

And it worked, not just because you had the confidence to pose, but because of the man behind the camera.

Kim Mingyu.

Your best friend since high school, now your personal photographer. He’s a magazine model too. Body glorious, smile dangerous.

Professionally, he was meticulous. He knew how to capture light and texture, how to make lace look ethereal and skin glow. Personally, he was the boy who carried your books when you broke your ankle in sophomore year, the man who bought you soup when you got sick last winter, the one who knew the passcode to your condo by heart because you trusted him more than anyone else.

It started as your idea, of course. A late-night call after a breakup. You told him you wanted to post sensual photos, to prove to yourself that you were- are beautiful. He’d hesitated at first, but when he saw the determination in your eyes, he agreed. The deal was simple: professional during shoots, best friends after.

That line was easy to draw in the beginning. But lately, the lines felt like they were blurring.

◣⏯️99.9% - wonwoo of seventeen◥

The café buzzed softly with the low murmur of conversations and clinking mugs. Mingyu sat across from you in a crisp white polo and khaki shorts, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. His camera bag rested beside him, notebook already open, pen tapping rhythmically as he scribbled possible setups.

Meanwhile, you had dressed light for the heat, tying a bandana headband in your hair, wearing a white backless top that dipped daringly low and a pleated checkered skirt that left just enough to imagination. You felt the eyes on you the moment you walked in.

And so did Mingyu.

He glared at every man whose gaze lingered a little too long, his jaw tense.

You sipped your iced latte, amused. “You glare at them like you’re my boyfriend.”

His lips curved into a sulky smile. “At this point, I should be your boyfriend.”

You laughed at the way he said it, half-joking, half-serious, though he quickly ducked his head and pretended to focus on his notes.

“So tomorrow’s shoot,” he said, clicking his pen. “I was thinking natural light. Your condo gets perfect sunrise through those big windows.”

You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “Do you think it’s time?”

He looked up sharply. “No. Definitely not.”

You smirked. “You sound like my boyfriend again, but fine. I’ll wait.”

You both knew what you were talking about: the nude shoot. The one thing you hadn’t crossed off your list.

Instead, you discussed the setup. “Mirror here. Sheer white curtains. Big comforter. White pillows. Fuzzy socks.”

“And,” you added mischievously, “the new lingerie. The silky, ruffled two-piece.”

Mingyu wrote it all down, his handwriting neat and deliberate. He talked about angles, about playing with shadow and highlight, about the softness of skin against fabric. It was professional, yet there was something intimate about how invested he was.

When you finally stood to leave, he insisted on driving you home.

◣⏯️fortunate change - joshua of seventeen◥

The drive was quiet, filled only with the hum of the radio. When he pulled up to your condo, you unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned over. “Thanks for the ride.”

You pecked his cheek, as usual.

He returned it, as usual.

But tonight, the warmth lingered.

He walked you to your building’s entrance, hands in his pockets. “See you tomorrow, pretty.”

“Sunrise. Don’t forget.” You flashed him a smile.

His ears turned pink.

◣⏯️damage - hoshi of seventeen◥

The alarm had gone off painfully early, but by the time Mingyu arrived at your condo, the sky was just starting to soften into pinks and golds.

He let himself in, using your passcode. 0406. His birthday. Meanwhile, his own condo? Your birthday. Just friends, you told yourself, though it hardly felt like it.

“Hey, get in here,” you called from your bedroom.

He walked in, holding his camera bag. “I brought new lenses and filters.”

“Thanks. Why are you so sweaty?”

He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. Because you were in a robe, and he knew what was underneath. Because this was your space, not a studio. Because this shoot was different.

You tightened the sash on your robe and smiled innocently. But you already noticed the bulge pressing against his shorts.

“Ready?” he asked, voice rougher than usual.

“Always.”

The shoot began.

You posed on the bed, sinking into the silky white comforter, robe slipping just enough to tease the lingerie underneath. He gave directions quietly, camera clicking steadily. “Turn your chin. Tilt your hips a little. Good, stay there.”

Sometimes you suggested angles yourself, arching your back a little, leaning toward the window to catch the light. He adjusted, crouching low, moving closer.

Then it happened.

The delicate ruffles of your bra shifted, and one nipple slipped free.

Mingyu’s breath caught, but he quickly looked away, pretending not to notice, snapping the shot like nothing happened.

You smirked. Oh, he noticed.

And instead of fixing it, you kept posing, letting your nipple peek openly through the silk. His movements grew tighter, his adjustments clumsier.

When you slid the waistband of your panties down just enough to reveal the curve of your hip, his hand trembled on the camera.

“Annika…” he muttered.

◣⏯️trigger - dino of seventeen◥

“What are you doing? I said it’s not time,” he laughed, though it sounded strained.

You crawled toward him on the bed, tugging playfully at his hair. “I was just testing you, silly.”

But you didn’t retreat. Instead, you straddled his lap, legs on either side of him. The heat of his body pressed against your bare thighs, and you felt his hardness throbbing under his shorts.

He groaned low. “Annika…”

“What?” You smiled, shifting your hips deliberately.

His head dropped against your shoulder. “You’ve got to tell me what to do with this now.”

You kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, lips parting, tongues brushing.

“I’ve been wanting it,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to breathe. “So do anything you want.”

That was all he needed.

He lifted you effortlessly, laying you back on the bed. Your robe slipped open, revealing the silky lingerie beneath.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he muttered against your skin before sucking your nipple through the silk, making you arch into him with a soft moan. His hands roamed everywhere, large and greedy, until they settled between your thighs.

You were already wet.

“Mingyu,” you gasped.

He slipped a finger through your folds, circling your clit slowly. You reached down, desperate to guide him inside, but he caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head.

“Not yet,” he teased, rubbing faster.

“Please,” you whimpered, bucking your hips.

“Just say what you want, sweetheart.”

“I—want—you,” you panted.

The words had barely left your mouth before he plunged two fingers inside you, then three, stretching you deliciously. His rhythm was relentless, his thumb still flicking your clit, and it wasn’t long before you cried out, coming hard around his fingers.

As you trembled, he pulled his shorts down, freeing himself. You groaned at the sight—thick, long, flushed red at the tip.

“I need to hear you say it,” he breathed, hovering at your entrance.

“Yes. All of it. Now. Please.”

His smirk was sinful as he shoved your panties aside and slid into you slowly, inch by inch until he bottomed out. The stretch was overwhelming, yet perfect, and your moan echoed with his.

He hooked your legs over his shoulders, pounding into you with a rhythm that had your breasts bouncing under his hands. He leaned down to kiss you between thrusts, his lips warm and wet against yours.

“Annika,” he groaned into your mouth, “you feel so good.”

Your nails raked down his back as he thrust harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force.

You came again, clenching around him, screaming his name.

He didn’t stop. He slowed just enough to roll you onto your side, one leg hooked high on his hip as he drove into you from the new angle. The sensation was different, sharper, making your toes curl. His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking bruises you’d have to cover later.

“Mine,” he growled against your skin, snapping his hips. “All mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, voice breaking as your third orgasm crashed through you, tears spilling from the intensity.

He kissed them away, whispering, “That’s my girl, let me see you fall apart.”

Finally, with a strangled groan, he pulled out, spilling hot across your stomach and chest, painting your skin with his release. His head dropped against your shoulder, body shaking with the force of it.

Still, his fingers found your clit, slow circles drawing out aftershocks until you whimpered and begged him to stop. He kissed your temple, murmuring softly, “So perfect. So beautiful. My Annika.”

With one more release from you, only then did he collapse beside you, chest heaving.

And that’s when his hand brushed under the pillow and found the vibrator—and the photo.

Your Calvin Klein magazine photoshoot print of him.

His grin widened as you buried your face in his chest, mortified.

“You really wanted this to happen, huh?” he teased, kissing your forehead.

You could only nod against him, heat crawling up your neck.

And he held you tighter, whispering against your hair, “Good. Because I’ve wanted it too.”

[96kwonsoons]

professional ๑ scoups one shot.

overview: you, park ahri becomes secretary to cold, muscled ceo choi seungcheol, hiding her wealthy background. their fake dating deal stirs real tension. one morning, it all explodes into a steamy encounter that changes everything. pairing: ceo!choi seungcheol x secretly rich!secretary!fem reader “ahri” genre: smut MDNI word count: ~1.8k

Job hunt day. 

Your MacBook blinked low battery warnings as you sat by the window of a quiet café tucked under your high-rise condo in Gangnam. The baristas knew you by name, but not by lineage, and you liked it that way. You don’t like anyone in your new neighborhood to know that you were “Park Ahri— descendant of the Park lineage with gazillion businesses and shares. Or whatever.” No one asked about your parents, no one cared about the name printed on your black card. You paid in cash anyway.

You scrolled through job listings between lazy sips of an overpriced matcha, ignoring high-paying offers from companies you already owned shares in. You wanted something different — something far away from the world you were born into. Also, you didn’t want your parents to know because they would feel betrayed or rather, embarrassed for you.

Then one title caught your eye: “Executive Secretary for SCOUPS Inc.”

A weight training and performance enhancement company… interesting. You’d seen its name before — a recent viral video of shirtless trainers deadlifting like Olympians. It was sleek, elite, unapologetically masculine. But what intrigued you wasn’t the company.

It was the CEO. Choi Seungcheol.

You clicked his profile.

Thirty, never married. Ex-professional weightlifter. Known for a no-nonsense management style. Multiple degrees in business and kinesiology. Interviewed once, in a dark pinstripe suit, thick forearms crossed, cold eyes unmoved by the reporter’s compliments. You studied his photo.

“Looks like he’d fire me for breathing too loudly,” you muttered.

But damn, he was hot.

Without hesitating, you applied. Not with your real resume — just enough to get you in the door. The interview was tomorrow.

At precisely 6:00AM, Choi Seungcheol emerged from the hot tub in his private office suite. Muscles dripping, skin flushed from the heat, he towel-dried his hair with mechanical efficiency.

He had just finished his daily workout, a brutal two-hour solo lifting session, followed by a plunge in his in-office tub. The same tub secretaries used to gawk at before quitting.

This was the 43rd attempt at finding a personal secretary. All of them had failed. Too scared. Too incompetent. Too obvious about trying to get in his pants.

He wore a fitted charcoal suit, sharp like his jawline, and adjusted his cuffs as he stepped into the conference room.

Seungcheol wasn’t the type to attend these interviews, but after about 50 tries, he felt like supervising today.

“Park Ahri?” the human resources person called.

You stood, spine straight, in a black blouse and fitted pencil skirt that screamed class, but whispered mystery. Your hair was tied in a low, effortless bun, red lipstick sharp as your glare. You bowed slightly.

“Good morning.”

Seungcheol blinked. You didn’t look nervous like the other 10 interviewees.

The questions began. And one by one, you answered flawlessly.

Languages? Fluent in three.

Scheduling? A digital and manual calendar freak.

Confidentiality? “My lips are more sealed than your glove compartment.”

That made him smirk. Slightly.

Then he asked, casually, “Are you used to taking orders from powerful men?”

Your eyes flashed. “Only when they’re worth respecting, sir.”

The air shifted.

“You’re hired.”

Your dynamic was odd.

You barely saw each other — everything happened through calls, schedules, secured texts. But you showed up every morning at 6AM with his dry-cleaned suit and black coffee, like clockwork. You never tried to talk. You never lingered. You left with the same silence you came in with.

At night, you’d deliver his car to the private condo parking. Seungcheol was usually out with fellow billionaires Jihoon and Soonyoung. He never explained. You never asked.

Until one night…

He was waiting in the garage.

“I didn’t tell you I’d be using the car tonight,” he said flatly.

You paused. “I figured.”

“I can drive you home,” he added.

“I’m not the type to go public, boss,”

That caught his attention.

“Ah,” he exhaled, unlocking the passenger door. “Don’t care. Get in.”

You obeyed whispering “whatever” in a hundred different tones, the air thick with silence.

“Glove box,” he said mid-drive. “Wallet.”

You opened the glove box to reveal several condom packets scattered.

“Jesus,” you scoffed. “You planning to start a football team?”

“Depends,” he muttered. “Do you have what it takes?”

Your smirk faltered. Silence filled the cabin again. You were used to his playboy attitude especially that he probably brings home hot instagrammable girls at night.

When you reached your building, he exhaled — long and slow.

“So… my parents want me to start dating,” he said. “They’re pushing hard. I need a… placeholder.”

“A fake girlfriend?”

He nodded.

“And you chose me?”

“You’re discreet. Smart. And already in my schedule.”

You didn’t say no. You arrive in your apartment all flustered from the events in the car. You kinda wanted to do it, but scared that it might go public and your identity gets revealed. But… you kinda wanted to do it. Kinda. The night ended with your thoughts of Seungcheol in whichever angle you thought of and your fingers all over and… inside… your body

The next morning, your usual delivery came with a note stuck to the coffee lid:

“Let’s do it.”

A kiss mark in bold red.

And below it, your handwriting:

“One condition. Meet me. 8th floor locker room. 6:10AM.”

It was early. The gym was silent. He found you there, leaning on a bench, arms crossed.

“I agree,” you said. “But no one sees my face. Ever.”

“Fine,” he replied. 

“And the interviews?”

“I handle those.”

A silent deal, sealed by a nod.

The weeks that followed were a blur of fake kisses in back hallways, whispers in condo elevators, carefully choreographed photo ops. Everyone started talking.

You were late for your morning routine that day. Who knows what’s been going on in your head for fake dating THE Choi Seungcheol.

He opened the door expecting a suit and coffee. Instead, he found you, crouched at the threshold, just about to place the items down.

He was shirtless — no, worse — wet hair, towel on hips, body dripping from his morning tub.

“Late? That’s odd. Come in,” he said, voice hoarse. “We can go together in my car. I’ll grab you some tea.”

You followed him in, red ears visible.

His penthouse was spotless. Clean. But lived in.

He handed you your tea, but you fumbled. You were still processing seeing him in nothing, but a white towel. Sure, you see him shirtless all the time, but this was different. It was you and him. Alone. In his penthouse. Your hand shook as you took the cup. It spilled — right onto your white thin blouse, revealing your laced red bra through the fabric.

His smirk grew. That playboy smirk. You hated how this happened today of all days and situations possible. 

You didn’t react wildly. Just a face palm and voices in your head along the lines of, “what the actual fuck.”

“Is that for me?” he teased.

You couldn’t answer. You were still feeling the now damp chest area due to the ac in his living room. But you were staring. Staring at his well-toned abs, and you weren’t sure if a bulge was starting to form over the towel or he’s just incredibly large.

“What are you looking at?” He chuckles.

“This is so unprofessional of me. I’m sorry, boss.” You could only look in between your legs, positioned like you were doing a respectful bow.

His hand gently tilted your chin. “Tell me, Ahri. What are you thinking about?” His voice was soft and deep, but with intention.

Your pulse pounded. Thoughts raced — of late nights, of soaked abs, of how many times you’d secretly touched yourself thinking of this exact image.

His towel. Your bra. One step away from breaking every rule.

Your gaze shifted — from stunned to hungry.

He saw it.

“So,” he whispered, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “What if we make this as professional as possible?”

You only thought fuck it. This was a professional deal and he’s so fucking good at twisting my words.

He lifted your damp blouse gently, exposing the full view of your crimson lace bra. Your nipples pressed against the thin fabric, already hardened from the cold tea… or anticipation.

“You always wear red?” he murmured, voice dangerously low.

“Only on the days I think about you.”

His jaw clenched.

“You mean every day?” He laughed at you a little. “Because I think about you. A hell lot.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He stepped closer, the tension so thick. His towel clung low, only inches away from exposure. He cupped your face with one hand, the other trailing along your arm — down, until he reached your waistband.

“Tell me if I need to stop.”

You nodded quickly, lips parted in breathless heat.

“Words, Ahri.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all he needed.

His fingers dipped under your skirt, stroking over your panties, already wet. He chuckled darkly.

“Soaked, huh?”

“Shut up,” you whispered.

“Make me.”

He knelt. Pulled the fabric aside.

Licked up your folds with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue.

You tucked your skirt above so you could get to his hair. He groaned against you, fingers gripping your thighs as he flicked his tongue just right — again and again. He sucked, circled, then plunged a thick finger inside. Then another.

“Oh fuck,” you whimpered, grinding into him. “Seungcheol—”

He stood, lips glistening, expression dangerous. He kissed you — rough and deep — letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Then he turned you around, bent you over the kitchen island, and rolled a condom in one smooth motion.

Your breath hitched.

“You sure?” he whispered in your ear.

You reached back, guiding him in.

“Just fuck me already.”

He slid in slowly, groaning at the way you clenched around him. Your skirt bunched up on your waist, panties pulled aside, and red laced bra still wet. He moved slowly at first — savoring you — then faster, rougher, each thrust slamming deep.

“God,” you moaned. “So full…”

“You can take it,” he grunted, thrusting harder. “All of it.”

He’d push aside your bra every now and then to feel your nipples, twisting them and pulling them. Or he’d rub your clit while he slams you from behind.

“I’m close.” You barely said. 

“Well, then come for me, baby.” 

With that, you came with a cry, legs shaking, body wrung tight.

He followed, pulsing deep into the condom, collapsing over your back with a shudder.

You lay on the penthouse floor minutes later, tangled in a blanket he fetched while still half-naked.

“Wow,” You muttered. “That was…”

“Professional?” he laughed, tugged at your nipple as a joke.

[96kwonsoons]

solo ๑ mingyu one shot.

𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 // mingyu’s solo debut finally came. a sensual themed one. aera, a renowned dancer, to partner with him, the chemistry on and off camera becomes impossible to ignore. between choreography rehearsals and a provocative shower scene shoot, the boundaries between professionalism and desire blur until they finally snap during a quiet break.

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 // idol!mingyu x dancer!fem reader “aera”

𝙬𝙘 // ~ 3.1k

𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 // smut MDNI ❗

𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎/𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀𝙎

↝ consensual

↝ explicit smut: unprotected (w/ cp), nipstim, a little switch! & dom!mingyu, graphic sexual scenes

writer’s note: will try to upload twice every week!! - anyway, mingyu solo debut????? when???

Mingyu had never directed anything before.

But when his solo debut song was finalized—a sultry, bass-heavy track that simmered with tension and teased at desire—he knew he had to be involved in more than just performing it. The label agreed. He made this song with Woozi. Woozi even mentioned something along the lines of “he’s gotta get a girlfriend or something.” The choreography had to drip with sensuality, and the music video needed to be visually provocative. So, he got to handpick his partner.

That was how you came into the picture.

You were a natural—fluid and fiery, poised and powerful. A famous dancer-influencer. From the first rehearsal, the chemistry between you and Mingyu was electric. Each touch felt like an accident waiting to happen, each glance teetered on the edge of something unspoken.

During a run-through, when your arm brushed his groin mid-lift, he froze for a fraction of a second. Just enough to feel the spark. But he said nothing. Played it cool. Chalked it up to professionalism. You, on the other hand, didn’t notice it.

Then came the MV shoot.

And your shower scene.

You wore nothing but a sheer robe, skin glistening, water trailing down your curves like it was choreographed. You moved like seduction in motion, lips parted, eyes half-lidded with performance heat. Mingyu watched from the director’s monitor—shoulders tense, jaw locked. His pants tightened unbearably.

He shifted in his seat, legs crossed under the table, but his mind was already spiraling. His focus was gone. All he could think about was how you looked—soaked, flushed, and utterly untouchable.

Except… you weren’t untouchable.

The lunch break was quiet. Most of the staff had gone to grab food. Only a few backup dancers and managers remained. Lunch bento boxes for artists were lined up in the center of the studio. Mingyu carried two bentos down the hallway and stopped in front of your dressing room.

He knocked gently. “Aera? The food was getting cold. I got you yours.”

The door opened a crack—and his heart nearly stopped.

You were wearing a thin, white spaghetti strap top that clung to your still-damp skin. Your nipples were hard, faintly visible through the fabric, and you didn’t seem to notice. It was cold given you had to do a very.. very.. wet scene.

“Thanks,” you smiled, stepping back to let him in. “You can come in. I was gonna go over that second chorus bit anyway.”

He swallowed and stepped inside, closing the door behind him—and, without realizing, locking it.

Your room was small, private. Just a couch, a vanity, clothes hanger and a narrow bed. You sat on the edge of the couch, opening the bento box. “You wanna eat first?”

Mingyu sat next to you, trying not to glance down at your top, the soft curve of your thighs. “Let’s run through that timing before we lose the beat.”

You both stood up, music playing low from your phone. He moved behind you, placing a hand on your hip, guiding your steps. His chest hovered just a breath away from your back.

“One… two… turn,” he counted. “Then you slide… here…”

Your back pressed into his front. You arched slightly. He felt it—your body against his—and his breath faltered.

You caught his gaze in the mirror. A moment of silence, eyes hungry, lip biting, and pooling of drool.

And that was it.

His fingers gripped your hip harder. You wondered what it meant, but you took it really well. You turned around slowly—and looked up at him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

He tried to move first with his lips and then retracted, testing the waters if you would move forward too. You did so as well, moving forward, retracting. When you both realized that you were holding back waiting for consent, it happened. The kiss that wasn’t soft — hungry. Your lips collided, messy and full of heat. His hands slid to your thighs, then under, gripping, lifting. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you with ease and pressed you into the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He kissed down your neck, sucking just enough to leave a mark. You whimpered as his lips brushed lower, his fingers curling under your top.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low. “..if this is too much—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, already tugging your top down.

The couch wasn’t ideal, but you didn’t care. You lay back, letting him push the straps of your top down fully, exposing your breasts. He looked completely entranced.

He groaned at the sight of you, lowering his head.

His mouth was warm, lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue flicking gently. You gasped, hands in his hair, your back arching as he teased one breast and kneaded the other. Then he switched sides—slower, wetter. 

“Mingyu, the door,” you almost stuttered, slipping out a moan.

“It’s locked.”

You felt yourself getting wetter with every moan he pulled from you.

Mingyu sat back to yank off your shorts. The ends of your black string thong were pulled down by his teeth. He paused, staring at you. At how soaked you were.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “This all for me?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. There was too much tension.

He dropped to his knees between your thighs.

He pressed down the tip of his nose, teasing, swiping it up and down. Until he swapped his tongue over your folds. It was slow - he was savoring you. You whimpered, hands gripping the couch cushion. He licked you again, firmer, circling your clit and dipping lower, deeper.

He moaned against you like he was tasting something forbidden. His hands gripped your thighs as he buried his face in your heat, tongue relentless. When he slipped a finger inside, tongue still over your heat, you clenched around him with a sharp gasp.

“Mingyu—please—”

“You taste so good,” he murmured, curling his fingers, pressing his tongue harder to your clit. “So fucking sweet.”

You came hard—back arching, thighs trembling, gasping his name as he held you down, licking you through every wave of pleasure. Your legs twitched when he finally pulled away, his mouth glistening.

He crawled over you again, kissing you deeply. You tasted yourself on his lips.

His sweatpants were already halfway down. You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him—thick, hot, already leaking.

“No condom,” he said, voice hoarse. “Tell me now if—”

“I’m on the pill,” you whispered. “I want to feel you.”

He groaned—deep and guttural.

Mingyu lined himself up and slid in slowly. Your eyes widened at the stretch. Inch by inch, he filled you, until he bottomed out, panting above you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “You feel… unbelievable.”

He started to move—deep, slow thrusts that sent stars exploding behind your eyes. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, meeting every stroke, your fingers tangled in his hair.

Each thrust drove deeper, harder, his pelvis grinding against your clit. You moaned louder, body arching beneath him.

“I’ve wanted this,” he growled, his rhythm growing erratic, “since day one. Since the first time I touched you. And every time I grind on you for the last chorus.”

You moaned his name, nails digging into his back. You’ve switched from missionary to cow girl at one point. You’re basically riding him. You can feel him grunting at every bounce. 

“This can’t be. Stand up.” A dominating Mingyu said, guiding you to stand while you support your hands or arms to the wall. While you’re upside, Mingyu comes for you from behind. His length disappearing to your heat. The pace began slow, then you slowly follow as if it were part of the choreography. 

“I’m about to-” you pant.

When Mingyu groaned, it was like when he was performing Monster with the hiphop team the other day. He came.

When he came, he came deep—groaning into the back of your neck, body trembling. You felt the warmth flood inside you, and it sent you over the edge again, your body tightening, pulsing around him as your second orgasm crashed through you.

You both lay there, breathless, his body heavy over yours. He kissed your shoulder, then your collarbone. Then your lips—softer this time.

“Well,” you mumbled, smiling breathlessly, “this is going to make filming later… interesting.”

He laughed quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“We’re about to make the hottest music video of the year.”

The video dropped a week later.

Comments flooded in:

“I’m sorry… this is art AND porn???” “Aera and Mingyu’s chemistry is crazy.” “This is too real to be acting…”

The staff noticed it, too—your touch, his gaze, the way your bodies moved like you were made for each other. No one said anything.

But no one had to.

The camera captured everything it needed.

[96kwonsoons]

face the sun ๑ dino one shot.

𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 // after a fiery concert night, dino spots a girl as fierce as the sun. a blogger with a camera, a margarita, and a barely-there bikini. one invitation to her room turns into a night of tension, passion, and unexpected softness. he owned the stage hours ago, but now he’s about to own her heart (...and body).

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 // idol!chan x fan!blogger!fem reader “byeol”

𝙬𝙘 // ~ 1.6k

𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 // smut MDNI ❗a little fluff at the end

𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎/𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀𝙎

↝ +18 NSFW MDNI PLEASE

↝ mentions of alcohol

↝ protected, clothing play, nipstim, consensual, tension

↝ mild language

writer’s note: heyyy this is my first time writing in this genre so i made a whole new account for it. any suggestions in putting tags and warnings? i wrote this after i rewatched follow tour and dino’s part in hot?!?! LIKE ok wtv. hope u enjoy ! :DD

The concert was fiery. The crowd, the lights, the rush of adrenaline — Chan was still heating up from it all. His dance break in Hot had the crowd losing their minds, and the way his body responded to the beat tonight felt like something primal. Even the other members couldn’t help but pat his back, hyping him up long after the encore.

Back at the hotel, the team split off — some off to crash, others to drink to celebrate the end of their concert. Chan followed Hoshi and Cheol to the rooftop pool, away from staff, cameras, and restrictions. It was 11 p.m. The city skyline shimmered under moonlight, and the water reflected the sensual red and blue glow of the pool lights. No managers. No fans. Just three men letting loose.

But you were there.

Across the pool, under the gentle wooden roof of the sala set, you sat like you owned the night. Bikini barely clinging on, legs crossed elegantly, a margarita resting in your grip, and a silver laptop open in front of you — working.

“Who’s that? She seems familiar,” Chan murmured.

Cheol chuckled. “She’s been around since last tour, remember? Blog girl. Think her name’s... Byeol?”

“Byeol,” Hoshi smirked. “That’s like my name, but you know…”

Right. Whatever.

Chan watched you silently, eyes scanning the curve of your waist, the tiny bows on the sides of your bikini, the way your breasts swayed slightly as you reached over to your DSLR.

“She’s cute,” he muttered under his breath.

“Cute?” Hoshi laughed. “Bro, you’re staring like she’s your final mission.”

Chan blushed, but Cheol leaned into his ear. “No staff here. No one to stop you. Go talk to her.”

Chan looked up, nervous. “What if I—”

“By next week,” Cheol interrupted with a grin, “articles should be out that you’re dating anyway.”

The trio chuckled, but the playful push in Cheol’s tone was all Chan needed. Swallowing his nerves, he got up and made his way to your side.

You looked up from your screen when the soft steps padded near. You had noticed the three boys earlier — hard to miss half-naked idols in silk robes and short swim trunks. But when Chan came near, you pretended not to know him. Let him speak first.

“Hey,” Chan said, his voice low, respectful. “Mind if I sit here?”

You tilted your head. “Sure.”

He sat beside you, knees just barely touching.

“You a photographer?” he asked, gesturing toward your gear.

“Something like that,” you said. “I blog... and follow SVT on tour.”

Chan blinked, heart tripping. “Really?”

“Mhm. You were... amazing tonight,” you said, giving him a tiny smile. “Especially the dance break. Everyone around me was screaming for you.”

He bit his lip, flushing again. “You saw that? Did you scream too?”

You laughed. “I got it in like, five angles,” you said proudly, flipping your camera to show him the burst of photos: his hair wild, his muscles flexing, sweat glistening under stage lights.

Chan leaned in, genuinely impressed. “These are... wow. You’re talented.”

“You should see my room,” you said offhandedly. “I kind of turned my hotel room into a blog cave — paper everywhere, stickers, tape, printer, washi hell.”

He laughed. “That sounds kinda fun... can I see it?”

You paused, cocked an eyebrow.

“The pool closes in 30 minutes anyway,” he added quickly, nervous. “Just curious about the blog thing.”

You gave a slow nod, sipping your margarita. “Alright. Let’s go.”

When you passed by the pool, Hoshi raised a glass silently, and Cheol bit down a proud grin. Chan could feel it behind his back — the silent cheer: That’s our boy.

He held the elevator open for you like a gentleman. Neither of you said a word as the doors closed. But the tension was crackling now.

Your room smelled like soft lavender and paper. Cartolinas covered one wall, cutouts of photos, tape rolls, stamps, stacks of printed film still drying.

Chan wandered in slowly, eyes wide. “This is... insane. Like, good insane.”

You smiled, watching him fidget.

“You’re really passionate,” he said, meaning to compliment the art — but when you turned, robe slipping to the side and giving him a glimpse of your bikini-covered chest, the words stumbled out: “You’re... beautiful.”

Chan’s eyes flicked away, embarrassed.

You didn’t respond. Just reached for a sticker from your desk and as you moved, a bit of your nipple slipped from your top.

Both of you noticed.

Both pretended not to.

Chan felt blood rush to his groin. His silk shorts began to tent. He turned, quick. “Uh… May I.. use the bathroom?”

You pointed. He rushed in, face hot.

Inside, he leaned over the sink. “F**k.”

His hand trailed lower. Maybe he could calm down. But the image of you — skin flushed, bikini sliding off, the smell of your perfume — was too much. He gripped himself, stroking, breathing hard. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t come. You were right outside. Practically glowing.

Outside, you heard it. The soft panting. The skin sounds. You only imagined his face during his performance hours ago.

You smirked. Guess I’m not the only one feeling it. Confidence flaring up your body, you did what he never expected.

When Chan opened the door, still breathless and unsatisfied, he was met with a vision that nearly ended him:

You. On the bed. Robe loose, barely tied. Bikini still on, but barely clinging. Waiting.

You didn’t speak.

You just looked up at him, slightly biting your lower lip, eyes burning.

Chan was facing the sun. The glowing, stunning, and perfectly hot sun. He stepped closer. His voice was low. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. A little flirty, “I know you’ve been performing all night, but do you mind doing another one here?”

And with that you saw Chan’s eyes lit up like fire.

Chan approached the bed like a man possessed. You sat up, pulling him down by the tie of his robe. Your lips met — soft at first, then messier, hungrier. Your hands glided up his chest, nails raking his skin lightly.

He groaned against your lips. “You smell like heaven.”

“You taste like adrenaline,” you whispered, biting his lower lip.

You tugged the robe from his shoulders. His toned chest, now fully bare. His shorts barely held him in. You reached down, cupping him through the fabric.

“Shit,” he hissed.

But he didn’t stay passive long. Suddenly, his hands were on your hips, thumbs teasing the strings of your bikini bottom, pulling them upward to press against your center. His mouth trailed from your lips down to your collarbone.

“Chan—”

“Can I?” he asked, looking up with raw desire.

“Yes. All of it.”

He didn’t waste another second. His lips latched onto your breast over the bikini, sucking gently, then harder, the fabric dampening from his tongue. He tugged your top aside with his teeth, exposing a nipple.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “They’re perfect.”

He circled the peak with his tongue, then flicked. You gasped, arching into him. He switched sides, giving equal attention, teasing you until you were moaning his name in broken syllables.

His hands slipped down, tugging your bottoms slightly — just enough to see the wetness seeping through.

“You’re soaked.”

“And you’re talking too much.”

He smirked, rolling on a condom from his pocket, never knowing he would need it as Jeonghan teased it with him earlier. Your eyes widened — he came prepared.

Positioning himself above you, he paused. “Tell me if it’s too much. Anytime.”

You nodded.

He pressed in slowly. Stretching you inch by inch. Your gasp was sharp, and Chan moaned low.

“Fuck, you’re tight. So warm.”

Once fully inside, his demeanor shifted. The shyness melted. His hips rolled slowly, deeply.

He started slowly, watching your face, memorizing the way you bit your lip and clenched the sheets. Every thrust dragged a moan from your lips, each louder than the last.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth again. His thrusts got sharper, deeper.

“Did you say you wanted this encore?,” he growled.

“All night,” you whispered.

One hand held your wrist above your head. The other slipped under your knee, hiking your leg up to deepen the angle. His hips slammed into yours, your bodies slapping softly in rhythm with the hum of the Tokyo night outside.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he murmured.

“Neither can I,” you moaned. “You’re... god, Chan... you’re making me—”

“Come for me,” he whispered into your neck. “I want to feel you lose it on me.”

You broke.

Body shaking, nails digging into his back, mouth open in a silent scream as your orgasm crashed over you. Your walls clenched tight around him, pulling him to the edge.

“F—fuck, I’m—”

He thrust once, twice more, and then with a guttural moan, he came, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling.

You lay there, tangled, panting. The world outside is forgotten and you pass out in each other's arms.

The next morning, light poured in through the sheer curtains. The sun was shining over your glistening face. But to Chan, you were the sun.

Chan stirred, blinking slowly. Beside him, you were curled up, your robe draped lazily over your hip, bikini top somewhere on the floor.

He leaned in, kissed your bare shoulder.

“Mmm...” you mumbled. “Morning, dancer boy.”

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I’m perfect.”

He smiled, brushing your hair back. “We might have to prep for a dating article.”

“Oh?” you asked, eyes teasing.

“‘Cause I’m not letting you go,” he said simply. “So yeah. Let’s give them something to talk about.” You could only grin and bury yourself into his chest, pressing yourself against him for a hug. “This was a dream.”

Downstairs, Hoshi and Cheol waited by the van, sunglasses on, for their short beach trip with the members, grinning like proud parents.

When Chan finally stepped out — still wearing your glitter sticker on his collarbone — they only smirked.

“That’s our boy.”