#Angular performance

[orangemantrausa]

Cut the Fat: Boost Angular Performance with Tree Shaking!

When you're working on an Angular app, you may find that over time, the codebase can get a bit... bloated. It’s like packing too many things into a small suitcase — it becomes harder to move around, and nothing fits as efficiently as it should. But what if I told you there was a way to trim down that unnecessary bulk and make your app faster and more efficient?

In this post, we’ll dive into tree shaking, a technique that can help you "cut the fat" and boost your angular performance optimization. If you’ve ever wondered how to make your app leaner, faster, and easier to navigate for users, tree shaking might just be the answer.

What is Tree Shaking?

At its core, tree shaking is a process used in modern JavaScript frameworks, like Angular, to eliminate unused code during the build process. The goal is simple: remove any parts of the app that aren’t being used, thus reducing the size of your final bundle and making your app perform better.

Think of it like cleaning out your closet — the clothes you no longer wear (unused code) are removed, leaving only the essentials. By shaking out the clutter, you’re left with a much more efficient app that loads faster and performs better.

How Does Tree Shaking Work in Angular?

Tree shaking works by analyzing your application and identifying unused imports and dead code that’s not contributing to the functionality. In an Angular app, this typically means removing unused components, modules, or even entire libraries that aren’t needed.

Angular, combined with tools like Webpack and Terser, can effectively optimize your code by removing everything that isn’t used in the final build. When Angular's AOT (Ahead-of-Time) compilation is enabled, tree shaking is even more effective because it allows for better analysis and removal of dead code before angular performance optimization.

Why Tree Shaking Matters

In today’s fast-paced digital world, speed is everything. A slow-loading app can lead to frustrated users, higher bounce rates, and ultimately lost business. This is especially true for B2B applications, where efficiency and speed can make or break a deal.

Reduced Bundle Size = Faster Load Times

By eliminating unused code, your app’s bundle size decreases. A smaller bundle size means faster load times, which not only improves the user experience but also contributes to better SEO rankings. Google loves fast websites, and faster load times help improve your app’s visibility.

Better Performance, Happier Users

When your app is lean and fast, users will notice. This means higher engagement, improved retention, and a better overall experience. For business owners, investing in tree shaking can lead to a noticeable increase in customer satisfaction and conversion rates.

How to Implement Tree Shaking in Angular

Getting started with tree shaking in angular performance optimization isn’t too difficult, especially if you’re already familiar with Angular CLI and modern JavaScript practices. Here’s a step-by-step guide to help you get the ball rolling.

Step 1: Use ES6 Modules

Tree shaking relies heavily on ES6 modules, which support static analysis. By using ES6 imports and exports, Angular can analyze your code to determine what’s needed and what isn’t.

For example, instead of using wildcard imports like this:

javascript

import * as _ from 'lodash';

You should use specific imports like this:

javascript

import { debounce } from 'lodash';

This ensures that only the parts of the library you need get included in your final build.

Step 2: Enable Ahead-of-Time (AOT) Compilation

AOT compilation helps Angular to pre-compile the application during the build process, making it more efficient and easier for the tree shaking process to identify unused code.

To enable AOT, simply run the following command:

bash

ng build --prod

This tells Angular to build your app in production mode with AOT enabled, which enhances tree shaking and ensures a leaner bundle.

Step 3: Use Webpack for Optimization

Webpack is a powerful bundler that works alongside Angular to help minimize your code. With the right configuration, Webpack will remove unused modules and optimize your code for production.

Step 4: Test with Bundle Analyzer

Once you’ve enabled tree shaking, it’s time to check if it’s actually working. Tools like Webpack Bundle Analyzer allow you to visualize your bundle and see exactly what’s inside. This helps you identify any unused code that still might be lurking in your build.

Real-World Benefits of Tree Shaking

Now that you know how tree shaking works, let’s look at some real-world benefits. These are the types of results you can expect when you cut the fat and boost Angular’s performance:

1. Faster Load Times = Happier Users

When you reduce the size of your app’s bundle, you’ll notice faster load times. For instance, if you cut down your bundle size from 2MB to 500KB, your app could load twice as fast. This leads to a smoother experience for users, keeping them engaged and reducing bounce rates.

2. Better SEO Rankings

As mentioned earlier, faster websites rank better on Google. By implementing tree shaking and reducing your app’s bundle size, you improve your website performance and SEO rankings. This is essential for businesses trying to reach a wider audience and gain new clients.

3. Reduced Server Costs

With a smaller bundle, your app requires less server bandwidth to deliver. This can save your business money on hosting and data transfer costs. It also means less strain on your server, allowing it to handle more users at once without crashing.

4. Easier Maintenance

A leaner, optimized app is easier to maintain in the long run. By removing unused code and libraries, you reduce the complexity of your project. This makes it easier for developers to update, troubleshoot, and scale your application over time.

Challenges You Might Face with Tree Shaking

While tree shaking is a powerful optimization tool, it’s not without its challenges. Here are a few hurdles you might encounter:

1. Identifying Unused Code

Finding and removing unused code manually can be time-consuming, especially in larger applications. However, tools like Webpack Bundle Analyzer can make this process easier.

2. Legacy Code and Older Angular Versions

If your Angular app is using older versions of Angular, tree shaking might not be as effective. Upgrading to a more recent version of Angular and ensuring that you’re using Ivy Renderer will make tree shaking much more efficient.

3. Third-Party Libraries

Sometimes, third-party libraries don’t play well with tree shaking, particularly if they don’t support ES6 modules. In these cases, you may need to look for alternatives or manually remove unused parts of these libraries.

Conclusion

Tree shaking is a game-changer for Angular developers looking to optimize their apps and improve angular performance optimization. By trimming down the unnecessary fat, you can reduce bundle size, improve load times, and create a better experience for your users. For B2B owners, these optimizations lead to higher user satisfaction, better SEO rankings, and reduced costs.

Ready to cut the fat and boost your app’s performance? Start implementing tree shaking today and watch your Angularjs development company run faster and more efficiently than ever before!

[gagande]

Purecode | Angular Performance

In the case of Angular, its use of real DOM requires updating the entire tree for page updates. However, performance can be optimized with the OnPush change detection strategy and the use of trackBy with *ngFor. Angular’s JIT compilation increases application size and load time as the compiler is loaded with the application, while AOT compilation reduces bundle sizes and accelerates rendering.

[prishusoft01]

Angular 20 is here, and it's changing the frontend game in 2025!

From Signal-based reactivity, standalone components, to smarter @ defer loading and cleaner control flow, this release is everything developers hoped for… and more!

Whether you're scaling enterprise apps or hacking your next side project, Angular 20 delivers speed, simplicity, and serious power.

Here's what you'll discover:

Game-changing new features

Performance boosts you’ll feel

Modern tools for modern devs

Real-world use cases & dev reactions

Read the complete guide: https://lnkd.in/dgZw7AE2

Let your code breathe easier. Start building smarter with Angular 20 today.

[scriptingthewhy]

Why Front-End Development is Key to User Experience

AI-generated image. “Yay, another project. And I have front-end development duty. Nice.” Decoding the Digital Canvas: A Front-End Deep Dive from A Maryland Web Dev Lately, it feels like I’m caught in some kind of front-end developer limbo. Every time I start a new project, it’s always the front-end work that comes up first—and then I just get stuck there. Don’t get me wrong, I know how critical…

[abdelfattah-ragab]

Angular Performance Optimization: Everything you need to know by Abdelfattah Ragab

Welcome to the book “Angular Performance Optimization: Everything you need to know”. In this book, I will show you all the ways you can optimize the performance of your Angular application. You may already be familiar with concepts like change detection and lazy loading, but there are plenty of other strategies and techniques you can use to significantly improve your app's performance. This book explains these advanced optimization methods and provides you with practical insights and actionable tips. Whether you are a beginner or an experienced developer, this book is designed to give you the knowledge and tools you need to effectively optimize your Angular applications. Let us get started.

The e-book is only available on the author's website https://books.abdelfattah-ragab.com with amazing discounts of up to 40%.

[centizen]

Ionic vs NativeScript-Is Ionic Truly Untouchable or Skipping on NativeScript?

Before we start the debate of Ionic vs Nativescript, let me clear the air of what’s what.

What’s Ionic?

Ionic, a powerful mobile framework that aids you with building native-like-feeling mobile apps with technologies as HTML, CSS & JS. HTML5 SDK that helps you build using web technologies like HTML, CSS, and JavaScript. Ionic is focused mainly on the look and feel, and UI interaction of your app. That means we aren’t a replacement for PhoneGap or your favorite JavaScript framework. Is Ionic truly untouchable, or are we skipping on NativeScript?

What’s NativeScript?

NativeScript, an open-source framework for developing apps solely for iOS/Android platforms. In other words, rather than the native-like-feel you get the full experience.

Now that we have set this aside, let’s get into what really sets them apart.

Ionic vs NativeScript

1. Development Speed

2. UI

3. Performance

Development speed

Coding in Ionic is comparatively faster and a lot less tiring. Constructed on top of Angular and built using Apache Cordova, Ionic stands out in hybrid application services, without requiring custom technologies.

However, coding in NativeScript comparatively takes more time. Being a transpiling language, that uses JavaScript, the options seem limited.

UI

When considering performance, Ionic is not suitable for application with complex tasks since it runs on WebView. On the other hand, NativeScript comes off as a one-piece process.

Performance

UI/X has taken over this past few years by storm as we know it. However, both Ionic and NativeScript support them, yet NativeScript comes out top in this due to its seamlessness and rich UI supplement. (Looking to perfect your mobile application UI/X design, check this out)

Ionic comes with UI components for a native-like UI experience. NativeScript uses XML based UI designing and styling through CSS. The component library is built on top of native control for a seamless UI experience compared to that of Ionic.

Ionic vs Native – An overview

What sets them apart?

The key difference is that Ionic requires additional plugins to access system features however, Native doesn’t require this as it has access to the whole API.

Who can benefit from Ionic?

Anyone who is set to develop hybrid mobile apps using CSS, HTML5 or Web platform technology.

Who can benefit from NativeScript?

Anyone who intends to develop an Android or iOS using JavaScript, by sharing the code across platforms.

Wrap up

Wrapping up, I want to make it clear that I am not debating that one is better than the other. To be more precise, when you are in need of creating an application within a limited timeline, that supports both mobile and web browser Ionic should be your means. However, if you want your application to handle complex tasks and your primary goal is performance then opt for NativeScript.

[grey-space-computing]

Angular vs. Other Frameworks: Why It’s the Best Choice for Your Mobile App

In the modern digital age, developing mobile apps has become essential for driving business success. The competition in the mobile app market is intense, and picking the right framework can significantly impact your app’s performance, scalability, and overall success. Among the most popular frameworks are Angular, React, and Vue.js, but Angular mobile app development stands out for its comprehensive tools, advanced features, and support for complex projects. In this article, we’ll explore why Angular is the best choice for your mobile app development projects.

What is Angular?

Angular, an open-source front-end framework created by Google, was first introduced in 2010. Since then, it has evolved significantly, with Angular 2+ being a total overhaul of the original AngularJS. It’s written in TypeScript, offering developers a static type system that makes coding easier and less error-prone. With its component-based architecture and powerful development tools, Angular provides a robust environment for building dynamic, scalable, and secure mobile applications.

Importance of Frameworks in Mobile App Development

Frameworks are crucial in streamlining mobile app development tasks. They provide a structured foundation for building apps, reducing the need to write repetitive code and streamlining the development process. Frameworks like Angular, React, and Vue.js offer varying degrees of flexibility, ease of use, and performance optimization, making it critical to choose the right one based on the app’s requirements.

Angular vs. React

One of the most common comparisons in mobile app development is between Angular and React. React, developed by Facebook, is widely used for creating user interfaces, particularly single-page applications. Although both frameworks are highly capable, Angular offers a broader range of built-in functionalities, including modules for routing, forms, and HTTP communication. React, on the other hand, often requires third-party libraries to achieve the same functionality, which can increase the complexity of a project.

While React offers flexibility and a shorter learning curve, Angular’s opinionated architecture and robust tools make it a more suitable choice for large-scale and complex mobile app development projects.

Angular vs. Vue.js

Another widely used framework is Vue.js, appreciated for its straightforward approach and seamless integration. It’s often favored by small teams or individual developers for smaller applications. However, when it comes to handling more complex, enterprise-level applications, Angular takes the lead. Vue lacks some of the advanced features that Angular provides, such as dependency injection and comprehensive tooling, making it less suitable for large projects requiring scalability and maintainability.

Core Features of Angular for Mobile App Development

Component-Based Architecture: Angular’s component-based architecture enables developers to create reusable components, reducing redundancy and improving efficiency in development.

TypeScript Support: TypeScript, being a superset of JavaScript, introduces static typing and other advanced features, making debugging easier and code more reliable.

Two-Way Data Binding: This feature allows changes in the user interface to automatically update the underlying data model and vice versa, ensuring real-time synchronization.

Dependency Injection: Angular’s dependency injection system improves modularity and scalability, allowing components to be easily managed and tested in isolation.

Why Angular is Ideal for Complex Mobile App Projects

When managing a large-scale mobile app development project, Angular shines due to its modular development structure. By breaking the app into multiple modules, Angular makes it easier to manage, update, and scale complex applications over time. This is especially useful for projects that involve multiple teams working on different parts of the app, ensuring that changes in one module do not interfere with others.

Security in Angular

Security is a significant concern in mobile app development, and Angular provides several built-in features to enhance app security. It supports HTTPS communication and offers robust authentication mechanisms, including OAuth, JSON Web Tokens (JWT), and more. By incorporating these security protocols, Angular ensures that user data remains protected throughout the app’s lifecycle.

Performance Optimization with Angular

Angular’s Ahead-of-Time (AOT) compilation ensures that templates and components are pre-compiled, reducing the app’s initial load time. Additionally, Angular’s Change Detection feature minimizes unnecessary updates, optimizing the app’s performance, especially for large-scale projects.

Scalability of Angular for Growing Apps

One of Angular’s strongest attributes is its scalability. As mobile apps grow in complexity and usage, Angular’s modular architecture allows for easy updates and maintenance without disrupting the overall structure. Whether you’re building a small app or a massive enterprise solution, Angular can scale seamlessly to meet the app’s demands.

Support for Progressive Web Apps (PWAs)

Angular is also a popular choice for building Progressive Web Apps (PWAs), which offer users an app-like experience on the web. With PWA support, Angular enables developers to create fast, reliable, and engaging web experiences that work seamlessly across all devices.

Cross-Platform Development with Angular

Another significant advantage of Angular is its cross-platform development capabilities. Angular can be integrated with frameworks like Ionic to build hybrid mobile applications, providing a single codebase that works across multiple platforms, including iOS and Android.

Community and Ecosystem Support

Angular boasts one of the largest and most active developer communities in the tech world. With countless resources, tutorials, libraries, and tools available, developers can easily find solutions to common problems, making it easier to build and maintain Angular apps over the long term.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Angular stands out among other frameworks due to its robust set of features, scalability, and security. For mobile app development projects, particularly those that require handling complex functionalities and large datasets, Angular provides an ideal solution. Its modular architecture, cross-platform capabilities, and extensive community support make it the best choice for developing dynamic, scalable, and secure mobile applications.

FAQs

What sets Angular apart from other mobile app development frameworks? Angular’s component-based architecture, TypeScript support, and built-in security features make it ideal for large-scale mobile apps.

Is Angular suitable for small-scale mobile app projects? Yes, Angular can be used for small-scale apps, though its full potential is realized in complex, enterprise-level applications.

Can Angular be used for both web and mobile apps? Absolutely! Angular supports both web app development and cross-platform mobile app development through integration with tools like Ionic.

How secure is Angular for mobile app development? Angular offers strong security measures such as HTTPS for secure communication, various authentication mechanisms, and built-in safeguards to defend against common threats like XSS attacks.

Is Angular easy for new developers to learn? Angular has a steeper learning curve compared to frameworks like React or Vue.js, but its comprehensive documentation and community support make it accessible for new developers.

[sigalrm]

Berlin lacht! - Circulo Circo by Pascal Volk

[gr4cier4cie]

♡ pretty in pink (amore mio) ♡

or: kimi didn't think he'd be all for ballet dancing. turns out he is, especially when the dancer in question ends up being the love of his life. ballet dancer!reader x kimi antonelli

warnings: none just fluff hehe thank you SO much to @ferrarisstrategy for this ask omg this concept is the absolute cutest xoxo from gracie always!!

♡

if there was one thing kimi antonelli understood, it was a car. he understood the perfect balance of a racing line. he understood downforce (and lateral force, and longitudinal drag, and tyre rolling resistance, and tractive effort). he understood how to maneuver his car around angular corners sharper than the serrated edge of his mother's worn bread knife.

what he did not understand, however, was the systematic way you seemed to single-handedly destroy the poinsettia-pink satin pointe shoes he'd spent three hours browsing through the unwieldy world of google for (well, that, and two trips to the store along with a facetime call to his mother, in which the older woman clicked her tongue and berated him for being unaware of your shoe size. "eight, tesoro. she mentioned it at dinner last week.").

"they're beautiful," you gasp, fingers tracing the satin with reverence in your gaze. "are these freed classics? oh, kimi, they're my favorite, how did you know?" you crook a brow. "your mom helped you pick them, didn't she? i-"

"amore mio," he interrupts, distress written in the furrow of his chin. "what are... what are you doing to them?" your heel twists the box of the right then the left shoe as you laugh, the sound echoing through your apartment like music. (his heartbeat mirrors the orchestral thrum, akin to a first-chair violinist professing his love for a ballerina on the grand stage above him.)

"i'm breaking them in," you respond with mirth dancing in your irises, leaning forward to drop your heels flat onto the floor. you repeat the motion once, then twice, and kimi watches the defined muscles of your calves flex and relax methodically.

"breaking..." he trails off, genuine horror etched across his features. his gift couldn't be just any pair of pointe shoes - no, you deserved better than that. these were freed classics, the ones his mother had insisted were your favorite, the ones that cost nearly half his paycheck. (well, not really.) "but why, amour?"

"come here," you beckon, patting the hardwood beside you. "let me show you." and kimi - who can calculate the physics of brake force in seconds but is completely and utterly undone by the timely force of your smile - finds himself hesitantly lowering to sit cross-legged with his thigh molded to yours, watching as your hands work the shoes with practiced precision. you bend the shank (which has nothing to do with cooking, he learns), score the soles (which feels lightly criminal), and bang both shoes against the door-frame for what you call "good luck" (but makes him wince).

"it's engineering," he breathes in wonder. you dance with the same fidelity he exercises on the steering wheel, breathe the air of your passion the same way gasoline seems to run in his veins. two sides of the same coin. "like in the car."

you beam at him, and kimi swears he can feel his chest caving in. "exactly. though i don't think toto would appreciate the idea of me banging your car against the garage door for luck, y'know."

"please never say that where he can hear you. he'd probably cry."

your laugh is gentler this time, barely a whisper. the other shoe dangles from your fingertips like an offering as you press it into his palms. "help me?"

his eyes go wide, hands hovering uncertainly over the pristine satin. "i'll ruin it, amour."

"impossible," you whisper, shuffling closer. "i'll teach you." (it is at that exact moment that kimi antonelli realizes he is hopelessly in love with you. he wants to buy you flowers for every performance for the rest of your life, wants to hold your hand on a barre bar or under the table at the fia gala. he even wants to learn the ancient art of breaking in pointe shoes.)

♡

note: this was sooooo cute thank you again to @ferrarisstrategy for this ask i LOVED writing it!! let me know if there's anything else you want to see!!! xoxo always from gracie!!!

[maielasworld]

✨ ASTROLOGY OF FAME ✨

— How the stars reveal your inner spotlight —

🌟 Not every star wants the stage, but every star was born to shine.

Want to know if your chart whispers recognition, charisma, spotlight, and glory? Here are the cosmic signs that you were born to be seen:

💫 MIDHEAVEN (MC) – Your Cosmic Throne

It’s the highest point of your chart. Where the world watches you bloom.

Sun here? You’re a natural icon.

Jupiter? Fame comes with luck and expansion.

Venus? Beauty and charm rise to the top.

Aspects with Sun, Moon, Jupiter or Venus? Your light was meant for the world.

☀️ STRONG SUN – The Inner Flame

The Sun rules the way you shine.

In fire signs (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius)? You radiate without effort.

In angular houses (1st, 4th, 7th, 10th)? Impossible to ignore.

In aspect with Jupiter? Lucky star.

In aspect with Neptune? Magnetic and dreamlike.

✨ JUPITER – The Celestial Amplifier

Jupiter makes everything bigger — even your name, your art, your presence.

In House 1, 10, or 5? The crowd gravitates to you.

In Leo? Love for the spotlight and flair for performance.

In aspect with the Sun or MC? A blessed public journey.

🌙 MOON – The Muse of the People

The Moon connects you to the public’s heart.

In the 10th house? You’re emotionally visible.

In Leo or the 5th house? An artist’s soul.

In aspect with Neptune? You move hearts.

🪞 ASCENDANT – The Mirror of You

How the world sees your light at first glance.

Sun, Jupiter or Venus in the 1st house? A luminous presence.

Ascendant in Fire signs or Leo? Eyes turn to follow you.

In aspect with the Sun or MC? A captivating image.

🎀 5TH HOUSE – The Inner Stage

This house rules art, love, expression and performance.

Planets here sparkle like ballerinas in moonlight.

Venus, Sun or Jupiter in the 5th? Overflowing with charm and talent.

✨ NEPTUNE – The Dreamy Fame

Neptune rules cinema, art, music, and collective enchantment.

In a strong placement? Aura of a muse.

In aspect with Sun, Moon or Ascendant? You inspire just by being.

[lovelyzzzz777]

AstroRevelations Vol. XII – “Carved by Stars, Worn by Flesh” ✨🪞

(how planets, houses & aspects shape your physical appearance)

The Ascendant draws the blueprint. It's not just your “vibe” — it’s your bones, your posture, the way you enter a room. A Leo rising doesn’t just walk in — they arrive. Virgo risings? Often delicate features, clean lines, and a tendency to hold themselves like a quiet question.

Planets in the 1st house alter the mirror. Mars there? A sharp jaw, quick reflexes, a scar that tells a story. Venus? Symmetry, soft cheeks, eyes that feel like an invitation. Saturn? Angular, minimal, mature even in youth — beauty etched in restraint.

Aspects to the Ascendant add texture. A square from Pluto? You’ll likely transform your look again and again — and still remain unmistakably you. A sextile from Neptune? Ethereal, ever slightly out of reach, like your face was painted in fog.

Your Sun adds heat to your skin, presence to your posture. A fire Sun (Aries, Leo, Sag) burns visibly — there’s brightness in your gaze, like you’ve got solar flares behind your eyes. Earth Suns (Taurus, Virgo, Cap) wear the world like it's their own fabric — grounded beauty, textured and lasting.

The Moon shapes your expression and your aura — how your emotions leak through your features. A Pisces Moon can look like they’re dreaming mid-conversation. A Scorpio Moon? Eyes that stare past the surface — always.

Venus tells us how you charm, but also how you dress, pose, and flirt without words. A Venus in Gemini? Quick smiles, hands that speak volumes, playfulness in every blink. A Venus in Scorpio? The look is magnetic, intense — it’s not about what you wear, it’s how you hold your silence.

Mars lends your body rhythm and edge. Mars in Leo? Big hair, bold moves, a performer’s presence. Mars in Taurus? Curves or weight in the hips, a slow, grounded walk — sensual without trying.

Planets in the 2nd and 6th houses influence voice tone, body shape, skin texture. 2nd house placements often show in the throat, the voice, how you sound when you speak or sing. 6th house shows how you carry daily tension — sometimes giving you either a rigid or athletic shape.

And lastly, never ignore the 8th house. People with Venus, Mars, Pluto or the Moon here might not fit conventional beauty standards — but they have this raw, untamed gravity. They’re the ones you remember after they’ve left.

You are not just born under the stars. You are shaped by them.

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ cola ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ professor!cho sang-woo x student!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is also a part one to this story, lolita!

˚ ༘♡ “you do understand that you are at risk of failing my course?”

˚ ༘♡ his words were severe, piercing through the tense air that had settled in his office. you stared at him, your gaze unfocused, the potency of his question sinking into your chest like a stone. seated in the small, uncomfortable chair across from his grand, imposing desk, you crossed one leg over the other, attempting to appear composed. your white leather handbag rested neatly against the chair’s legs, pristine and pale as a dove’s feather.

˚ ༘♡ it had been over a month since the two of you reached an agreement, a fragile truce cloaked in professionalism. the night you’d spent together was supposed to be a foolish mistake, forgotten and buried in the haze of poor judgment. neither of you could have known then that he would become your professor. he had laid down the rules with uncompromising clarity, no favoritism, no special treatment, no room for the past to bleed into the present.

˚ ༘♡ but now, here you were, falling behind in his financial accounting course. the missed quiz sat akin to a scar on your grade, its damage too significant to ignore. his syllabus had warned that quizzes could not be retaken under any circumstances, and yet you’d convinced yourself, naively, that he might display some leniency.

˚ ༘♡ “i am extremely sorry, professor,” you began, your voice soft, trembling slightly as you forced yourself to meet his dark eyes. “if i could get an extension…”

˚ ༘♡ “you read and signed the syllabus.” his interruption was calm but firm, a knife cutting through your plea. “i made myself clear, i don’t offer extensions.” he adjusted his glasses, the subtle motion punctuating the finality of his statement. his expression didn’t change, disappointment etched into every line of his angular face. “you’ve been a good student up to this point. i’d suggest you figure out what’s so detrimental to your focus and take care of it, if you wish to pass.”

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed hard. “yes, professor,” you managed, your voice barely audible, laced with a strained somberness. his reputation preceded him, after all, a man known for his rigorous standards and his unwillingness to tolerate mediocrity. you knew this going in, yet it didn’t lessen the weight of your failure or the anxiety clawing at your mind.

˚ ༘♡ his expression softened ever so slightly, the harsh lines of his face easing just enough to reveal a touch of humanity beneath the austere exterior. he let out an exasperated, frustrated sigh, the sound slicing through the silence. it was as if he was mulling over the cost of displaying leniency. “while i don’t typically offer extensions,” he began, his voice measured, “if you have a viable and genuine reason for your recent poor performance, i might consider granting you the opportunity for an extra credit research assignment.”

˚ ༘♡ your pulse quickened at the unexpected offer. professor cho was notorious for his unyielding policies. there were whispered stories from upperclassmen, students who had been hospitalized, grappling with extenuating circumstances, only to be met with his stony refusal to accommodate. yet here he was, extending a tree branch.

˚ ༘♡ you swallowed, steadying your voice. “you may have noticed my absence last week,” you began cautiously. “my cousin was deathly ill. we thought…” you hesitated, feeling the anguish of the words threaten to pull you under. “we thought she might not make it. i flew out to be with her. since her father passed, it’s been difficult for her, and i needed to ensure she would be okay.”

˚ ༘♡ the words hung in the air between you, solemn and grave. his brow lowered, and for the first time, there was something distinctly human in his expression, sympathy. “i’m sorry to hear that,” he said, his voice low and uncharacteristically gentle. “that must have been difficult. it was good of you to be there for her.”

˚ ༘♡ you nodded, biting back the emotion threatening to surface. speaking about it felt like peeling open a wound, and you knew if you lingered on it too long, the sadness would overwhelm you again. instead, you returned to the topic of your grade. “about the extra credit opportunity?”

˚ ༘♡ he straightened his posture, nodding as if grounding himself back into his usual composure. “i’ll email you the details tonight,” he said. there was something different in his tone now, something softer, almost resigned. he was still the same cold, stern professor, but the edges seemed less sharp, his demeanor less impenetrable. “while i encourage you to work hard to improve your grade, don’t push yourself to the point of exhaustion. it’s not worth your health.”

˚ ༘♡ “thank you, professor cho,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. there was an implicit closeness in the exchange, an understanding neither of you seemed willing to fully acknowledge. it stayed like the light fragrance of a fading perfume, delicate and undeniable.

˚ ༘♡ you stood, gathering your bag and clutching it tightly. “i need to study for my literature class, but i’ll see you in class tomorrow,” you said softly. his eyes fixed on you for longer than expected, and then he nodded.

˚ ༘♡ as you left, offering a quiet farewell, you felt the faintest surge of something indescribable descend upon you, something that shifted in the space between professor and student, something that felt too intimate to name.

˚ ༘♡ two weeks had come and gone, and true to your word, you’d submitted the assignment, a meticulously detailed research paper on fiscal dealings across the globe. the effort had paid off. your grade was inclining upward, slowly but surely, and on the surface, everything seemed normal. but there were little things. professor cho remained as strict and unemotional as ever, but you started noticing the subtleties, a fleeting glance your way during a lecture, the brief, almost imperceptible hesitation when his hand brushed yours while returning a graded paper.

˚ ༘♡ you told yourself it was nothing, but you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered.

˚ ༘♡ professor cho was notorious for his exacting demeanor, but his reputation among female students extended beyond academics. it was no secret that many found him attractive, with his handsome features and reserved, enigmatic demeanor. you couldn’t pretend you weren’t one of them, he had caught your eye that night at the bar for a reason. you found yourself wondering, late at night when your thoughts strayed, if the feeling was mutual. after all, he had approached you. was it something about your appearance that had lured him in, something that loomed in his thoughts to this day?

˚ ༘♡ but such thoughts were dangerous, unspoken truths that stayed locked in your chest. they had to be.

˚ ༘♡ the winter garden was breathtaking, blanketed ina stunning layer of snow and shimmering frost. the air was crisp, and the sun burned low in the cerulean sky, casting pale light through the bare branches. you presided over your notebook on a weathered bench, furiously scribbling notes. the beauty of the scenery was lost on you, though, your fingers were stiff and red from the cold, your thin off-the-shoulder sweater and linen pants doing nothing to ward off the icy air.

˚ ༘♡ you shivered as you turned the page, and it wasn’t until you heard the crunch of footsteps on the frozen ground that you looked up.

˚ ༘♡ there he was, professor cho sang-woo, standing just a few feet away. he was wrapped in a dark wool coat, the kind of warmth you could only envy in your current state. the sight of him made your breathing quicken, not because of the cold, but because of that familiar, quiet intensity in his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “good afternoon,” he greeted, his tone even but unmistakably aware of your predicament. his eyes flicked to your frostbitten nose and hands before meeting yours again. “isn’t it a bit cold to be studying outside?”

˚ ༘♡ you laughed lightly, trying to conceal your embarrassment. “good afternoon, professor cho,” you replied. “i didn’t check the temperature before leaving, and now i’m deeply regretting it.”

˚ ༘♡ he studied you for a moment longer, his expression indistinct. “you should be more mindful,” he murmured, the severity in his words softened by something unexpected, worry.

˚ ༘♡ before you could reply, he shrugged off his overcoat, stepping forward to drape it over your shoulders. the fabric was heavy and luxurious, and you went still under the weight of both the gesture and the coat.

˚ ༘♡ “you’ll catch a cold like this,” he said simply, his tone quieter now, bordering on gentle.

˚ ༘♡ the gesture was so unexpected, that you found yourself at a loss for words for a minute. “thank you,” you managed, your voice barely audible. his coat carried the faded scent of cedar and winter air, and it wrapped around you like a shield against the biting chill.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t say anything else, just nodded slightly, his hands slipping back into his pockets as he took a step back. there was an indication of something in his expression, apprehension, maybe even tenderness, but it was gone before you could be sure.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t stay out here too long,” he said, his voice earnest but laced with a near imperceptible softness.

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll leave once i finish this set of notes…” you replied, your words fading as you motioned toward your notebook, “and your coat…”

˚ ༘♡ he interrupted swiftly, “you can return it whenever it’s convenient. i’ll be in my office.” his gaze intent on you for a vanishing instance before he nodded, “i’ll see you another day.” with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you without a chance to say goodbye.

˚ ༘♡ later that evening, your friends noticed the coat neatly placed over your chair. its rich wool and vintage style drew immediate attention and flattering compliments with a sliver of buried envy.

˚ ༘♡ “where’d you get such a nice coat?” one of them asked, interest noticeable in her bright eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “it belonged to my grandmother,” you lied effortlessly, your fingers brushing over the fabric as though it held some sentimental value. “it was passed down to me.”

˚ ༘♡ another friend, a male peer a couple of years older than you who had taken professor cho’s business class and failed it with bitter resentment, narrowed his eyes. “doesn’t professor cho have a coat like that?”

˚ ༘♡ his remark was one you found unwelcome and unnerving, yet no one seemed to pay him any mind. the conversation shifted quickly, much to your relief, as another friend launched into a tirade about her recent breakup. the focus was off you, and you exhaled silently, grateful for the distraction, but sorrowful for your close friend, her tragedy might have saved you the risk of suspicion.

˚ ༘♡ the next morning, when the campus was still quiet, you made your way to his office. you’d waited until you were confident he wouldn’t be there, unwilling to face him directly. the coat, carefully folded, was left on personally corner of his desk. a small note, written in your neat handwriting, sat on top, that read, “thank you for your kindness. it meant a lot.”

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated for a short while, staring at the note as if it might reveal too much. shaking your head, you placed it down and stepped back. the idea of thanking him in person felt too vulnerable, too revealing. you didn’t want to seem like some hopelessly infatuated girl, clinging to a singular polite act.

˚ ༘♡ with one last glance, you left his office, closing the door gently behind you. the feeling of the coat’s absence left you oddly empty, as though something intangible had been exchanged and lost.

˚ ༘♡ classes carried on as they always did, predictable in their routine but ridden with an undercurrent of tension you couldn’t quite shake. professor cho remained his ordinary self, strict and distant, but there were still those instances. quick eye contact that went on longer than it should have, the almost indistinguishable way his presence seemed to stretch when he was near you, as though tethered by something unsaid. you tried to dismiss it, to focus on your coursework, but the effort felt futile. those small gestures, though subtle, clawed at the foundation of your concentration.

˚ ༘♡ after a grueling day filled with back-to-back classes, your body ached with exhaustion, and all you wanted was a some peace and quiet. but as you packed your things to leave, your male friend, the same one who had failed professor cho’s course, caught up with you in the corridor. his persistence was palpable as he asked if he could speak to you in private. you tried to make an excuse, desperate to avoid the interaction, but he was relentless, and eventually, you agreed with a sigh.

˚ ༘♡ the conversation quickly turned to something you had been dreading. he asked you out, his attitude bordering on arrogance, as though he had already assumed your answer would be yes. you weren’t naive, you’d known for months that he was interested. he was a close friend of your best friend’s ex-boyfriend and had made it no secret, pestering them both to set the two of you up.

˚ ༘♡ but you couldn’t stand him. his cocky demeanor scraped on your nerves, and his delinquent mindset made you wary. still, you tried to let him down gently, choosing your words carefully, hoping to soften the blow.

˚ ༘♡ it didn’t work. his reaction was immediate and venomous, his face twisting in anger. “you’re such a stuck-up bitch,” he spat, his voice loud enough to turn a few heads in the hallway. the insult stung more than you’d expected, the words cutting into your already frayed composure.

˚ ༘♡ you stood motionless for a lasting minute, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill, but the day’s troubles was too much. without another word, you turned and stepped away, the sound of his muttered curses chasing after you. the hallway blurred around you as the first tears fell, hot and unwelcome.

˚ ༘♡ by the time you stepped outside, the sky had descended into night, a blanket of stars casting a faint glow over the campus. the moonlight illuminated your tear-streaked face, streaks of black mascara smudged against your skin. you felt exposed and disheveled, a physical manifestation of your unraveling emotions.

˚ ༘♡ your goal was simple, get to the bus station and back to your dormitory as quickly as possible. the cold night air bit at your cheeks, making you wish you’d brought a scarf. but as you reached into your bag for your phone, your stomach dropped. it wasn’t there.

˚ ༘♡ a terrible realization hit you all at once, you must have left your belongings behind in the linguistics lecture hall. a frustrated sigh escaped your lips, mingling with the frosty air. it was the last thing you wanted to deal with after everything, and with your instructor having left, the classroom was locked with your belongings inside.

˚ ༘♡ to your dismay, as you approached the bus stop, you saw him, professor cho sang-woo, of all people. he must have been leaving after a long evening of grading in his office. he was standing by the curb, pulling out a cigarette from a silver case with the same precision he seemed to handle everything. you didn’t move, debating whether to turn away and avoid the humiliation of being seen like this, but it was too late. he flicked his lighter, the small flame briefly illuminating his sharp features, and as he tucked it back into the pocket of his blazer, his gaze caught yours.

˚ ༘♡ he paused, taking a drag from his cigarette. the glow of its ember reflected faintly in the dark, cold night. “what happened? are you alright?” his voice, as steady as ever, carried a thread of concern that you hadn’t expected.

˚ ༘♡ you tried to gather some semblance of serenity, forcing a weak smile through your tears. “we keep running into each other,” you said lightly, though your voice struggled under the burden of your emotions.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t smile back. instead, he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your tear-streaked face and the faint smudges of mascara under your eyes. “you’ve been crying,” he said.

˚ ༘♡ you quickly wiped at your face with your sleeve, but he stopped you with a quiet, “don’t.” reaching into the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, one you recognized, he often used it to polish his glasses. he held it out to you, his actions strangely tender.

˚ ༘♡ “i won’t press for details,” he said, his voice low, “but seeing you out here like this… it’s troubling for me.” a faint cloud of smoke curled from his lips as he spoke.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, gripping the handkerchief in your hands. the fabric was soft, clean, and smelled faintly of cedar and the faint musk of his cologne. “it’s nothing,” you mumbled, dabbing at your face. “i just… i left my purse in class. it has my phone, my bus pass, everything. and then this guy, he’s supposed to be my friend, pulled me aside earlier and asked me out. after i said no, he got angry, started yelling. said some awful things.”

˚ ༘♡ you bit your lip, your voice quivering, but you managed to add his name, the words feeling loathsome on your tongue.

˚ ༘♡ professor cho’s jaw tightened slightly, his composure cracking just enough to show his displeasure. “what an asshole,” he muttered, taking the cigarette from his lips and exhaling a sharp plume of smoke. the unexpected vulgarity caught you off guard. you’d never heard him speak so bluntly, so unguarded. “i remember him. he was in my class last year. didn’t turn in a single assignment, barely showed up. he is not the sort of young man you’d want to associate with.”

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t help it, you laughed, a hushed, strained sound that carried genuine amusement. his lips curved slightly, pleased that he’d managed to lighten your mood, even if just for a second.

˚ ༘♡ he tilted his head, studying you carefully. “you said you left your bus pass in your purse?”

˚ ༘♡ you nodded.

˚ ༘♡ he considered this for a minute before saying, “if you’d like, i can drive you back to your dormitory. it’s not far, and I know the route. my car’s in the faculty lot.”

˚ ༘♡ you blinked at him, startled by the offer. “really? you’d do that?”

˚ ༘♡ “it’s nothing,” he said simply, extinguishing his cigarette against the edge of a trash can and tossing the burnt end away. “you shouldn’t have to wait out here alone like this.”

˚ ༘♡ “thank you,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze with gratitude.

˚ ༘♡ he nodded and motioned for you to follow. as you walked beside him toward the faculty parking lot, the night air seemed a little less cold, the distress of the evening a little lighter. there was something strangely comforting about his presence, a stability that made you feel, if only for this night, that everything may be okay.

˚ ༘♡ his car was sleek, an understated black sedan that gleamed faintly under the dim glow of the parking lot lights. it exuded the same quiet sophistication as its owner. he walked ahead, opening the passenger door for you without a word, his demeanor calm but his eyes flickering with a subdued concern. you slid into the seat, the soft leather cool against your skin, and he closed the door gently before circling around to the driver’s side.

˚ ༘♡ the drive back to your dormitory was steeped in silence. the hum of the engine filled the void, rhythmic and constant, a soothing backdrop to your turbulent thoughts. though you kept your eyes fixed on the road ahead, you could feel his gaze darting toward you every so often, quick glances meant to check on you without drawing attention. your tears had stopped, but your face still bore the evidence of them, smudged mascara, blotchy redness, a weariness you couldn’t quite hide.

˚ ༘♡ when he finally pulled into the dormitory parking lot, the rows of empty cars seemed ghostly in the faint moonlight. he parked smoothly, the stillness settling in the air as he turned off the engine. for a brief period of time, neither of you moved.

˚ ༘♡ he stepped out first, rounding the car to open your door once more. you followed, the cold night air pricking at your skin as you stood beside him. his posture was relaxed, but there was an unspoken tension between the two of you.

˚ ༘♡ “are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, his voice low and sincere, though his eyes searched yours for any trace of uncertainty.

˚ ༘♡ you nodded, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “i will. thank you, again. for everything.”

˚ ༘♡ your gaze locked with his then, and right then, the world around you seemed to fade. the misery of the evening, the lingering emotions, and the vulnerability you felt collided into a singular, reckless impulse. before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t pull away. instead, his hands rested lightly on your arms as he kissed you back, his movements slow and deliberate, almost tender. the passionate embrace stretched, suspended in time, filled with affectionate understanding and the quiet ruination of boundaries you had both carefully maintained until now.

˚ ༘♡ when you finally parted, you stared at each other in silence, breaths mingling in the frigid, icy air. the reality of what you’d just done lingered between you, an unspoken acknowledgment of the line you had crossed, the agreement broken. and yet, there was no regret in his eyes, and you felt none in your chest.

˚ ༘♡ he cleared his throat, his voice measured but somewhat huskier than usual. “i’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

˚ ༘♡ a soft smile spread across your lips, gentle but laced with something deeper. “i will,” you replied.

˚ ༘♡ as he walked back to his car, you turned toward the dormitory entrance, your heart ached with something bittersweet. you knew everything had changed, even if neither of you would speak it in words.

a/n: part two of my professor cho sang-woo series!!! please let me know your thoughts or if you have any requests!! i plan to continue this series, but i am also considering doing a zombie apocalypse sang-woo fanfiction and maybe one where he is the reader’s boss!! 🤍

[wonders-of-the-cosmos]

Occultations by the Moon

The term occultation is most frequently used to describe lunar occultations, those relatively frequent occasions when the Moon passes in front of a star during the course of its orbital motion around the Earth. Since the Moon, with an angular speed with respect to the stars of 0.55 arcsec/s or 2.7 μrad/s, has a very thin atmosphere and stars have an angular diameter of at most 0.057 arcseconds or 0.28 μrad, a star that is occulted by the Moon will disappear or reappear in 0.1 seconds or less on the Moon's edge, or limb. Events that take place on the Moon's dark limb are of particular interest to observers, because the lack of glare allows easier observation and timing.

The accurate timing of lunar occultations is performed regularly by (primarily amateur) astronomers. Lunar occultations timed to an accuracy of a few tenths of a second have various scientific uses, particularly in refining our knowledge of lunar topography. 

source

image credit: Tom Fleming, Elias Chasioti, Delberson Souza, Bob Schiff, Fausto Lubatti, Sergio Scauso

[endless-ineffabilities]

casual*

a.k.a. your one-night stand with modern Aemond Targaryen

*18+ minors dnfi

main masterlist

The intimidatingly handsome-as-hell guy sitting all by his lonesome at the bar seems to be on the same wavelength as you.

His gaze has been oscillating between the rim of his pint and you. Your face, your hands, and yes—you're sure you saw it—your ass, too. You squirm in your place, several seats away, but not because his attention's unwanted. These fucking bar stools are just so damn slippery that you feel like your smooth jeans would slide right off, and you would embarrass yourself in front of blondie. Though, his hair veers closer to Santa's snowy beard than Rapunzel's gold locks. How unusual. How strangely attractive.

Silver hair coiffed neatly above his perfect, angular face, those naturally pouted lips, and those eyes—wait—that eye. One seemed to be a prosthetic, but it doesn't diminish his aura. Not even a little. The fucked up voice in your head might even think that it makes him look hotter. More dangerous.

Straight to the depths of hell it is for you.

He throws a shit-eating smirk your way when your eyes meet again, right before taking another swig of his frothy drink. But he doesn't look away this time, holding your gaze as his glass tilts in the air and inevitably finds its way back on the bar's surface.

Oh, he knows he's attractive. Worse, he knows that you know it.

Heat unfurls in your belly from all the eye-fucking, the tension, and from the very real possibility that your own fingers will not be your only source of pleasure for the night, as trusted as they are.

Too bad you just downed the contents of your drink. Or not, because it seems to signal the first switch of the night. Blondie gestures to the bartender, then to you, and before you know it, another one of your drinks materialises in front of you.

"Courtesy of that guy over there, miss."

"Oh. Thank you."

That guy over there, who is no longer over there, takes that as his cue to finally approach you.

"Hi."

"Hello." He sits on the stool next to you, inching it closer as he settles down. He's even prettier up close, damn him. His hair looks like spun threads of silk. His dark blue sweater, his snug black jeans, his lips which are tugging at the corners to form a sheepish smile. "Please don't hate me for this, but I'm about to throw you a line."

You swallow. He can throw you just about whatever he wants, and that's not just the alcohol talking. "Oh?" you half-shrug your fluster away. "I expected as much. Let's hear it."

"Hmm." He glances down, showcasing his remarkably long eyelashes, then back up at you. With his head tilted, he looks slightly menacing, but in a good way. Like he wants to eat you.

Your coworker is about to receive a luxurious gift basket for recommending this bar to you.

His line then goes, "I find it hard to believe that someone as goddamn beautiful as you would be sitting all alone in this bar tonight." His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, then released. "But maybe I should be grateful, because this would mean that you're perhaps single?"

You have to hand it to him. That line would normally be at the same level of poetry as a middle-aged dad's Facebook rant, but from him? From his lips, and with that smooth accent? A fucking Shakespearean sonnet.

Already prematurely swept off your feet, you know you have to up your game. "I'm married actually. Husband's on a business trip. Again. My three kids, bless their hearts, stress the hell out of me so I left them with the nanny and went straight here."

His mouth parts slightly, his brows furrowing. You wink at him and add, "Glad I did."

You watch as his mind whirs, as his eye darts to your obviously bare ring finger. For a smooth talker, he sure takes a moment longer than necessary to keep up with your humour, or maybe you're just that good of a performer.

"You're killing me here, beautiful."

"That's what you deserve for that line. Did you take that right out of your playboy handbook?" you say, laughing softly.

"Excuse me, miss, but I own no handbook of any sort," he responds in a stern manner, but his smirk betrays him. "And you might not believe me, but I don't do this often. I mean, I don't really do this at all."

"What, is that another line? You're on a roll, handsome."

"I mean it. I don't make a habit of approaching pretty girls at bars."

"Why, because they just flock right to you?"

He raises his palms in mock surrender. "Hey, you said it. Not me."

There is a beat of silence as you watch each other, both trying to gauge the stranger sitting close. You decide that he might be more than just a pretty face. He smells immaculate, too.

And, more importantly, he seems kind. You pride yourself in having a knack for these things. Though you hope that knack isn't deliberately fooling you because you want him to get into your pants.

He's the one to break the silence and start the flirtatious interrogation that normally happens before getting right down to business. "So, when you're not busy with your three precious kids—" he says, prompting an eye roll from you. "—what do you get up to? Are you from around here? Do you frequent this bar?"

"Woah. One question at a time."

He leans forward on the counter, until his hand brushes against your forearm. "Just one more question before you begin, and brace yourself, because this is the most important one."

You find it easy to laugh in his company, so you do. "Okay, give it to me."

"Are you sure you can handle it, babe?"

No. Not when he's calling you babe. "Try me."

"What's your favourite colour?"

You learn that his name is Aemond. He's twenty-nine years old, born and raised in London before moving to New York to become the head of the American branch of his father's company. He has two older sisters, one older brother and one younger. His favourite colour is green. He's an Aries. He likes both classic rock and classical music.

And he's a fucking phenomenal kisser.

You spent another hour chatting each other up at the bar, which didn't feel like an hour at all. You could talk to him about practically anything, and you would have, until you both decided that it was time to let your bodies do the talking.

It only took 10 minutes for him to drive you back to his fancy apartment, but that didn't stop him from groaning and mumbling fuck's sake under his breath at each encountered red light.

"Patience," you giggled lightly, but then he turned his lust-clouded gaze to you, and you immediately were on the same page, cursing at stoplights in your mind.

With your back pressed against his bedroom wall, he kisses you with a frenzied hunger that you're sure you have never experienced with any lover. He lifts you up, and you cross your ankles around his waist. Biting his lip, he slowly undoes the buttons of your blouse, marvelling at your exposed chest. You twist an arm behind to unclasp your bra and it falls to the floor.

After a sharp intake of breath, he lowers himself and sucks at your nipple, his tongue padding at your stiffened peak. Your neck cranes upward at the hot sensation, and you grip his locks, and moan, "Fuck yeah, keep going."

He nips and bites at your breasts, leaving a glistening trail of saliva in his wake. "Your tits are so fucking perfect," he praises. "You're perfect."

"Mhmm, yeah," you mewl, reaching for his face. "Come here."

His hand slides to the back of your neck to tilt your head just right, then his mouth is on yours once more. It's unfair, really, how good he is at it, every flick of his tongue intensifying your desire for him.

You let out a wanton, wanting moan when he pulls back suddenly. He smugly chuckles at the sound, and how you instinctively follow his movement, craving more.

Your legs drop from his waist, and you barely catch your balance, breathless and disoriented. "What—" you start, confused, but Aemond steps back just enough to fix you with a searing look.

"Jeans off, baby," he demands. Like he even had to ask. He tilts his head, that insolent smirk playing on his lips again. "Underwear, too. C'mon, now."

Your hands move on their own, fumbling with the button and zipper before pushing the denim down your legs and kicking them to the side. You're grateful you had opted out of wearing skinny jeans, which you would have had to unsexily wiggle out of. You hook your thumbs into your underwear and slide those down too. The air is cool against your naked body, making you shiver slightly, but Aemond's gaze—burning, all-consuming—keeps you rooted to the spot.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his tone dropping into something almost reverent. He drops to his knees in one smooth motion, and the sight alone nearly does you in—this ethereal, sharp-tongued stranger kneeling before you like he's a pilgrim who finally reached a shrine. His hands find your hips as he guides you to balance one leg over his shoulder.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on your leaking cunt. He doesn't start slow, doesn't give you a chance to ease into the sensation. His tongue is hot and insistent, dragging over your folds with a precision that has your knees buckling almost immediately.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hands flying to his hair for something to hold onto. He holds you steady as he works you over like he's determined to make you unravel completely. And you don't doubt that he will.

The flat of his tongue drags up, circling your most sensitive spot before his lips close around it, sucking lightly. Your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, a broken moan slipping from your lips as your free leg trembles beneath you.

You can feel the heat pooling low in your stomach, spreading outward like wildfire. His free hand slides up your inner thigh, his fingers pressing into the flesh there, holding you open for him as he works you over like it's his favourite thing to do. Like there’s nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing than ruining you right here, right now.

"Aemond", you gasp, his name falling from your lips unbidden. He groans at the sound, his tongue doubling down, faster, harder, dragging you closer to the edge. You try to fight it—try to hold onto the last scraps of control you have—but he shifts his angle, his nose brushing against your core, and the whole world tips sideways. The coil snaps, and your orgasm crashes out of you. Your body locks up, your pelvis shaking uncontrollably as you cry out, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Aemond doesn't pull away, his tongue easing you through it with slower, lazier strokes.

When you finally slump back against the wall, boneless and dazed, he leans back just enough to look up at you, his face glistening from his nose down to his chin. You're almost certain that you have never seen anything more sensual in your life. He licks his lips, and your eyes automatically follow the path of his tongue—the culprit of your sweet, little death.

"You taste as exquisite as you look," he says.

You know he deserves the sloppiest, most soul-sucking head after what he just put you through, so it's the easiest decision you have ever made to give him just that. Nothing more, nothing less. And anyway, it's for your pleasure too.

You don't relent until his warm, salty cum spills on your tongue, most of it sliding down your throat and the rest shooting out to cover the lower half of your face in milky streams.

The two of you laugh together when his leg gets caught in his trousers as he stumbles out of the rest of his clothes, making him land on his arse at the edge of his bed. The sound rings pleasantly in your ears, and you find yourself needing to hear it more often.

No. You know what this is. If all goes well, then you'll have the memory of this great night to keep.

But Aemond himself is not yours to keep.

Your face must have fallen, because he reaches an arm, coaxing you to him. "Hey. What's going on in that head of yours, love?"

"Nothing," you shake your head, closing the distance between you. He anchors his fingers at your hips and presses a kiss on your lower belly. Everything seems to pause for a moment. You both keep still as he rests his forehead against your stomach, and your fingers gently thread through his hair, massaging his scalp.

"I feel like I've known you for a long time," he murmurs, and you wish you could hate him for not making this easy.

"Is that another—"

"Not a line. I mean every word."

He rises slowly, his hands brushing the curves of your body with an aching tenderness that seems out of place for a night like this. He lays you onto the bed, then reaches in his nightstand drawer for a condom.

You nearly cry out in pleasure when his length first enters you fully, the sensation of him almost too much to bear. His face is lowered so his cheek is touching yours, and you hear every little moan that escapes him as he finds his rhythm. His thrusts are measured, not rushed or frantic. And it feels so damn good.

Aemond talks well, but he fucks even better.

"Faster," you plead.

He pauses and smiles, his lips ghosting over yours. "I'm taking my time, love. I wanna savour you."

His hips roll forward again, his cock sinking into you inch by maddening inch. "Don't wanna lose you, baby," he groans.

Oh, he is not playing fair.

Your hips soon rise instinctively, meeting his slow, deliberate thrusts, the need for more of him pulsing through every inch of you. He notices, his lips curling into a smug smirk.

"Okay, then," he says smoothly. "I'm going to fuck you as hard as I can now. You ready for me, love?"

Your breath catches, your body already trembling beneath him, and all you can do is nod, eyes widening in wonder at his promise.

"Answer me. I need to hear it," he commands.

"Oh, Aemond," you breathe, "what do you think I'm here for?"

His smirk falters for just a second, replaced by something darker. He lets out a low, throaty chuckle, his fingers digging into you. "Careful, love," he warns. "You’re about to find out."

Without another word, he abandons his restraint, and he claims you with a force that leaves you gasping, your spine arching as he delivers on his word. His hips snap against your pelvis, his body practically vibrating over you. He's relentless, just as you wanted, and he has to grip you tightly so he doesn't propel you upward into the headboard.

You feel his lips graze the shell of your ear before biting down, his breath ragged as he pounds his cock into your pussy with a heightened desperation that drags a moan from your throat. "Say you're mine, baby," he actually whimpers. "Say I'm the only one who gets to fuck you like this."

You would tell him anything he wanted. But he doesn't even have to ask for this one, because you wish so badly for it to be the truth. "I'm yours. Only you—aghhh—can fuck me as good as this—uhhhh yeah—Aemond."

He flashes you a boyish grin, and he looks so pure you have to take a mental image of the sight. Lips pulled back to reveal a perfect set of teeth, a sheen of sweat forming by his hairline as he keeps bucking his hips at a breakneck pace, hair unkempt and falling in front of his forehead.

You lose yourselves in each other, your sharp breaths falling in sync.

As before, he latches his mouth wetly over your breast, and you arch into him. His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing it in tight, merciless circles that make you scream, "Oh, Aemond!" into the air.

"You like that?"

"Fuck yes."

"You gonna come for me, beautiful?"

Aemond sure has a habit of asking for things that are already guaranteed for him, polite boy that he is.

It doesn't take long before he spills inside you, his body shuddering with the release. The feeling of his cock convulsing deep in your pussy sends a wave of pleasure crashing through you, and you follow him, your walls clenching around him as your own climax hits hard.

He collapses next to you, the weight of the moment settling in as the room grows still. His forehead rests against yours, and there's nothing but the sound of your shared breathing, a calm after the storm.

"Fuck," he breathes, sheer satisfaction audible from his voice. "That was…"

"Yeah. It was..."

"Yeah."

Months pass before you see Aemond again. When you do, it's in another, more crowded bar—a place packed with patrons and full of noise—but his eyes find you immediately. This time, he makes sure to take your number. No disappearing act in the morning, no hasty exit on your part while he sleeps because you're running late to work. He'll be damned if he lets you slip away again.

You both fall into something deeper over time, and three years down the line, you stand in front of family and friends, exchanging vows.

Decades pass, and when your grandkids curiously ask how you two met, Aemond would smile, eyes softening with the memory.

He would say, a quiet laugh escaping him, "I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. Shame it took us a few months for our forever to begin."

Vhagar taglist 1 — @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @joyismm @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @all-for-aemond @alokaaaaa @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk @inesdiary96 @weirdblob21 @lonelyladyghost @tssf-imagines @nurtargaryen @paula-lkr @queenofshinigamis @breezyjin @empfm @amanda08319 @unrealwinchester @optimizche @seamaiden @spoffyos @subliiminals @believeinthefireflies95 @ex0tic-vgh @anukulee @peachysunrize (cont. ...)

[bettelaboure]

⊹Looking for your hat, cowboy?⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Summary: a confident, provocative dancer and a closed-off, brooding idol clash backstage and onstage in a slow-burn, tension-fueled romance that spirals from teasing games to raw emotional confession. ⊹ Warnings: explicit sexual content, rough language, secret relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation (in teasing), voyeuristic elements, public exposure risks, and workplace power tension ⊹ Author's note: good luck, have fun 🤍

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You joined BigBang at twenty-two, all hips, attitude, and glitter. Not that you cared much for the fame. You loved the music. The beat. The way your body felt like a live wire when you danced. You loved the thrill of performing, the rush of being watched. Of knowing they were looking. Especially him.

Choi Seung-Hyun.

He didn’t look the way you'd expected. Not when you first met. He wasn't loud, or flashy, or hungry for attention like the rest of them. He looked carved from shadow and smoke, all angular lines and quiet storms. Dark brows and darker eyes. His voice was low, rich as whiskey, and twice as dangerous.

He didn’t like you.

That was fine. You didn’t like him either.

You were the dancer. The one who wore ripped tights and heels, who smirked during interviews and rolled your eyes at rehearsals. The one who could swing her hips and make the world forget its name. You pushed buttons. Smiled sweet and jabbed hard. Especially at Seung-Hyun.

Because he never flinched.

Until he did.

The studio was dim, bathed in golden lamplight and the low buzz of electricity. Rain lashed the windows, the city beyond hazy and soft. Seung-Hyun sat hunched over his notebook, long fingers cradling a pen like it was a weapon. You slipped in behind him, a shadow of perfume and humidity, your ponytail still damp from rehearsal.

"You're sulking again," you said, the words gliding from your mouth like silk dipped in acid.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even twitch.

You crossed the room with that slow, deliberate sway of your hips, hips that had commanded stages in Seoul and Shanghai and London. You slid into the seat beside him, your legs folding with grace and defiance, one bare knee brushing his thigh. He was all wrapped up in his lyrics, jaw tight, bottom lip bitten raw with focus. You leaned in just a little, close enough that your breath warmed the shell of his ear.

"You know," you said, voice pitched low, "you'd be hot if you smiled more."

He stopped writing. The pause was subtle, but you felt it.

A flicker.

The edge of something that hadn’t quite sharpened yet.

Then, without looking, he said, "And you'd be tolerable if you talked less."

Your head tilted. A smirk tugged at your lips.

"Wow. Was that an insult, Choi? I’m proud of you."

"Wasn't trying to impress you," he replied, tone dry, though his pen moved again. You noticed the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. How his hand tightened just slightly around the pen.

"You should."

This time, he did glance at you. Just a flick of those obsidian eyes, but it was enough. Your breath caught, for half a second. Then you laughed, light and careless.

He didn't laugh.

He never did.

But something shifted between you.

A hum. A tension, like the air before thunder.

It kept building. Slow and brutal, like the pull of a riptide. You kept finding ways to poke at him, to press where it hurt—or thrilled. Like the time during tour in Osaka, when you strutted into the green room in your shortest silver skirt, your thighs gleaming under the fluorescents. You leaned over the snack table just a little too far, feigning interest in a banana, and glanced over your shoulder to catch him staring.

He looked away immediately. Choked slightly on his water.

Victory.

You sat beside him after, close enough to brush arms. He kept his gaze on the floor, headphones in, jaw working like he was chewing through everything he wanted to say.

"See something you liked, oppa?"

His eyes flicked up. That same heat. Controlled. Bottled.

"I see a lot of things I don't comment on. Doesn't mean I didn't notice."

You blinked.

That was new.

You tilted your head, studying him. "Learning to play my game?"

He leaned in, slowly. Not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the gravity between you. "No. Just rewriting the rules."

You didn't have a comeback for that. Not right away.

But it shifted for real that night in Tokyo.

The building was nearly empty. Rain pattered on the rooftop, a soft, endless drumming that made everything feel heavier. You were dancing alone in the practice room, lit only by the glow of the city filtering through the foggy glass. The mirrors caught your silhouette—fluid, powerful, and unapologetic.

He watched you from the couch for a while, silent. You weren’t even sure when he’d walked in. You just caught his reflection, shadowed and still, in the mirror behind you.

"Do you ever stop performing?" he asked finally.

You turned, slightly out of breath, skin flushed and glistening.

"Do you ever start?"

The question hung there. Then he stood, walking towards you slowly, like he was testing the ground beneath his feet. Your body tensed instinctively. Not in fear. In anticipation.

He stopped a foot away.

"You wear your skin like armor," he said, almost a whisper.

You stared at him, pulse thudding. "And you wear yours like a coffin."

His breath hitched.

Then he reached up. Brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek, fingertips barely grazing your skin. But the touch landed deep, like a burn you wouldn’t feel until later.

"Learning how to bite back," he said.

Your lips parted. Heart hammering. His fingers hovered, then dropped.

You didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

That was the first real moment. Not a line. Not a game. Just two people, stripped to the edge of something they didn’t have words for yet.

The tension didn’t dissolve after that. It simmered. Shifted. Became more dangerous. He met your provocations with quiet confidence now, sometimes even that sly, devastating half-smile that did more damage than any comeback. You still wore your shorts, your skirts, your confidence like weapons—but now you caught him watching, letting you know he was watching.

And when he looked away, it wasn’t out of shame.

It was to let you wonder what he was thinking.

And God, you did.

The live performance for "Bang Bang Bang" was pure chaos—the kind of spectacle that lived in flashing lights, sweat-slick skin, and thunderous bass. You were in full regalia, black leather and fire-red accents. Seung-Hyun, though, stole the breath from your lungs the second he walked out in that cowboy outfit.

Boots. Tight black jeans. That ridiculous but somehow perfect hat perched atop his head. The jacket—a mix of denim and fringe—should’ve looked tacky. On him, it was lethal.

You stalked over after the number, still high off the adrenaline, your skin buzzing. Seung-Hyun had just peeled his gloves off when you plucked the cowboy hat right off his head and settled it onto your own, tilting it at a playful angle.

His eyes flicked up to you, half-annoyed, half-amused, but he didn’t protest—just watched, arms crossed over his chest, as you turned to Hyo-rin with that signature smirk.

“So, you know the rule, right?” you asked, voice dripping with mischief.

Hyo-rin, catching on immediately, tried to hold in her laugh, but her lips twitched. “What rule?”

You leaned in conspiratorially, fingers tapping the brim of the hat. “You wear the hat…” You paused, letting the silence stretch, watching Seung-Hyun out of the corner of your eye as he straightened slightly, a frown forming.

Then you dropped the bomb. “You ride the cowboy.”

Silence.

Seung-Hyun blinked. Once. Twice. Then he choked. His body went rigid like he’d just short-circuited, and his hand jerked up—too slow—to snatch the hat back.

You spun out of reach, laughing.

Hyo-rin completely lost it, practically wheezing with laughter. Seung-Hyun stood there, stunned and utterly betrayed, his ears turning crimson.

“That’s not a real rule,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“Oh, but it is,” you teased, tipping the hat dramatically before finally handing it back. You walked past him, close enough for your shoulder to brush his. “And now that you know, well… be careful who you let wear it.”

He groaned, dragging his hands over his face, and you? You just basked in your victory, the echo of your laughter still hanging in the air as he stood there—flushed, rattled, and maybe just a little bit intrigued.

Another show ended in a frenzy of lights and applause, but even as the crowd roared and the confetti rained down, you felt his stare. It wasn’t the usual casual glance or tight-lipped smirk. It was direct. Controlled. Electric.

Seung-Hyun hadn’t said a word after the cowboy stunt. But you could feel the storm brewing.

You lingered near the back hallway, sipping from a water bottle and humming under your breath when you heard the purposeful click of boots. You turned, already smiling.

"Looking for your hat again, cowboy?" you teased.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached you in three long strides. Before you could blink, he bent and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, your body jolting with surprise.

“Seung-Hyun—what the—?!”

Your words punched out of you, breathless and half-laughing, your hands bracing against his strong back. The fringe of his jacket tickled your fingers, and you felt the taut ripple of muscle beneath it. His hold was unshakable, one arm locked around your thighs, the other steadying your hips like he’d done this a thousand times in his head.

“You think you’re funny?” he growled, voice low and close to your waist. “Running your mouth like that?”

“I know I’m funny,” you bit back, twisting slightly over his shoulder to glare at the back of his head. “What, can’t handle a little heat, cowboy?”

He didn’t answer.

Just let out a long, controlled breath and kept walking.

The sound of his boots echoed in the narrow hallway. The tension between you—hot and fraying—vibrated in every step. You weren’t laughing anymore. Not really. Because beneath the adrenaline, there was something heavier in your stomach. Anticipation. Want. A thrill of not knowing what he was going to do next.

He kicked the door to the empty dressing room open with his boot and stepped inside like a man with a mission. You barely had time to take in the room before he closed the door behind you with a hard click and locked it.

Then he set you down—slow, almost too gentle—and didn’t let go.

You straightened, brushing hair from your face, breath uneven. “So you manhandle all your bandmates, or am I just special?”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Then he stepped back, dragging a hand through his damp hair. Still in full costume—tight black jeans hugging every muscle, fringe jacket slipping off one shoulder, and the cowboy hat held loosely in his hand—he looked like a fever dream.

“I’m tired,” he said suddenly, voice rough, cracking through the air. “Tired of pretending this is all jokes. That I don’t feel it every damn time you push me.”

You blinked. “Feel what?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You.”

He sat down heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees, running both hands down his face, then clutching the hat like it was anchoring him.

“I go home, and I replay it all. You walking past me in those skirts. The way you bite your lip when you think I’m not looking. The way you laugh like you know you’re pulling my strings.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your throat.

“I didn’t play your game because I was afraid. I didn’t play because I knew—if I started—I wouldn’t stop. I can’t stop.”

He stood again. Slow. Like a force of nature reining himself in.

“I can’t keep pretending your teasing doesn’t wreck me. That I don’t want to tear that smug look off your face and kiss you until you forget your own name.”

He stepped in close, lifting the hat.

“Every time you wear this,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I think about it.”

You raised an eyebrow, testing him. “About what?”

He gently—intimately—placed the hat on your head, tilting it just right. His knuckles brushed your cheek. You didn’t breathe.

His eyes locked with yours. “You said the rule was—‘you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.’”

Your smirk wavered.

He stepped back, slow, and sat on the couch with a heavy exhale. Legs spread. Shoulders relaxed, but his gaze never left yours.

“Then ride me,” he said.

The air left your lungs.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. You took one step forward. Then another. And then his hands were on your hips, pulling you to straddle him, and you were sinking into his lap, knees tight to his thighs.

There was a pause.

Just a heartbeat.

Both of you breathing the same air, eyes locked. And then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

There was no preamble. Just hunger. Tongue. Teeth. Four years of heat and silence and self-restraint burning down all at once.

Your fingers curled into his fringe jacket, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the weight of him beneath you. He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your back, possessive and sure. You arched into his touch, heat blooming in your stomach.

"You’re full of shit, you know that?" you gasped against his mouth.

"And you’re addicted to playing with fire," he growled, nipping at your lower lip.

You moaned when his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, finding every sensitive spot with maddening precision. Your hips shifted forward, slow, deliberate. His grip tightened.

“Still playing it cool?” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked.

“Not even a little,” you panted, nails raking through his hair.

He leaned back just far enough to look at you. “You gonna keep the hat on, or should I take it back now?”

You gave him a wicked smile. “Only if you can handle what comes next.”

He matched it. “Try me.”

Your hands moved first—sliding over his chest, unfastening the fringe jacket and pushing it off his shoulders. The fabric slithered down his arms, pooling behind him on the couch. You let your fingers explore the lines of muscle beneath his thin shirt, mapping him with touch. He watched you, heat simmering in his gaze, but didn't move to stop you.

His hands skimmed the curve of your thighs, fingers brushing the edge of your performance shorts. He pushed the fabric higher, thumbs tracing bare skin, drawing lazy circles that made your breath catch.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice dark silk.

“I’m not scared,” you said, meeting his eyes.

“I didn’t say you were.” He smirked, and then leaned up to kiss you again—slower this time, more exploratory. Like he was savoring the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath. Your bodies pressed closer, the friction building, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

You peeled off your top, your bare skin now flush against his, and the sensation made both of you shiver. His hands found your waist, guiding you gently, firmly, like he’d imagined this moment too many times to rush it. You leaned into him, kissing down his jaw, his neck, dragging your teeth lightly across his collarbone. His breath stuttered.

He tugged his own shirt off with one swift motion, and your hands ran over his chest, tracing the lines, the tension held in every inch of him. The air between you crackled as you rocked your hips slowly against his. You could feel him now—hard and ready beneath you—and your smirk returned.

“You gonna keep watching me like that,” you murmured, lips brushing his ear, “or are you gonna do something about it?”

His answer was a deep growl.

He gripped your hips and pulled you down against him, your thighs tightening around his waist as your movements synced—slow, purposeful, maddening. You kissed again, deeper, mouths opening, breath mingling, fingers digging into flesh. You undulated your hips in a rhythm that had both of you gasping.

When his hand slid between your bodies, under the waistband of your shorts, your body arched. His touch was skilled, unhurried. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You pressed your forehead against his. "You were really just waiting for me to crack, weren’t you?"

He smiled, just barely. "I wasn’t going to beg. But I damn sure wasn’t going to let anyone else have this."

The clothes came off in fragments. First your shorts, then his jeans. His mouth stayed on your skin the whole time, worshipping, claiming. When you finally sank down onto him, slow and full and breathtaking, both of you froze.

He held you there, still, his hands trembling against your waist.

“God,” he murmured. “You feel…”

You silenced him with a kiss.

And then you moved.

Slow at first—grinding, teasing—every shift drawing gasps and curses from his lips. You rode him like you danced: unapologetic, powerful, in full control—until he met you halfway, hips bucking, mouth clashing with yours in something raw and desperate.

Each thrust, each movement, was a conversation neither of you had dared to have until now. The friction between you was more than physical—it was years of longing, of silence, of stolen glances finally erupting.

His hands roamed your back, your thighs, your chest, unable to stop touching. You rocked harder, faster, both of you unraveling, the room echoing with breath and broken whispers.

And you—riding him in nothing but that hat and a wicked grin—felt like the whole world had narrowed to this.

Him. You. The heat. The fire.

And the end of the game.

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, watching the way his eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping back against the couch. A low moan escaped his throat, dark and throaty.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice broken. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Good. Then die knowing it was worth it.”

He laughed—deep, breathless—and grabbed your ass, guiding you harder against him. Your bodies moved in tandem, heat rising between you like a storm cloud ready to split the sky.

“You love being on top of me, don’t you?” he growled, voice rough, each word pulled from his gut. “So cocky. So smug.”

You bit his bottom lip playfully before releasing it. “You love it,” you whispered. “You love that it’s me making you feel this way.”

He thrust up into you with force, his grip on your hips tightening. The sudden intensity ripped a gasp from your throat.

“I love that you’re finally mine,” he said, voice gravel and silk. “I love that no one else gets to see you like this. Hear you like this.”

You moaned as he buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin just below your jaw. Your body trembled above him, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding harder, deeper.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he groaned. “You’ve been teasing me for years, walking around like a goddamn goddess. You wanted this.”

You nodded, breathless. “I still want it.”

“Then take it,” he snarled.

And you did.

Your pace quickened, driven by his words, his hands, his body. You rode him like the center of your universe had shifted beneath your thighs. The moans that spilled from you weren’t rehearsed or coy—they were real, raw, drawn from somewhere deep. He responded with broken sounds of his own, his fingers moving everywhere, gripping, sliding, exploring.

“Say my name again,” he whispered, staring up at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believed in.

You leaned down, your forehead pressed to his. “Seung-Hyun,” you gasped, hips bucking, your body tightening around him. “Seung-Hyun—”

He kissed you again, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist like a lifeline. The hat tilted on your head with each movement, your moans swallowed into his mouth as you neared the edge together.

“I’m not going to last,” he warned, voice rough. “Not like this. You feel too fucking good.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “Let go. With me.”

You moved faster, hips rolling in a rhythm that had both of you unraveling, your bodies a blur of heat and friction. The slick sound of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with breathless gasps and the creak of the couch beneath your desperate rhythm.

He held you tighter, kissed you harder, and when you came, it was with a cry—his name on your lips, body trembling, heart hammering. He followed with a groan that vibrated against your mouth, hips snapping up into yours one final time as he poured into you.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat-slicked skin. His arms around you, holding you like you might float away if he let go.

You collapsed against his chest, your face buried in his neck. He rested his cheek against the cowboy hat still on your head.

And then he laughed. A soft, amazed sound.

“Still think this was just a game?” he murmured.

You smiled, breath still shallow. “No. That was the prize.”

You don’t remember when your fingers started playing with the soft strands at the back of his neck, just that it felt natural. Gentle. Intimate in a way that felt almost too much, too soon.

But he didn’t pull away.

Seung-Hyun was still beneath you, chest rising and falling with the slow, steady pace of someone trying to come down from a high. His arms were wrapped around your waist, his skin sticky with sweat, but he made no move to let go.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your lips brush his collarbone. A soft kiss. A slow inhale.

He smelled like heat and leather and something uniquely him—rich and masculine, threaded with a note of sandalwood that clung to the edge of his skin.

You felt him shift under you slightly, his hand trailing lazily up your spine.

“You broke the hat,” he muttered into your hair.

You pulled back just enough to see him, the crumpled cowboy hat now hanging lopsidedly off your head. You reached up, flicked it back into place with a smirk. “Battle wounds.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, soft and unreadable. For a beat, neither of you said anything.

Then he sighed, slow and heavy.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “I’m tired of the games.”

You studied him. The way his brows pulled together, the seriousness in his voice despite the way your body was still pressed intimately against his.

“I know.”

“You flirt. You push. You know exactly what to say to get under my skin,” he continued, brushing your hair away from your cheek with a featherlight touch. “And I let you. Because I wanted… this. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t mean anything.”

You blinked.

The words weren’t unexpected, not really. But they hit harder than you thought they would.

“And now that you’ve had me?” you teased, voice soft, but a little unsure. “What then?”

He reached up, gently pulled the hat off your head, setting it aside before resting his hand on the side of your face.

“I don’t want you just like this,” he said quietly. “I want all of you. When the lights are off. When the stage is quiet. When you’re not performing. I want the version of you who teases and the one who doesn’t. The one who’s strong, and the one who hides when no one’s looking.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’ve got me,” you whispered, almost like a confession. “Even when I’m being a bitch?”

He smirked, something warm sparking in his eyes. “Especially then.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. His hands slid down your back, grounding you to him, anchoring you in that fragile, real moment.

Outside the dressing room, you could hear the distant thump of footsteps, voices, the world starting to move again.

But neither of you moved to get up.

Eventually, you spoke again, voice softer this time. “So, are we still playing?”

Seung-Hyun looked at you, that familiar flicker of mischief now tempered with something deeper.

“No,” he said. “We’re done playing.”

Then he kissed you again—slower this time. No teasing. No edge. Just lips and breath and the taste of something new blooming between you.

Something real.

The next morning, it was all rehearsals, spotlights, and sharp-edged choreography.

You were back in your dancer mode—short shorts hugging your hips, crop top clinging to your skin, legs flexing with every kick and turn. The air in the rehearsal room was thick with sweat and music and the silent pressure to be perfect. Lights beamed down from above like stage fire, unforgiving and hot.

You moved like a weapon—controlled, deadly, and graceful. The beat of the track pounded in your chest like a second heartbeat. You didn't look at him.

But you felt him.

Seung-Hyun’s presence was a constant hum under your skin. Not glaring or obvious—he’d never be that. But in the way his gaze skimmed you when he thought no one noticed, in the way his foot tapped in time with your rhythm, in the sharpness of his jaw every time you rolled your hips just a little harder than necessary.

You hadn’t spoken since last night. Not properly. Just one last kiss—slow and silent, lips warm with something that felt suspiciously like affection—before he helped you dress. Then, a walk through the hallways, his hand resting low on your back like he owned that part of you now.

That tension, unspoken and buzzing, followed you both into the room.

During break, you collapsed on the floor with Hyo-rin, sweat dripping down your spine, legs still humming from the last routine.

“You good?” she asked, arching a brow. “You haven’t roasted Seung-Hyun once today. I’m worried.”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Maybe I’m bored of watching him squirm.”

She gave you a pointed look. “You don’t look bored. You look like you had sex for twelve hours and can’t sit properly.”

You rolled your eyes, sipping water. “Don’t project.”

“Don’t deny it,” she fired back. “You’ve got that stupid, post-orgasm glow. And he—” she nodded toward where Seung-Hyun was silently talking to Jiyong, face flushed, shirt clinging to his torso “—looks like he’s trying to stay sane.”

Your eyes drifted despite yourself.

He glanced over, meeting your gaze for the first time today. And this time—he held it.

No flinch. No subtle glance away. Just steady, simmering eye contact.

Your breath hitched. You tilted your chin. Smirked slightly.

He didn’t smile back—but his eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly, and your stomach flipped.

“Jesus,” Hyo-rin muttered. “Just fuck in the equipment closet and spare us the foreplay.”

You grinned, but the heat in your belly was real.

After rehearsal, people scattered—some to shower, others to food or phone calls. You lingered near the vending machines under the pretense of choosing between water or soda.

You sensed him before you saw him.

Seung-Hyun appeared beside you like smoke, silent and solid, his body boxing you in with casual dominance. One hand pressed to the wall near your head. The other brushed lightly against your hip.

“You kept looking at me like you wanted to fuck me in front of everyone,” he said, low and dangerous.

Your lips curled, slow and deliberate. “I was just stretching. Can’t help it if my ass looks good doing it.”

His laugh was dark and quiet. “You really don’t know when to stop.”

“You like it when I don’t.”

He leaned in—his breath warm against your ear. “I like it better when you’re naked, dripping, and begging.”

You inhaled sharply.

Then he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. “My place. Twenty minutes. Unless you’re too sore to ride again.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him close enough to barely brush his lips with yours.

“Better hydrate, cowboy,” you whispered. “You’re gonna need your stamina.”

His hand dropped down to squeeze your ass—hard enough to sting. “I already want you again.”

You shivered, and for once, had no comeback.

He stepped back, all cool control, and walked away like he hadn’t just lit a match and left you burning.

You didn’t knock.

He’d left the door unlocked for you, and when you stepped inside his apartment, it smelled like warm spice and cologne. Dim lights pooled in corners. One small lamp was on, casting golden hues across leather and hardwood. It was quiet. Too quiet.

You kicked off your sneakers, padded inside, your body still humming with adrenaline from the studio—and from him.

He was standing in the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand, the same black shirt from earlier now slightly damp from his post-rehearsal shower. His hair was damp too, brushed back and curling slightly at the ends.

He didn’t say anything when he saw you.

Just set down the glass and crossed the space between you in five slow steps.

You were already unbuttoning your shorts.

His mouth caught yours before you could speak. Hot. Demanding. Fingers diving into your hair. You grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it upward. He helped pull it off, tossing it aside as you backed into the nearest wall.

His body pressed against yours. Hard. Familiar. Perfect.

“I thought about you all day,” he said against your mouth. “Bouncing on me. Fucking owning me.”

You moaned, letting your head fall back. “Tell me more.”

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you, just like that—effortless. You wrapped your legs around his waist and felt the heat of his cock already pressing through his jeans.

“No teasing tonight,” he growled. “No games.”

“Good,” you gasped. “Because I’m not in the mood to wait.”

He carried you to the bedroom, dropped you onto the bed with a grunt, and pulled your shorts down in one swift move. Your top followed. Then your panties.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmured, sinking between your thighs. His fingers stroked over your folds, spreading you open. “Were you this wet while dancing?”

You whimpered. “Thinking about you fucking me in front of everyone.”

He groaned—deep and hungry—and dipped his head. His mouth found you, slow at first, then greedy. Tongue curling. Sucking. Drawing out every sound you gave him.

You clawed at the sheets, hips rolling, voice breaking.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, and his eyes were dark as obsidian.

“I want to watch you ride me again,” he said, pulling off his jeans and underwear. “I want you in control.”

You straddled him before he could finish the sentence, your mouth capturing his in a kiss that was more bite than breath.

He hissed as you sank down onto him, inch by inch.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathed, fingers digging into your hips. “Just like that.”

You rode him slowly at first, letting the pressure build. Each thrust dragged fire along your nerves. Each movement stoked something deeper—need, connection, hunger.

“Seung-Hyun,” you gasped, bracing your hands on his chest. “I want all of it.”

He lifted his hips into yours, deeper, harder. “Take it. It’s yours.”

And you did.

Again.

And again.

Until your body shattered over his, until he broke beneath you with a growl and a kiss, until you both lay tangled in sweat and sheets, breathless and wrecked.

This time, he didn’t let go after.

He held you close, chest to your back, one arm wrapped around your stomach like you might vanish in the night.

“You’re not leaving after this,” he said softly.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered.

And neither of you said another word.

It was getting harder to hide.

The thrill had its bite—stolen glances, breathless goodbyes behind locked doors, kisses smudged between elevator dings. But lately, the thrill was starting to turn into something else. Something riskier.

Like now.

You stood backstage at the music show venue, all glitter and chaos, your group waiting for your cue. Crew members ran past with clipboards, cords, and coffee, the low thrum of bass from the main stage vibrating through the floors.

And there was Seung-Hyun.

Leaned casually against the wall across from you, dark pants, jacket loose over his frame, hair styled sharp and immaculate. He was doing that thing again—pretending not to look.

But he was looking.

You felt it in the slow slide of his eyes down your legs, the flicker of his tongue over his lip before he looked away again. You shifted your weight just enough to make the hem of your skirt ride higher on your thigh.

He noticed. He always did.

You arched a brow across the distance. He didn’t move.

Then, just loud enough for only him to hear, you murmured, “Stop undressing me with your eyes.”

He pushed off the wall. One step. Two.

“Stop wearing shit that makes me want to undress you,” he fired back coolly, eyes dark.

You smirked. “Maybe I want you distracted.”

He didn’t break stride. He stopped inches from you, towering in that dangerous way he had—quiet dominance, all heat and smolder. “You want me stupid on stage, thinking about you bent over the dressing table?”

“Something like that,” you said, tilting your head. “Worked last night, didn’t it?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes flicked around—technicians, a staff noona passing by, someone calling for a mic check.

He leaned in like he was about to whisper something scandalous. Instead, his voice came low, serious, brushing the shell of your ear like a threat.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You laughed under your breath, letting it ghost over his cheek. “You like when I do.”

Then, with maddening calm, you turned on your heel and walked away—slow enough that your hips swayed deliberately with each step.

You didn’t have to look back to know he was watching.

The rehearsal was brutal.

Lighting cues, missed beats, a scolding from the choreographer—but none of it fazed you. Not when you could feel him watching.

You danced harder. Let your body roll with the bass, every movement a challenge. Your crop top clung to your sweat-slicked skin, your thighs flexing in time with the music.

At one point, you dropped low during a freestyle moment—knees apart, ass angled just enough to make your point.

You didn’t look at him.

But when the music cut and everyone caught their breath, you finally turned your head.

Seung-Hyun’s eyes were on you.

And he was pissed.

You bit your lip to hide the grin.

Later, in the makeup room, you were touching up eyeliner when the door opened behind you. 

You didn’t turn—didn’t need to. You could feel him. That silent weight of Seung-Hyun’s presence, coiled and deliberate.

“Careful,” you said to the mirror, lips curving as you dragged the brush with precision. “Someone might catch us alone.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped closer. The kind of closeness that made the air between you feel too thin. His eyes met yours in the reflection—dark, steady, simmering.

“Keep teasing me like that,” he murmured, “and I’m going to fuck you in this chair.”

Your breath caught. You smiled anyway, slow and wicked. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“I’m not in the mood for games tonight.”

You dropped the brush, your hand suddenly not so steady. “Oh?”

He moved behind you—close enough that the heat of him sank through the thin fabric of your crop top. He didn’t touch you. Not at first. Just stood there, his voice low against your neck.

“You think you’re in control?” he asked, tone casual but laced with steel. “All those moves you pull on stage, the looks, the smirks. You think I won’t do something about it?”

“I think you’ll try,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

One hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against him. His other hand slid down the front of your body, fingers slipping between your thighs with a confidence that made your pulse jump.

You gasped, grabbing the edge of the makeup table as his fingers pressed against the thin fabric of your shorts—slow, teasing strokes that made your knees weaken instantly.

“Still think this is a game?” he whispered against your ear.

You tilted your head, biting back a moan. “I think you like it when I play.”

He chuckled, dark and knowing, and slipped his hand inside your shorts. Past the lace. Past every last ounce of your pride.

Two fingers slid through your slick heat, slow and steady, curling just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You bit your lip hard, a small, choked sound escaping your throat.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch your lips. He stayed right there at your ear, breath hot.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured, fingers pumping slow, dragging through you like he had all the time in the world. “To sit there looking so smug, pretending you don’t need me?”

Your hips rocked against his hand, desperate and involuntary.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice lower now. “Look in the mirror.”

You did.

Your mouth was parted, eyes glazed, face flushed. You looked wrecked. Beautiful. Hungry.

His fingers picked up pace, and your breath hitched again, a small whimper breaking past your lips.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathed. “Dripping for me. Needy.”

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Don’t stop—”

Then came a knock.

Sharp. Two quick taps on the door.

You froze.

His fingers didn’t.

The door cracked open a few inches.

“Hey—” Jiyong’s voice. Casual. Oblivious. “We’re on in five. Don’t take too long.”

“Got it,” Seung-Hyun said smoothly, without missing a beat. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers still buried deep inside you, still moving—but slower now. Teasing. Maddening.

The door closed.

And he pulled his fingers out.

You whined—quiet, desperate, betrayed.

He turned you to face him for the first time, hand still resting at your waist. His eyes locked on yours, smug and dark and far too calm.

“You wanted to play,” he said. “Now you can go onstage thinking about how close I got you.”

You stared at him, trembling slightly, still breathless.

“That’s not fair,” you hissed, voice low and sharp.

He leaned in close—not kissing—just letting his mouth hover by your ear. “You look so good when you’re frustrated. I want you ruined tonight.”

Then he stepped back, straightened his jacket, and walked out.

Leaving you there—wet, throbbing, and one heartbeat away from losing your mind.

The lights hit like a tidal wave—searing white, full intensity, washing everything else away.

You stood under it, chest rising and falling with adrenaline, body already slick with sweat before the first beat even dropped. The crowd was a blur behind the spotlights, thousands of people screaming. But none of it touched the tension tightening your body like a noose.

Because he was there.

Seung-Hyun stood just meters from you, wrapped in shadows and smoke, every inch the image of restraint. Black tailored jacket, shirt open just enough to tease his collarbone. Hair slicked back, lips unreadable.

No one would guess the things he whispered to you less than an hour ago. No one would see how your thighs still pressed together when you moved, trying to soothe the ache he’d left behind.

The music started, thunderous and pulsing.

You moved on instinct—every sway of your hips, every sharp snap of your legs wrapped in choreography. But inside, you were coming undone.

Because you could feel him watching.

Not the way he watched when you first joined the group—curious, cautious, and a little annoyed. No, this was different. This gaze was ownership. Memory. Hunger barely leashed.

At the chorus, you dipped low, knees wide, thighs spread just enough to make it obscene if you held it one second longer.

He was behind you now. You didn’t need to look to feel his eyes on the curve of your ass, the slow grind of your hips to the beat, like you were doing it just for him.

Because you were.

You heard the breath he let out over his mic—just barely.

And then, right before the bridge, as you passed him in the choreography, his voice slipped low into the in-ear comms. Meant for you. Only you.

“Still wet for me?”

Your heart stumbled. Your body didn’t.

You hit your mark like a pro, face flawless, smile cocky.

But your core pulsed, hot and alive.

He was playing with fire.

And you were ready to burn.

You didn’t wait after the curtain dropped. The roar of the crowd still rang in your ears as you stormed off-stage, ignoring the calls from staff, the offered water bottles, the wide-eyed glances.

You needed air.

You needed him.

But he found you first.

You didn’t hear his footsteps—just felt his hand on your waist, spinning you and pushing you backward until your spine hit the cool wall of a backstage storage room. Somewhere dark. Dusty. Hidden.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask.

His eyes were wild.

Yours were daring.

“You’re playing dangerous,” you breathed, heart pounding.

His voice was gravel. “You started it.”

“You left me on the edge,” you hissed, breath ragged. “You think I’m just going to let that go?”

“You loved it,” he said, stepping closer. “You walked on that stage dripping for me.”

You pushed him, hard. Not away—just enough to press his back to the wall opposite yours.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your hands were in his hair before you realized it, tugging hard. His were gripping your hips, pulling you against him, and fuck—he was hard. So hard you could feel him through layers of stagewear.

“I was trying to focus,” you snapped, even as your hips rolled forward against his.

“Liar,” he growled. “You danced like you wanted me to drag you off in front of everyone.”

“Maybe I did.”

He let out a shaky exhale and kissed your throat—open-mouthed, no softness. Just teeth. Tongue. Heat. His hand dragged up the back of your thigh, pulling it over his hip.

“I couldn’t think of anything but this,” he murmured against your skin. “The way you sound when you moan. The way you clench when I curl my fingers just—”

He shoved his hand down the front of your shorts.

Your head snapped back with a gasp, one arm flying out to grab the nearby shelf to keep your balance.

Two fingers—already finding your sweet spot—curled with maddening precision. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling, stroking with slow, lazy control.

“So wet,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “You didn’t even fix your panties, did you? You liked feeling it all night.”

“Fuck you,” you gasped, but your body betrayed you—hips rolling into his palm, your breath turning to soft, desperate sounds.

“Not yet.”

He kept the rhythm torturously slow. Deep. Inescapable.

“You gonna come just from this?” he asked, his mouth barely moving against your ear. “From my fingers? Pathetic.”

Your knees buckled.

He caught you, kept you upright with a firm hand around your waist.

“Say it,” he ordered. “Say you need it.”

“I need—” you gasped as he curved deeper. “Shit—Seung-Hyun—”

Then: a knock.

Two sharp taps.

The door creaked open, only a few inches.

“Hey!” Jiyong’s voice. Casual. Oblivious. “We’re headed to press in five. Don’t take too long, yeah?”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move.

Seung-Hyun didn’t stop.

“On our way,” he said smoothly, never pulling his hand away.

The door shut again.

You clung to him, your entire body trembling.

But he was already slowing his hand.

Then stopping.

Then pulling away completely.

“No—” you whined, barely able to think.

He slid his fingers out, pulled your shorts back into place with infuriating care, and pressed one slow kiss to your cheek.

“I said you could come,” he murmured, voice silky and cruel. “I never said when.”

You stared at him, dazed, legs shaking.

He smiled—dark and pleased.

“Now go smile for the cameras, baby. I want everyone wondering why you can’t walk straight.”

Then he opened the door and left you there—aching, panting, and dripping with frustration.

And maybe just a little in love.

You made it through the press line, somehow.

Camera flashes blinded you. Questions blurred. Your smile was flawless, but your insides were chaos.

You could still feel him.

The slick heat between your thighs. The twitch in your muscles every time you thought about how close you were—how close he got you, only to leave you there. Shaky. Exposed. Seething.

And he? He was cool as ever. Standing behind you, perfectly composed in his black-on-black suit, sunglasses shielding those sharp, knowing eyes.

But you knew he was watching.

And he knew you were boiling.

It was a game.

And now, you were done playing.

You waited.

Waited until the after-party had started. Until the others were busy in interviews, drinks in hand, laughter echoing down the corridor of the hotel suite booked for the night.

You knew where he’d go to escape the noise. He always did.

So you found him alone.

In the empty side lounge, low-lit and quiet, an untouched drink in his hand and his jacket thrown over the back of the leather sofa.

He looked up when the door clicked shut behind you. No surprise. No panic.

Just that look.

That look that said he knew exactly what you came for.

You crossed the room in silence, slow and purposeful, every sway of your hips deliberate.

His mouth parted just slightly, eyes dragging down your body and back up again.

“You look pissed,” he said smoothly.

You didn’t answer.

Just climbed onto his lap.

You could feel his body tense beneath you, muscles tightening under the silk of his shirt as your knees straddled his thighs, your palms planted flat against his chest.

You leaned in, lips a breath from his.

“You think you’re in control?” you whispered.

His jaw ticked.

“I was.”

You rolled your hips against him once—slow, heavy—grinding just enough for him to feel the ache he’d left in you. He inhaled sharply.

“You don’t get to leave me like that,” you said, voice low and venom-laced. “You don’t get to wind me up, then disappear.”

His hands gripped your thighs, hard.

“I warned you,” he growled. “You kept pushing.”

“And now I’m pulling,” you snapped.

Then you kissed him—biting, open-mouthed, no room for air. His hand came up to your throat, not hard, just enough to still you.

“You gonna punish me?” he breathed against your lips.

You smiled. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

And you did.

Right there on the couch, in the dark, with the door unlocked and danger on the other side.

Clothes half-off, lips nowhere near polite. You didn’t even get his shirt fully open—just enough to run your nails down his chest, to leave marks he’d have to hide later.

He was rougher this time.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

“Don’t make me beg,” you gasped.

“You already are.”

You rode him with purpose, not grace—chasing the edge he stole, dragging him to his knees with you. Every grind, every curse, every hiss of breath between your teeth was war.

When you finally came—loud, messy, full-body—it was with your fingers digging into his shoulders and his name on your lips like a brand.

He followed with a groan that shook through you both, his grip tightening around your waist as he spilled into you, head falling to your shoulder like he couldn’t hold it up anymore.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Just breath.

Sweat.

Stillness.

Then a voice.

Too close.

Too casual.

“…What the fuck.”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned slowly—so slowly—to see Jiyong in the doorway, holding a drink, mouth parted in shock, eyes wide and blinking like maybe if he stared long enough, the scene would disappear.

You froze.

Seung-Hyun didn’t.

He didn’t even flinch.

He reached forward calmly and tugged your skirt back down your thighs with one hand, the other settling protectively on your lower back.

“Close the door,” he said to Jiyong, voice low. Firm.

Jiyong blinked. “Are you—what the—”

“Close it.”

There was a pause. Then the door shut quietly. Not slammed. Not panicked.

Just shut.

You turned your head toward Seung-Hyun, eyes wide. “He’s going to tell.”

Seung-Hyun met your gaze.

Not afraid.

Not sorry.

“Let him.”

It started with the silence.

Not tension. Not anger. Not even curiosity.

Just a silence so cold it felt like a wall between you and everyone else in the room.

When you entered rehearsal that morning, the weight of what happened the night before hung off your shoulders like a loaded coat you couldn’t take off.

You and Seung-Hyun didn’t speak on the way there. You hadn’t spoken since Jiyong caught you. The only communication between you had been a look—one of those quiet, dangerous ones he was so good at. A look that said: I meant it. I’d do it again.

But the others? They weren’t as easy.

Jiyong barely looked in your direction.

Youngbae gave you a half-hearted nod, like he wasn’t sure what team he was supposed to be on.

Hyo-rin, mercifully, was the only one who dared to speak.

“Hey,” she whispered while tying her laces. “You okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

She paused. “Just so you know… I’m not judging you. Or him. But shit, babe—on the couch?”

You cracked a smile. Barely. “Didn’t hear you complain when you walked in on me and that backup dancer two years ago.”

“That’s different. He wasn’t T.O.P. And I wasn’t in charge of press cleanup if things go nuclear.”

Before you could respond, Jiyong’s voice rang out.

Louder than necessary.

“Maybe we shouldn’t pretend everything’s normal when clearly it’s not.”

Everyone stopped moving.

You straightened, slowly turning toward him. “You want to say something, say it.”

He crossed his arms. “You made it everyone’s business the second you brought it into a public space.”

“It was after-hours. Empty room,” you replied coolly.

“I still saw it. Heard it. Seung-Hyun, you didn’t even flinch when I walked in. You didn’t even try to explain.”

Seung-Hyun looked up from where he was lacing his boots. Calm. Collected. “Because I don’t need to explain.”

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Jiyong snapped. “This group doesn’t survive scandals. If the wrong person finds out—”

“Then they’ll find out,” Seung-Hyun said, standing up. “I’m not ashamed of her. I won’t hide her anymore.”

You blinked.

There it was. In front of everyone. No hesitation.

And suddenly, the others weren’t watching him anymore. They were watching you.

Waiting to see what you’d do with that kind of declaration.

You stepped forward. “I didn’t plan this. I didn’t want it to become a thing. But it did. And it’s real.”

“And if it blows up?” Jiyong asked, voice lower now. “If it wrecks everything we’ve built?”

Seung-Hyun looked at him—not cold, not combative. Just… steady.

“Then we build something new.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time.

It was freeing.

Because for once, the truth was out.

And you weren’t alone in it.

It started with a headline.

“T.O.P. heart was stolen? Unnamed Source Confirms BigBang Member’s Secret Relationship with Dancer.”

You didn’t have time to panic.

The article dropped at 8:14 AM. By 8:30, your phone had twenty missed calls. Managers. Stylists. PR. Your name wasn’t in the article—but the implication was clear. “Long legs,” “feisty onstage chemistry,” “rumored tension backstage.” They might as well have used your name in bold font.

And Seung-Hyun? He didn’t answer his phone either.

Because he was already standing in front of your apartment door.

No disguise. No hood. Just him.

Holding your name in his mouth like it was a decision he’d already made.

You yanked the door open. “You saw?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped inside without being asked. His jaw was tight. His hands clenched at his sides.

You stared at him, trying to read his silence. “Are you freaking out?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because everyone else is.”

He stepped forward.

“I’m not.”

You blinked, taking a step back. “We can fix it. We can deny it. Say it was a misunderstanding. Let the company clean it up. We’ll go back to being careful—”

“I don’t want to be careful,” he snapped.

You froze.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “I’m tired. Of hiding. Of pretending I don’t want to touch you every time you walk past me. Of acting like you're not the best part of my day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“You said you were scared,” he continued, stepping closer. “I am too. But I’m more scared of losing you than I am of headlines.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re not a rumor to me,” he said. “You’re real. And I’m done acting like you’re not.”

And then—before you could respond—he kissed you.

Hard.

No build-up. No slow burn.

Just fire.

His hands found your waist and pulled you in, lips demanding, breath hot. He kissed you like the world could burn and he’d still choose to go down with you in his arms.

You kissed him back just as hard.

Because you were tired too.

Tired of silence. Of half-truths and shadows. Of walking past him in public like he didn’t ruin you in private.

When you finally pulled back, your breath was ragged.

“What if they ask us directly?” you asked.

He looked you dead in the eye.

“Then I’ll say the truth.”

It came faster than either of you expected.

A press conference.

Scheduled “to address the rumors.” PR offered a dozen pre-written statements. Scripts. Polished denials. Just say it was misinterpreted, they said. Just say it’s nothing.

Seung-Hyun read none of them.

You stood behind the curtain, palms sweating, heart racing like it wanted out of your chest. He stood beside you, calm as ever—but his hand found yours and didn’t let go.

When the lights came on, and the crowd of journalists surged forward like wolves scenting blood, he stepped up to the mic.

And shattered the silence.

“I’m not here to deny anything.”

Flashbulbs exploded. Shouts rose from the press line.

He waited.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said, voice steady. “She’s a dancer. She’s strong, smart, and no—this isn’t a scandal. This is real.”

He turned, looked straight at you behind the curtain.

And smiled.

“I don’t want to hide her anymore.”

The fallout was instant.

The group trended globally. The internet split in half. Support poured in. So did backlash. But none of it mattered the way you thought it would.

Because when you walked out after the conference—hand in hand—he didn’t let go.

Not when the reporters screamed questions. Not when the managers whispered warnings.

He kept holding on.

Later that night, the two of you lay on his bed—sheets tangled, your head on his chest, legs knotted together.

He ran his fingers down your spine, gentle, slow. Different.

“Still scared?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

You looked up. “Do we regret it?”

He shook his head.

Then, softer: “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You smiled. “So what now?”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Now?” he whispered. “We stop burning quietly. Let the whole damn world burn.”

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Taglist: @janie-osuih@szonyix6277@chrypir@redhoodedtoad@sherrayyyyy@mirahyun@sherxoo @dilfismz@forevervibezzzz1@lariem-blog2 @infinetlyforgotten @maskedcrawford @httpjiprk @youlikeex @twilght-talks @emmiesoverthemoon

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