UNREQUITED yeon sieun x reader
summary!: You’ve had a quiet crush on Yeon Sieun for what feels like forever, obvious to everyone, even him. Despite your popularity and his usual indifference, something shifts one ordinary school day. When bullies cross a line, and you're the one to defend him, your world and his unexpectedly collide. A late-night tutoring session turns into something much more, something neither of you can quite put into words.
Pairing: oblivious!sieun x pining!femalereader
Trope: academic rivals (ish), to reluctant crush
Genre: fluff, slice of life, school life, romance
Note: i needed to write something for sieun, he's been invading my mind. also, i feel the need to write something for suho and beomseok. yes even beomseok.
Word count: 4k
warnings !: none!
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft white glow over the rows of students slouched at their desks. Outside the classroom windows, the sky is clear, just blue and clouds and the occasional rustle of wind. It’s one of those rare calm mornings, the kind where everything feels still, yet full of potential.
Your pen glides across the page with practiced rhythm, highlighting a line of notes in pink. You’re not really studying, you already read this chapter, twice even, but it’s something to do while waiting for the teacher.
Around you, the usual murmur of chaos unfolds: chairs scraping, laughter bubbling from random groups, the distant thump of someone playing music too loud through their earphones.
Suho is, unsurprisingly, dead asleep at his desk beside you. Face smooshed against his pink arm pilllow, hair a wild mess, mouth slightly open.
You narrow your eyes at him.
He’s been like that since first bell.
You reach down, grab a rubber ball from your pencil case, and flick it at his forehead.
Thunk.
He jerks up with a strangled grunt. “What the hell—?!”
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” you say sweetly, flipping your pen between your fingers. “Drooled a little, by the way.”
He wipes his cheek and glares at you. “I was in the middle of a dream.”
“Yeah? Dreaming about being a normal functioning student for once?”
He flips you off without looking. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re welcome.”
The two of you bicker like this every morning, a rhythm so natural it’s practically a warm-up for your brain. You’re close with Suho, not in a romantic way (which is something you two used to get mistaken for), but the kind of close that only comes from years of mutual trust, shared secrets, and stupid arguements.
You nudge him with your elbow. “You snored.”
“Liar.”
“Ask the class.”
“Ask your mom.”
You gasp. “Wow. You’re bold for someone who failed last month’s exam.”
“Bold for someone who’s still pining over Mr. Calculator up there,” he mutters.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
He jerks his chin toward the front row.
Yeon Sieun sits in his usual spot, upright and pristine. His desk is spotless, not a single pen out of line. He reads from a thick textbook like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.
You try not to look.
You fail.
His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, just enough to soften the sharpness of his features. There’s something annoyingly elegant about him, even when he does nothing but sit and read.
“I’m not pining,” you say, a little too fast.
Suho smirks. “You literally sighed when you looked at him yesterday.”
“I was yawning.”
“You whispered ‘he’s so mysterious’ under your breath.”
“You have no proof.”
“I recorded it.”
You smack his arm. He snickers and slouches deeper into his chair.
The truth is: yeah, okay. You might be a little into Sieun.
Okay, a lot.
It’s not just the looks (though the looks are a problem). It’s the way he moves, like he’s too precise for this world. The way he’s smarter than every teacher but never brags. The way he somehow makes silence feel heavier than shouting.
But also? The way he doesn’t give a single shit about you.
It’s maddening.
He’s the only guy who’s never flirted, never smiled, never acknowledged your existence beyond the occasional polite nod. And for some reason? That makes you like him even more.
You sigh, quietly this time, and go back to pretending to study.
That’s when you hear it.
The slap of sneakers against the floor. The loud, lazy laughter of guys who think volume equals confidence.
Yeongbin and Jeongchan swagger into the classroom like they own it, already bumping into chairs and shouting inside jokes no one else fucking cares about.
“Here comes the circus,” Suho mutters under his breath.
You glance up just in time to see Jeongchan knock over someone’s water bottle with a flick of his foot. No apology. Of course not. He's the same guy who made a poor student record himself dancing to some k-pop song, the same guy who forced another student to eat their own shoe.
You tense. Watchful.
They don’t usually mess with Sieun. Not because they respect him, but because they’re scared of you.
Everyone knows. Everyone knows you’ve got it bad for him. Even the bullies. Especially the bullies. And up ‘til now, they’ve been smart enough to steer clear.
But something’s different today.
Yeongbin tosses a paper ball.
It lands right on Sieun’s desk.
You sit up straighter.
Sieun looks up. His movements are slow, deliberate. The kind of calm that feels dangerous. He doesn’t speak, just stares, those beautiful, dark eyes of his staring into yeongbin.
Yeongbin grins. “What, you got something to say?”
The class quiets.
You can feel it coming. That shift. That storm in the air.
Before Sieun can respond, you do.
You shove your chair back and stand, voice sharp.
“Hey!” The word cracks like a whip. “Why don’t you fuck off for once, huh? Or are you so bored you have to pick fights with someone ten times smarter than your dumbass?”
The entire class goes “Ooooohhhhhh—” like it’s a playground fight.
Yeongbin opens his mouth, but you stand up and walk past your desk.
“Say one more word and I’ll rearrange your face.”
He snorts. “Damn. Sieun’s bitch is barking now?”
You take the blow and smile sweetly. “I bite.”
The door slides open.
The teacher walks in.
Everyone snaps back into their seats.
But the air doesn’t go back to normal, not really.
You glance at Sieun.
He’s already turned back to his book, like nothing happened.
But you swear,
Just for a second,
His eyes flicked to you.
The classroom settles into something like silence, not the peaceful kind, but the awkward, tight-lipped kind that hangs in the air after something just barely avoided becoming a scene. You slide back into your seat, heart still beating a little fast from earlier. You’re not usually one to shout in class, but Yeongbin and his idiot minions had it coming.
Beside you, Suho lets out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
You huff, flick your pen at him again. “Should’ve been on that note weeks ago.”
He chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head with the casual smugness of someone who has no idea what’s about to hit him. “You’re so protective of him,” he says, nodding subtly toward the front.
You glance up, instinctively. Sieun’s still reading, his posture perfect, back straight, fingers curled neatly around a black pen. He hasn’t even looked back at you. Not once. No gratitude, no reaction, not even a single twitch of acknowledgement.
Your lips twist into something between a pout and a sigh.
Suho watches you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Unrequited love is crazy.”
“I will break your nose.”
“You can try.”
Before you can retaliate, the teacher’s voice cuts through the room.
“Alright, everyone, settle down. Time to return your exams.”
A groan ripples through the class. People shift nervously in their seats, the bravado from a few minutes ago immediately melting into dread. Even Suho straightens a little, lips pressing together in quiet fear.
You swallow.
Right.
The exam.
You did study. Kind of. You had good intentions. But between school drama, watching late-night films, and… okay, maybe you spent too much time scrolling through study playlists and not enough actually studying.
Still. You’re usually solid. You’ll be fine.
The teacher begins handing out the papers, row by row, her voice a low mutter as she comments on the scores.
“Kim Haejo, 83… Not bad, but you rushed the last page.”
“Lee Da-in, 71. Need to revise the essay format.”
Then she reaches the front.
You catch it before it’s even announced, just a flicker of movement as the teacher places the paper down in front of Sieun.
A full page. Crisp red ink.
A perfect score. 100.
Your stomach twists.
Of course.
Of course he did.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t smirk or even blink. He just takes the paper, places it neatly on the corner of his desk, and moves on like it’s no big deal. Like being flawless is just routine.
You look away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek.
Jealousy isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like… admiration mixed with frustration. You don’t want to be him, but you want to be near him. Want him to see you. Acknowledge you. Just once.
The teacher finally reaches your row.
You brace yourself.
And then,
“y/n. 61.”
…
You blink.
Sixty-what?
You take the paper with frozen fingers, eyes scanning the red marks. You did… that badly?
Suho leans over, peering at your score. His face splits into a grin so wide, you want to smack it off. “Ohhhh, damn. That’s tragic.”
You jab your elbow into his ribs. “Don’t speak to me.”
“Sixty-one? From the girl who color-codes her notes?”
“At least I didn’t fail,” you shoot back, flipping over his paper.
32.
You stare at it. Then stare at him.
He looks smug.
You burst out laughing.
“I knew you were stupid,” you manage between wheezes. “But this is a new record.”
He throws a pencil at you. “Betrayal in my own home.”
“This isn’t your home. This is a battlefield and you just died.” You stick your tongue up at him and throw up the middle finger just as the teacher turns around.
No one pays attention when you two go back to your silly banter, hitting each other with the now rolled up exam paper.
And you don’t see it, not right away, but he does glance.
Sieun.
A brief, subtle glance over his shoulder. No emotion, no expression. Just a quick flick of his eyes in your direction, as if cataloguing your laughter, the way your shoulders shake, the brightness of your grin.
Then he turns back around.
Not a word. Not a sound.
Just that single glance.
And for some reason?
Your heart skips.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The school bell rings with its usual shrill tone, sharp and final. The moment it does, chairs scrape against the floor and chatter explodes through the classroom like a shaken soda can. Students flood the hallway in clusters, some rushing for cram school, others heading to convenience stores or the bus stop. You take your time packing up, partly because you’re still mourning your exam score, partly because your stomach is doing backflips over what you’re about to do.
Suho’s long gone, he practically sprinted out as soon as the final bell rang, muttering something about street food and a nap.
Coward.
You, on the other hand, have a plan.
Well… "plan" might be generous. It’s more like a vague, impulsive idea wrapped in the thin tissue paper of hope.
You zip up your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way out of class, your heart thudding just a little too hard.
You spot him a few meters ahead. Sieun. Walking alone, as always, head slightly bowed, backpack hanging neat and square on his shoulders. The hallway crowds shift and part around him like he’s not even there, like his existence doesn’t need space or sound. He moves like he’s got somewhere to be, even if it’s just home.
You follow.
Casually, of course.
Not like a creep.
You keep a few steps behind, pretending to scroll through your phone, eyes flicking up now and then to track his outline as he exits through the school gates.
The sun’s dipped low now, casting everything in that soft, honey-colored light that makes even cracked pavement look cinematic. Spring’s in the air, cool, but not cold, the breeze gentle against your skin. The sounds of traffic and distant conversations float through the open air.
He walks in a straight line, deliberate and quiet, like everything he does. There’s a certain rhythm to his movements, shoulders squared, steps even, gaze fixed ahead. You don’t think he’s noticed you.
Until he suddenly stops.
You freeze, nearly tripping over your own feet.
He turns around, slowly.
Your heart lurches into your throat.
You quickly look to the side, pretending to admire a particularly interesting patch of sidewalk cracks. Casual. Totally natural. Nothing weird here.
His gaze lingers for a second longer than it needs to, blank, unreadable.
Then, just like that, he turns back and continues walking.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Okay. That could’ve gone worse.
You pick up your pace just a bit. It’s not far now, you know he usually takes this route down past the old bookstore, then cuts across the quieter residential area. You’ve seen him do it before. Not that you were watching on purpose. That one time was purely coincidence. Probably.
After another few seconds, you decide to just do it. No more stalling.
You break into a few quick steps until you’re walking beside him, not too close, not too far. Just enough to feel the difference in your breathing. Just enough to hear the slight swish of his backpack straps when he walks.
He slows down a fraction. Looks at you out of the corner of his eye.
You stop right in front of him.
He stops too.
The breeze rustles your hair, brushing it into your face. You tuck it behind your ear, suddenly very aware of how loud your heartbeat is.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just stares.
His face is neutral. Impassive. A little tired around the eyes.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. You clear your throat.
“Um.”
Still nothing.
You press on. “So… I kinda sucked on the exam.”
Silence.
You glance up at him. He blinks. Slowly.
“I mean, I usually do okay, but this time I just…” You trail off, swallowing. “Anyway. I was wondering if...maybe, you could, I don’t know. Help me study? A little?”
He stares.
You smile, trying not to let it wobble. “I’m not asking for, like, full-time tutoring or anything. Just… a couple sessions. One? One session? A single hour of your genius brain?”
Still no response.
You shift your bag again. “I’ll pay you,” you add quickly. “With snacks. Or drinks. Or loyalty. Whatever currency you prefer.”
He blinks again.
Finally, after what feels like a century, he speaks. “…Why me?” His deep voice almost sends you into a coma.
You blink. “Why… you?”
He nods once. “You have other friends. Why me?”
You exhale a soft laugh, surprised. “Well, yeah, I do. But none of them got a hundred on the exam. You’re kind of the smartest person I know.”
He looks like he wants to deny it, but doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “You don’t even like me.”
Your brows shoot up. “Wait, what? Who told you that?”
He tilts his head, voice low. “Isn’t that what people like Suho always say? That you ‘pine’ for me?” His tone is unreadable. Not mocking, exactly. Just… dry.
Damn Suho, always getting in your way regardless of his presence.
You flush instantly. “That’s not--I don’t--okay, first of all, Suho’s an idiot.”
“Mm.”
“And second of all--” You pause. “Wait. You actually knew about that?”
He shrugs. “Everyone does.”
You stare at him, mortified. “That’s so embarrassing.”
He says nothing.
“Like, deeply, deeply embarrassing.”
Still nothing.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, fine, yes. I have a crush on you. Had. Had a crush. Past tense. Ancient history. Practically prehistoric.”
“…Right.”
You squint at him. “Are you mocking me?”
He shrugs again.
You exhale, deflating slightly. “Look. Can we just skip the awkward and go straight to the part where you say yes?”
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then, softly, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “Fine.”
Your eyes widen. “Wait, really?”
He nods.
“Just like that?”
“…Don’t make me regret it.”
You grin. “Never.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The library is tucked into the corner of an older street, nestled between a stationery shop and a run-down tea house that’s been closed for as long as you can remember. The sign is a little faded, the glass door sticks when you pull it open, and the smell inside is a mix of paper, dust, and old wood polish. It’s not the kind of place most students bother with, too quiet, too slow, too analog in a world of glowing screens and digital flashcards.
But for some reason, it feels just right.
He holds the door open for you, wordless as ever. You step inside with a murmur of thanks, trying not to show how fast your heart is beating.
The place is nearly empty, just one older woman sitting at a table near the window, a stack of romance novels beside her, and a student asleep over his textbook in the far corner. The air is still, padded and soft, every sound muffled by the thick carpet and the shelves rising around you like wooden sentinels.
Sieun leads the way, moving with his usual precision. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a steady, even pace that seems immune to nerves or second-guessing. You wonder what that’s like.
You follow him to a back table, one of the smaller ones, pressed against a wall of korean history texts and outdated encyclopedias. The light overhead is warm, casting a soft halo on the table’s scratched surface.
You take a seat, pulling out your notebook. He sits opposite you, already unpacking a textbook and a pencil case so neat and minimal it could’ve come straight out of a study vlog.
You try to act casual, flipping open your notes. “So… where do we start?”
He glances up, then reaches for your exam paper, the one you reluctantly brought with you in your bag.
“Your structure’s fine,” he says, scanning it. “You lose points on clarity. You rush your conclusions. You don’t support your arguments.”
You blink. “Wow, okay. Go easy on me.”
“I am.”
You squint. “That was you being gentle?”
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching, just a fraction. If you weren’t looking so closely, you might’ve missed it.
You grin to yourself. Progress.
He flips the exam to a specific paragraph and pushes it toward you. “Rewrite this. Just the ending.”
You oblige, biting your pen and focusing on the sentence. But your eyes keep drifting, over the paper, to his hands. Long fingers, pale knuckles, one thumbnail slightly chipped. His handwriting is ridiculously clean. You watch the way he taps his pencil against the page, once, twice, and then stops when you look up again.
“Are you going to do it,” he asks without looking up, “or are you going to keep staring at me like that?”
You freeze.
“…Huh?”
“You’ve been sighing every five minutes,” he says, voice flat but not unkind. “And leaning on your palm like we’re filming a drama.”
You jolt upright, yanking your hand away from your cheek. “Oh my god.”
His eyes flick up to you now. His expression is unreadable, but you swear his ears are a little red.
You sink slightly into your seat. “I wasn’t sighing that much.”
He doesn’t reply.
“…Okay, maybe I was. But I wasn’t daydreaming. I was just, resting my face.”
He looks back down at your exam. “Whatever you say.”
You groan, slumping back in your chair. “You’re so mean.”
“You asked me to help you.”
“I didn’t think tutoring came with constructive criticism.”
Another twitch of his mouth. That almost-smile again.
You let yourself smile too, just a little. There’s something weirdly comforting about his bluntness. Like it cuts through the chaos in your head. No fake politeness, no performance. Just him.
“Alright, fine,” you mutter, pulling your notebook closer. “Keep violating me. But only if it helps.”
He hands you another worksheet. “It does.”
You glare at him, but take it anyway.
The next half hour is quieter. More focused. He’s a good teacher, in his own awkward way, clear, patient, methodical. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t roll his eyes when you ask dumb questions. Sometimes he pauses too long, searching for the right word, and you realize how carefully he chooses what to say, even if it’s just about sentence structure.
You steal glances when he’s not looking.
The way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he’s reading. The subtle crease between his brows when he’s thinking. The way he taps his fingers on the table in quiet, rhythmic patterns.
You realize, in that moment, that you really, really like him.
And not just because he’s smart or pretty or mysterious. But because of this. This quiet version of him. The one who sits across from you and treats you like someone worth teaching. The one who doesn't flinch when you ask dumb questions. The one who, though he pretends not to notice, does see you.
“You’re staring again.”
You jump, snapping back to reality. “I’m not!”
“You sighed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You also smiled for no reason.”
You cross your arms. “Are you secretly a detective or something? How do you notice everything?”
He pauses. Then shrugs. “You’re easy to read.”
Your stomach flips.
“That’s rude,” you say.
“It’s not,” he replies. “You just… wear everything on your face.”
You blink.
He’s still looking at you, finally really looking, and for a moment, the space between you feels heavier. Like something unsaid is hovering in the air, thick and electric.
You don’t know what to say.
So you look away. Down at your paper. Up at the clock.
“Oh my god, it’s dark out.”
He glances at the window. He nods.
You both pack your things, slower than necessary. The library’s even emptier now. The romance novel lady is gone. So is the sleeping student. The silence is somehow louder, now that it’s just the two of you.
You walk out side by side, the door creaking behind you. The air is colder now, the sky a soft navy blue, stars barely visible through the haze of city lights. Street lamps flicker on, painting the sidewalk gold and orange.
You walk together in silence.
It’s not awkward, though.
It’s... comfortable.
Every few steps, your hands almost brush. But not quite.
You’re nearing your street when you slow down, then stop completely.
He pauses too.
You turn to face him, gripping the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.
“Thanks,” you say. “For today.”
He nods once. “It was fine.”
You laugh softly. “That’s your version of a compliment, huh?”
He looks at you, then away. Shrugs. “You improved.”
“Coming from you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
So, naturally, your brain does something stupid.
Your heart’s racing. Your hands are sweaty. Your legs are jelly. But still, you lean forward, and before you can even think about how insane this is...
You press a quick, soft kiss to his lips.
Just a second. Barely more than a breath.
His lips are cold from the night air, and you can feel the faint, startled inhale he takes, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.
You realize what you just did.
You squeal, a sound that escapes before you can stop it, and stumble back like you’ve been electrocuted.
“I--oh my god--I didn’t mean--I mean I did, but not like that--I mean I didn’t plan it, it just--”
You’re already running.
“BYE,” you yell over your shoulder, clutching your backpack like it’s shielding you from divine judgment.
You don't look back.
You don't dare.
But if you had…
You might’ve seen him standing there, hand half-raised, eyes wide.
And the faintest, smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
a/n: huh.