lament: ⋆ /ləˈmɛnt/ -- a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
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)
my masterlist ✧˖*°࿐ !
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
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
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
kinks I won’t 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...
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
kinks i will write for; bdsm ✾ dom/sub themes ✾ spit (kinda) ✾ voyeurism ✾ roleplay ✾ food play ✾ free use (sometimes) ✾ breeding kink ✾ edging ✾ exhibitionism ✾ honestly, anything else apart from the above...
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 everyone’s identity is implemented into the game—Sujin 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 guaranteed…
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 read🥹
oh gosh i feel so bad reading all these beautiful messages on my inbox 😭 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 I’m very proud of all the love its getting!! I’m 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!
Loved part 1 and 2 I read them in one sitting 😮💨 part 3 ???? take your time ofc !!🩷
tysmmmm 🥹🥹🥹 I appreciate this so much!! Many thanks for reading both parts this is such a compliment. I am SO sorry for the late response 😭😭😭. I most definitely DID take my time LMAOAOAO, I’ll 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 I’m 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. You’ve spent weeks trying to understand him—the 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.
Like fresh laundry, ink and graphite. It suits him. It is him. It’s 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 everything’s 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.
You’re sprawled in his bed like you’ve always belonged there—lying 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 can’t sit still. Maybe you shouldn’t 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 hours—you really could. One, because he’s really fucking pretty, and two… you’re bored of your goddamn mind. Date night with Sieun is always the highlight of your week, there’s no doubt. But… but it could be… more? You can’t 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. It’s incomplete—obviously, there’s nothing more to expect from you, but you shove it in your bag anyway. You can just steal the answers from Suho anyway—maybe not him, since he lacks more brain cells than you do.
Whatever, you’ll 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 you’re doing too much. Settling on the left-side of his desk, you watch with hawk eyes as he zooms through the equations like he’s 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 doesn’t need to speak for you to know what he’s asking. Years of you pining over him has already taught you what you need to know.
“I’m bored.” You pout, fiddling with your fingers as you avoid eye contact.
His pen stills for the briefest second. He doesn’t sigh—he never sighs at you, but his thumb presses lightly against his pen, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts.
“You’re bored,” he says quietly, not in an angry tone, not in a mocking tone. Just a statement.
You nod, leaning your hip against his desk. “Yes, professor. This your cue to entertain me.”
That earns you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth—the 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.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” you say, dragging out the vowels dramatically. “Everythingggg.”
He tilts his head a little, eyes flicking up at you. “Everything? That’s a lot.”
You grin, learn down so your face is closer to his. “You’re a genius. Solve this equation.”
He blinks at you. “What equation?”
“How to make your girlfriend not bored,’ you whisper, nose scrunched.
He pauses for a second, and so do you. Then, in the softest voice you ever head, he speaks. “I like when you’re here even if you’re bored.”
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 he’s 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. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mumble. “Otherwise I’d start climbing the walls.”
His pen scratches against the paper again, but this time, his knee bumps yours under the table, like a quiet, subtle nudge.
“I can take a break,” he says, as if it’s nothing. “If you want to go out.”
You heart skips. He never suggests that.
“Like…a date?”
He finally glances as you, and you catch the ghost of a smile. “If that’s what you call it.”
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 his—like the world could fall apart around him and he still wouldn’t look away from you.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The morning sun spills through the classroom windows, striping the floor in beautiful gold. You’re halfway through a rant about how you witnessed Suho nearly get run over by another delivery guy this morning, and Sieun’s just walking beside you, letting the sound of your voice hum through his ears. Not saying a word, just listening.
You’ve been attached to his side since you met him at the gate—backpack swinging, mouth moving, hand occasionally brushing his sleeve. He never says anything about it. Never shrugs you off. Never tells you to move away. It’s like your place beside him is a quiet rule of nature.
Suho’s a few steps on your other side, gesturing wildly as he keeps up with your energy. “I swear that delivery guy had a death wish. Why I ought to—”
You gasp, pointing dramatically. “He almost flattened you! We could’ve been mourning right now Suho!”
The three of you turn down the hall toward the cafeteria. And it’s filled to the brim—students everywhere, acting like they’ve been starved since the French Revolution, trays clattering, voices bouncing off the walls. You—of course, chatter the whole way, talking about your horror grades, a new drama you’re obsessed with and how Suho’s hair looks like it’s been cut around using a bowl. Sieun doesn’t contribute much, but he’s 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 doesn’t okay at you when he does it. He doesn’t 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.
You’re mid conversation about absolutely nothing when the lunch trays slide down the metal counter. You’re too busy arguing with Suho about who’d survive longer in an apocalypse to notice Sieun take both your trays.
He doesn’t ask. Just question fills one with your usual—rice, soup, the chicken you like. He adds an extra egg roll without comment. When you reach for the tongs, he’s already placing the tray in your hands.
You blink. “Oh. You got mine?”
He gives a small nod. “You’d drop it.”
‘Would not—”
“You would,” he says softly, eyes already on the next tray. His tray.
Suho snorts. “She totally would.”
You gasp. “You’re 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, it’s the same thing—you 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 doesn’t do it dramatically, doesn’t do it to be known or make a show of it. It’s all subconscious—little, automatic gestures that shows he’s always paying attention, even when you think he isn’t.
When you steal a bite off his plate, he doesn’t even blink. Just pushes the rest toward you without lifting his head.
Suho groans. “Why does she get special treatment? You’d deck me if I tried that.”
Sieun speaks, voice calm and final.
“She’s not you.”
You’re still talking when the school day’s over—about plans after school, about how the math test is basically designed to ruin your life—and he’s 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, it’s already in his hand before you even realise it’s missing.
You never notice how much he does—not 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, “Hey, are you even listening?”
He looks up from his notebook, meeting your eyes. “Always.”
You blink, thrown off by the softness in his tone and Suho shivers like he’s witnessed the worst thing in his life. “Okay gross. Get a room.”
Flipping Suho off, you continue your ramble, not noticing that, no matter the situation, he’ll always be with you. Whether he’s listening or just looking. Your questions don’t stop. ‘What do you think clouds taste like?’, ‘Would I still look cute with no eyebrows’ (to which Suho replies ‘you don’t look cute either way’), ‘If I was cloned, who would you pick?’.
And when you ask the final question (finally), “If I fell from the Eiffel Tower, would any of you catch me.”
Suho replies, “Hypothetically, if you were standing at the top and I happened to be right below you, considering factors such as the weather…”
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.
He’s not saying a word, but somehow, in the space between his touch and his silence, he’s telling you he’d catch you a thousand times over—every time, without ever looking up.
omg 😭😭😭 okay here’s 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 🥹🥹🥹, yes, I’m okay and I’ve 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)
I’m 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 should’ve been my biggest priority or else I would’ve 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 💀💀. Which is completely my fault, I shouldn’t have said something that I clearly couldn’t 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 I’m Pro-Palestinian. Since I’m 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.
So yeah, I’m officially back if any of my 100 followers care heh
ALSO HOLY SHIT? I JUST CHECKED. 183 FOLLOWERS? I didn’t even get to celebrate that milestone omggg, I’m 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. Let’s 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, you’ve stolen my heart.
summary!: Leaving behind your hometown was harder than you’d 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 don’t ask questions. You never do. Not about the source of his wealth, not about the late nights or locked offices. You’ve learned to play your part. But this time, something goes wrong. A clerical error, one he’s 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? You’re the only girl. Still, this isn’t your first time starting over. And you didn’t grow up with an absentee father and a fighter’s 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 father’s 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 haven’t 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 doesn’t belong in a quiet suburb like this. But you can’t 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 leather’s beginning to peel. Your eyes trail the lines of the building’s exterior, clean and lifeless. No warmth. No personality. Just… efficient. Just like your father.
He hasn’t told you how he got the place. You don’t 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 it’s time to uproot again.
You’d rather bury your head in an avalanche of homework than ask what business deal he closed to make this building yours. Some answers, you’ve learned, aren’t 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 he’s annoyed you didn’t 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 that’s meant to be impressive. It feels more like a museum than a home. A mausoleum of wealth. You can almost hear your mother’s voice: Just because it’s expensive doesn’t mean it’s 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 cooking—just 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. He’s talking on the phone. You don’t bother to say hello.
You drag your suitcase to the room he’s 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 you’re 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 don’t unpack.
You never unpack on the first day.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
It’s two days later when you find out about the school.
You’re sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee, when your father tosses a thick manila envelope in front of you. “Your school registration,” he says without looking up from his tablet. “You start Monday. Uniform’s been delivered.”
That’s all.
No explanation. No warning. No mention of the fact that he’s 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 doesn’t react. He’s already left the room.
You press your thumb into the school brochure until it bends under the pressure. You’ve heard of Eunjang. Who hasn’t? 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 😭😭😭 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, you’re left holding feelings Yeon Sieun won’t name. But silence can’t last forever. When the weight of waiting finally breaks you, you corner him with the truth — and this time, he doesn’t 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!
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You don’t 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 he’s been rooted there since the dawn of time. You used to pass him every morning. Sometimes he’d glance at you. Most of the time he wouldn’t. Either way, it used to be... tolerable.
Now, it’s 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. There’s 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 haven’t stopped replaying it. Not once. You’ve tried. God, you’ve tried. You’ve buried yourself in homework you don’t 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 wasn’t a mistake. That maybe he’d wanted it, too.
Because he didn’t flinch. Didn’t freeze. Didn’t say anything.
He just... let you.
And you...
You ran.
What kind of person kisses someone in the dark and then runs away like they’ve 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. It’s been three days.
And in those three days, you’ve:
Spoken only to Suho, because if anyone would let you avoid your feelings like it’s a competitive sport, it’s him.
Started sitting closer to the back of the classroom, where the sunlight doesn’t 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 didn’t. 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 “Does Not Compute.”
The thought should make you feel better.
It doesn’t.
It makes your chest clench.
You step into the classroom and immediately lower your head. It’s automatic now. Don’t look. Don’t check. Pretend like he doesn’t sit exactly two rows ahead, in his same chair with that hunched-over, surgical precision he brings to everything. Even breathing.
You pretend you don’t 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 head’s somewhere else. Again. Always.
“Hey."
A straw jabs your cheek.
You blink. Look up.
Suho is slouched beside you, legs sprawled under the desk like he’s allergic to good posture. He’s got a juice box in one hand, his pearly whites glinting faintly as he grins with half-lidded mischief.
“Earth to loser,” he says, voice way too loud for how quiet the classroom is. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes. You good, or should I call an exorcist?”
You swat the straw away. “Do you want to die today?”
He grins, unfazed. “You’ve been weird lately. Not fun-weird. Sad-girl weird.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“I’m just saying,” Suho says, turning more fully toward you, elbow on the desk now. “Something’s off. You look like you’ve been thinking really hard, which is already suspicious.”
You glare. “I swear to god—”
“You know what I think?” he interrupts, voice too smug for your liking. “You’re either in the middle of an identity crisis, or…” He raises an eyebrow, biting off the end of his straw. “You did something.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
He hums, not buying it. “You definitely did something.”
You scoff, snapping your notebook closed like the sound might shut him up too. “Why don’t you go bother Beomseok or something?”
“Because he's boring. You’re not.”
You don’t reply.
There’s a pause. A real one this time.
When you glance over again, his smile’s gone. His brows are slightly drawn together.
“…What happened?” he asks, quieter now. “Really.”
Your stomach twists.
You force out a laugh, brittle at the edges. “Nothing happened. Seriously. You’re being dramatic.”
He doesn’t look away.
“Right,” he says finally. “And I totally believe that.”
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, Suho’s many things, but oblivious isn’t one of them. He’s 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.
He’s the only one who’s watched you fall, slow, silent, hopeless.
But he doesn’t push. Not right now.
You’re 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 didn’t even flinch. Like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t touch him.
The same AirPods. The same black pen. The same quiet intensity in the way his fingers move, precise like he’s 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 doesn’t 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.
Suho’s still watching you.
You shove your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary.
He blinks. “Whoa, where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” you say quickly. “I just...don’t feel like studying right now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”
You don’t answer. Just stand. Sling your bag over your shoulder and move.
You feel Sieun’s presence like a pressure in the room. A shadow at your back.
You don’t look.
The second your feet hit the hallway, you finally breathe again.
But it’s 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 hasn’t gone away:
Why didn’t he stop me?
And worse...
Why hasn’t he said anything since?
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
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. It’s 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, it’s easier to pretend you care about the problem set in front of you. Maybe because it’s the only thing stopping you from glancing two rows forward.
Or maybe because you still haven’t stopped spiraling from That Night, and you’d rather calculate quadratic equations with a gun to your head than think about how Sieun hasn’t looked at you once in the last hour.
He’s 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 it’s not emotion. Just concentration. His brow is pinched. He’s thinking. Like he always is.
Untouched by the chaos around him.
Untouched by you.
You snap your eyes back to your paper.
Focus.
You’ve just solved for x when Yeongbin’s voice slices through the noise.
“What’d I say? If you’re not gonna pay, don’t touch it.”
You look up, just slightly. Enough to see the source.
Yeongbin’s 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 didn’t buy. His hands are shaking.
“Hyung, I didn’t know it was yours-”
“Bullshit,” Yeongbin snaps, snatching the bottle out of his hands. “You think things in this class just magically appear for you? What, you’re too poor to afford 800 won?”
The kid’s shoulders flinch.
You glance around. A few people are watching now, but no one says anything. Not unusual. Yeongbin’s never needed a reason to pick fights, he just needs someone smaller. Weaker. Quieter.
You should ignore it.
You really should.
But you’ve had a week. A week of silence, of spiraling, of pretending your chest doesn’t clench every time Sieun’s pen scratches the page and not once in your direction. You’re frayed. Brittle. You’ve been doing your best to stay invisible and it’s not working, and something about Yeongbin’s voice just tips the balance.
He starts laughing. It’s ugly. “Actually, you know what? Keep it. Drink it. I didn’t even want it. You probably need the sugar more than I do—looks like your family’s malnourished.”
Crack.
You don’t even realize you’ve 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. It’s quiet now. Even Yeongbin turns to look at you, eyebrows raised like he hadn’t even noticed you were there until now.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “What now?”
You walk past your desk slowly, each step deliberate.
“Could you shut up for five seconds?” you say, voice calm. Measured.
Yeongbin scoffs. “What, you care about charity cases now?”
“No,” you say. “I care about not listening to your voice any longer than I have to.”
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 what’s coming.
“You’ve been itching to start shit all morning,” you say. “Like your ego couldn’t handle not being the loudest person in the room for once.”
Yeongbin snorts. “Bold talk for someone who hasn’t done anything all semester except mope and make eyes at Calculator Boy.”
And there it is. The line.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t. But it slices deeper than it should.
You smile. Too wide.
“Right,” you say. “Coming from the guy who’s repeated this class twice and still can’t spell his own name without sounding it out.”
There’s a beat.
Then...
“What the fuck did you just say?”
The air shifts.
Desks creak as people lean away. Someone whispers “oh shit.” One of the girls starts quietly gathering her things, like she knows she won’t want to be near the blast radius.
Yeongbin steps forward.
You don’t move.
“You wanna say that again?” he says, voice lower now. Dangerous.
“I said,” you repeat, still smiling, “it’s impressive that you even know what letters are, considering your entire personality is built like a used punching bag.”
He doesn’t 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, you’re ready. You pivot on your heel, grabbing the edge of the nearest desk and slamming it into his hip.
He curses, stumbling. That’s when you move.
Two steps forward, fast.
You throw your shoulder into him and shove.
Hard.
He staggers back into the teacher’s podium. A textbook clatters to the ground.
The room goes silent.
“Holy shit,” someone breathes.
Yeongbin looks stunned.
Only for a second.
Then his face twists into something feral.
“You bitch,” he growls, and lunges.
This time, you don’t 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. You’ve fought before. You know how to fight. Fast strikes. Soft points. Disable, disarm, destroy.
But Yeongbin’s heavier. And he’s 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 don’t falter. You grit your teeth and slam your palm into his chest, pushing him back again.
Someone gasps.
“Should we, like, do something?”
“No way, she’s actually holding her own—”
Another swing. This one catches your shoulder. You hiss, stumbling sideways, desk scraping behind you.
He doesn’t 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. You’re 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.
“Finally,” he spits, looming over you, knuckles bruised, chest heaving. “Think you’re funny now? Huh?”
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 Yeongbin’s 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. “Stay out of it, freak. This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does now.”
There’s no hesitation.
Sieun moves like a switchblade, fast, sharp, untelegraphed.
He grips Yeongbin’s 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 doesn’t 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.
“You’re slow,” he says. “Too predictable. Relying on weight and anger instead of technique. And your right foot? Always leads.”
Then, crack, he sweeps his leg and Yeongbin crashes to the floor, coughing.
Sieun straightens.
Not even breathing hard.
You’re still on the floor, staring.
Someone whispers, “Holy shit.”
Yeongbin groans, curling in on himself.
And Sieun?
Si-eun turns to you.
Expression unreadable.
“You okay?” he asks, like the room isn’t holding its collective breath. Like he didn’t 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.
“Why now?”
His brows furrow slightly.
You press your palm to your ribs, wincing. “Why now? After this long. After, everything.”
He doesn’t 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 didn’t stop you that night, but did stop this, you finally breathe again.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Today’s been… a day.
No, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Today’s 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 teacher’s office for “fighting,” and somehow, somehow, Yeongbin’s the one yelling, but you’re the one holding an ice pack.
“Sit,” 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 didn’t just go full Jason Bourne with a pen less than an hour ago.
Yeongbin slouched in the seat beside you, cradling his bicep like he’d been shot.
Technically, he was stabbed.
Just… with ballpoint.
“Explain what happened,” the teacher sighed, pinching his nose like this headache was personal.
Yeongbin went off immediately.
“She started it!” he snapped, already gesturing with his good arm. “She 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!”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “You were bullying someone.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
Your teacher glanced at you, wary.
Yeongbin leaned forward, still clutching his arm. “You think just because she does well on some tests, she’s some model student? She’s a time bomb, sir. Walks around like she owns the place. Thinks she can get away with anything just ‘cause she’s pretty and knows how to land a punch.”
Your eyebrows arched slowly. “Aw. Did I bruise your ego?”
“You stabbed me!”
“I didn’t stab you, genius. He did.”
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 hadn’t just used it to wreck someone’s nervous system.
Yeongbin’s eye twitched.
But then,
He caught it.
The look.
It was barely perceptible.
But you weren’t 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 Yeongbin’s voice faltered mid-sentence.
You didn’t catch it. You were too busy glaring at the teacher’s desk.
But Yeongbin saw it.
Saw the way Si-eun’s gaze didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Didn’t 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, “Since this isn’t like you,” he’d said. “You’re usually a good student.”
Yeongbin stormed out grumbling about “favoritism” and “pretty privilege.”
You didn’t even dignify it with a response.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The last bell rings like a gunshot through your skull.
You’re halfway through packing your bag when your phone buzzes, and without thinking, you hit Answer.
“Yo.”
“Hey,” Suho’s voice floods through the speaker, warm and familiar. “You sound dead.”
“That’s because I am,” you mutter, jamming your books into your backpack. “Guess what happened.”
“Did you punch someone again?”
“Again?”
“Just guessing based on your tone.”
You sigh and drop into your seat. “Yeongbin picked a fight. I responded. Sieun intervened. With a pen.”
There’s a pause.
“Wait...what?”
“He stabbed him, Suho.”
“Like, actually? Is there blood?”
You glance down at the faint bruise on your forearm. “There’s trauma.”
“Shit,” he says, voice rising. “What’d that prick do to you?”
“It’s fine. I held my own.”
“As you should.” He huffs. “Still. Should’ve been me. I would’ve kicked his ass in two punches. Three, if I wanted to be polite.”
You grin despite yourself. “Thanks for teaching me how to fight, by the way.”
“You’re welcome. I take payment in ramen or affection.”
“I’ll pencil you in for both.”
There’s a beat. Then: “You okay?”
You pause.
You glance across the room, where Sieun’s still seated at his desk, like the day hasn’t even touched him. He’s packing his bag with slow, deliberate movements, same as always.
You swallow. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
You nod, then realize he can’t see that. “Yeah.”
“All 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.”
“You just want a reason to hit Yeongbin.”
“Yeah, and?”
You laugh softly. “Talk later.”
“Later.”
You hang up.
And before you can chicken out, you grab your bag, straighten your shoulders, and walk up to Sieun.
“…Hey.”
He looks up.
His expression doesn’t shift.
But he nods once. “Mmh.”
“You heading home?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” you say, shifting awkwardly. “Mind if I walk with you?”
He pauses. Then, to your quiet relief...
“Okay.”
You both step outside.
And that’s when it starts to rain.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
It starts slow, just a few drops. Enough to speckle the pavement and darken the edges of your sleeves. You glance up.
“Great,” you mutter. “Of course.”
Sieun doesn’t 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 didn’t bring an umbrella. Neither did he.
“I should’ve expected this,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “Bad weather follows bad days, right?”
Sieun hums, noncommittal.
You glance at him.
His uniform’s already sticking to his frame, plastered to his arms and back. His hair’s wet. Water drips off his jawline in slow, deliberate trails.
And yet, he walks like he doesn’t notice. Like the weather’s a minor inconvenience compared to the storm he already lives in.
You kick a loose pebble. It splashes pathetically.
“…So,” you say, “have you killed anyone with a pen before, or was I your first?”
He doesn’t respond right away.
Then: “Second.”
You blink.
He looks at you.
You squint. “You’re joking, right?”
He blinks once. “You decide.”
You bark out a laugh, too sharp, too sudden, but it feels good.
“God,” you mutter, wiping water off your cheek. “I can’t believe that actually happened.”
Sieun stays quiet.
The silence stretches again.
You glance at him.
“…You didn’t have to step in.”
“I know.”
You frown. “Then why did you?”
He hesitates. A breath too long.
“Because you were losing,” he says simply.
You flinch.
Ouch.
“Wow. Okay. Brutal honesty, got it.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
You scoff. “No, it’s fine. I was losing. Just didn’t realize you were keeping score.”
He exhales, barely audible. “That’s not what I meant.”
You stop walking.
He does too.
The rain doesn’t.
“…Did the kiss change anything?”
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 doesn’t.
Finally...
“Yes,” he says.
You freeze.
Then, just as quietly: “How?”
His gaze drops.
He takes a breath.
And says, “I don’t know yet.”
You exhale like you’ve been holding it for hours.
“Great,” you mutter. “That’s so reassuring. Really.”
“I’m not trying to confuse you.”
“You’re not trying anything at all.”
You regret it the second it comes out.
He doesn’t respond.
Not right away.
Instead, he turns back toward the road and starts walking again.
You don’t 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.
“I make everything worse,” you mumble.
“No,” he says, without looking at you. “You don’t.”
The rain falls harder.
But it’s quieter between you now.
Softer.
You glance sideways. “Do you regret it?”
“The kiss?”
You nod.
“No,” he says.
Then, almost too quiet to hear: “But I don’t know what to do with it yet.”
You swallow.
Your hands curl in your sleeves.
“Okay,” you say.
And the rest of the walk is silent.
But it’s the kind of silence you don’t have to run from.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
It’s 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.
“I don’t know what to do with it yet.”
Since then, nothing’s 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 you’ve changed.
Or maybe, you’ve just run out of places to hide it.
There’s 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.
It’s exhausting, loving someone like that.
Someone so precise. So unreadable.
So cold on the surface, but soft in the moments he doesn’t realize you’re watching.
And you’re tired.
You’re 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.
“Come with me,” you say.
He blinks.
But follows.
You don’t take him far.
Just the rooftop, the one place at school no one bothers to check, because the lock’s 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 it’s 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 you’re ready to spit out whether it shatters or not.
You turn to him.
He’s standing there like he always does, shoulders squared, eyes flat, jaw tight. Braced for a fight that hasn’t started yet.
He doesn’t ask why you brought him up here.
He doesn’t have to.
You take a breath.
You’ve been rehearsing this for days.
But now that it’s here, it feels heavier than it ever did in your head.
“I like you.”
The words cut clean.
Sharp.
He blinks.
But doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t know how, or why,” you go on, louder this time, hands trembling at your sides, “and I sure as hell didn’t plan to. But I do. I like you.”
The silence crackles between you like something alive.
You laugh.
It’s bitter.
“I’ve been waiting,” you say. “This whole time. For something. Anything. For you to say something that told me I wasn’t insane. That I wasn’t just seeing things that weren’t there.”
His mouth parts, barely.
But no sound comes out.
You swallow.
Hard.
“I’m not trying to pressure you. This isn’t about that. I’m just, done.”
His eyes lift to meet yours.
You feel it like a bruise.
“I’m tired of guessing how you feel. Tired of making excuses for your silence. Tired of pretending I don’t care when you act like nothing happened. Like I didn’t kiss you. Like we didn’t...feel something.”
You pause, breathing shaky.
“I just wanted you to know. Before I let go.”
Silence.
You close your eyes.
And whisper, softer this time:
“I’m letting go.”
You move to turn around.
But,
“Don’t.”
Your feet freeze.
You turn slowly.
His voice is quieter than anything you’ve ever heard him say.
Almost like it hurts.
“…Don’t let go yet.”
Your heart stops.
He’s still staring at you.
But there’s something different in his gaze now.
Something raw.
Unmasked.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he says, the words awkward on his tongue like he’s still testing how they sound. “I didn’t plan to feel anything either. I didn’t mean to.”
You don’t speak.
You don’t even breathe.
“But I did.”
Your breath catches.
He shifts his weight, like this is physically difficult. Like the confession is stuck in his chest, fighting to get out.
“You matter to me,” 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.
“I didn’t want to say something and not mean it right. I didn’t want to promise anything I couldn’t give.”
“You don’t have to promise anything,” you say quietly. “I just wanted to know if it was real.”
“It is.”
It’s so quiet, you almost miss it.
Your fingers twitch at your sides.
“Then why didn’t you say anything before?”
He looks at you, really looks.
“…Because if I lost you, I didn’t want it to be because I said the wrong thing.”
Your throat burns.
“I was already halfway gone.”
“I know.”
And still, he takes a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
Until he’s 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 doesn’t touch.
“But I want you to stay.”
You inhale sharply.
His eyes don’t move from yours.
“You said you’re letting go,” he murmurs.
“…Yeah.”
“Don’t.”
You almost laugh.
Instead, your lip trembles.
“You’re really bad at this.”
“I know.”
And then...
He leans forward.
Just slightly.
His forehead brushes yours.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
Just that quiet, electric closeness.
That unbearable tension.
“I can’t say everything you want me to say,” he whispers. “Not yet. But I feel it. All of it.”
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 🤭🤭 i dont judge here. also js ask me random questions and ill answer them
