#final countdown page

[kentnaturaltribrid]

Speaking of holidays & well next week for sure, here’s a Countdown page present for the February Season, which happens to be ending on the Winter ❄️, so for now Goodbye winter ; Hello, Fall 2025 when it makes its way through to the top especially in about 15 weeks time that is! Well also as well as the Rest of the season making it’s way through with more than enough to make up for the rest of the Winters and that means lots more time for the Fall season dropping into many more weeks of Pumpkins 🎃 & Other events as well! That being said, Good afternoon & Have fun for the rest of the Sunday!

[demi-pixellated]

Wielder of Courage

[karis17love]

New Maps in Just Dance+!

click the image for better quality <3

[seaofreverie]

Sparks will be real in 50 days.

[deus-ex-mona]

we’re sooooooo back in [redacted] anime territory guyssssss

[cryptidofthekeys]

It's TV time!

FINALLY THE MOMENT YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!!!

HE'S HERE!

OH MY GOD HES SO CUTE BGFDJDDFS I DONT LIKE THE FACE SO BOWED OUT BUT ITS NECESSARY- BUT LOOK AT HIM!!! HES ADORABLE GFJKDLGJDKFSL!!

and...

and...

. . .

???

what?

He... Came with a book? ...Huh- wait, it looks like there's words? Lemme take a look- what'cha got Mr. Puzzles?

. . . What...? ...Coda...? .. Huh, guys, this is like, some kinda journal or a diary- I'll update each day bc it looks like there's a lot to read- to show y'all what it is, I'll hold off so to not spoil myself too- bc now I'm hella curious- I'm curious why Mr. Puzzles has this book with him and who Coda is!

[vermokeya]

Only 14 days left!

I'm so happy to finally be able to share my work, featuring the respectives Dante's for the countdown 🍕

Make sure to check out the Incredible works on the @dmccountdown page!

thank you again for letting me join :)

[the-real-team-starkid]

🚨ONLY 27 HOURS TO GO!!!🚨

We are in the FINAL HOURS of the Kickstarter for The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals: Reprised!

Tomorrow - Starting at 12pm PST - we begin our KICKSTARTER LIVESTREAM FINALE! We have two exciting livestream events planned, back to back, to celebrate and COUNT DOWN the final hours of this campaign!

FIRST - Beginning at 12pm PST! Is a 4 Hour DND Campaign called “Starkid Rolls the Dice!” with George Primavera as DM! The cast includes Jeff Blim, Corey Dorris, Angela Giarratana, Jon Matteson, Corey Dorris and Curt Mega! You can find the link to that livestream here!

PART 1 - STARKID ROLLS THE DICE

THEN - Starting at 4pm PST! Nick and Matt, director Lauren Lopez and more members of the cast will be joining in to count down the final moments of the stream with all of you! More will be joining in and we will be answering your questions about the show! We hope you join us as we talk about the upcoming show, share the stories of making Cinderella’s Castle and the cost associated with putting on a show in LA, and see what historic heights we can set with this production! We hope to see all of you there!

PART 2 - THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

NOW - We only have 27 hours to go! This show will be an exciting production to watch both in person and at home and we hope you will help us share the news of this final countdown where you can! If you are waiting to back the show, please consider backing by visiting our kickstarter page and checking out our awesome rewards!

THE GUY WHO DIDN’T LIKE MUSICAL: REPRISED!!!!

[triassictriserratops]

BOOK OF BILL SPOILERS

Read below for details to a solved puzzle.

On the publishing page, there is a listed website link to ThisIsNotAWebsiteDotCom.com (Remember, this is NOT a website. Bill is ABSOLUTELY telling the truth here, so DON'T go to this website.)

When you go to the (not a) website, you see a black page with a single, white triangle and a prompt for a password.

So how do we get this password? Later in the book, Bill subjects us to "The One True Intelligence Test". (Make sure to sharpen your No. 37 pencils in preparation!) Question 7 of the test is a Tilt-To-Read image with clues to the password encoded. Answers below:

Turn book upside down and tilt to read: NEED A PASSWORD? FINE, I'LL TALK.

Turn book to the right and tilt to read: ITS THE NAME OF THE EYEBALL DOC

Earlier in the book, Bill punishes us with required reading. A passage from The Great Gatsby. The passage specifically names Dr. T.J. Eckleburg, the eye doctor with the giant eye billboard. This gives us our password: T.J. Eckleburg

After submitting, we get a popup with a countdown for 6 days from now. (July 30th at 12:00 PM PT)

And, finally, you'll notice a code just above the countdown. The code is written in Bill's cipher code and it translates to: LOST FILES

Happy hunting!

[abbygracerecs]

Tom Holland and Co Recommendations

❤️‍🔥 - Smut 🤰 - Pregnancy/Parenthood ⚠️ - Potential Trigger ♾ - Neurodivergent!reader ❤️ - Soulmate AU

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner - @waitimcomingtoo

Customer Service - waitimcomingtoo

Adventures in Cat Sitting - waitimcomingtoo

Would You Rather? - waitimcomingtoo

Don't Dream It's Over - waitimcomingtoo

BFB - waitimcomingtoo

Home For The Holidays - waitimcomingtoo

Sexy - waitimcomingtoo

Little Pink Distraction - waitimcomingtoo

One Man Cult - waitimcomingtoo

Old Friend Two - waitimcomingtoo

I Got You, Babe Series - waitimcomingtoo 🤰

While You Were Sleeping - waitimcomingtoo

Caffeine - waitimcomingtoo

Cool Kids - waitimcomingtoo

Princess's Orders - @shawnxstyles❤️‍🔥

Green and Gold - shawnxstyles ❤️‍🔥

Panic Wish - @jamilelucato ❤️

Boxing Lessons - @tommyhoelland2013 ❤️‍🔥

Who You Belong To - @hollandcrush ❤️‍🔥

Peter Parker

Baby, Baby, Baby - waitimcomingtoo

Dick's - waitimcomingtoo

Uranus - waitimcomingtoo

Once More To See You - waitimcomingtoo

Honey - waitimcomingtoo

Pants on Fire - waitimcomingtoo

Wrong Number - waitimcomingtoo

Like Father - waitimcomingtoo

Love Potion #9 - waitimcomingtoo

And I've Been Meaning To Tell You - waitimcomingtoo

Interception - waitimcomingtoo

Meet Me Behind The Mall - waitimcomingtoo

A Film By Peter Parker - waitimcomingtoo

This Means War - waitimcomingtoo

Sunflower Soulmate - @negasonicteenagemess ❤️

Fall For Me - negasonicteenagemess

The Last Of The Real Ones - negasonicteenagemess ❤️

Snacks and Roses - negasonicteenagemess

Webs - negasonicteenagemess

Chemistry - negasonicteenagemess

Best Friends - negasonicteenagemess

Memories - negasonicteenagemess

Midnight Talks Two Three - negasonicteenagemess

You're Dating Her - @lousimusician

I Know Who You Are - lousimusician

Rambling - lousimusician

Oblivious Two - lousimusician

Pierced Two - lousimusician ❤️‍🔥

Faking It - lousimusician ❤️‍🔥

Bad Timing - @tommyparkerr

Like A Date - tommyparkerr

Please, Call Me Peter - shawnxstyles ❤️‍🔥

Dream Walk - @sacredsorceress

Catch You When You Fall - sacredsorceress

It's A Match - sacredsorceress

Honor - sacredsorceress

You? - sacredsorceress

The Courage To Try - @brokebonewritings

Sweet - @cherrrydragon

The Wedding Date - @rosesradio

The World's Best Tour Guide - @pearlfeline

Final Piece Of The Puzzle - @queen-of-the-avengers

Don't Tell 'Em - @thollandneedy

Sex Pollen - @donttellpeterparker ❤️‍🔥

Thank God For Group Projects - @hannibals-favourite-meal ❤️‍🔥

Just For Tonight - @cloudybarnes

Paging Dr. Parker - @asonofpeter ❤️‍🔥

Tension - @rebeccccccaaa ❤️‍🔥

Autistic!reader - @timelord-winchester-22b ♾

Countdown - @oneshots-imagines-and-that ❤️

Deep Red And Crimson - @schonart ❤️

Handwritten Love -@jordanlahey ❤️

I Bet You're Joking - @holland-dazed

When I Hear Her Voice - @welcomethefears ❤️

Easy To Miss - @sarsmusings ❤️

3 Times He Wanted To Kiss You, 1 Time He Did - @peterparkerneverland

[bettelaboure]

a small piece of GD, I had in my drafts for too long. maybe someday it will be a full fic 🤍

You were already regretting the heels.

Not because they hurt—though, they did. Not because you weren’t used to them—though, you weren’t. But because every time you walked past his office, you heard them click against the marble like a countdown to your own humiliation. A slow, echoing reminder that you were a terrible liar when you said you didn’t like attention.

Especially his.

“You’re late.”

His voice was velvet wrapped around a razor. You didn’t even look up, just held the stack of folders tighter to your chest and stepped inside his office.

“I’m not.” You weren’t. You were three minutes early.

Ji-yong, CEO of KJ Holdings, tech prodigy, fashion icon, and certified menace in a three-piece suit, leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world to watch you squirm. Which he probably did.

“You were supposed to be here the moment I started thinking about you,” he said, without missing a beat.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“That’s… not in my job description.”

He grinned. “We should renegotiate your contract.”

You moved to his desk, setting the folders down between you like they could shield you. “These are the Q1 reports you asked for. The numbers from our Japanese team are—”

He reached out, casually brushing his fingers over yours as he picked up the top folder. It was the lightest touch—barely there—but it shot straight up your spine. Your breath hitched, and he heard it. Of course he did.

“You’re so jumpy,” he murmured, not even glancing up as he flipped open the folder. “You always act like I’m going to do something terrible to you.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” His eyes lifted to meet yours, lazy and hot, and just a little amused. “And I haven’t even started yet.”

Your throat went dry. “Ji-yong…”

He raised a brow. “Mr. Kwon. While we’re at work.”

You swallowed hard. “Mr. Kwon. Right. Sorry.”

“I like when you say my name like that,” he said, flipping another page. “All formal. Obedient. Makes me wonder how else you might sound if I told you exactly what to do.”

Your entire body flushed—your cheeks, your ears, your everything. You took a step back before your knees gave out.

“I—I’m going to go get coffee.”

“Black,” he said smoothly. “Unless you’re bringing yours too. I’ll take it how you like it.”

You paused mid-turn, heart thudding. “Why would you want it the way I like it?”

His smile sharpened. “Because then I can taste it on your mouth later.”

You fled the office.

The first time you met Kwon Ji-yong, he was barefoot.

You’d shown up ten minutes early for your final interview at KJ Holdings—one of Seoul’s most elite tech firms—wearing your best blouse and your most fake confident smile. The receptionist had been flustered, muttering something about the CEO being “in one of his moods,” and then, without any warning, you’d been ushered straight into a massive corner office where a man with platinum hair and absolutely no shoes was standing on a desk.

You froze in the doorway. “Um… am I interrupting?”

He looked over his shoulder, one brow raised like he’d been expecting someone far more interesting. “Only if you’re boring.”

You were too stunned to answer.

He hopped down, walked toward you, and held out a hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Kwon Ji-yong. CEO. Potential disaster. You?”

“Y/N,” you stammered. “Your… new assistant, I think.”

He looked you over once, eyes pausing on your mouth a little too long. “Pretty.”

You coughed. “Excuse me?”

“I said ‘pretty impressive resume,’” he lied with a grin that made your stomach flip. “You blush easy, don’t you?”

You hadn’t said a word. You just sat down and tried not to fall in love with a man who didn’t believe in boundaries or footwear.

That was six months ago.

Now? You were wearing pencil skirts you didn’t even own back then, had memorized the schedules of three department heads, and knew—without asking—exactly how Ji-yong liked his coffee, his whiskey, and his chaos. And every day, you walked the tightrope between professional assistant and flustered wreck.

Because he never stopped.

“You know you don’t have to look like a snack just to sit in meetings with old men, right?”

You turned toward the doorway of the executive boardroom, where Ji-yong leaned, watching you adjust the hem of your skirt. His tone was casual, but his eyes? Anything but.

“I didn’t dress for anyone,” you said.

He stepped closer, slow, like he wanted you to feel him coming.

“I know. That’s the best part.”

You tried to maintain composure, eyes flicking back to the stack of files in your hand. “Do you flirt with all your employees, or am I just lucky?”

“I don’t flirt with employees,” he said. “Too messy. Too many lawsuits.”

You gave a tight nod. “Good to know.”

Then his voice dropped, low and husky. “But you’re not just an employee, are you?”

Your heart skipped. He was so close now you could smell his cologne—something dark and woodsy and completely unfair. You backed away slightly, and he grinned.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

You stayed late that night, half because you had actual work to do and half because you didn’t want to admit how much you liked being the last one in the building. The office was quiet after dark. Safer. No Ji-yong watching your every move with that smirk that said he was imagining you bent over your desk instead of working at it.

You thought he’d left.

You were wrong.

He came in without knocking, two glasses in hand and a bottle of Japanese whiskey tucked under his arm.

“Midnight oil,” he said. “You look like you need some.”

You blinked. “Aren’t there rules about drinking with your boss?”

“Sure,” he said, pouring you a glass. “But we’re just coworkers now. It’s past business hours.”

You took the glass from him with a suspicious glance. “And this isn’t inappropriate?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, settling onto the edge of your desk, “if I was being inappropriate, you’d be shaking too hard to hold that drink.”

You stared at him, cheeks flaming.

Then he tilted his glass toward yours. “To blurred lines.”

You clinked.

And drank.

And hated how much you wanted him to blur every single one of them.

He started texting you after hours. At first it was harmless—updates, reminders, small talk. Then it got… not harmless.

JI-YONG [10:42 PM]:

What are you wearing?

You stared at your phone like it might explode. Then you typed:

YOU:

Pajamas. Why?

JI-YONG:

Just picturing you. Cotton or lace?

You didn’t answer.

JI-YONG [10:45 PM]:

Let me guess. You’re all sweet and shy at work, but you’ve got a drawer full of pretty little secrets, don’t you?

You turned your phone off and threw it across your bed.

You didn’t sleep.

[babyjinsu]

heesung x fem!reader x sunghoon

౨ৎ angst, emotional cheating(?), non-proofread & edited

heesung noticed you’ve been distancing yourself from him. 

it’s nothing big or serious—but recently, it didn’t feel the same as it did the past two years. 

you still hold his hands, but your fingers don’t curl as tightly around his. you still text him back, but hours later—and with replies that feel more polite than personal. 

you don’t tell him you miss him. 

you still kiss him goodnight, but your lips are colder and hesitant and the kiss falls short. it barely lasts a second longer. 

heesung doesn’t say anything at first. he tries to be optimistic about it—your finals are coming up and it’s stressing you out. it’s just a passing mood. everyone goes through phrases, right? there’s no perfect relationship. 

“where are you off to?” heesung asks, looking back over his shoulder from the couch. 

you’re standing by the mirror, putting on lipstick, smacking your lips together. the tube clicks shut in your hands as you adjust your cardigan. you look at him from the mirror, smiling. “out,” you hum lightly. “just having dinner with friends.”

heesung nods. “where at?” 

you spray some perfume over your bare neck. “that seafood place at the end of seongsu street.” you reply—no longer looking at him. he nods once again, turning his head back towards the tv. there’s something off about your tone, but he doesn’t question it.

when your boyfriend doesn't reply, you finally glance over. he’s not looking at you anymore. his eyes are on the screen, but they’re unfocused. the remote sits idle in his hand. you want to say something to ease him, but nothing comes out.

instead, you walk over to him and plant a chaste kiss on his cheek from the back. “...don’t wait up.”

he doesn’t answer.

——

when heesung first transferred to pangok high, his new friends told him that he absolutely can’t develop a crush on you. 

because you were park sunghoon’s ex girlfriend. 

“trust me dude,” jake said, his fingers struggling to rip open the pack of bread. “it’s not worth it. that’s sunghoon’s ex.”

heesung didn’t question why you were off-limits—but later found out that you and sunghoon were in a relationship longer than heesung could believe it. since you guys were primary students. jungwon said it started off as a joke, where the two of you would get shipped together but it became real quickly after. 

you became their friends because of sunghoon. and you stopped because of sunghoon as well. 

sunghoon moved to another country. two weeks of countdown, one night spent together, and then he was gone—you couldn’t bring yourself to the airport so sunghoon left various of voicemails until he boarded the plane and begged his friends to send his letters to you. 

you couldn’t do long-distance. the two of you were only 16. 

everything changed.

you didn’t stop being their friend immediately. but over time, things and distance grew quieter. the group chats dulled, then you left. you didn’t join them to late-night convenience store runs anymore. they still saved you a seat at lunch—but then it became heesung’s. 

they were sunghoon’s friends. not yours.

you were sunghoon’s girlfriend, and when he left, so did your place among them.

and for a while, heesung didn’t think much of it. everyone was someone’s ex at one point. you were pretty, prettier than the girls heesung knew. self-contained, soft-spoken. when you laughed and threw your head back and then laughed again out of embarrassment, something warm within heesung blossomed. you were polite to him—to everyone—never too much of anything.

he really did try to hold himself back and remind himself every now and then that you were the ex-girlfriend of his current group of friends’ friend. and yet—

heesung fell for you anyway.

he told himself he was different. that whatever history you had with sunghoon had ended, written its final page, and he didn’t mind being the next chapter. he became close to you in secret from his friends.

the two of you became friends after graduating high school, and as fate decided, you ended up in the same university. whatever it was you had in sunghoon was left in pangok high. it was just high school love.

heesung thought love meant choosing each other every day and he thought he—that was enough.

but he’s not so sure now. 

the warnings echo louder than ever—

“that’s sunghoon’s ex.”

——

when heesung wakes up, the side of your bed is empty. 

he checks the bathroom and the kitchen before allowing himself to overthink—but when you’re not anywhere in the house, he scrolls through his phone to call your bestfriend, aeri. you always told him that if anything happens, aeri knows.

so he calls her.

“hello?”

“aeri—hey, sorry but is yn with you?” he asks.

there’s a pause on the other end. 

“she—uh,” she sounds like she’s trying to figure out how to soften it—. “yn got super, super drunk earlier. like really bad. and she passed out so,” —but there’s no good way. “sunghoon took her back.”

heesung’s blood runs cold. he sits down on the edge of the bed.

silence. 

he swallows hard, tries to keep his voice steady and the way his chest tightens. “....back, where?”

“i don’t know. he just said he’d handle it. she wouldn’t wake up and we didn’t wanna call her dad, so—heesung, it’s fine. you know how she is—”

he hangs up.

heesung stares at your empty side of the bed again, like maybe he misheard. he still doesn’t allow himself to overthink—but overthinking never really knocks.

you don’t sleep on your side of the bed, but someone else's. 

——

if you could turn back time, you wish you had cried twice harder and let yourself be sad over the break up. 

but you didn’t, and maybe that’s why all of these emotions come crashing down on you like a meteor.

you’re not easy to love—until now, even. so when nine year old sunghoon came to you at the park with hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks flushed and knees scraped—and told you that he likes you, you found it hard to believe.

you leave when things feel too good—because good things never lasted in your world. 

when thirteen year old sunghoon came to you at your desk with red ears and redder cheeks—and told you he loves you for the first time after being together for four years, maybe you weren’t so hard to love after all. 

sunghoon was more bite than bark. he wasn’t just a boyfriend, he was your bestfriend too. he defended you from boys asking you to speak up and called you on his mother’s phone whenever he’s allowed to use it. he learned your silences like a second language.

sunghoon wasn’t just your boyfriend—he was your everything first. he was the first one to make you feel loved (aside from your dad), the first one to kiss your cheek, forehead, eyes, and lips. he was the first one to make you feel like you belong in a place. he’s your first fight, first argument, the first person you slapped and pushed away. 

sunghoon was also the first one—to  be your first.

part of you always thought that sunghoon would always be there forever. as a boyfriend—and that he would be the one who never left. 

until he did.

if you could turn back time, you wish you had been more honest about your feelings with heesung.

if the word kind was a person, it would have heesung’s face. if understanding had a voice, it would sound like heesung when he reassured you that everything will be okay, even when it’s not exactly the situation.

heesung loves you with his whole heart and being, and you love him with the remaining pieces of yours that didn’t belong to sunghoon anymore. 

you thought you could move on from an eight years relationship in two years—but you were far from that. because it’s been eight years now, and the feelings are still there.

but you didn’t, and maybe that’s why you’re standing in front of heesung’s apartment and waiting for him to open the door. 

it’s the next morning and your heels ache from wearing your loafers. your cardigan doesn’t smell like heesung’s air purifier, and your heart beats like it’s trying to outrun the rest of your organs.

you heard the lock clicks and the door swings open. 

and there’s your boyfriend.

his hair tousles like he didn’t sleep and his eyes are dull and swollen.

heesung doesn’t say anything but he flashes you a soft smile like he knows. you know he knows.

you wet your lips, “hee,” you breathe, and his name sounds like an apology. 

he takes your bag from your hand and steps aside. “come, it’s freezing.” he says quietly. 

you do, shrugging off your cardigan and tossing it into the laundry basket. you watch as he walks over to the kitchen and starts making tea. the kettle hums in the background, his back to you, shoulders drawn tight.

you open your mouth to say something, only to close it again. 

“i’m not mad,” heesung finally says without turning around. “i just… wish you’d told me.”

you fiddle with the hem of your top. “...’m sorry,” you murmur, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

“nothing happened, i promise. he—he slept in his living room.” you hesitate. 

your boyfriend lets out a quiet breath like a sigh. “i know. i… i didn’t ask,” he says. 

your heart splinters a little more. heesung never accused or doubted you of anything—there was never a reason to before this. until now— “i know you wouldn’t do that.” 

that makes it worse. even now, standing in the wreckage, heesung still believes the best in you.

you squeeze your eyes shut, your voice barely hangs over a thread, “i should’ve told you.”

you hear heesung sets his mug down gently. “do you still love him?”

——

sunghoon’s made a lot of wrong choices before—but leaving you has got to be the worst one. 

it felt like the right thing at the time to accept the new opportunity presented before him. a scholarship. that was his chance to grow bigger and better for his future.

he told himself you’d understand and that you’d wait. his mom said if it was meant to be, it would all come back around anyway. he didn’t like that—the two of you were always meant to be.

when you broke up with him, sunghoon thought that someone like you don’t come around twice.

so when he saw you again—eight years older and different and prettier, but somehow still you—his mind told him he’d already lost you, but his heart hadn’t caught up.

because then you laughed at something he said—and brushed your hair behind your ear the way you used to when you were shy. for a second, sunghoon swore he saw the version of you that was his girlfriend. 

he missed you so much it made him sick. 

so he let himself believe maybe there was still something left—even if you have someone else now. even if that someone was everything he used to be for you. 

because sunghoon’s made a lot of wrong choices before.

and getting you back from your boyfriend was no exception. 

💭 i REALLY have to get this out of my head bro. i think i'll write more because i just can't. sorry. i love angst. angst is everything to me. emotional cheating hurts MORE. i'll write more about this please wait for me.

[astralis-ortus]

gummy bears

✱ college student!hj x gn!reader

— art school is hard—at least having a muse makes it a little easier.

w.count → 1.8k genre → fluff...? warning → mild cussing, as per usual♡ a.n → hi!! i'm back with a new face addition to the page! hahah honestly i thought it would be either minho or seungmin first but ngl hyunnie has been tugging on my hearstrings lately he's such a silly little mandu i love him sm :( hope you guys find the story as enjoyable as chris' side of the blog, and also if anyone is interested for a commission there are slots available still♡ ⋆ see masterlist

has it always been this… weird?

your attention should’ve been sealed at the projected slides once the professor started the countdown on his infamous ‘how-long-can-i-yap-before-my-students-fall-asleep’ course, but holy smokes—even breathing seemed like a major task when you could barely peel your thoughts off the boy sitting a few rows in front of you.

hyunjin has always been the main attention-grabber wherever he went—and that includes yours.

it’s not like you denying it either. he is gorgeous, and even the heavens know you couldn’t help but glance in his direction whenever he’s in the room. hell, even a few of your initial sketches for last semester’s projects were inspired by hyunjin. it’s as if he had slowly solidified his spot as your muse—but what is this odd feeling gently fluttering between the rows of your ribcage?

a buzz from the pocket of your pants startled you out of your trance, and while you thanked the gods for sending you down here with a habit of putting your phone on constant silent, you peeked at the notification patiently perched on the screen of your phone—one nearly causing you a minor heart attack on the spot.

hyunjin: spot next to me is empty, you know

right—you forgot your position from a mere classmate-slash-secret-admirer has been upgraded to an actual acquaintance-slash-almost-friend of hyunjin’s, all thanks to that one final project from art history 101 class last semester.

you: being at the back is peaceful, thanks hyunjin: says the one who rushed for a front spot for literally any other class lol hyunjin: cmon, saved the spot for you

lord—now you’re genuinely glad you decided to wear that crusty baseball cap of yours today, or literally everyone would’ve noticed the way your cheeks had burned up into a bright shade of crimson.

you: geez hyunjin: cmoooon hyunjin: or i’ll literally ask mr. kang to move you here

the way your head snapped to find hyunjin’s playful yet determined gaze headed straight at you was not something you would’ve ever thought to add to your bingo board.

ever.

you: no you won’t hyunjin: try me

your eyes nearly doubled in size when you returned your line of sight in hyunjin’s direction, only to see the slow, comical way the long-haired guy is raising his hand while keeping his eyes on you, lips tipped up into a masked grin.

“yes, mr. hwang?”

fuck.

you scrambled on your phone while mr. kang—as well as the rest of the attendees of the class, fixed their eyes on hyunjin, quietly wondering what would come out of those lips of his.

“oh, i’m just wondering if—"

you: FINE I’M MOVING you: JUST SHUT UP you: PLEASE

And you swore you could see the way his lips turned into a victorious grin through the back of his head.

“if?” mr. kang repeated, seemingly a little impatient at hyunjin’s antics. to be fair, you actually felt the same way.

“if you have any movie or documentaries related to the topics you will be teaching this semester,” hyunjin’s voice rang loud and clear—as if the question had been his initial motive all along, and you’re simply a victim of his little magic trick.

“personally i do learn better through those mediums, mr. kang,” hyunjin perfected his question, smile as innocent as a puppy, and as he looked around the hall, scanning the dozens of nodding heads to his statement,

hyunjin made sure to lock eyes with you for a second longer.

“and i think my friends agree with me.”

“you’re an ass,” you hissed as soon as you secured the seat next to hyunjin, shooting daggers out of your eyes while the latter chuckled. given, hyunjin’s question did made your move less suspicious since mr. kang actually took a liking to the idea and decided to substitute one of the assignments into this movie presentation group project, but still—you were so close to losing your dignity in front of dozens of your peers, on the first day of the new semester.

“would’ve been easier had you listened the first time,” he playfully retorted, remnants of victory still glimmered in his eyes, “and now you know i’m a man of my words. win-win situation for both of us.”

“as if,” you groaned in annoyance despite failing to even make a dent to hyunjin’s victorious grin. “you are the only one benefiting from this, mr. hwang. i’m merely a victim in this scheme of yours.”

“ouch—mr. hwang? really now?” hyunjin placed a hand over his heart, pretending as if he has been shot despite the wicked smile plastered across his face, “do you really want to hurt me like that?”

if you were to be honest, you do enjoy your playful bickers with hyunjin. it made him less of a muse and more of a… human. a regular college boy, who just so happened to be blessed by the goddess of beauty herself and sent here with an exceptional heart of gold.

like he’s just a boy.

“seemed fair enough,” instead, you replied with a mischievous grin while greeting a couple of hyunjin’s friends joining your little group.

“1-1, mr. hwang.”

the massive numbers displayed on your phone screen further validates the exhaustion you felt looming over your shoulders. it’s only the first week of the new semester and you’re already held up on campus way past your classes—how are you supposed to survive the rest of the school year?

to be fair, you really do love what you’re studying right now. it’s what you’ve always wanted to be since you were a child, and to be able to live out your inner child’s dream is one of your prides—but god, it did not make things easier to actually do.

just as you slipped your screen away, sparing yourself from a bunch of exhausting thoughts as your footsteps led you to your bus stop, a pack of gummy bear suddenly popped out of thin air in front of your eyes, causing you to stumble backwards onto the—

warm surface?

“i’m not a gummy sharing type of person, but i think you need this more than i do.”

pushing yourself off the other’s figure, you didn’t need to turn around to figure out the person’s identity—but you did anyway.

“gee, thanks mr. hwang,” you playfully snickered, snatching the bag of gummy and popped one unfortunate strawberry flavored bear in your mouth, “didn’t know you’re so kind.”

over the past week, you found out that you surprisingly have quite a lot of classes together with hyunjin and a few of his friends. you’re thankful he dropped the ‘i saved you a seat’ act by the third class you shared and let you actually sit amongst your friends, but in ways you don’t even understand, you somehow kept getting sorted in the same groups as hyunjin. well, at least now you no longer freeze up while hyunjin’s around.

“oh, can you drop that already,” hyunjin groaned, lips pursing into a subtle pout, “the others are starting to call me mr. hwang too thanks to you, you know.”

you couldn’t help but let a chuckle slip past your lips to hyunjin’s protest, already with a picture in your head about the whining he would’ve done once his closest friends started to pick up hyunjin’s objection to the nickname and used the name against him. how adorable he would’ve—

wait.

adorable?

hyunjin’s supposed to be simply your muse—maybe a friend at best! you don’t call your friends adorable, do you?

“you started it!” shaking your head in an attempt to rid the word from the nooks and crannies of your brain, you instead defended yourself while offering hyunjin the pack of gummies at the same time.

“what do you mean i started it!” hyunjin groaned, still popping a gummy in his mouth in the process, “i was just simply requesting your presence at the spot I have reserved for you!”

“and threatened to embarrass me if i didn’t move!” you deflected, playfully glaring at the latter. “don’t you dare omit that part, you sneaky weasel! i thought I was going to have to drop the class due to embarrassment!”

the crease between hyunjin’s brows grew thicker when he realized he couldn’t counter your protest, resulting in another pout to form on his lips, now clearer than before. it made you feel a little guilty—did you go a little too far? was he offended by the—

“i just wanted to get closer to you.”

…wait.

wait—what?

“i know it’s a lame excuse,” hyunjin’s groans turn muffled as he hid his face behind the palms of his hands, “it’s just—i don’t know, i find you fun? i know we just started talking after that group project but i like talking about stuff with you and even after the group project ended i just kept finding myself wanting to talk to you? i just—”

“whoa whoa—slow down!” you instinctively grabbed hyunjin’s shoulders; not too hard to shake him off, just enough to gently ground him back from his rambles. “breathe, you don’t need to explain anything to me, hyunjin. just breathe.”

well, frankly you do need an explanation—just… not from this adorably frantic hyunjin.

no, scratch that—just frantic.

not adorably.

just frantic.

hyunjin’s face was nearly the shade of the gummy bear packet you still had on your hand, and as much as you didn’t want to embarrass him more than he’s already feeling, your lips seemed to have their own plans when they curled up into a grin.

“don’t even say anything,” he warned, fingers now pointing at the rapidly growing grin on your face. “just don’t.”

you would honestly love to comply to hyunjin’s wishes, really—after all, you’re the type to honor and respect your friend’s wishes…

but is he just a friend?

“I’m not!” you stated, but despite throwing your hands up in a sign of defeat, hyunjin knew better when he noticed the constant degree of smile etched across your face,

“I just never would have thought that the campus crush,” you emphasized, trails of laughter already slipping past your lips in harmony to hyunjin’s exasperated sigh, “the mr. hwang hyunjin himself, is quite clumsy at making new friends.”

hyunjin was genuinely dumbfounded at your accusation.

“no i’m not!” he protested, subconsciously following your footstep as you got ready to catch your nearing bus, “it’s not that i’m bad at making friends, i just—”

hyunjin’s explanation were cut short when your bus finally arrived, prompting another frown to appear on his face when you hopped on without sparing him another glance. dejected, hyunjin turned around and—

“hyunjin!”

the speed at how quickly hyunjin turned on his heels at your voice nearly made you giggle. from one of the opened windows from the back of the bus, you locked eyes with hyunjin and smiled.

“text me your excuses and we’ll see if you’re actually good at making friends!” you shouted as the bus began to drove away, only allowing you to witness a faint ‘okay!’ along with an excited wave before hyunjin disappeared behind the curve of the crossroad.

well, maybe hyunjin is adorable after all.

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[allurer23]

TURN THE PAGE TO US

YOU ANNOTATED MY SOUL

In Focus: Mark Lee × Reader

Synopsis: You and Mark Lee: two English Lit majors, one department, zero peace. You can quote The Waste Land by heart, and so can he-but your shared talent for verse usually ends in verbal warfare. Forced to co-lead a competitive research project, Mark's infuriating intelligence and maddening focus drive you up the wall. Yet, rivalry softens into playful banter, and late study sessions stretch longer than expected. Turns out, the line between rivalry and something softer is written in pencil-easily erased, effortlessly rewritten.

Warnings: Academic rivals to lovers, Mutual pining + unresolved tension, Explicit language, Sexual content (18+ / smut), Detailed oral sex (f. receiving), Power dynamics (verbal sparring, light possessiveness), Angst + emotional repression, Minor public humiliation (not graphic), Canon-typical college shenanigans, Literary metaphors taken too far, Mentions of anxiety + fear of vulnerability, Soft moments buried under sarcasm

Author's note:

This is the first footnote in TURN THE PAGE TO US-because nothing screams 'healthy coping mechanism' like falling for the one person who annotates your entire existence."

This is Part 2

You can read Part 1 here

Please be 18+ if you are reading this

We didn’t even get to pull apart.

Her lips were still on mine, warm and trembling, her breath stuttering against my mouth like she was falling apart right there in my hands—and then the bell rang,  the front door creaked open.

“Y/N?” her brother called, light and unaware.

She pulled away like I’d burned her.

No words. No glance. Just her back retreating, her fingers smoothing her skirt like she could iron the moment out of existence. I stood frozen, heart thundering like it wanted to break out of my ribs, still half in the kiss, half in the aftermath.

I didn’t know whether to follow her or flee.

She came back into the room a minute later, her voice flat. “Let’s finish the citations.”

Like I hadn’t just kissed her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Like she hadn’t kissed me back.

Like the last five minutes were just a skipped paragraph in a novel that would never get read again.

We sat at the table. She opened her laptop. I opened mine. We divided the sources like strangers.

She read titles and years like she was eulogizing something that hadn’t even been born yet. I typed like it was a punishment. My fingers shook. She didn’t notice.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t call me pretentious or tell me I was overanalyzing.

She was gone.

Still sitting there. But gone.

When it was done, she closed her laptop with a soft finality that sounded like a goodbye. Said she’d submit the paper—because it was closer. Because it was easier. Because anything else would mean staying.

I nodded.

She walked me to the door.

Said, “Thanks for working on this.”

And then she shut it.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Just… shut it.

And I stood there in the hallway with nothing but the sound of her absence and the feeling of her lips like a ghost on mine.

__

It’s been nineteen days.

I’ve counted.

Like a prayer. Like a punishment. Like a countdown to the moment I finally give up.

I haven’t.

Every day, I wake up and tell myself I won’t check her profile. That I won’t walk past the library just to see if she’s sitting there, chewing the end of that pen like it’s got the answers she’s too scared to say out loud.

Every day, I lie.

Because I miss her.

And not just the idea of her. Not just her voice or her eyeliner or the way she once said “free will” like it was a middle finger to the universe.

I miss her.

Her mind. Her fury. Her precision.

The way she saw literature like it was a weapon and wielded it like she knew where to strike. The way she made me want to be better—not for a grade. For her.

Even before that night in the apartment… it was never just tension for me.

Not once.

I know people thought it was. That it was just a rivalry with a little heat and a lot of academic ego. But they didn’t see the way my stomach flipped when she looked at me and I knew she was about to destroy my entire point with one sentence. They didn’t see the way I memorized the rhythm of her voice during class. How I lingered after lectures just to walk the same hall she did, even if we didn’t talk.

It wasn’t tension.

It was devotion.

Quiet. Careful. Hidden in sarcasm and debates. But still—devotion.

And now, she won’t even look at me.

___

That’s why I’m here again. In the  Same basketball court. Same lights. Same echoes.

It’s past eight and I’ve been shooting for over an hour. Or trying to. Every shot clangs. Every rebound misses. I keep thinking if I move fast enough, if I sweat hard enough, the ache will leave my body.

It doesn’t.

The ball bounces away.

I don’t chase it.

“Did he say something?” Renjun asks.

“No,” Chenle answers. “He grunted once. Might’ve been a spell. Might’ve been his soul leaving.”

I don’t laugh. Not really. Just drop to the court floor like my bones have finally given up pretending.

They walk toward me. Chenle catches the ball. Renjun sits like he’s preparing to receive something heavy.

“Mark,” Renjun says gently. “Talk to us.”

I stare at the ground. Concrete. Dust. The edge of a shoelace coming undone.

“I kissed her,” I say. “No—we kissed. It wasn’t one-sided. It wasn’t even a question.”

My voice is raw. Like something torn.

“She kissed me like she wanted it. Like she’d been waiting for it. Like we were finally letting go of everything we’d been holding back.”

I press my palms to my face.

“And then her brother walked in with groceries.”

They don’t interrupt.

“She pulled away. Fixed her clothes. Walked out of the room like I didn’t just... mean something.”

Chenle sits beside me.

Renjun nods. “And?”

“And she came back in and told me we should finish the citations,” I whisper. “Just like that. Like she reset. Like she erased the kiss and started a new page.”

“She didn’t mention it. Not once. We finished the paper like two people who barely knew each other. And when it was done, she told me she’d submit it. Said she lived closer to Jung’s office.”

I swallow.

“She walked me to the door. Said thanks. And shut it before I could ask if we were going to talk about it.”

My chest aches.

“And then she never spoke to me again.”

Renjun’s brows are drawn. Chenle’s hand is on my shoulder.

“She’s ignoring me on campus. Online. Everywhere. I texted once. Asked if she submitted the paper. She replied, five hours later. ‘Submitted. No typos.’”

I laugh, but it’s empty. Like breath leaking from a cracked balloon.

“I feel like I dreamed the whole thing. Like I made her up. Like the kiss wasn’t real. Or worse—like it was, and I ruined it.”

Silence.

Then Chenle, softly: “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“She means everything to me,” I say, voice barely a whisper. “And I didn’t even know it fully until I lost her.”

I look at them—eyes wet, throat tight.

“I keep thinking if I said the right thing that night—if I’d stopped her, or followed her, or fought for it—maybe she wouldn’t have shut down. Maybe she wouldn’t have... erased me.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Renjun says, firm. “You were brave. You were real.”

“She’s scared,” Chenle adds. “Not of you. Of what you made her feel.”

“I just want her back,” I whisper. “Even if we argue again. Even if she mocks my thesis voice or tells me my shirt’s too crisp. I just... want her.”

“You still have her,” Renjun says. “She’s just scared to admit she still has you.”

I close my eyes.

And let myself break a little more.

Because when I kissed her, I gave her something I didn’t know I’d been saving.

And now, she’s holding it in silence.

And I don’t know if she’ll ever give it back.

Y/N's POV

I used to think I was untouchable.

Not in a cool, mysterious, femme-fatale kind of way. Just… safe. Armored. Scripted. Unreachable enough that no one could ever say they really knew me, and I could convince myself that was power.

But it wasn’t.

It was fear in eyeliner.

Thick, winged, perfect eyeliner that made people flinch before they got close. Made them think I was too sharp to hold. Made them think I liked being alone.

And maybe I did. Or maybe I just needed to believe that if I chose solitude, it wouldn’t hurt so much when it chose me first.

Because people leave.

That’s the one thing I’ve always known for sure.

They leave when you’re too much.

They leave when you’re not enough.

They leave when they see you stripped of all the carefully constructed defenses and realize you’re just… soft.

Just scared.

___

I’ve left people before they could leave me.

Friendships I cared about. People who saw too much. Who stayed too long. Who asked the kind of questions that threatened to collapse the version of myself I’d spent years building. The ones around me are the ones who are still outside of the wall I created, as long as they are outside I keep them near me. If they slip in,

I run

I’ve always run.

And I got good at acting like it didn’t hurt. Like I didn’t care. Like leaving first made me powerful instead of hollow.

It never worked.

But I told myself it did.

___

I’ve read enough books to know how it ends for girls like me.

The lonely ones with sarcasm in place of vulnerability. The ones who talk philosophy at parties instead of feelings. The ones who joke about isolation like it’s a punchline instead of a survival tactic.

I always said I understood Kafka.

But the truth is—I needed him.

I needed alienation to be romantic, or else it would just be… sad.

I needed to believe solitude was strength, or I’d have to admit I’ve been lonely for a long time.

I read romance novels late at night, hidden between Sontag and Woolf on my shelf, and dog-ear the pages where someone stays.

Not the ones where they kiss.

The ones where they stay.

And I pretend it doesn’t make my chest ache.

I pretend I don’t want that kind of love.

The kind where someone sees you—really seesyou—and doesn’t leave.

___

But then came Mark.

And he ruined the act.

He ruined everything

Because he didn’t flinch when I rolled my eyes. He didn’t back off when I sharpened my tongue. He challenged me, yes—but he also watched.

Really watched.

Like he was trying to translate the version of me no one else bothered to read.

He remembered things I only said once.

He noticed how I chugged down coffee even though I hated it.

He noticed how I stopped talking when I was overwhelmed.

He knew when I needed a new pen without asking.

And then he kissed me.

Or I kissed him.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it wasn’t just a kiss. Not to me.

It was a question. A crack. A possibility.

It was someone saying: I see you. And I want you anyway.

And that terrified me.

Because what if I let myself believe it?

What if I let someone see the softness beneath the smirk, the need buried under the grades and highlighters and razor-edged monologues?

What if I opened my hands, let him hold them, and then—

he lets go?

What if I become someone’s favorite chapter… only for them to put the book down?

I wouldn’t survive it.

Not from him.

Not from Mark Lee.

___

So I shut the door.

Literally. Emotionally. In every way that mattered.

And now I pretend it didn’t happen.

I pretend the kiss was just a flash of tension. Just adrenaline. Just a misstep in a tightly choreographed rivalry.

But I know that’s a lie.

I can still feel the shape of his hands on my waist.

I can still hear the way he said my name like it was more than just a name.

And I miss him.

God, I miss him.

More than I’ve missed anyone. Maybe because I never let myself miss anyone before.

But I can’t show that.

Because if I let him back in, and he decides I’m not worth it—

If he says it didn’t mean anything—

Then all the pretending in the world won’t protect me from the kind of heartbreak I’ve spent my whole life dodging.

So I keep the eyeliner sharp.

Keep the books open.

Keep the sarcasm loaded.

Because it’s easier to be feared than forgotten.

It’s easier to run than risk staying.

It’s easier to pretend he doesn’t matter.

Even if every inch of me still burns from the moment he looked at me like I did.

Mark's POV:

I shouldn’t have stayed back.

That’s the first thing I think as the last of our classmates shuffle out of the literature room, their chatter fading down the hallway.

The air still smells like old paper and cheap coffee. The overhead lights buzz faintly. One flickers—once—as if the building itself is unsure whether I should be doing this.

She moves to leave too, stuffing her notebook into her tote with a practiced, casual speed. But I step in front of the door.

“Can we talk?” I ask, voice low.

She freezes.

Her eyes meet mine, unreadable. Her hand still gripping her pen.

For a second, it’s just the two of us and the ghost of everything we’ve been avoiding.

She doesn’t answer.

So I take the chance.

“Did it mean something to you?” I ask.

Straight. Bare. No inflection.

The desk between us suddenly feels like a canyon.

She exhales, slowly. Then, with the same calm edge she’s used a hundred times during classroom debates, she says, “I thought it was obvious.”

That word hits harder in the silence.

She keeps going.

“It was just sexual tension,” she says. “That’s all it was. Obviously, it didn’t mean anything.”

No stutter. No flicker of hesitation.

Like she has rehearsed this speech before walking into class.

Like she trimmed down every feeling just enough to fit it neatly into a line with no space left for me.

My throat tightens.

I swallow it back.

“That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?” I ask.

Her jaw clenches. But her arms stay crossed, body perfectly still—like she knows even one shift will make her crack.

“No,” she says. “We finished the paper. There’s nothing left to say.”

I stare at her.

“We hated each other, remember?” she continues. “That was the whole thing. Competition. Banter. Enemies. We don’t have to talk anymore. Or look at each other in the hallway. Or pretend to smile in group discussions. None of that’s necessary now.”

The words are clean. Sharp. Efficient.

But the last line trembles.

Just barely.

It’s the only crack she lets slip.

I breathe in slowly, trying not to let her see how much it stings.

She doesn’t look away.

So I ask, one last time. Quietly. Carefully. With something in me already bleeding.

“I’m asking you again. Did it really mean nothing to you?”

She looks at me then.

Really looks.

And it hurts more than anything.

Because her eyes aren’t cold. They’re terrified.

Panic. Regret. A thousand things unsaid, pressed behind her lips like glass about to shatter.

But her voice?

Cruel.

Steady.

“Why would it mean something to me?”

That’s the moment it breaks.

Something quiet and desperate inside me folds in on itself.

I don’t let it show.

I straighten up, nod once, like I’m accepting something I never signed up for.

“Right,” I say, voice clipped. “Then let’s go back to not acknowledging each other.”

I pause. My voice almost wavers—but I hide it in sarcasm.

“I’d definitely appreciate that.”

She says nothing.

I step away from the door, giving her space.

“And if our paper gets accepted,” I add, “just send me an email. That’s all I need from you.”

That word again. Need.

I hate that I still do.

And I hate how she keeps saying obviously like we were never on the edge of something real.

I walk out before she can reply.

I don’t want to hear what comes next.

I don’t think I’d survive it.

Five steps down the hallway, my vision blurs.

And by the time I push open the stairwell door, I realize—

I feel like I’ve lost something I never even had.

But it still feels like everything.

___

Y/N's POV

The classroom door clicks shut.

Not a slam.

Just soft. Controlled.

Like he was still trying not to break something—even as I broke him.

I stay standing behind the last desk for a second.

Then my knees buckle, and I sink into the chair he just left behind, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.

He asked.

Three times.

Like he needed me to undo the silence he’s been drowning in.

And I lied.

Every time.

I said it meant nothing. That it was just tension. That we didn’t matter.

Obviously.

God, that word.

It tasted like ash every time it left my mouth.

Because every time I said it, I watched him flinch—like I was slicing open something soft and unguarded inside him.

And when he said, Then let’s go back to not acknowledging each other,—

Something inside me cracked. Loud. Final.

Because that’s the one thing I never wanted.

To disappear from his world.

To walk into this room and not catch his glance across the table.

To forget the one night where he touched me like he knew me.

But I couldn’t say any of that.

Because if I did—and he didn’t stay?

I wouldn’t recover.

So I let him go.

And now I’m alone in this empty classroom, surrounded by chairs that still echo with everyone else’s laughter, curled over the desk we once shared, crying into the sleeves of the hoodie I wore the night we kissed.

I told him we hated each other.

But I never hated him.

I was just afraid he’d stop loving me—before I was ready to love him back.

Y/N's POV:

I wasn’t going to come.

But Giselle showed up with red lipstick and threats, and Jaehyun texted a winking emoji, and somehow I found myself standing in the middle of a living room that smelled like sweat, cheap beer, and the kind of memories I’d regret in the morning.

It had been two months.

Sixty-one days of pretending I didn’t see him in class. Fifty-eight of those days he didn’t even glance at me. The other three? I caught his eyes by accident—and it felt like being hit in the ribs with a book I loved and wasn’t ready to finish.

Mark Lee.

Who once argued with me like it was foreplay and now sat in the back of Professor Jung’s class like he was auditing life itself. Like he wasn’t even trying anymore. Like everything that once lit him up had burned out quietly, leaving behind the perfect shell of someone who used to burn for books and metaphors and—God, maybe even me.

And then I saw him.

Now.

Across the room.

Sitting on the couch like he belonged there, sprawled out like some poster boy for effortless destruction. And next to him—no, on him—was Kim Ara. Model major. Perfect. Popular. Pretty in a way I could never be. All sleek hair and fake lashes and that annoying kind of laugh that made guys think they were funny.

She was on his lap.

Like that’s where she belonged.

I swallowed hard, turned away so fast my drink sloshed. It felt like someone had ripped a favorite page out of my chest.

I don’t care.

I don’t.

“Hey,” Jaehyun said, suddenly next to me. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I smiled like I hadn’t just watched my soul sit on someone else’s lap. “Giselle dragged me.”

“Then I owe her a thank you.” His grin was warm, easy. His hand brushed my lower back. “Drink with me?”

I nodded, mostly to get the burn out of my throat that wasn’t from alcohol.

And as I downed the first shot, then a second, then a third, I didn’t look toward Mark again.

But I felt him.

I always feel him.

___

Mark's POV:

I shouldn’t be here.

But Haechan said there’d be free pizza and girls with no emotional attachments and I said “fine” before I could remind myself that I don’t care about pizza or girls or this entire God-forsaken party.

I haven’t really cared about anything since the night she looked me in the eye and told me it meant nothing.

And I believed her.

Like an idiot.

Like someone who still thought she might crack. Might text. Might chase me down in the hallway and call me a pretentious asshole just to feel something again.

She didn’t.

She laughed in class with her friends. She wore that winged eyeliner like war paint. She answered Professor Jung’s questions with that fire in her voice that used to be reserved just for me. She was fine.

And I hated her for it.

But I hated myself more—for not moving on, for not letting go, for still scanning every hallway like my heart’s trying to find her before my brain remembers she doesn’t want to be found.

So yeah.

Ara.

She’s not bad. She smells okay. She laughs too loud but she doesn’t ask for anything. She doesn’t want my mind. She doesn’t want the parts of me still bleeding. She just wants someone to sit pretty with at parties.

Fine.

I let her sit on my lap.

I let her touch my shoulder, lean in, giggle against my neck like we’re starring in some frat party cliché.

And then I see her.

Her.

Standing across the room, dressed like the kind of heartbreak you beg to ruin you. Laughing at something Jaehyun said. Or pretending to. His hand on her waist like he’s allowed to be there. Like she’s not mine.

Except she’s not.

Not anymore.

“She’s been staring at you,” Haechan says, voice low in my ear.

I glare at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

He does.

But it’s too late.

I saw her.

I saw the way she looked away like it burned. I saw the way she smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. I saw her take three shots like she was trying to kill something inside her.

And I wanted to go to her.

God, I still do.

But Ara slides back into my lap. Her arm drapes around my shoulders like she belongs here.

I don’t even know her favorite book.

I don’t even know her middle name.

She’s just a distraction.

But right now, distraction is all I have.

Because if I look at Y/N again, I might remember the way she looked at me that night when I kissed her like she was every chapter I never wanted to end.

And if I do that—

I won’t survive this party.

I won’t survive her.

___

Just when I thought it has all ended.

It started with her smirk.

Not the fake, tight-lipped one she’s worn like armor for the last two months and twenty goddamn days.

The real one.

The one I remember from classrooms and late-night cafe arguments. The one that made my heart stutter just before she said something that ruined me in the best way. It’s the smirk of someone who just found a dagger and remembered how to use it.

And then she starts walking toward me.

I shouldn’t have come to this party.

I knew it when I saw her walk in wearing black like it was armor—shoulders high, lips painted the same color as the war she was clearly ready to start.

Y/N is a thousand things. But quiet? Never her natural state.

And tonight? She’s not quiet.

She’s back.

Back with that winged eyeliner sharp enough to slice. Back with the same walk that used to make even our professors sit up straighter. Back with the smirk that says: I’ve been silent long enough. Now watch me destroy everything I touched once.

She sees me.

Or worse—she sees Ara.

And then it happens.

The smirk.

Small. Slow. Controlled chaos behind kohl-lined eyes.

She’s holding her phone, but she’s not looking at it anymore. No, she’s looking right through Ara like she’s transparent.

She starts walking.

Each step purposeful. Her drink balanced casually in one hand like it’s just another accessory. The crowd parts like it knows better. Like it’s learned what happens when Y/N is wearing that look.

Ara doesn’t notice at first. She’s still laughing, still curled around me, still performing.

And then—

“I need to talk to you, Mark.”

Her voice slices through the bass, smooth and cold as marble. She doesn’t look at me when she says it.

She doesn’t have to.

Ara straightens, like she’s suddenly remembered her territory. Her hand tightens on my shoulder. She leans in—lips brushing my skin in a performance that feels faker than anything I’ve seen all night.

“Can’t you see we’re busy?”

She purrs it, like she’s trying to be seductive and territorial all at once.

“Whatever it is can wait. Right, Mark?”

Wrong move.

Y/N turns her full attention to Ara like a spotlight zeroing in.

She blinks once—slow. Dangerous.

And smiles.

“Busy?” she repeats, as if tasting the word. “Oh, I didn’t realize being draped over someone who hasn’t said your name once tonight counted as busy.”

Ara opens her mouth. Y/N doesn’t give her the chance.

She steps in—closer. Her voice is low but clear, every syllable designed to humiliate.

“Tell me—does it bother you, being a prop?”

Gasps ripple. Haechan lets out a low whistle. No one moves.

Ara blinks. “Excuse me?”

Y/N cocks her head. The smirk widens.

“Sorry. I just assumed anyone who voluntarily sits on a guy’s lap like a glorified fanny pack must be comfortable being silent and overlooked.”

Ara stiffens. “You’re—”

Y/N cuts her off like she’s trimming fat off a weak sentence.

“—jealous?” she finishes with a sweet laugh. “God, no. If I were jealous, I’d at least be losing to someone with a functioning braincell. You’re not competition. You’re comic relief.”

Ara looks around—people are watching. Phones aren’t out, but eyes are locked. She tries again. “Mark wants me here.”

Y/N doesn’t even blink.

“Sure he does. You’re low-effort. Zero threat. The emotional equivalent of plain toast. You don’t challenge him, you compliment him—like background music at a dentist’s office.”

Ara’s face burns. Her voice rises, but wavers.

“You think you’re better than me?”

And that’s when Y/N shifts—posture straight, chin high, that terrifying calm rolling in like a thundercloud.

“I don’t think, darling. I know.”

She steps forward—just an inch—and it’s like the entire room holds its breath.

“I can dismantle your entire personality in a single paragraph. You? You couldn’t handle a complex sentence without rereading it twice. You quote Pinterest. I quote Barthes. You wear his hoodie. I rewrote his thesis.”

Ara gasps—actual, shocked inhale.

Y/N leans in a fraction, voice low enough only the front row hears.

“And for the record? That’s not his hoodie.”

She lets that hang.

“I gave it to him. After I ruined him.”

Ara jolts back.

Visibly shaken. Unsteady.

She looks at me like I’m going to save her.

I don’t.

Because I can’t stop looking at her.

Y/N stands there—composed, cruel, unapologetically brilliant.

This isn’t jealousy.

It’s war.

Ara’s eyes water. She mutters something under her breath, but no one hears it.

She turns.

She runs.

Actually runs.

The party exhales.

And Y/N?

She straightens her jacket or more like Jungwoo's jacket over her dress.

Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

And finally—finally—looks at me.

Her eyes are unreadable. Voice emotionless.

“I’m only telling you this because you asked me to let you know if our paper got accepted.”

No sarcasm now.

No smile.

Just the truth.

“It got in.”

A beat.

“Figured you’d want to know.”

She turns before I can speak. Her heels clicking once, twice, gone.

And I’m left sitting there—

Hollowed out.

Burning.

Wanting.

Wondering how I let the one girl who could destroy the whole room…

become the only one who could undo me.

Y/N's POV:

I slammed the door behind me and leaned against it, breathing hard.

“What the hell did I just do?”

That wasn’t professionalism. That wasn’t about the paper. That was me, marching into a party and roasting Ara like she was a freshman MLA citation.

I sank onto the couch, kicking off my heels. My head was buzzing—half alcohol, half adrenaline, and all regret wrapped in sarcasm. God, that was badass, sure, but it was also insane. Two months of avoiding each other and I just used a damn acceptance email as an excuse to eviscerate his lap ornament?

I groaned into my hands.

He didn’t even say anything. Not a word. Or maybe—I didn’t let him. Maybe I steamrolled him on purpose, so he wouldn’t see how much it hurt. How much she being on his lap hurt.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Smile? Shake her hand? Ask how she felt being a glorified armrest?

No.

I stood up, trying to pace the frustration out of my body, when—

A knock.

I froze.

No. No way.

But I knew it was him before I opened the door.

I open the door.

Because of course I do.

Because I’m weak and stupid and still half-hearing the echo of my own voice from the party.

And there he is.

Mark Lee.

Standing in my doorway like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

He doesn’t say hi. Doesn’t blink.

Just steps in.

And locks the door behind him like this is his fucking place.

Click.

He doesn’t even face me right away. He stands there for a second, back to me, like he’s gathering whatever scraps of restraint he still has left.

And when he finally turns—

His voice is low and furious.

“You don’t get to fucking say it didn’t mean anything,” he snaps, “and act like you own me.”

I stiffen. My arms cross on instinct. A shield. A trap.

“I don’t act like I own you.”

“Bull. Shit.”

He steps closer. Just one. But it feels like a threat. Or a dare.

“You walk into that party like a headline and glare at any girl near me like she’s infringing on your property.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Someone had to save your lap from her foundation stains.”

“Oh, you cared about what was on my lap?”

His voice is dangerous now. That smugness he wears like armor is gone. This is bare. Real.

And I hate how much it turns me on.

“I don’t care,” I lie.

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re seconds away from either hitting me or fucking me.”

That stops me.

My lips part but nothing comes out. He sees it. He feeds on it.

“What was it then, huh?” he snaps. “That night in this apartment. That kiss. That fucking kiss.”

I grit my teeth.

“It was a moment. Nothing more.”

“It was everything.”

“No,” I say, harsher now. “It was tension. That’s all. A disjointed moment.”

“You kissed me like you wanted to burn the world down,” he says. “And then you locked the door in my face.”

I feel heat rise in my throat.

I stay silent.

Because what can I say? That I still think about it? That I can’t walk past the goddamn bookcase without remembering the press of his mouth and the line he whispered about reading the filth out loud?

No.

So I give him the only lie I have left.

“You don’t mean anything to me.”

His jaw flexes.

And then he laughs—cold, low, twisted.

“Then tell your body that.”

He steps into me.

His hand reaches for my waist. Fingers skim fabric. Just a graze. But my body shudders like it’s been starved.

“Tell me you don’t mean it while I do this,” he murmurs, thumb sliding over my stomach, “and your breath hitches like I’ve got you on strings.”

I don’t respond.

Because my throat’s dry and my thighs are clenched and this is getting dangerous.

His hand glides higher.

“Do you touch yourself to that night?” he asks again—voice wrecked now, too dark, too deep.

“Do you lie in bed and remember how I had you pinned against this wall, how I said I’d read every filthy line out loud while my mouth was on your throat?”

His palm cups my breast.

I gasp—despite myself.

“You want me to stop?” he whispers.

Silence.

His thumb rolls over my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress.

I should say yes.

I don’t.

Because I can’t.

Because he’s right—I do remember that night. Every breath. Every stutter. Every heat-drenched second before my brother knocked.

His mouth finds my neck.

Not a kiss.

A bite. Wet and hot and possessive.

“You said it meant nothing,” he says. “But you never stopped me.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“Bullshit. You wanted to make a mess.” He licks the shell of my ear. “And baby, I would’ve made you fucking ruin your panties that night.”

I moan—low. Weak.

My head thuds back against the wall.

His other hand slides under the hem of my dress, pushing higher.

“You want to know what I would’ve done?” he growls, right at my ear. “I would’ve dropped to my knees, pulled your pretty little panties to the side, and eaten you until you were shaking.”

His fingers find the damp heat between my thighs.

“You would’ve grabbed that bookcase like it was a lifeline while I sucked your clit and tongue-fucked you slow. No mercy. Just mouth and moans and mess.”

His grip tightens. He palms me through my soaked underwear.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he hisses. “You were so fucking wet right? You wanted it. You still fucking want it.”

I shake my head.

Lie. Lie. Lie.

“You mean nothing,” I whisper.

His laugh is brutal.

“Then why the fuck are you grinding into my hand?”

I am.

I don’t know when it started.

But I’m rolling my hips, soft and desperate, into his palm like I’m begging for it.

“Say it again,” he dares.

I don’t.

Because my lies don’t hold anymore.

Because he’s touching me and I’m dripping and everything I’ve tried to bury is alive between my legs and his filthy fucking words.

I tell him he means nothing.

And he laughs. Like that lie tastes sweet coming from my mouth.

Then he palms my pussy through my panties, slow and warm and firm.

“No,” he whispers, eyes dragging down my body. “This says otherwise.”

His whole hand cups me—his fingers sliding gently back and forth like he’s petting it. Like he’s learning it.

“You’re soaked. Fucking dripping. And all I did was walk in and say your name.”

He rubs slowly, up and down, pressing his palm flat against my clit through the soaked fabric, watching me try not to react.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “How messy you are for me?”

He groans softly.

“I could get off just on this—just touching this perfect cunt through your ruined little panties.”

I whimper. My hips tilt up into his hand, my legs clenching like I can hold onto what’s left of me.

He leans in again.

And then—his other hand goes to my chest.

“These,” he mutters, gripping one of my breasts through my dress. “You’ve been hiding these like I wouldn’t fucking notice.”

He palms it roughly, squeezing until I gasp.

“You wore this dress to that party just to piss me off, didn’t you?”

He yanks the neckline down, almost spilling me into his hand.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans, pinching my nipple over my bra between his fingers. Then his mouth is there, like he doesn't care about the barrier.

Hot. Wet. Worshipping.

Sucking it hard, licking it like he’s punishing me with every flick of his tongue.

He pulls off.

“Tell me I don’t matter while I’ve got my mouth on your tits.”

I can’t.

I’m trembling.

He kisses down my body—every inch, every curve—and then drops to his knees, like he’s meant to be there.

He pulls my panties aside and pets me again.

Two fingers part my folds and he stares.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “Look at that pussy. Shiny and swollen like it’s begging for my tongue.”

Then his fingers glide through it—up, down, spreading me open like he’s reading something he never wants to forget.

“You’re so wet it’s dripping down your thighs.”

He leans in—and spits. Right on my clit.

I moan. High. Broken.

He spreads it in with his thumb, circling slow, then fast, teasing until I’m shaking.

“You like being played with like this?” he asks. “Touched like a needy fucking toy?”

His tongue finally presses to me.

One long, slow drag from my entrance to my clit.

And then—he dives in.

He devours.

Licks my clit like it’s his job—sucking, flicking, tongue lapping until I’m gasping his name and digging my fingers into his hair.

His hands grip my thighs tight. Pull me forward. Spread me wider.

“Fucking grind on it,” he growls between licks. “Rub this pretty pussy on my face like the filthy little thing you are.”

I do.

I ride it.

I roll my hips against his tongue because I can’t fucking stop. His nose bumps my clit as he tongue-fucks me, and I moan—sharp, loud, shameful.

“You’re gonna come in my mouth,” he says, sucking my clit so hard I almost cry. “Right now. Just like this. Fucking drench me.”

And I do.

I come hard. Shaking. Crying out.

My whole body spasms as he keeps licking me through it, groaning like he can’t get enough, like he needs everything I give.

When I finally stop shaking, he pulls back.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wild.

And he just smirks.

“Still think I don’t matter?”

____

Mark's POV:

She’s still gasping when I pull back from between her legs.

My mouth’s soaked with her. My jaw aches. My tongue’s twitching.

But I can’t stop staring.

I’ve waited months for this—months of pretending, avoiding, locking eyes from across rooms and pretending we didn’t mean that kiss.

And now?

Now she’s trembling, lips parted, legs spread wide and twitching from the orgasm I pulled out of her like a confession.

Still wearing that tight fucking dress.

Still trying to hold on to her dignity.

I’m done letting her.

I stand. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My cock’s hard as stone behind my jeans, throbbing with every pulse of blood screaming her name.

And I look at her.

“We’re not done.”

I don’t give her time to speak.

I scoop her up into my arms and she gasps—soft, startled—but she clings to me.

Good girl.

I carry her down the short hallway like she’s mine. Because right now, she is.

I shoulder open the door to her room.

And I see it.

Her bed.

Her books, the remaining books that are not in that bookshelf in the hall.

That stupid little stack of dog-eared paperbacks by the lamp—spines bent, margins full of notes.

I smirk.

Because this is her shrine. Her real self.

And she’s about to get fucked in the middle of it.

I drop her on the mattress—carefully, but not gently.

She bounces once. Legs still open. Hair fanned out. Eyes locked on me like she doesn’t know whether to run or beg.

I move over her—slow. Controlled.

Hands on either side of her head.

I lean down, lips brushing her jaw.

“You kept those books by your bed.”

She doesn’t respond.

I kiss down to her neck.

“You lie here every night with those filthy scenes three inches from your pillow, don’t you?”

Her body tenses.

Good.

“You annotated them, baby.”

I kiss her shoulder. “You underlined the scenes where he fingers her under the desk. Where he ruins her in the library.”

Another kiss. Lower.

“You remember what I said that night?” I murmur. “About reading those lines out loud? Making you feel every one?”

I sit back on my knees.

“Take the dress off.”

She hesitates.

"Stop me now if you don't want this." I say but she doesn't stop me.

So I grab the hem and do it for her.

I drag it up her body—slow, teasing—exposing smooth skin, flushed curves, and the lacy black bra she wore to taunt me tonight.

She’s breathless already. And I haven’t even touched her tits yet.

I toss the dress to the floor and press my palm between her legs again—over her soaked panties.

“Still dripping.”

She whines—faint, helpless.

My other hand slides up, over her stomach, between her breasts, then curls around the lace covering one perfect tit.

“You wore this for me.”

I drag the cup down.

Her breast spills out and I groan.

“Fuck.”

I cup it. Squeeze. Then lean down and suck her nipple into my mouth.

Hot. Wet. Worshipful.

I bite it. She moans.

“You like being touched like a fucking goddess, don’t you?”

I move to the other one. Repeat it. Rougher.

Her hips twitch under my hand.

I pull her panties to the side and run two fingers through her folds—slow and warm.

So fucking wet.

“But I know what you really want,” I growl, pulling away just enough to look her dead in the eye.

“You want to be worshipped and ruined. You want to be treated like something precious while I fuck you like a dirty little whore.”

She gasps.

I press a finger into her—easy.

Then another.

She clamps around me instantly.

I fuck her slow with them, curling them just right.

Her eyes flutter.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” I whisper. “Not just someone to fuck you. Someone to understand you.”

I press my lips to hers.

Just once.

Then pull back.

“Say yes.”

“Y-yes.”

I smirk.

I pull my shirt over my head, watching her eyes drop to my chest, my stomach, lower.

Unbutton my jeans. Push them down.

My cock slaps against my abs—angry red, leaking, twitching for her.

Her mouth falls open.

I climb over her.

Line up.

Rub the head against her clit.

“This is what those books were leading to,” I murmur. “Not slow kisses. Not confessions. Just this—me, in your bed, about to ruin you for everyone else.”

I push the head in—just enough for her body to react.

And it does.

She shudders beneath me like my cock is plugged into her nervous system.

Her legs tighten around my waist. Her hands clutch the sheets. Her lips part in a gasp I want to own.

But I don’t move.

Not yet.

I want her to feel this. Every stretched, aching second of it.

“You ready?”

She nods—breathless.

“Say it.”

“I want you,” she whispers.

I push in—slow. Measured. An inch at a time.

“Fuuuck.” I groan through gritted teeth. “You feel that?”

I lean down, panting in her ear.

“This pussy’s hugging me like it’s been waiting for months.”

I bottom out—completely buried—and she moans like I’ve punched the air from her lungs.

But I don’t move.

I just grind.

Deep, slow circles with my hips that make her shake.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” I whisper. “You’re gonna feel me first.”

She claws at my back.

I pull out halfway—just to slam back in.

She screams.

And that’s when I start to fuck her.

Hard. Deep. Rhythmic. Relentless.

But not fast.

I keep the pace slow and devastating—designed to make her feel everything.

Designed to make her beg for the speed she thinks she can handle.

“You’re gonna come before I even give you what you want,” I growl. “That’s how badly this cunt needs me.”

I reach between us. Thumb to her clit. Rub in slow, tight circles.

She moans.

Her walls start fluttering.

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

“Oh my god—Mark—I—”

“That’s it,” I pant. “Come on it. Cream all over this cock. Show me what I’ve been missing while you pretended I didn’t matter.”

And she does.

She fucking does.

She comes—loud, messy, clenching around me so hard I have to stop moving just to breathe through it.

But I don’t stop.

“That’s two now.”

I shift. “Get on your hands and knees.”

She doesn’t even argue.

She turns, shaking, breathless, hair falling over her shoulders like a curtain.

I grab her hips and slam back in.

This angle?

I feel everything.

Her walls grip me like she wants to keep me.

I reach around, grab a handful of her tit, bounce it in my palm, then slap it.

She whines.

“Still pretending I don’t mean anything?”  thrusting harder. “Still lying to yourself while you take this cock like a trained little slut?”

She shakes her head.

Good girl.

“You’re gonna come again.”

She gasps.

“From the back. No clit. Just this cock and my voice.”

I lean down. “You think I can’t make that happen?"

I slam into her again.

And again.

Until the moans turn into whimpers.

Until she’s dripping, shaking, thighs clenching like she’s trying not to break.

And then—

She comes.

Harder.

Legs collapsing. Arms shaking.

I don’t stop.

I drag her up by her back. Press her against my chest. Hand around her throat—gentle, not tight—just there.

“You’re mine now,” I whisper. “You gave this to me. Every sound. Every squeeze. Every orgasm.”

She moans.

I drop her back onto the bed and hover over her.

“You want one more?”

She nods. Weak. Ruined.

I grip her thighs. Spread her wide. Slam back in and fuck her like I’m trying to carve my name inside her.

My pace turns brutal.

Sloppy. Desperate. Unforgiving.

"I'll pull out" I assure her

"No, don't.....I'm on the pill." She says.

"Fuck, you are the bane of my existence." I mutter

She moans louder.

And I do.

I thrust one last time and explode.

Cock twitching, cum spilling deep inside her while her body trembles through a third orgasm.

We collapse.

Sticky. Messy. Full.

Because she deserved nothing less.

_____

Y/N's POV:

His body is still half-tangled in mine, breath heavy against my skin, chest rising and falling like the last lines of a poem he doesn’t want to end.

We’re both quiet.

Not the awkward kind. Not the what-did-we-just-do kind.

The kind of silence that crackles—like a storm left humming in the air.

Like if we speak, something sacred might break.

I feel his fingers slide across my thigh—barely a touch, more like a trace.

Like he’s still making sure I’m real.

And maybe I am, for the first time.

I’m lying next to Mark Lee, both of us undone, clothes forgotten at the foot of the bed, the room smelling like sweat and want and overdue honesty. My head rests against his shoulder, our legs brushing like they forgot they used to be on opposite sides of every argument.

His hand settles on my hip, fingers splayed like a reluctant claim.

And I whisper it.

So soft I’m not sure it leaves my mouth at first.

“Stay.”

I feel him stiffen, just slightly. A breath held. A pause in the universe.

He turns his head, lips ghosting the edge of my hair. “What?”

I keep my eyes on the ceiling.

It’s safer than his face.

“I said… stay,” I repeat, quieter this time. “Just… stay tonight.”

For a moment, I think he’ll ask why. Push. Tease.

He doesn’t.

He shifts beside me, pulls the blanket over both of us, and breathes out like he’s been holding that yes in for years.

And then—he stays.

No words. No questions. No expectations.

Just his arm wrapping around me.

My back against his chest.

His breath against the crook of my neck.

And it’s terrifying how good it feels.

Not the sex.

Not the chemistry or the kiss or the way he knows how to press his mouth just under my jaw like it’s a secret he’s coaxing out of me.

This.

This stillness.

This warmth.

This feeling of belonging, like he’s not just in my bed, but in the spaces I’ve locked up for too long.

And as I drift off, heart full and fluttering, I think—

Maybe I won’t mess this up.

Maybe I’ll let myself have something good.

Maybe.

___

When I wake up, the bed is still warm, but he’s not there.

The space beside me is empty, the covers half-pulled back like he tried not to wake me. Like he slipped out quietly, like it's his turn to run away from me.

My heart drops before my brain can catch up. I sit up, scan the room. No shoes. No shirt. No Mark.

For a second, I think—of course. Of course he left.

But then I see it.

A folded piece of paper under my phone.

I open it slowly, half-expecting some apology, or worse, some goodbye.

But it’s just a location pin and five words:

“Meet me here. Please come.”

No explanation.

No overthinking.

Just him.

I read it three times.

Then I set the paper down like it’s fragile. Like it might disappear if I blink too hard.

And for once, I don’t panic. I don’t hide behind sarcasm. I don’t ghost him before he can ghost me.

I get up.

And I dress like it matters.

Not in armor.

Not in black hoodies and tired jeans.

In something soft. Something honest.

A long cream dress that hugs me just enough to make me feel like poetry. A cardigan he once called “pretentious grandma chic” because I wore it during a presentation on Woolf. A dab of perfume behind my ears. Just enough makeup to draw on my confidence—but no eyeliner wings tonight.

Just me.

Raw.

Vulnerable.

Wanting.

By the time I step out into the early evening air, the sun is slanting low, casting the city in gold.

And I walk like I’m walking into a story I haven’t read the ending of.

Y/N's POV:

The location is like something out of a forgotten book.

Like a tucked-away garden behind the old Veritas Bookstore. Faded brick paths, a wrought-iron bench, ivy curling up the edges like it’s trying to listen in.

And he’s there.

White button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Brown pants that hang soft at his hips. Hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He looks up.

And the moment he sees me—he smiles.

Not the smug, infuriating grin I know by heart.

Not the smirk he wore the time we debated Kafka and fate.

This one is different.

Soft. Awed. Like I’m the final line of a poem he’s been trying to write.

I don’t say anything at first. Just stand there, feeling the air between us stretch and hold.

He steps closer. Not too close. Just enough.

And then:

“You came,” he says, voice quiet.

I nod.

“Why this place?” I ask.

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “You said once you wanted to write your thesis somewhere that felt like a secret. I found it last month. Thought maybe you’d let me read my confession here.”

I laugh. Just once. But it cracks something open in my chest.

He takes a breath.

And then he speaks.

“Listen to me. I’ve run enough. Or maybe I’ve let you run from me enough times. I’m done with that now. What happened between us—it’s not just tension or mistakes or whatever we keep pretending it is. It meant everything to me.”

He steps forward, just slightly, voice roughening.

“You don’t know how you make me feel. How I annotate your existence like it’s the only way I know how to stay alive. I annotate the curve of your smile when you know you’re about to verbally destroy someone. I annotate your silences—especially the ones filled with meaning. I even annotate your fucking eyeliner. The way it slants, the way it slices. I never knew I could love a goddamn winged liner until you.”

I feel my throat tighten.

He goes on, eyes never leaving mine.

“I annotate everything you are. Every time you looked at me like I was a challenge, every moment your pen hovered like a weapon. And that kiss? I think I have annotated it into my eyes, every time I close my eyes that's the only thing I see. It’s still playing on loop in my head. Like it’s the only scene I’ll ever need to remember to know what truth feels like.”

He laughs, almost nervously.

“I think I’ve become Darcy. Except more annoying.”

I bite my lip. The ache is blooming in my chest now, sharp and familiar.

“I like you, Y/N. Too much. Even if you say you hate me. Even if it kills me. Because I want you. But more than that—I want you to want me.”

I look at him.

And he’s standing there like a question I’ve been too afraid to answer.

So I do.

“I hate you,” I say, voice trembling.

He flinches. But not much.

Just enough to show it still hits.

“I know,” he whispers. “But I wish it meant something else.”

I take a breath.

And I let go.

“What if it does?” I say. “What if it means I hate how much I want to annotate you and your soul now? Your voice. Your stupid jokes. Your insufferable need to be right. Your kindness that you try to hide behind sarcasm. What if I already have?”

He stares at me.

Like I said Poe is alive and quoting Plato.

And I keep going. Because I can’t stop.

“Mark—I’m not good at this. I’m not easy. I run. I ghost. I make a mess. But last night, when you stayed or when I asked you to stay. That mattered.”

I pause.

“You mattered.”

A beat.

And then I say the hardest thing:

“I want to try. Not just the paper. Not just the late nights and the bickering and the café tables. Us. I want to try… us."

And he doesn’t speak.

He just pulls me into his arms like he’s been holding space for me all along.

And I let myself fall into him.

For once—not running. Not overthinking.

Just staying.

____

Days had passed. Somehow, we’d slipped into this new version of us—softer, less sharp-edged, still witty, still dangerous, but... warmer.

I spot him from across the field.

Mark Lee. Laughing at something Haechan said, head tilted back, hair a mess, white tee sticking to his chest in the sun.

Jeno's tossing a water bottle to Jisung, Chenle’s dribbling aggressively like the basketball personally insulted his family, and Renjun is making the exact face of someone regretting being friends with all of them.

And there he is.

Mine.

Mark sees me, and his smile spreads—like it’s involuntary. Like it’s for me and only me.

I don’t bother slowing down.

I just walk right into his arms, my head against his chest, his chin resting lightly on top of mine as he presses a kiss to my forehead.

“Ewww,” Haechan groans. “Do that in private. Or like… not at all.”

“Ruined anyone else today?” Mark asks, voice smug and amused.

“Not yet,” I murmur against his shirt. “But the day is young.”

He chuckles, arms still tight around me. “That’s my girl.”

“Okay, I’m gonna vomit in my shoe,” Jeno mutters.

Mark ignores them, pulling a crumpled envelope from his back pocket.

“Oh—speaking of ruining lives… our certificate came.”

I blink. “Wait, seriously?”

He nods. “Fresh off. We’re officially Published Academic Intellectuals now.”

“Oh, so the world is really not ready,” I grin.

“Nice,” Renjun says dryly. “Two enemies-to-lovers becoming a published duo. It’s like watching a fanfic unfold in real time.”

“Enough,” Chenle cuts in, walking up to us. “We’re all exhausted from watching you two circle each other like emotionally constipated philosophers. Honestly, it was hilarious. And tragic. Hilariously tragic. Tragicomedy, really.”

“Says the one who’s still hung up on his childhood friend,” Mark shoots back without missing a beat.

Chenle immediately raises a hand. “We are not speaking about that.”

Jaemin leans in with a grin. “Can we please speak about the way Y/N eviscerated that poor girl at the party? That was art. Like, Shakespeare would’ve cried.”

“I don’t know about art,” I shrug, but I’m smiling. “Maybe just… poetic justice.”

“You said she was background music at a dentist’s office,” Jisung reminds me. “I’ve never been so scared and so entertained.”

“She brought it on herself,” I say. “By sitting on my thesis partner.”

Mark smirks. “Possessive. Hot.”

“Down, literature boy.”

Jaemin fake-swoons. “God, you guys are so romantic. I hope you crash and burn.”

“Thanks, Jaem. Your support means nothing.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence, the kind that settles among people who know too much about each other but love each other anyway.

Then I glance at Mark.

“I’m really curious about something,” I say slowly, like I’m unwrapping a question that’s been sitting on my tongue, just to annoy the guys.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

I lean in. “Was it the eyeliner? Or the annotated Kafka rants? What finally broke you?”

Mark grins. “Oh, that’s easy. It was the moment you told me Gatsby wasn’t doomed, just dumb. I fell right there.”

“Tragic. I really thought it was the pen-chewing.”

“That too. Honestly, I was gone the second you glared at me like I’d misquoted Woolf.”

Chenle groans. “Can someone please bring me earplugs and a reason to live?”

“Just be glad they’re not debating footnotes mid-makeout anymore,” Haechan says, shuddering. “We’re all traumatized.”

___

Mark's POV:

The library’s colder than I remember. Maybe it’s the lighting. Or maybe it’s because I’m with her, and everything feels too damn significant now.

We walk past the Eliot section.

She says nothing, but I catch the faintest upward curve of her lips when her eyes glance over The Waste Land.

Of course she remembers.

We reach the reference shelves. She grabs Understanding Literary Theory at the same moment I reach for The Companion to Modernism.

Our hands brush.

She doesn’t look up.

But I do.

I watch her.

The way her fingers move along the spine of the book like they’re tracing history. The way her lashes lower just slightly when she knows I’m watching.

God.

She’s unreal.

I say it before I can stop myself.

“I think I really am siding with free will now.”

She blinks. Finally looks up. “What?”

I take a breath.

“Choosing really matters. I used to think fate had everything figured out, you know? That maybe if I didn’t act, the universe would. That if we were meant to be, we would be, eventually.”

She tilts her head. Curious. Open.

So I keep going.

“But that was bullshit. You don’t get people like you by waiting. You choose them. You risk it. You screw it up. You learn how to deserve them.”

She watches me now with something unreadable behind her eyes.

And then—

“Too bad, Mark Lee,” she murmurs, stepping closer, “because now I believe in fate.”

I blink.

She clutches the book tighter to her chest. Like it’s armor. Or proof.

“From the moment you wouldn’t shut up about Eliot in freshman year… to every debate we’ve ever had. I think all of it—every paper, every fight, every sideways glance—was fate. Maybe you were always meant to be mine.”

I think something in me breaks open at that.

Or maybe heals.

“Didn’t know you could say things like that,” I whisper.

She smiles.

And I can't help it.

I lean in and kiss her. Right there. Between post-structuralist theory and feminist criticism. Soft, slow. Like time paused just to watch.

She leans into it.

And in that moment, I’m not thinking about fate or free will or deadlines or grades or what we’re going to be five years from now.

I’m just thinking about her.

___

Y/N's POV:

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.

Free will or fate.

I think I want both of them to end up giving me you.

And guess it did.

End

Author's note:

Okay guys… here it goes—the first footnote of Turn the Page to Us. This series was originally supposed to be pure fluff with some simmering sexual tension. I never intended to write smut in this… but the tension got way too out of hand and, well. Here we are.

This is my first time writing smut ever, so please bear with me. I genuinely didn’t know I had this in me, and now I think I need to go outside and touch some grass.

If you’re planning to read the other footnotes in this series, let me know—should I keep adding smut? Or should I go back to fluff with light tension? I want to know what you guys vibe with.

Thanks for reading and spiraling with me.

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

hii! could i request an imagine where the reader is a university student and she’s super stressed and focused about finals and so she’s not really taking care of herself and eating well

maybe jude visits her at her apartment and cleans up for her and helps her shower and cooks her a meal and he’s just being a worried sweet boyfriend!

BREAKING POINT

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: mental and physical exhaustation.

summary: You're drowning in college finals, causing you to isolate yourself even from your boyfriend. When he shows up unexpectedly, your worries transform into action: he forces you to rest, eat, and recover. Under his care, you finally find that much-needed peace and sleep that you´ve been yearning in his big arms.

The rain drummed lightly against the window of your tiny apartment as you sat hunched over your laptop, eyes red and burning from hours of staring at the screen. Your muscles were sore and every position felt uncomfortable. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, reminding you that yet another sleepless night had crept its way into morning. A half-empty coffee mug sat beside you, the cold liquid untouched for hours, but it was the only thing keeping you going. The countdown to university finals was suffocating, and the weight of it all pressed down on your chest with every page of notes you flipped through, every essay you drafted, and every formula you tried to memorize.

You hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. Let alone something warm and nutritious. Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you had. But there was no time to think about food. Every second mattered, every minute wasted felt like a failure, and you had no room for mistakes. Your routine had dissolved into nothing more than stress, caffeine, and an overwhelming need to succeed. You hadn’t even spoken to Jude in days. You could feel his texts vibrating your phone, his missed calls piling up, but you were too consumed by the mounting pressure of university to even respond. God, how much you missed him, but the overwhelming fear of failure kept you away from the phone.

"Just a few more paragraphs," you whispered to yourself, your voice shaky as you scrolled through a PDF of your notes. Your fingers trembled, not from the cold but from exhaustion. You had lost count of how many nights you had stayed up like this, running on nothing but adrenaline and coffee, trying to cram every last bit of information into your brain. Sometimes you didn´t even know where to look at: your notes, your laptop, exercises, internet videos... Your handwriting had started to lose its meaning. It looked like hieroglyphics.

As you rubbed your tired eyes, trying to push past the headache forming at your temples, the sound of keys jingling outside your door caught your attention. You frowned, your mind too muddled to figure out who it could be. You weren’t expecting anyone. Maybe it was the house next door, though you doubted it due to the late hours.

The door creaked open, and you blinked, your vision blurring slightly from lack of sleep. Standing in the doorway, looking both concerned and frustrated, was Jude. He held a key to your apartment in one hand, his other clutching a bag. His eyes immediately softened when they met yours, though there was an unmistakable furrow in his brow.

"Hey," he said softly, closing the door behind him. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the mess—textbooks scattered everywhere, papers strewn across the floor, empty coffee cups, and a sink full of unwashed dishes. Then, his eyes landed on you, seated on your desk chair, wearing one of his oversized hoodies, your knees pulled up to your chest. Your face was buried in your notes, your hair pulled back in a messy bun, dark circles heavy under your eyes. A mug sat dangerously close to your elbow, almost forgotten. He sighed, walking over to where you sat, crouching down so that he was eye level with you. “You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

You swallowed, guilt settling in your chest as you looked away. “I’ve just been…very busy,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from disuse. “Finals are coming up, and I—I can’t focus on anything other than this,” you continued, gesturing over your whole desk.

Jude frowned, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. His thumb brushed against the dark circles under your eyes, his touch warm and soothing. "You haven't been eating, have you?" he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. His eyes flickered to the untouched coffee mug on your desk. "When was the last time that you slept?"

You glanced at the clock on the wall, but the frown on your face told him you didn’t even remember. You took his hands away from your face and bit your lip, suddenly feeling small under his gaze. "Nerves have made me lose my appetite. And I don’t have time to sleep, Jude. I need to study. I—"

Jude sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. It wasn’t just that you were skipping meals and staying up all night—it was that you genuinely thought you had no other choice. He knew how much you grades meant to you, but this was too much.

"No." He interrupted, his voice firm but laced with concern. "No, no, enough." He stood up, pulling you gently from your chair. "You’re running yourself into the ground. This isn’t healthy."

You wanted to protest, to tell him that you were okay, that you should keep going. But as soon as you stood up, the world tilted on its axis and you swayed a little, your vision blurring around the edges. Jude caught you easily, his arms and warmth enveloping you, steadying you as you swayed. You worried him and he did his best to hold back the anger that would make him scold you.

“That’s it," he muttered under his breath, half mad and half terrified. "You’re done for today."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can. And you will," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "You're not going to help yourself by burning out like this." He led you over to the couch, gently guiding you to sit down as he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

"Come on," he said softly. "You know what would help? A warm shower."

"Jude, you don’t have to do this," you mumbled, the words feeling thick in your mouth as fatigue began to weigh you down. Even blinking hurt your dry eyes.

"I do," he said without looking at you, his voice calm but insistent. "Because clearly, you’re not taking care of yourself, and someone has to, love." He offered his hand to carry you to the shower.

You hesitated, embarrassed at how weak you felt, but Jude’s gentle smile reassured you. With his help, you got up, and he led you to the bathroom. He started the shower, making sure the water wasn´t very hot before turning back to you.

"Can you handle it?" he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. When you nodded, he stepped back to give you space, but not before kissing your forehead gently.

"Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re done."

The hot water was like a balm for your aching muscles, and as you stood under the stream, you felt the exhaustion begin to seep from your bones. By the time you stepped out of the shower, your head felt clearer, and though you were still tired, the fog of stress had lifted, if only a little.

As you disappeared into the steamy bathroom, Jude took a deep breath, surveying the mess around him. It was clear that the stress had overtaken you completely. With quick but deliberate movements, he began tidying up—stacking your books neatly, throwing out the empty coffee cups, and picking up the scattered clothes. He even opened the windows a bit to let in some fresh air, hoping it would clear away the stale atmosphere that had settled in the apartment.

When you emerged from the shower twenty minutes later, you already looked better—your face was no longer pale, and your hair, still damp, cascaded down your back. You were wrapped in a towel, looking almost embarrassed.

“Feel a bit better?” Jude asked, stepping toward you.

You gave a small smile and nodded. "Definitely," you answered, feeling more human than you had in days.

As you went to get change, Jude busied himself in the kitchen. He knew you needed something tasty and nutritious, so he started making a simple pasta dish that would be easy on your stomach but filling enough to give you some energy. He kept an eye on you as you came back into the living room, your steps slower, but your body more relaxed.

“Food’s almost ready,” he called over his shoulder, plating the pasta and setting it down on the table. “Come eat.”

Your heart swelled at his caring attitude and you thanked him as you sat down across from him. The smell of food made your stomach growl, reminding you how long it had been since you had eaten a real meal. Jude sat beside you, watching you as you took your first bite, his concern slowly fading as he saw you relax a little more with each bite.

After you ate, Jude pulled you to the couch, draping a blanket over you both as he wrapped his arms around you. You leaned into him, your head resting on his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat calming you in a way you hadn’t felt in days. He pressed soft kisses to the top of your head, his fingers lazily running through your hair.

"You scared me," he murmured into your hair. "I’ve never seen you like that before. I want you to take care of yourself."

You sighed, guilt tugging at you again. "I’m sorry, Jude. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just…finals are so overwhelming, and I felt like if I didn’t study enough, I’d fail."

"You won’t fail," he said firmly, his arms tightening around you. "You’re brilliant, and I know you’ll do amazing. But none of that matters if you’re not okay."

You nodded against his chest, his heartbeat steady and comforting beneath your ear. The warmth of his body, the sound of his breathing, and the gentle strokes of his hand through your hair lulled you into a state of calm you hadn’t felt in weeks.

"Stay with me tonight," you whispered, your eyes already fluttering shut. "I don’t want to be alone."

Jude kissed the top of your head, his arms cradling you even closer. "I’m not going anywhere," he promised, his voice soft as he continued to stroke your hair. "Get some sleep, love."

And for the first time in days, you did. In the safety of Jude’s arms, with his soothing touch and soft words, you drifted off into the most peaceful sleep you had had in weeks. You knew that tomorrow would bring more studying, more stress, but for now, in this moment, you felt cared for, protected, and loved.

[spongum]

Andre Kriegman stalking his girl “crush” headcannons!

She’s not a person to him. He doesn’t see her as a human being. She’s a symbol purity, normalcy, everything he believes is fake. His fixation isn’t born from desire, but from a sick need to possess and dismantle what she represents.

Control through knowledge. He knows where she lives, what time she gets to and leaves school, what shampoo she uses, what brand of gum she chews. He’s memorized the rhythm of her footsteps in the hallway. To him, knowledge is power. Control is intimacy.

His camera as a weapon. He has hours of footage. Most of it is mundane her walking, laughing, brushing her hair from her face. But in his eyes, every frame is a quiet act of domination. He rewatches it with the detached gaze of a predator.

Intrusion fantasy. Late at night, he walks past her house. Sometimes he lingers. Once, he left something under her window an unmarked tape, blank except for ten seconds of him breathing into the lens. He never checked to see if she found it. It wasn’t about that.

She ruins the plan. He doesn’t talk about her to Cal anymore. Not because she’s unimportant but because she’s too important. She represents a fracture in his perfect logic. A threat. He fantasizes about killing her first. Silencing her. Making her his final message to the world.

Emotion is a disease. He journals about her in code. Writes things like “Variable X remains uncontained.” When he catches himself feeling something longing, curiosity he punishes himself. Sometimes with pain. Sometimes by destroying the pages.

The countdown includes her. She’s part of the plan. Not as a victim of chaos, but as a calculated moment. A point on the timeline. A scene he’s rehearsed. He knows exactly how she’ll look at him when it happens and that look is what he’s really chasing. Not love. Not lust. Power.