intro: hi! after years of being a ghost user on tumblr, i've finally decided to step up and make a writing blog! writing has been my passion for god knows how long, and though the thought of starting a blog like this seemed too intimidating, i decided to do it anyway!
warnings !: minors do not interact! i will write smut, fluff, angst, heavy yandere themes; all based on the requests i receive. i am open to writing any kinks, although at times i may deny some (listed below)
fandoms i'll write for; bts ⟠teen wolf ⟠the vampire diaries ⟠the originals ⟠twilight ⟠titans ⟠marvel ⟠venom ⟠avengers ⟠umbrella academy ⟠one piece (netflix) ⟠slushy noobz ⟠weak hero class 1 & 2 ⟠true beauty⟠strong girl nam-soon⟠xo kitty ⟠strangers from hell ⟠squid games ⟠enhypen ⟠stray kids ⟠tomorrow x together ⟠resident evil (leon only) ⟠night has come ⟠any k-dramas really as long as ik what it is
kinks I wonât write for; urophillia/watersports (piss kink basically) ⟠snowballing ⟠rape ⟠CNC (to an extent, depends if i write anything dark or if a request persuades me lol) ⟠necrophillia ⟠pregnancy fetishism ⟠any ddlg themes ⟠etc...
Summary!: When Park Sujin, a student of Yooil High forgets her phone at home, her and the students get plunged into a graphic game of Mafia, where deaths are real and betrayals are imminent. The only problem is, whilst everyoneâs identity is implemented into the gameâSujin is the only one without a link, making her the sole anomaly and the enemy to her classmates. Will she be the first to die, or will she be the last one standing?
Pairing: Go Kyungjun x Park Sujin (oc)
Trope: enemies to lovers, rivals, student romance, slow-burn romance, morally grey character, forced proximity, heavy heavy hatred for each other, bullyxstudent, HEA is not guaranteedâŠ
Genre: Dark romance, fiction, mystery, thriller
Note: Well. This fic if up on my Wattpad: @lamentablewoe (same title and graphics). This fic idea came to me one day at night, and I was like, if no one is going to write it⊠then who will? I hope you like this as much as I do. There will be slow updates across Tumblr and Wattpad, bare with me pls <3.
Word count: n/a
Warnings: Major character death, self-harm, vulgar language, suicide references, death, blood, gore, grief, past trauma, violence, sexual tension/smut, angst, fluff, kyungjun is a bitch, heated banter, tension, arguments
Hii!! I absolutely LOVED unrequited (the sieun fic), both part 1 and 2 were so well written omg. I wanted to ask if there would be a part 3? It's fine if not!! I was just wondering as it was genuinely one if the most amazing sieun fics I've readđ„č
oh gosh i feel so bad reading all these beautiful messages on my inbox đ tysm for the sweet words dear anon, you are all my motivators and i promise to do better in the future <33 I really loved writing UNREQUITED, i just think it fits my writing style so much, so Iâm very proud of all the love its getting!! Iâm glad you loved is at much as i did, anon ^^, and regardless of whenever i came back, there was always gonna be a part three. So with that being said, Part Three of Unrequited is up now!
tysmmmm đ„čđ„čđ„č I appreciate this so much!! Many thanks for reading both parts this is such a compliment. I am SO sorry for the late response đđđ. I most definitely DID take my time LMAOAOAO, Iâll be sure to do better. with that out of the way, I can proudly say PART THREE of the short Unrequited series is up!! Tysm for the love and support on it, I read all the comments and Iâm truly moved. TYSM EVERYONE <3333
summary!: After weeks of confusion blurred into fleeting moments, the very boy that you have been pining over likes you too. Youâve spent weeks trying to understand himâthe quiet boy with the sharp mind and softer eyes, the one who always listens but never speaks first. The same boy you kissed after one tutor-session. You never meant to fall for him, but somewhere between your endless chatter and his quiet glances, you did. And when he finally looks back at you like you hung the stars he studies by, you realise; after all the confusion and hesitation, he likes you too.
Note: đŹâŠ howdy guys đ€ . Itâs been a while.
Word count: 1.6k+
warnings !: none!
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
His room smells.
Like fresh laundry, ink and graphite. It suits him. It is him. Itâs also you now. You smell like him. Like the beautiful and calming scent of parchment paper, like the faint smell of dust that still clings to you after you both ran into his house after the rain. And you also smell like his cologne. A very minimalistic smell, wood, musk, soft.
He hates cologne.
But you love it.
⊠and he loves you.
Looking around you, you notice everythingâs neat. His pens are straightened, notes are stacked in perfect order and his books are arranged neater than you could ever accomplish. A small lamp casting honey-gold light casts across his desk. He sits here, back hunched, pen sliding across the paper as his eyes flick between equations you would never be able to solve.
Youâre sprawled in his bed like youâve always belonged thereâlying on your stomach, textbook open and chin propped up on your hands. Your legs sway lazily in the air, heels softly tapping against each other as if your body canât sit still. Maybe you shouldnât have drank that coffee earlier. The sheets beneath you are warm, clean and best of all; smells like him.
You cast your eyes to the back of his head, eyeing the soft black strands that glide across his skull, and faintly curl just under the top of his neck. You could stare at him for hoursâyou really could. One, because heâs really fucking pretty, and two⊠youâre bored of your goddamn mind. Date night with Sieun is always the highlight of your week, thereâs no doubt. But⊠but it could be⊠more? You canât find the right words.
Sighing, you sit upright, brushing down your skirt as you flick your hair over your shoulder. Casting your eyes down, you grin at the sheet of paper lying on his bed. Itâs incompleteâobviously, thereâs nothing more to expect from you, but you shove it in your bag anyway. You can just steal the answers from Suho anywayâmaybe not him, since he lacks more brain cells than you do.
Whatever, youâll figure it out.
Hopping off his bed, he barely bats you an eye, too used to your hyper movements, and you circle around him, glancing down at his paper with an unwavering eye. You move from his left side, to his right, and then you move back to his left side again. Are you doing too much? Maybe youâre doing too much. Settling on the left-side of his desk, you watch with hawk eyes as he zooms through the equations like heâs writing out the alphabet.
Wow, your boyfriend is so cool.
A soft exhale leaves his lips as he looks up at you, his doe eyes that sparkle brighter than every star combined, those eyes that could bring any one to their knees, his eyes that speak more words than anyone else ever could. He doesnât need to speak for you to know what heâs asking. Years of you pining over him has already taught you what you need to know.
âIâm bored.â You pout, fiddling with your fingers as you avoid eye contact.
His pen stills for the briefest second. He doesnât sighâhe never sighs at you, but his thumb presses lightly against his pen, like heâs trying to gather his thoughts.
âYouâre bored,â he says quietly, not in an angry tone, not in a mocking tone. Just a statement.
You nod, leaning your hip against his desk. âYes, professor. This your cue to entertain me.â
That earns you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouthâthe Sieun equivalent of a laugh, and you almost melt at the sight. You made him smile. You. Made. Him. Smile. He places his pen down, aligning it perfectly parallel with his notebook, then finally looks at you.
âWhat do you want to do?â
âI donât know,â you say, dragging out the vowels dramatically. âEverythingggg.â
He tilts his head a little, eyes flicking up at you. âEverything? Thatâs a lot.â
You grin, learn down so your face is closer to his. âYouâre a genius. Solve this equation.â
He blinks at you. âWhat equation?â
âHow to make your girlfriend not bored,â you whisper, nose scrunched.
He pauses for a second, and so do you. Then, in the softest voice you ever head, he speaks. âI like when youâre here even if youâre bored.â
The words hit you like a slow wave. You try not to beam but you fail miserably, because he looks so calm saying it, like heâs been thinking it forever.
You drop your chin on his shoulder, standing beside him, the scent of his soft cologne and laundry detergent warm against your face. âYouâre lucky youâre cute,â you mumble. âOtherwise Iâd start climbing the walls.â
His pen scratches against the paper again, but this time, his knee bumps yours under the table, like a quiet, subtle nudge.
âI can take a break,â he says, as if itâs nothing. âIf you want to go out.â
You heart skips. He never suggests that.
âLikeâŠa date?â
He finally glances as you, and you catch the ghost of a smile. âIf thatâs what you call it.â
You explode with glee, rambling on with happiness as you begin speaking about where you want to go, how the night is perfect for a date like this, how the air will smell like petrichor, how the stalls in the town centre will be open so you can eat whatever you want. And Sieun⊠he just watches.
Watches with that soft, unreadable look of hisâlike the world could fall apart around him and he still wouldnât look away from you.
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
The morning sun spills through the classroom windows, striping the floor in beautiful gold. Youâre halfway through a rant about how you witnessed Suho nearly get run over by another delivery guy this morning, and Sieunâs just walking beside you, letting the sound of your voice hum through his ears. Not saying a word, just listening.
Youâve been attached to his side since you met him at the gateâbackpack swinging, mouth moving, hand occasionally brushing his sleeve. He never says anything about it. Never shrugs you off. Never tells you to move away. Itâs like your place beside him is a quiet rule of nature.
Suhoâs a few steps on your other side, gesturing wildly as he keeps up with your energy. âI swear that delivery guy had a death wish. Why I ought toââ
You gasp, pointing dramatically. âHe almost flattened you! We couldâve been mourning right now Suho!â
The three of you turn down the hall toward the cafeteria. And itâs filled to the brimâstudents everywhere, acting like theyâve been starved since the French Revolution, trays clattering, voices bouncing off the walls. Youâof course, chatter the whole way, talking about your horror grades, a new drama youâre obsessed with and how Suhoâs hair looks like itâs been cut around using a bowl. Sieun doesnât contribute much, but heâs listening. Always listening.
When you laugh too loudly, his eye flick toward you. When you wave your hands mid-story and nearly hit someone with your bag, his hand reaches up, gently tugging the strap away from possible disaster without even thinking. He doesnât okay at you when he does it. He doesnât need to. Because when your world revolves around reading books, visiting the museum, binge-watching The Vampire Diaries for the 67th time and moaning about how stupid Matt is, his world revolves around you.
Youâre mid conversation about absolutely nothing when the lunch trays slide down the metal counter. Youâre too busy arguing with Suho about whoâd survive longer in an apocalypse to notice Sieun take both your trays.
He doesnât ask. Just question fills one with your usualârice, soup, the chicken you like. He adds an extra egg roll without comment. When you reach for the tongs, heâs already placing the tray in your hands.
You blink. âOh. You got mine?â
He gives a small nod. âYouâd drop it.â
âWould notââ
âYou would,â he says softly, eyes already on the next tray. His tray.
Suho snorts. âShe totally would.â
You gasp. âYouâre supposed to be on my side.
As you grumble about threatening Suho with a delivery bike, you three take a seat at the table.
And at the table, itâs the same thingâyou and Suho talking and talking and talking about random things; class gossip, new snacks, whether penguins have knees, while Sieun quietly cuts the pieces of your chicken smaller, slides your drink closer, moves your tray away from the edge.
He doesnât do it dramatically, doesnât do it to be known or make a show of it. Itâs all subconsciousâlittle, automatic gestures that shows heâs always paying attention, even when you think he isnât.
When you steal a bite off his plate, he doesnât even blink. Just pushes the rest toward you without lifting his head.
Suho groans. âWhy does she get special treatment? Youâd deck me if I tried that.â
Sieun speaks, voice calm and final.
âSheâs not you.â
Youâre still talking when the school dayâs overâabout plans after school, about how the math test is basically designed to ruin your lifeâand heâs still quiet. Occasionally, he hums in acknowledgment, or answers with a single word that somehow fits perfectly.
When you lean too far back on the bench, he steadies the back of your chair with his foot. When you forget your pencil case, itâs already in his hand before you even realise itâs missing.
You never notice how much he doesânot really. But he does it all because he likes the noise you bring. The brightness. The mess. He likes that your world spills into his without asking for permission. The exact same way you entered his heart after months of mutual pining.
And when you turn to him, grinning, âHey, are you even listening?â
He looks up from his notebook, meeting your eyes. âAlways.â
You blink, thrown off by the softness in his tone and Suho shivers like heâs witnessed the worst thing in his life. âOkay gross. Get a room.â
Flipping Suho off, you continue your ramble, not noticing that, no matter the situation, heâll always be with you. Whether heâs listening or just looking. Your questions donât stop. âWhat do you think clouds taste like?â, âWould I still look cute with no eyebrowsâ (to which Suho replies âyou donât look cute either wayâ), âIf I was cloned, who would you pick?â.
And when you ask the final question (finally), âIf I fell from the Eiffel Tower, would any of you catch me.â
Suho replies, âHypothetically, if you were standing at the top and I happened to be right below you, considering factors such as the weatherâŠâ
You scoff at his words, shaking your head and his apparent stupidity, and when you turn to look at your boyfriend, really look, you realise something.
Heâs not saying a word, but somehow, in the space between his touch and his silence, heâs telling you heâd catch you a thousand times overâevery time, without ever looking up.
omg đđđ okay hereâs a long ass rant on where i was over the PAST MONTHS??? WHERE TF DID I GO? Okay, first and foremost, tysm anon for asking, it means the world to me đ„čđ„čđ„č, yes, Iâm okay and Iâve been okay. I love this blog so much, i love writing, it has always been my passion, i literally study creative writing lmao. (alongside criminology heheh)
Iâm gonna be straightforward. School. Genuinely one of the worst things created on earth bc wtf. I had TOO many exams to get over with and shit like that, it started piling up and i set EVERYTHING ASIDE. Last year shouldâve been my biggest priority or else I wouldâve failed lol. The past few months was just me solely focusing on my academic life, and honestly it paid off.
I never truly forgot about this account, i just felt so guilty to even come on here because i know I litch said id be working on some requests and then boom! I dip đđ. Which is completely my fault, I shouldnât have said something that I clearly couldnât stick up to. So, i deleted tumblr for a while because it kept nagging me in the back of my mind. Also, I live like in the heart-ish of London? And a few weeks ago was the Tommy Robinson march that happened in the UK, so i felt intimidated to even step outside since my parents are immigrants and Iâm Pro-Palestinian. Since Iâm still in education, i do have to focus more on that BUT, the hectic part of my life is over and IM BACK!! On this account, on writing, on finishing requests.
ALSO HOLY SHIT? I JUST CHECKED. 183 FOLLOWERS? I didnât even get to celebrate that milestone omggg, Iâm so, so, so thankful. When I started this blog, i was half-expecting to have less than 10 followers, and genuinely i am so grateful, so shocked that I have wayyy over 10?? Hopefully this academic year brings all of us strength, time and resilience. Letâs hope this year brings us more updates, more requests finished and MANY MORE TO COME!! TYSM IF ANY OF U SEE THIS. AND AGAIN, TYSM ANON, youâve stolen my heart.
With that being said⊠let me start writing đđđ
summary!: Leaving behind your hometown was harder than youâd ever admit out loud. The quiet corners of familiar streets, the scent of your favorite bakery at sunrise, the laughter of friends you'd known since childhood, memories that now feel like echoes in the rearview mirror. But when your father, ever the elusive businessman, announces yet another relocation, you bite your tongue and nod like the perfect daughter he believes you to be. You donât ask questions. You never do. Not about the source of his wealth, not about the late nights or locked offices. Youâve learned to play your part. But this time, something goes wrong. A clerical error, one heâs too distracted to fix, lands you in the one place you never imagined yourself: Eunjang High School, a name whispered with dread and infamy. A school infamous for brawls, bloodied knuckles, and the boys who rule it. And you? Youâre the only girl. Still, this isnât your first time starting over. And you didnât grow up with an absentee father and a fighterâs instincts for nothing. In this place where survival means strength, and reputation means everything, you might just prove that you belong. Even if it means fighting for it, literally.
Pairing: yeonsieun x fem!reader
Trope: slow burn, mutual pining, grumpy x sunshine-ish, 'i hate everyone but you' trope, friends-to-lovers, opposites attract
Genre: romance, thriller/suspense, action, fluff, slice of life, school life
Word count: n/a
fic warnings!: violence, assault, cursing, severe bullying, blood, trauma, implied grief, mental health themes, eventual smut (mature 18+) etc...
summary!: After another sudden move, you arrive at your new home, a towering, impersonal building that feels more like a monument to your fatherâs wealth than a place to live. With your mother gone and your father emotionally absent, you're used to silence and starting over. But this time, something feels different. You're not just relocating. You're being dropped into a new life, one that feels colder, heavier. And you havenât even discovered the school mix-up yet.
Pairing: yeonsieun x fem!reader
Trope: slow burn, mutual pining
Genre: romance, thriller/suspense, action, fluff, slice of life, school life
Word count: 600
fic warnings!: violence, assault, cursing, severe bullying, blood, trauma, implied grief, mental health themes, eventual smut (mature 18+)
chapter warnings!: none!
The building in front of you is domineering.
The kind that makes people stop in the middle of the sidewalk, necks craned, just to count the windows and wonder who, what, lives inside. The kind that doesnât belong in a quiet suburb like this. But you canât be one of those people anymore. Not now. Not ever. Because this, this towering, four-story monolith of cold steel and expensive glass, is your new home.
You clutch the handle of your black suitcase until your knuckles ache, thumb brushing the frayed stitching where the leatherâs beginning to peel. Your eyes trail the lines of the buildingâs exterior, clean and lifeless. No warmth. No personality. Just⊠efficient. Just like your father.
He hasnât told you how he got the place. You donât ask. You never do. Not about the properties. Not about the money. Not about the death of your mother, or the way he only seems to remember you exist when itâs time to uproot again.
Youâd rather bury your head in an avalanche of homework than ask what business deal he closed to make this building yours. Some answers, youâve learned, arenât worth knowing.
"Y/N, what are you doing? Come in."
His voice echoes faintly from somewhere within the building, the sharp tone clipped with impatience, like heâs annoyed you didnât already anticipate the command.
You sigh through your nose and step inside.
The air is cold. Sterile. Marble flooring stretches out under your boots, so clean you can see your own reflection warped in the shine. To the right, a grand staircase spirals up in a way thatâs meant to be impressive. It feels more like a museum than a home. A mausoleum of wealth. You can almost hear your motherâs voice: Just because itâs expensive doesnât mean itâs beautiful.
You carry your suitcase down the hall and feel the weight of your footsteps echo behind you. There's no warmth, no family photos, no scent of cookingâjust the hollow ache of space too wide to fill.
Your father is already in his office, door half-shut. You glimpse sleek desks, silver laptops, papers stacked in precise columns. Heâs talking on the phone. You donât bother to say hello.
You drag your suitcase to the room heâs chosen for you, third floor, end of the hall, a box of a space with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city youâre supposed to start calling home.
Your eyes wander to the corner where movers have left a pile of sealed boxes labeled with your name in permanent marker. Books. Clothes. A single photo album tucked inside the folds of an old sweatshirt.
You donât unpack.
You never unpack on the first day.
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
Itâs two days later when you find out about the school.
Youâre sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee, when your father tosses a thick manila envelope in front of you. âYour school registration,â he says without looking up from his tablet. âYou start Monday. Uniformâs been delivered.â
Thatâs all.
No explanation. No warning. No mention of the fact that heâs accidentally enrolled you in a boys-only school known for its violent reputation.
You open the envelope. Eunjang High School.
You blink once.
Twice.
And then laugh. Softly. A bitter, humorless sound.
He doesnât react. Heâs already left the room.
You press your thumb into the school brochure until it bends under the pressure. Youâve heard of Eunjang. Who hasnât? Fistfights between students that end in hospital visits. Turf wars. Knives hidden in blazers. Teachers who turn a blind eye. And now...you.
The only girl. Alone.
You stare down at the page, then lean back in your seat.
working on a beomseok fic, sieun fic (part 3 of unrequited), and a hamzah angst fic butttttt i js wanted to say that my exams start literally next week so i'll be taking a big fat break đđđ ill be back by june 20th?? hopefully, so i js wanted to let y'all know that idm my inbox being flooded with requests because then at least i'll have something fun to get back to lmao... so until thennnn au revoir!!!
summary!: After a brutal fight, a shared secret, and a long walk in the rain, youâre left holding feelings Yeon Sieun wonât name. But silence canât last forever. When the weight of waiting finally breaks you, you corner him with the truth â and this time, he doesnât walk away. Subtle confessions, long glances, and everything unsaid begin to unravel.
"You kissed him. And then you ran. And now you are doing everything in your power to pretend like you did not, in fact, do either of those things."
read pt 1 , based on this ask!
Pairing: oblivious!sieun x pining!femalereader
Trope: slow burn, mutual pining, reverse confession, one-sided (but not really), emotionally constipated genius x emotionally spiraling fighter
Genre: fluff, slice of life, school life, romance
Note: idk something abt writing fluff does something to me- coming from a 24/7 ovulating female.
Word count: 5k
warnings !: none!
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
You donât take the usual hallway anymore, the one with the flickering ceiling light and the peeling corner of bulletin board paper, where Yeon Sieun always stands in front of his locker like heâs been rooted there since the dawn of time. You used to pass him every morning. Sometimes heâd glance at you. Most of the time he wouldnât. Either way, it used to be... tolerable.
Now, itâs radioactive.
Like brushing against a live wire. Like touching a bruise you forgot you had.
Instead, you snake through the longer way, cutting behind the old faculty office and down the back stairwell that smells vaguely like mothballs and rusted pipe. Thereâs always a faint clack of a loose ceiling tile above the second landing, and the handrail leaves a faint chalky smear on your palm if you grip it too tight.
It adds three minutes to your morning commute. You do it anyway.
Every single day since that night.
The night you kissed him.
You havenât stopped replaying it. Not once. Youâve tried. God, youâve tried. Youâve buried yourself in homework you donât understand, watched brainless dramas on double speed until the subtitles blur, even cleaned your entire room, dusting baseboards, wiping your mirror twice, until your mom stood in the doorway and asked if you were possessed.
But nothing works. Because you remember everything.
The bite of wind against your cheeks. The empty street humming with quiet. The soft shuffle of his shoes against the pavement when he turned to face you. That infinitesimal pause, the breath between thought and motion, when your fingers brushed his sleeve.
The way he stood so still. So heartbreakingly still.
The silence between you stretching taut like thread about to snap.
The way his breath ghosted against your cheek, his eyes locked on yours and not looking away. Not moving. Not blinking.
Like he was waiting.
And then...
You leaned in.
Just slightly. Just enough. Just far enough for your mouth to brush his and realize that this wasnât a mistake. That maybe heâd wanted it, too.
Because he didnât flinch. Didnât freeze. Didnât say anything.
He just... let you.
And you...
You ran.
What kind of person kisses someone in the dark and then runs away like theyâve just committed a felony?
A coward. A reckless, impulsive coward who acts on months, maybe years, of pent-up feelings and ruins it in five seconds flat.
Three days. Itâs been three days.
And in those three days, youâve:
Spoken only to Suho, because if anyone would let you avoid your feelings like itâs a competitive sport, itâs him.
Started sitting closer to the back of the classroom, where the sunlight doesnât hit your face and no one asks questions.
Typed, and deleted, and retyped a dozen messages to Si-eun. You never pressed send.
Thought about the kiss more times than you can count. Wondered if he even noticed it at all. If it even registered.
Maybe it didnât. Maybe it was just one of those things you do in the heat of a strange, cold night. He probably filed it away somewhere in that calculator brain of his under âDoes Not Compute.â
The thought should make you feel better.
It doesnât.
It makes your chest clench.
You step into the classroom and immediately lower your head. Itâs automatic now. Donât look. Donât check. Pretend like he doesnât sit exactly two rows ahead, in his same chair with that hunched-over, surgical precision he brings to everything. Even breathing.
You pretend you donât know the exact shape of his shoulders when he leans over his desk. The slope of his spine. The way his pen scratches across the page, rhythmic and sharp.
You slip into your desk and crack open your notebook, though the words blur the moment you try to focus on them. You blink twice. No use.
Your headâs somewhere else. Again. Always.
âHey."
A straw jabs your cheek.
You blink. Look up.
Suho is slouched beside you, legs sprawled under the desk like heâs allergic to good posture. Heâs got a juice box in one hand, his pearly whites glinting faintly as he grins with half-lidded mischief.
âEarth to loser,â he says, voice way too loud for how quiet the classroom is. âYouâve been staring at the same page for ten minutes. You good, or should I call an exorcist?â
You swat the straw away. âDo you want to die today?â
He grins, unfazed. âYouâve been weird lately. Not fun-weird. Sad-girl weird.â
âWow. Thanks.â
âIâm just saying,â Suho says, turning more fully toward you, elbow on the desk now. âSomethingâs off. You look like youâve been thinking really hard, which is already suspicious.â
You glare. âI swear to godââ
âYou know what I think?â he interrupts, voice too smug for your liking. âYouâre either in the middle of an identity crisis, orâŠâ He raises an eyebrow, biting off the end of his straw. âYou did something.â
âI didnât do anything.â
He hums, not buying it. âYou definitely did something.â
You scoff, snapping your notebook closed like the sound might shut him up too. âWhy donât you go bother Beomseok or something?â
âBecause he's boring. Youâre not.â
You donât reply.
Thereâs a pause. A real one this time.
When you glance over again, his smileâs gone. His brows are slightly drawn together.
ââŠWhat happened?â he asks, quieter now. âReally.â
Your stomach twists.
You force out a laugh, brittle at the edges. âNothing happened. Seriously. Youâre being dramatic.â
He doesnât look away.
âRight,â he says finally. âAnd I totally believe that.â
You look down. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your desk, knuckles whitening.
He knows.
Or at least he suspects. Of course he does, Suhoâs many things, but oblivious isnât one of them. Heâs seen the way you orbit around Sieun, like some helpless moon caught in his gravitational pull. Seen how your expression softens when you talk about him. How your voice falters when he walks into a room.
Heâs the only one whoâs watched you fall, slow, silent, hopeless.
But he doesnât push. Not right now.
Youâre grateful. And also, not.
Because if he pushed, maybe it would all spill out.
The kiss.
The silence that followed.
The aching absence of a reaction.
The way Sieun didnât even flinch. Like it didnât matter. Like it didnât touch him.
The same AirPods. The same black pen. The same quiet intensity in the way his fingers move, precise like heâs drafting blueprints instead of taking notes.
You catch a glimpse of his profile, the delicate curve of his nose, the slight crease between his brows. He doesnât look your way. Not even once.
And maybe he never will again.
Something in your chest cracks.
Because you are not the same.
You still feel the warmth of his skin under your fingertips. The shape of his mouth beneath yours. The unbearable quiet in the air before you fled.
You still feel like a wire stretched too tight. Like one wrong word will snap it.
You blink hard and look away.
Suhoâs still watching you.
You shove your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary.
He blinks. âWhoa, where are you going?â
âNowhere,â you say quickly. âI just...donât feel like studying right now.â
He raises an eyebrow. âThat bad, huh?â
You donât answer. Just stand. Sling your bag over your shoulder and move.
You feel Sieunâs presence like a pressure in the room. A shadow at your back.
You donât look.
The second your feet hit the hallway, you finally breathe again.
But itâs shallow. Tight.
Because even out here, even away from the weight of his silence, the memory follows you.
That moment. That kiss.
The quiet question in your chest that still hasnât gone away:
Why didnât he stop me?
And worse...
Why hasnât he said anything since?
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
The clock ticks loud in the kind of silence only apathy can bring.
Most of the class is talking, not loudly, but with that kind of half-hearted energy that creeps in when a teacher is ten minutes late and the threat of supervision has fully dissolved. Itâs background noise. Faint laughter, lazy murmurs, someone crunching chips way too loudly two desks over.
You, for once, are minding your business.
Actually doing your work.
Maybe because Suho left an hour ago- something about an emergency, and without his constant commentary, itâs easier to pretend you care about the problem set in front of you. Maybe because itâs the only thing stopping you from glancing two rows forward.
Or maybe because you still havenât stopped spiraling from That Night, and youâd rather calculate quadratic equations with a gun to your head than think about how Sieun hasnât looked at you once in the last hour.
Heâs there, of course. Sitting perfectly upright, left hand bracing his notebook while his right scribbles down neat, efficient notes. The corner of his lip twitches sometimes, but itâs not emotion. Just concentration. His brow is pinched. Heâs thinking. Like he always is.
Untouched by the chaos around him.
Untouched by you.
You snap your eyes back to your paper.
Focus.
Youâve just solved for x when Yeongbinâs voice slices through the noise.
âWhatâd I say? If youâre not gonna pay, donât touch it.â
You look up, just slightly. Enough to see the source.
Yeongbinâs standing over one of the smaller first-years. A kid with too-big sleeves and a haunted look on his face, holding a juice bottle he clearly didnât buy. His hands are shaking.
âHyung, I didnât know it was yours-â
âBullshit,â Yeongbin snaps, snatching the bottle out of his hands. âYou think things in this class just magically appear for you? What, youâre too poor to afford 800 won?â
The kidâs shoulders flinch.
You glance around. A few people are watching now, but no one says anything. Not unusual. Yeongbinâs never needed a reason to pick fights, he just needs someone smaller. Weaker. Quieter.
You should ignore it.
You really should.
But youâve had a week. A week of silence, of spiraling, of pretending your chest doesnât clench every time Sieunâs pen scratches the page and not once in your direction. Youâre frayed. Brittle. Youâve been doing your best to stay invisible and itâs not working, and something about Yeongbinâs voice just tips the balance.
He starts laughing. Itâs ugly. âActually, you know what? Keep it. Drink it. I didnât even want it. You probably need the sugar more than I doâlooks like your familyâs malnourished.â
Crack.
You donât even realize youâve dropped your pencil until it rolls off the desk.
Your chair scrapes as you stand.
Not loud. But loud enough.
The room stills.
Your desk jostles forward with the motion, legs scraping harsh against the floor, and a few people flinch. Itâs quiet now. Even Yeongbin turns to look at you, eyebrows raised like he hadnât even noticed you were there until now.
âJesus,â he mutters. âWhat now?â
You walk past your desk slowly, each step deliberate.
âCould you shut up for five seconds?â you say, voice calm. Measured.
Yeongbin scoffs. âWhat, you care about charity cases now?â
âNo,â you say. âI care about not listening to your voice any longer than I have to.â
The kid he was yelling at has already slinked back to his desk, red-faced, clutching the juice bottle like it might shield him. Smart. He knows whatâs coming.
âYouâve been itching to start shit all morning,â you say. âLike your ego couldnât handle not being the loudest person in the room for once.â
Yeongbin snorts. âBold talk for someone who hasnât done anything all semester except mope and make eyes at Calculator Boy.â
And there it is. The line.
You shouldnât care. You shouldnât. But it slices deeper than it should.
You smile. Too wide.
âRight,â you say. âComing from the guy whoâs repeated this class twice and still canât spell his own name without sounding it out.â
Thereâs a beat.
Then...
âWhat the fuck did you just say?â
The air shifts.
Desks creak as people lean away. Someone whispers âoh shit.â One of the girls starts quietly gathering her things, like she knows she wonât want to be near the blast radius.
Yeongbin steps forward.
You donât move.
âYou wanna say that again?â he says, voice lower now. Dangerous.
âI said,â you repeat, still smiling, âitâs impressive that you even know what letters are, considering your entire personality is built like a used punching bag.â
He doesnât respond.
He swings.
You duck.
His fist whistles past your ear, cracking into the empty chair behind you. Plastic splinters. He barely blinks before swinging again, but this time, youâre ready. You pivot on your heel, grabbing the edge of the nearest desk and slamming it into his hip.
He curses, stumbling. Thatâs when you move.
Two steps forward, fast.
You throw your shoulder into him and shove.
Hard.
He staggers back into the teacherâs podium. A textbook clatters to the ground.
The room goes silent.
âHoly shit,â someone breathes.
Yeongbin looks stunned.
Only for a second.
Then his face twists into something feral.
âYou bitch,â he growls, and lunges.
This time, you donât dodge. You meet him.
You grab his wrist mid-swing, twist, and jab your elbow into his ribs, once, twice, before pushing him off and landing a quick, clean kick to his shin. Youâve fought before. You know how to fight. Fast strikes. Soft points. Disable, disarm, destroy.
But Yeongbinâs heavier. And heâs angry.
He recovers faster than expected, grabs the front of your uniform and yanks you forward. You grunt as your balance shifts, knee catching on the edge of a desk. You raise your arm just in time to block his punch. It lands hard against your forearm, pain flares white-hot, but you donât falter. You grit your teeth and slam your palm into his chest, pushing him back again.
Someone gasps.
âShould we, like, do something?â
âNo way, sheâs actually holding her ownââ
Another swing. This one catches your shoulder. You hiss, stumbling sideways, desk scraping behind you.
He doesnât let up.
You dodge a wild punch, pivot under his arm, and jab your fist into his kidney. He lets out a sharp breath, staggering, but recovers too fast. Youâre off-balance now. He grabs your wrist and yanks.
You hit the floor hard.
Back slams against tile. Wind knocked clean out of your lungs.
âFinally,â he spits, looming over you, knuckles bruised, chest heaving. âThink youâre funny now? Huh?â
You try to move, but pain shoots through your ribs.
Then...
A sound.
Schhhk.
The unmistakable scrape of a chair leg dragging against tile.
The air chills.
You look past Yeongbinâs shoulder.
And there he is.
Sieun. Standing.
His desk is pushed neatly back. His bag remains untouched, pen still in hand, pressed between his fingers like a blade. His eyes are calm.
Yeongbin scoffs. âStay out of it, freak. This doesnât concern you.â
âIt does now.â
Thereâs no hesitation.
Sieun moves like a switchblade, fast, sharp, untelegraphed.
He grips Yeongbinâs outstretched arm, twists it at an unnatural angle, and slams his pen straight into the pressure point between the elbow and bicep. Yeongbin yells, stumbling back, clutching his arm.
Sieun doesnât stop.
Another step. Another strike, this one to the solar plexus. Yeongbin doubles over with a choke.
Sieun leans in close, voice still eerily calm.
âYouâre slow,â he says. âToo predictable. Relying on weight and anger instead of technique. And your right foot? Always leads.â
Then, crack, he sweeps his leg and Yeongbin crashes to the floor, coughing.
Sieun straightens.
Not even breathing hard.
Youâre still on the floor, staring.
Someone whispers, âHoly shit.â
Yeongbin groans, curling in on himself.
And Sieun?
Si-eun turns to you.
Expression unreadable.
âYou okay?â he asks, like the room isnât holding its collective breath. Like he didnât just disable someone with a pen and zero emotion.
You blink.
And for the first time all day, maybe all week, you speak without thinking.
âWhy now?â
His brows furrow slightly.
You press your palm to your ribs, wincing. âWhy now? After this long. After, everything.â
He doesnât answer.
Just steps forward.
Offers his hand.
You stare at it.
Your heartbeat stutters.
And then, slowly, you take it.
His grip is steady. Warm.
He pulls you to your feet like it costs him nothing.
And for a second, in the middle of a stunned, silent classroom, standing next to the boy who didnât stop you that night, but did stop this, you finally breathe again.
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
Todayâs been⊠a day.
No, that doesnât even begin to cover it.
Todayâs been the kind of day that presses down on your shoulders and drags your feet through concrete. The kind that starts with a punch to the face and ends with a fistful of paperwork and a lecture that lasts longer than your will to live.
The kind of day where you get called into the teacherâs office for âfighting,â and somehow, somehow, Yeongbinâs the one yelling, but youâre the one holding an ice pack.
âSit,â your teacher had said, flatly, already exhausted before any of you opened your mouths.
You sat. Sieun, too. Perfect posture. Not a hair out of place. Like he didnât just go full Jason Bourne with a pen less than an hour ago.
Yeongbin slouched in the seat beside you, cradling his bicep like heâd been shot.
Technically, he was stabbed.
Just⊠with ballpoint.
âExplain what happened,â the teacher sighed, pinching his nose like this headache was personal.
Yeongbin went off immediately.
âShe started it!â he snapped, already gesturing with his good arm. âShe shoved me, attacked me! For no reason! I was just talking to some brat, and she lost her mind, went full psycho and started throwing punches like she was born in a fucking jail cell!â
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. âYou were bullying someone.â
âThatâs rich coming from you.â
Your teacher glanced at you, wary.
Yeongbin leaned forward, still clutching his arm. âYou think just because she does well on some tests, sheâs some model student? Sheâs a time bomb, sir. Walks around like she owns the place. Thinks she can get away with anything just âcause sheâs pretty and knows how to land a punch.â
Your eyebrows arched slowly. âAw. Did I bruise your ego?â
âYou stabbed me!â
âI didnât stab you, genius. He did.â
You tilted your head toward Sieun, who remained stone still in the next chair, expression blank, posture perfect, pen balanced between two fingers like he hadnât just used it to wreck someoneâs nervous system.
Yeongbinâs eye twitched.
But then,
He caught it.
The look.
It was barely perceptible.
But you werenât the one who noticed it.
Sieun was staring at him. No, through him. Eyes narrow. Focused. A quiet, methodical kind of fury, cold and clinical.
That same pen, the pen, was now clutched loosely between his fingers. Not threateningly. Just... visible.
Visible enough that Yeongbinâs voice faltered mid-sentence.
You didnât catch it. You were too busy glaring at the teacherâs desk.
But Yeongbin saw it.
Saw the way Si-eunâs gaze didnât move. Didnât blink.
Didnât have to.
And whatever Yeongbin was about to say died right there in his throat.
He shut up.
The meeting ended with a mild warning, a long-winded lecture, and a stack of paperwork you only half listened to. The teacher let you off easy, âSince this isnât like you,â heâd said. âYouâre usually a good student.â
Yeongbin stormed out grumbling about âfavoritismâ and âpretty privilege.â
You didnât even dignify it with a response.
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
The last bell rings like a gunshot through your skull.
Youâre halfway through packing your bag when your phone buzzes, and without thinking, you hit Answer.
âYo.â
âHey,â Suhoâs voice floods through the speaker, warm and familiar. âYou sound dead.â
âThatâs because I am,â you mutter, jamming your books into your backpack. âGuess what happened.â
âDid you punch someone again?â
âAgain?â
âJust guessing based on your tone.â
You sigh and drop into your seat. âYeongbin picked a fight. I responded. Sieun intervened. With a pen.â
Thereâs a pause.
âWait...what?â
âHe stabbed him, Suho.â
âLike, actually? Is there blood?â
You glance down at the faint bruise on your forearm. âThereâs trauma.â
âShit,â he says, voice rising. âWhatâd that prick do to you?â
âItâs fine. I held my own.â
âAs you should.â He huffs. âStill. Shouldâve been me. I wouldâve kicked his ass in two punches. Three, if I wanted to be polite.â
You grin despite yourself. âThanks for teaching me how to fight, by the way.â
âYouâre welcome. I take payment in ramen or affection.â
âIâll pencil you in for both.â
Thereâs a beat. Then: âYou okay?â
You pause.
You glance across the room, where Sieunâs still seated at his desk, like the day hasnât even touched him. Heâs packing his bag with slow, deliberate movements, same as always.
You swallow. âYeah. Iâm fine.â
âYou sure?â
You nod, then realize he canât see that. âYeah.â
âAll right. Call me if he breathes near you again. Or if you need ramen. Or if you need someone to throw hands on your behalf.â
âYou just want a reason to hit Yeongbin.â
âYeah, and?â
You laugh softly. âTalk later.â
âLater.â
You hang up.
And before you can chicken out, you grab your bag, straighten your shoulders, and walk up to Sieun.
ââŠHey.â
He looks up.
His expression doesnât shift.
But he nods once. âMmh.â
âYou heading home?â
âYeah.â
âCool,â you say, shifting awkwardly. âMind if I walk with you?â
He pauses. Then, to your quiet relief...
âOkay.â
You both step outside.
And thatâs when it starts to rain.
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
It starts slow, just a few drops. Enough to speckle the pavement and darken the edges of your sleeves. You glance up.
âGreat,â you mutter. âOf course.â
Sieun doesnât say anything, just adjusts the strap of his backpack and starts walking.
You follow.
The rain thickens by the second, turning from a drizzle to a steady curtain of water, soaking the back of your neck and making your socks squelch inside your shoes. You didnât bring an umbrella. Neither did he.
âI shouldâve expected this,â you say, trying to fill the silence. âBad weather follows bad days, right?â
Sieun hums, noncommittal.
You glance at him.
His uniformâs already sticking to his frame, plastered to his arms and back. His hairâs wet. Water drips off his jawline in slow, deliberate trails.
And yet, he walks like he doesnât notice. Like the weatherâs a minor inconvenience compared to the storm he already lives in.
You kick a loose pebble. It splashes pathetically.
ââŠSo,â you say, âhave you killed anyone with a pen before, or was I your first?â
He doesnât respond right away.
Then: âSecond.â
You blink.
He looks at you.
You squint. âYouâre joking, right?â
He blinks once. âYou decide.â
You bark out a laugh, too sharp, too sudden, but it feels good.
âGod,â you mutter, wiping water off your cheek. âI canât believe that actually happened.â
Sieun stays quiet.
The silence stretches again.
You glance at him.
ââŠYou didnât have to step in.â
âI know.â
You frown. âThen why did you?â
He hesitates. A breath too long.
âBecause you were losing,â he says simply.
You flinch.
Ouch.
âWow. Okay. Brutal honesty, got it.â
âI didnât mean it like that.â
You scoff. âNo, itâs fine. I was losing. Just didnât realize you were keeping score.â
He exhales, barely audible. âThatâs not what I meant.â
You stop walking.
He does too.
The rain doesnât.
ââŠDid the kiss change anything?â
Your voice is quiet.
Barely above the sound of the rain.
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
His hair is dripping. His eyes are unreadable. His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to speak, but doesnât.
Finally...
âYes,â he says.
You freeze.
Then, just as quietly: âHow?â
His gaze drops.
He takes a breath.
And says, âI donât know yet.â
You exhale like youâve been holding it for hours.
âGreat,â you mutter. âThatâs so reassuring. Really.â
âIâm not trying to confuse you.â
âYouâre not trying anything at all.â
You regret it the second it comes out.
He doesnât respond.
Not right away.
Instead, he turns back toward the road and starts walking again.
You donât follow at first.
But then, quietly, you jog to catch up.
You fall into step beside him again, wiping your face with the sleeve of your soaked blazer.
âI make everything worse,â you mumble.
âNo,â he says, without looking at you. âYou donât.â
The rain falls harder.
But itâs quieter between you now.
Softer.
You glance sideways. âDo you regret it?â
âThe kiss?â
You nod.
âNo,â he says.
Then, almost too quiet to hear: âBut I donât know what to do with it yet.â
You swallow.
Your hands curl in your sleeves.
âOkay,â you say.
And the rest of the walk is silent.
But itâs the kind of silence you donât have to run from.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
â§ïœ„ïŸ: *â§ïœ„ïŸ:*
Itâs been a week since the rain.
Seven days since you walked home with him in silence, water trailing down your spine, his voice echoing in your head like the softest kind of hurt.
âI donât know what to do with it yet.â
Since then, nothingâs changed.
Not really.
He still looks at you the same way across the classroom. Still keeps to himself. Still answers when you speak, still watches when you fight, still keeps that invisible line drawn tight between you like crossing it might ruin something that never even got the chance to start.
But youâve changed.
Or maybe, youâve just run out of places to hide it.
Thereâs only so many times you can catch yourself staring. Only so many times you can hope someone says something back. Only so many moments you can keep wishing, quietly, pathetically, for something that might never come.
Itâs exhausting, loving someone like that.
Someone so precise. So unreadable.
So cold on the surface, but soft in the moments he doesnât realize youâre watching.
And youâre tired.
Youâre so tired.
You find him after school.
You wait for him to pack up, let him put his pens in the zippered pouch he always keeps lined up like weapons, wait for him to tug his backpack on and slide his chair in like nothing matters.
Then you move.
Your hand catches the edge of his desk before he can step past it.
He stops.
Looks up at you.
Expression unreadable.
âCome with me,â you say.
He blinks.
But follows.
You donât take him far.
Just the rooftop, the one place at school no one bothers to check, because the lockâs rusted open and the staircase is grimy and students are lazy.
You push the door open and walk out first.
Let the cold spring air hit your lungs. Let the wind pull at your sleeves and blow your hair into your face.
He steps out behind you. Shuts the door with a soft click.
And then itâs just you and him.
No one else.
Not the other students. Not Suho. Not Yeongbin. Not the teachers. Not your friends or his ghosts or anyone who could interrupt the quiet weight between you.
Just the concrete rooftop and the sky and the truth youâre ready to spit out whether it shatters or not.
You turn to him.
Heâs standing there like he always does, shoulders squared, eyes flat, jaw tight. Braced for a fight that hasnât started yet.
He doesnât ask why you brought him up here.
He doesnât have to.
You take a breath.
Youâve been rehearsing this for days.
But now that itâs here, it feels heavier than it ever did in your head.
âI like you.â
The words cut clean.
Sharp.
He blinks.
But doesnât say anything.
âI donât know how, or why,â you go on, louder this time, hands trembling at your sides, âand I sure as hell didnât plan to. But I do. I like you.â
The silence crackles between you like something alive.
You laugh.
Itâs bitter.
âIâve been waiting,â you say. âThis whole time. For something. Anything. For you to say something that told me I wasnât insane. That I wasnât just seeing things that werenât there.â
His mouth parts, barely.
But no sound comes out.
You swallow.
Hard.
âIâm not trying to pressure you. This isnât about that. Iâm just, done.â
His eyes lift to meet yours.
You feel it like a bruise.
âIâm tired of guessing how you feel. Tired of making excuses for your silence. Tired of pretending I donât care when you act like nothing happened. Like I didnât kiss you. Like we didnât...feel something.â
You pause, breathing shaky.
âI just wanted you to know. Before I let go.â
Silence.
You close your eyes.
And whisper, softer this time:
âIâm letting go.â
You move to turn around.
But,
âDonât.â
Your feet freeze.
You turn slowly.
His voice is quieter than anything youâve ever heard him say.
Almost like it hurts.
ââŠDonât let go yet.â
Your heart stops.
Heâs still staring at you.
But thereâs something different in his gaze now.
Something raw.
Unmasked.
âI didnât know what to do,â he says, the words awkward on his tongue like heâs still testing how they sound. âI didnât plan to feel anything either. I didnât mean to.â
You donât speak.
You donât even breathe.
âBut I did.â
Your breath catches.
He shifts his weight, like this is physically difficult. Like the confession is stuck in his chest, fighting to get out.
âYou matter to me,â he says finally.
And somehow, those four words hit harder than any poetic declaration ever could.
You blink, hard.
He looks away for a second. Then back.
âI didnât want to say something and not mean it right. I didnât want to promise anything I couldnât give.â
âYou donât have to promise anything,â you say quietly. âI just wanted to know if it was real.â
âIt is.â
Itâs so quiet, you almost miss it.
Your fingers twitch at your sides.
âThen why didnât you say anything before?â
He looks at you, really looks.
ââŠBecause if I lost you, I didnât want it to be because I said the wrong thing.â
Your throat burns.
âI was already halfway gone.â
âI know.â
And still, he takes a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
Until heâs standing in front of you, too close, too warm, too him.
He reaches out.
Not to hold your hand.
But just to brush your sleeve with the back of his knuckles. So light it almost doesnât touch.
âBut I want you to stay.â
You inhale sharply.
His eyes donât move from yours.
âYou said youâre letting go,â he murmurs.
ââŠYeah.â
âDonât.â
You almost laugh.
Instead, your lip trembles.
âYouâre really bad at this.â
âI know.â
And then...
He leans forward.
Just slightly.
His forehead brushes yours.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
Just that quiet, electric closeness.
That unbearable tension.
âI canât say everything you want me to say,â he whispers. âNot yet. But I feel it. All of it.â
fill my inbox with requests guys i wanna see how talented i am????? if i am, actually. and uh im bored even tho ive got sm work to do. intro is here to see who i write for!!! ALSO, idm the CRAZIEST requests đ€đ€ i dont judge here. also js ask me random questions and ill answer them
