If you ever get the time do you mind write for gamin yoon from study group?
FRIEND? NOPE, BESTFRIEND!
[ soft yandere! gamin yoon ]
summary: there's no way your bestfriend likes you.
the two of you first met back in middle school.
being a top student back then had its own pro and cons. pro is that your teachers trusts whatever you say. they also gave you scholarship that made your life a little easier.
and the cons? you became an easy target for bullying. there is this specific classmates of yours who made you do their school works. what happens to you when you refused? well, easy. you got beaten up and they take your money.
as annoying as it may sound. you never asked for your adviser's help. because you feared that the bullying might escalate into something far worse than what they were doing right now.
but then, one day- mustering up the courage. for once, you decided to stand up for yourself.
which is a big mistake, because they beat you up. this is far worse than the usual. because they had used bat- something that they never did before.
you wanted to apologize. ask for forgiveness. but you were far too weak to say anything.
as they about to smash a bottle of soju in your head. your bully suddenly fell into the ground after getting kicked by someone. your eyes widened as you recognized that face.
“ yoon gamin...? ”
this guy was famous amongst your batchmates for being the eternal last place.
they always mocked him for it, but gamin never said anything. he just kept quiet and continued on reading books.
yet, the gamin in front of you right now was furious. it was different from the meek gamin yoon that everyone knew.
you wanted to thank him, you really does. but as he goes to your side, asking if you were alright. you passed out.
meanwhile, gamin was panicking. he doesn't know what to do. but for now, he carried you on his back and decided to go to the clinic.
honestly, gamin always noticed you during class discussions. i mean, you were the top of their class so how could he not notice you?
this guy wanted to befriend you so badly. especially after the two of you got partnered in a certain project together. unlike his other classmates who never let him help because he might ruin their project. you included him to everything. planning, buying the materials, making the project itself and passing it to the teachers. you even proudly said that gamin helped after the teacher asked what did he contributed on the project.
gamin likes the fact that you treated everyone equally. he likes the fact that you never hesitates to help anyone who asked for your help.
so today, he decided to talk to you again. to finally ask you if you wanted to be his friend.
but then, he saw you being beaten up by someone. for the first time, after seeing weak body, those bruises and blood dripping from your nose. gamin saw red.
and by the time he came back to reality. he was already carrying you to the clinic.
the next day, while eating lunch. gamin noticed that there is someone who sat next to him. then, he saw you. carrying your own lunch and calmly took a spoonful of your rice.
you were all patch up, but he notices that your arm were bandaged and you were having a hard time on simply holding the spoon.
hesitantly, gamin decided to ask you.
“ how... how are you? ”
with those simple words, gamin cheered internally. yes! he spoke to you first!
you looked at him, explaining that the nurse spent a few hours nagging you while patching you up yesterday. and how she said that you were lucky enough that gamin brought you to the clinic or you might end up in the icu for a whole week.
so, you wanted to thank him and treat him some cake. at first, gamin was hesitant. but when you said that you just wanted to hangout with him. he gave up and agreed.
and after that incident, the two of you had became close friends.
gamin's mom definitely loves you as well as his tutor, hankyung. though, you were confused on why they were smiling brightly whenever they see you and gamin hanging out.
for some reasons, your bullies never approached you again after that incident. you expected that they might want some kind of 'revenge' like what you see on those good ol' manhwa you had read before.
but they never approached you again. while gamin, on the other hand. started following you everywhere.
as a yandere, gamin was the awkward and oblivious type. he is a mess whenever he is in front of you. at first, he is always stuttering and blushing whenever you talk to him. but as time passes by, he managed to overcome it. but he still blushes whenever you were in a close proximity.
he loves seeing you happily talking with his mom. but whenever his mom jokingly asked him when would he confess- gamin's mind would shortcircuit .
my boy is the overprotective type. he knew that your bullies only looked for a chance to strike you. but this boy never let them and started following you around. the people around you jokingly called him 'guard dog' but he never cared.
now, the members of his study group could clearly see that their leader is really down bad when it comes on you.
i mean, whenever you are hanging out with them will only spend his time staring at you. while you on the other hand, just happily talk to them.
when you leave, jiwoo would kick his knees with a frown.
“ you are such a wuss! ”
she says, followed by their friends laughs.
gamin would only stare at them with a confused look which made his friends more frustrated.
an oblivious simp who fell in love with a dense brainy student. yeah, seeing that they are both in love with each other but they had no idea that they were is pretty annoying if you ask them.
but for now, gamin is contented on being your bestfriend. after all, bestfriends had some perks that a boyfriend couldn't have.
“ me? being in love with ( name )? n-no! no! it's not like tha-! is it bad? am I that obvious...? ”
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Summary: You were supposed to help him heal—but he decided he needed you instead.
Note: anon request!! (They just wanted smut, but I still gave it some backstory hehe)
⸻
You were a psychologist.
When you first met Phi Han Wool, he was an inmate at a juvenile detention center. Charged with assault, murder, and organized crime. But he didn’t look terrifying anymore. His shoulders were slouched. His head slightly lowered. He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t look around. He’d been escorted in by two guards, but he hadn’t resisted. It was as if he didn’t have the strength to.
When you said, “We're gonna have sessions every saturday.” he only gave a faint nod. His gaze was fixed not on you—but on the corner of your desk.
He didn’t say a single word the entire session. But even though his voice never came out, his silence screamed.
There were deep shadows under his eyes, scars on his knuckles—and above all, that unbearable silence that wrapped itself around him like a second skin.
Still, you kept talking. Soft voice. No pressure. Empathy. Patience. Nothing came back.
At the end, you simply jotted down a few notes in your file and ended the session.
But when you left the room— you saw his face in the window. And for a moment, he was looking at you.
For the first time.
As if something had cracked inside the silence. Small. Barely there. But it was real. And behind that crack… you could sense something beginning to stir.
You didn’t know what it was just yet but maybe—just maybe—he already knew that day, you’d end up being more than just a psychologist.
There was still a spark beneath all that ruin and you were the first to see it.
⸻
First came familiarity.
Familiarity didn’t mean trust—not for someone like him but he got used to your voice. To the sound of your pen scribbling notes. To the way you always pulled your chair back two fingers before sitting.
And slowly… he started talking. But only to you. Not to the guards. Not to the other inmates.
Only you.
Every time he came in, his eyes searched for you. When you were late, he stared at the door—unblinking.
You thought it was connection. But it wasn’t.
It was an addiction.
You had become his greatest mental obsession.
And eventually, under the quiet weight of his twisted fixation— you would either become his, or disappear into the silence with him.
⸻
One day, he didn’t want to talk.
When he walked into your office, his eyes flicked up to yours—just for a second—then dropped to the floor. You asked, “Are you okay today?” No answer. Just a small shake of the head. Not bad. But not good, either.
If you pretended nothing was wrong, he would too. So you stayed quiet with him.
You sat side by side. Not close, but not far either.
Minutes passed.
No words. Just breathing.
Then—suddenly—he turned. Leaning in quietly. Slowly.
He laid his head on your chest. Didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. He just… did it.
You froze.
But when he pressed into you— he exhaled. Deeply. As if he’d been holding that breath for weeks. Maybe months.
You slowly raised your hand, resting it on his back. And he shivered—just once.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, brushing gently. Like he’d been waiting for this closeness for years. Like he’d needed it, but never dared to ask.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t open his eyes. He just stayed there.
And you didn’t say anything either.
Because words weren’t needed.
⸻
Everything changed after that.
In the next sessions, he listened to you more closely. His eyes lit up—just for a second—when he saw you.
He started sitting closer.
He talked. But still—only to you. He smiled. But only when you said something.
And one day, he asked:
“What did you do to me?”
“Because no one’s ever made me feel like this.”
⸻
The office was quiet that day. The session had gone on a little longer than usual.
But it wasn’t a session anymore. It was tension. It was two people who had wanted each other in silence—finally breaking.
You were leaned over your desk, fingers wrapped around your pen, but your mind was on nothing but him.
He took one step toward you. Then another. And suddenly—he was right in front of you.
He reached out and cupped your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your lips.
“Just for a moment,” he said. “Forget everything.”
He leaned down to your neck, and when his lips touched your skin, your breath spilled out like a secret.
He kissed you slowly. Then deeper. Then—like he’d wanted this for years—he pressed his mouth into your neck and didn’t let go.
Your hands instinctively found his back. You gripped his prison uniform, your lips parting—but no sound came. Because your body had already given him permission.
He pulled back just a little, locking eyes with you. He reached for the buttons on your blouse. One by one. Slow. Intentional.
And with each one he undid—he kissed the newly exposed skin. Your collarbone. The slope of your ribs. The curve of your waist.
And each kiss was a quiet confession.
When he laid you down on the desk, you didn’t speak. Your feet barely touched the ground. One of his hands cradled your head. The other settled on your hip—pulling you to him.
His body pressed down on yours, heat radiating between you.
“Han Wool… this isn’t right…” you whispered against his lips.
But he didn’t back away. He didn’t even flinch.
“No, this is the only right thing I’ve ever done.”
Then he kissed you. Not rough. Not hungry.
But like he owned you and maybe he did.
Your hands slid down his back. Your mouths lost all distance. He stripped off his uniform. Your skin met his. Your heartbeat brushed against his chest.
And in that moment, there were no rules. No ethics. No guilt.
Just him. Just you. And the sound of two people coming undone.
His weight pressed into you. Every breath between you deepened. All that remained were touches.
For the first time, truly, there was no going back.
He slid his hand down your chest, to your stomach, lingering—then stopped at the band of your underwear.
Eyes locked with yours, he whispered: “I’m asking one last time.”
You nodded.
And he began pulling them down—slow, delicate—like he was memorizing every inch. Like he wasn’t touching you for the first time—but the last.
He moved lower. Kissed beneath your collarbone. Your breasts. Your stomach. Your hips.
Each kiss made you breathe harder. Each kiss made you tremble more.
And then—his lips found your most intimate place.
His tongue started slow. Then deeper. Wet. Hot. Addictive.
You grabbed his hair. Tried to pull him back—but he pushed deeper.
Eyes locked on yours, his tongue never stopped. Neither did his fingers.
One inside. Then two.
Every thrust made you shudder. Made your body scream one name—
Han Wool.
He finally pulled back, wiped his chin, but never broke eye contact.
He unzipped his pants and when his cock sprang free, your body arched involuntarily.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
You couldn’t speak. Just nodded.
His hands gripped your thighs. And he slid in—slow, deep, like he was carving himself into you.
You gasped. Your body lit up from the inside out.
He pulled out. Thrust again. Heavy. Precise. Claiming.
He leaned down and bit your neck—not hard, just enough to leave a mark.
He moved faster. The sound of the desk creaking. Skin on skin. His breath ragged. Your moans muffled.
You said his name. He said yours.
Then—he stopped using it.
Because now, your name was “mine.” Your name was “only for me.”
Your name… was the only light in his darkness.
When you both came—together—his hands gripped your waist like he’d fall without you.
He collapsed against you. Your chests heaving.
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“Finally,” he whispered.
“Now we’re both free.”
⸻
You were still trembling. Still pinned to the desk. Still covered in him.
The office was dark now. You didn’t know how long had passed.
You sat up. He was still watching you. Like nothing else mattered.
“Session’s long over,” you said quietly. “They’ll suspect something. You need to go.”
He didn’t blink. Just reached up, cradled your chin, tilted your face to his.
“You let me touch you…” he said—low, dangerous. “And now you want me to leave?”
You opened your mouth—but he kissed you. Hard. Tongue, teeth, breath—everything. He devoured your answer.
And then, he pulled back. Eyes locked.
“See you.” he said softly.
Then turned.
Right before opening the door—he glanced over his shoulder.
“This isn’t over.”
And left.
But you knew, in your bones—this was just the beginning.
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Masterlist unlocked!
Just a gentle reminder that the works in this corner may contain smut, yandere themes, and dark content all intended for readers who are 18+ only. Each piece will come with its own content warnings, so if something ever feels a bit too much or uncomfortable, it's totally okay to click away. Your comfort always comes first!
WEAK HERO CLASS : ONE
A quiet but deadly student takes on ruthless bullies with brains and brutal fists in a high school where survival means fighting back.
YEON SIEUN ──★
Twisted : Walking home used to be routine. Easy. Safe. Now? Every step feels like a mistake. There's this feeling that's clinging to me like a second skin that I'm not alone. That someone... is always just out of sight. (completed)
The Bystander Effect : He stepped closer again, and this time your back hit the edge of a desk. His voice came out low, slow, like a knife dragged across glass. “You stood there.” You shook your head. “No—I—” “You watched. You didn’t stop it.” (completed)
AHN SUHO ──★
The Package Deal : "Fuck,” Suho groaned, head falling forward against your chest as he bottomed out. “So fucking tight…” You cried out, the sound raw and shattering, but Sieun caught it, swallowed it with his mouth against your cheek. “Breathe,” he whispered, voice like silk. “Let him in.” (completed)
featuring : Yeon Sieun ☆
OH BEOMSEOK ──★
Word for Word : “You ever meet someone who just feels off?” you ask, stabbing your straw into a watery iced americano. Suho and Sieun trade a glance—Suho half-hidden in his hoodie, Sieun boredly tearing at his sandwich. “That Beom-seok guy?” Sieun says. (completed)
WEAK HERO CLASS : TWO
A quiet but lethal student battles ruthless bullies using sharp intellect and ruthless fists in a high school where loyalty is rare and survival demands strength.
SERIES 𝜗𝜚⋆
The Art of Breaking People - (completed)
Pretty Mouth : “You’re not leaving,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “not until we fix that mouth of yours.” (completed)
featuring : Geum Seong Je ☆
Bring A Friend : “You look so fucking pretty like this,” Seongje said, voice low . Baekjin didn’t speak at first, he just reached out brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch. (completed)
featuring : Geum Seong Je ☆ Na Baekjin
Want me to tell Him? : “Want me to tell him?,” Seongje said, rising from the leather couch like a serpent uncoiling, “I mean, I think he should see what kind of girl you really are.” (completed)
featuring : Geum Seong Je ☆ Na Baekjin ☆ Park Humin
GEUM SEONG JE ──★
Pretty Little Thing : His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind that said he wasn’t seeing a person. Just… something he could get his hands on. “Well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil over something sharp. “Didn’t know you came with accessories, Hyun-Tak.” (completed)
You made it hurt : "See?" he whispered, his voice husky but perfectly clear, devoid of real passion. "This is better. Isn't it? When you stop fighting it. It doesn't have to hurt this much. You make it hurt." You did this. Your struggle caused this pain. (completed)
NA BAEKJIN ──★
Sing for Me : “Babe,” he said, breathless, eyes wide, already rewriting the moment in his head. “I’m so sorry.” He reached for you. “Don’t fucking touch me.” Your voice didn’t sound like it belonged to you. (completed)
TRIGGER
A quiet but deadly student becomes entangled in an underground world of illegal firearms and merciless violence to survive brutal enemies in a high school where power belongs to whoever pulls the trigger first.
KANG SEONGJOON ──★
This is all you're good for : Across the room, Seongjoon stares at you with a promise in his eyes. You smile back. You did promise your dad you’d stay out of trouble. You just never promised you wouldn’t enjoy it when it found you.(completed)
featuring : Park Gyujin ☆
STUDY GROUP
a school where fists speak louder than books, a quiet student joins a brutal fight club to protect his friends and prove brains can brawl too.
MINHWAN MA ──★
Hide & Seek : Just as the metallic click of Min-Hwan’s modified gun froze her veins, a whisper “I see you” came from behind, and when she turned, he was already there. (completed)
PI HANWOOL ──★
Casualty : You didn’t know how long the lock would last. But you did know something: They were going to get in and when they did, they won’t hold back. (completed)
featuring : Minhwan Ma ☆
VIGILANTE
A model student by day and ruthless vigilante by night, he hunts down criminals the law lets slip through, delivering justice in a society where the system is broken.
KIM JIYONG ──★
You See, Baby….. : “That’s better.” Jiyong’s voice softened, but his smile stayed sharp as he twirled the knife like a toy, stepping slowly toward the bed. “You were always mine, baby. You just didn’t know it yet.” (completed)
BLOODHOUNDS S1
Two fearless young boxers team up to take down a ruthless loan shark empire, using loyalty, brutal strength, and relentless determination to protect the innocent in a world where debt destroys lives and mercy is rare.
BLOODHOUNDS S2
Two battle-hardened boxers are thrown into an even deadlier fight when a brutal underground international boxing league begins targeting them and the people they love.
YUN TAE GEOM ──★
Camera Shy : "Oh, matching." Tae-geom's voice came from somewhere above the blade. ""This for someone? Gun-woo or Woo-jin?" His hand landed on your chest. (completed)
LEE DOO YOUNG ──★
No, sweetie. None of that : "No, no, sweetie. None of that." His voice dropped to a croon, soft and implacable as a closing coffin lid. "You are gonna take this. And you're gonna swallow. Every. Last. Drop." (completed)
TOMORROW
A struggling young man’s life changes forever after a near-fatal accident leaves him caught between life and death, forcing him to work with a team of grim reapers.
PARK JOONG GIL ──★
Desperate for approval : "And here I thought hell-spawn were supposed to be difficult." Another stroke down your spine. "Turns out you're just like all the others. Desperate for approval. Desperate to be good at something." His lips brush your temple. "Even if that something is this." (completed)
ONE: HIGH SCHOOL HEROES
A group of undercover student heroes fight evil in disguise, protecting their school from dark forces in a world where courage means standing tall behind a mask.
TAXI DRIVER
A mysterious but relentless driver delivers justice with calculated moves and brutal force in a world where the law fails and revenge is the only road to redemption.
PARK SEUNGTAE ──★
Failure Has Consequences : “Ah,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “You look so good like this.” His free hand curled possessively around my hip. “So when I ask you to do something,” he whispered, his tone now hushed and dangerous. “I expect it done. Got it?" (completed)
OH HAJOON ──★
Kindness Will Get You Nowhere : “Eyes on me, love,” he whispered. You resisted. Just for a second. Then your gaze met his. Dark eyes. Unblinking. Hungry not with lust, but with power. Like he was savoring this moment, holding it between his teeth. (completed)
SWEET HOME
When a reclusive teenager moves into a crumbling apartment complex after losing his family, his lonely world descends into unimaginable horror as humans begin transforming into grotesque monsters driven by their deepest desires.
SERIES 𝜗𝜚⋆
The Anatomy of Ego - (ongoing)
Alter Ego : You learned that the worst monsters do not lurk in the dark, no they stand right in front of you. They call you pretty. They tell you to take it. And you do, because what else is there? (completed)
featuring : Cha Hyun-Su ☆ with a hint of Lee Eun-Hyuk
Fragile Ego : Danger was a pulse in the walls. Dread was the air you breathed. And Eun-hyuk, he was the god of this small, terrible universe, and you were on your knees before him, exactly where he wanted you. (completed)
featuring : Lee Eun-Hyuk ☆ with a hint of Cha Hyun-Su
I, THE EXECUTIONER
A relentless veteran detective and an ambitious rookie are pulled into a brutal manhunt when a mysterious vigilante begins executing criminals who escaped justice, turning public outrage into dangerous admiration.
PARK SUNWOO ──★
Picture Perfect : You should be happy that your friend is happy. You really should be. But there's something is off with your friend's new boyfriend. (completed)
THE WITCH: PART 1. THE SUBVERSION
follows a seemingly ordinary teenage girl whose quiet life begins to fracture when fragments of a violent past resurface, drawing dangerous forces back into her world.
THE NOBELMAN ──★
Did I? : He tilts his head, that predator's gesture, his eyes drinking in your terror like it's fine wine. "Did I?" he asks, his voice dripping with faux concern. "That sucks." He whistles. (completed)
BRAVE CITIZEN
a once-fiery boxer turned teacher fights back against injustice in her school, proving you don’t need a ring to stand up for what's right.
HAN SUGANG ──★
You Poor Thing : Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard — it feels like a cruel social experiment. But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang. (completed)
MIDNIGHT
A sadistic serial killer stalks the city streets at night, toying with his victims in silence as he hunts a deaf woman who could expose him, turning cruelty into a deadly game of control.
DO-SIK ──★
Run, Rabbit : “If you’d just kept quiet,” he said with a smile, “this poor girl wouldn’t have to die tonight.” He looked at you then. “Run, little rabbit. I’ll give you a head start.” (completed)
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✸synopsis: pi han-ul, the school’s most dangerous student, finds you cornered after hours — and the fear he feels for you cracks open a part of him no one else has ever seen. on a forgotten rooftop above the city, his anger finally unravels into something raw and intimate, pulling you into a kiss that changes everything between you.
✸content warnings: mentions of harassment otherwise pretty tame
✸wc: 3k
✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / i miss study group!!!
[now playing: who am i — &team]
m.list
─────
school after dark feels like a place you were never meant to see. the classrooms are hollow silhouettes behind glass; the hall lights flicker with a low, electric hum; the distant clank of a locker door settling echoes like footsteps that aren’t really there. the air tastes faintly of chalk dust and autumn cold drifting in from cracked windows.
you’re walking fast. maybe too fast. your bag thumps lightly against your hip, the only real sound in the thick, empty corridor. you should’ve left earlier. but you stayed late — stupidly, stubbornly — finishing work in a classroom that’s now locked behind you.
the building feels abandoned. and something in your gut squeezes tight when you hear it — footsteps that aren’t yours. you slow. the footsteps don’t. they multiply — two, three, four — heavy, unhurried. like wolves who’ve already cornered their prey.
your breath turns thin. you turn the corner and freeze so abruptly that your shoes squeak against the tile. a group of boys stand in the middle of the hall — seniors. the kind who live off boredom and bruises. they look up, and the way their expressions sharpen is slow, deliberate, hungry.
one grins. “didn’t think anyone was still here.”
your throat closes. you take a step back— but another boy slides subtly to the side, blocking your retreat. the hall feels too narrow. your heartbeat feels too loud. he steps forward. “relax. we’re just—”
but he doesn’t finish. because the air shifts — someone else is here. not walking. not talking. just appearing. a shadow separates from the darker shadows at the end of the corridor, and pi han-ul steps forward like the hallway belongs to him.
his uniform is half-buttoned, tie loose, jacket hanging off one shoulder like he didn’t bother to put it on properly. there’s a thin scrape along his knuckle that catches the fluorescent light as he pushes a strand of hair off his forehead. he looks exhausted. irritated. like he’s coming down from a fight he didn’t want to stop.
but when his eyes find you — he goes still. his entire posture sharpens, focusing, grounding. like someone hit a switch inside him.
the boys notice him too late. han-ul doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. doesn’t move fast. he just looks at them like they’re inconveniences blocking his path.
then his gaze returns to you. and when he speaks, his voice is soft enough that it shouldn’t scare anyone. but it does. “come here.”
you inhale like you’ve been underwater. the boys stiffen. “what? she mean some—”
han-ul lifts his chin a fraction — the action isn’t a threat. it’s a promise.
“move,” he demands.
just one word. the hallway holds its breath. the boys exchange glances — but there’s no bravado to save them here. something in han-ul’s eyes makes them look away first.
“whatever,” one mutters, shoulders hunching. “we were just talking.”
han-ul’s eyebrow twitches like he finds the excuse pathetic. they step aside — too fast to be nonchalant, moving as one unit.
as you pass them, han-ul shifts, placing himself slightly between you and them — a small, deliberate angle, like a shield he refuses to name. he doesn’t touch you yet. not until you’re out of their reach.
then his fingers graze your wrist. barely. but the touch is warm. steady.
“let’s get out of here,” he murmurs. you nod, even though your pulse is sprinting.
─────
outside, the evening has deepened into something colder, heavier. streetlamps cast pools of yellow light across the courtyard, and dried leaves skitter along the pavement in thin, restless spirals. you expect han-ul to say something sharp. or smug. or teasing. he doesn’t.
he walks next to you in silence — but it’s not the cold kind. it’s the type that’s tuned to you, hyper-aware of every shift in your breathing. his hands are in his pockets, but his eyes flick sideways every few seconds. checking you’re still there.
you stop at the edge of the courtyard. “i’m okay, now. really.”
he stares at you for a beat too long. “you don’t have to pretend.” the words are low, almost quiet enough to miss. but they hit directly.
“i’m not—”
“you’re shaking.” his voice is soft. but not gentle.
you look down at your hands. he’s right. he steps closer — so subtly that you barely notice the distance closing until he’s inches away. the faint smell of soap and cold air clings to his jacket. you swallow, and the sound feels too loud in the quiet courtyard.
his eyes flick down to your hands again, then up to your face — slow, deliberate, assessing. he’s not asking if you’re scared. he already knows. the wind picks up, tugging his hair across his forehead. he doesn’t move it. doesn’t break his stare. his jaw is locked tight enough that you see the muscle ticking near the hinge.
“they scared you,” he says plainly. it isn’t a question. it’s a quiet accusation against the world.
“i’m fine,” you try.
his lids lower half a millimeter. on anyone else, it would look like blinking. on han-ul, it looks like restraint.
“don’t lie,” he murmurs.
there’s no heat in his voice — not the kind that burns. it’s the kind that simmers under steel, the kind that lives in a fighter who trains himself not to explode even when every instinct tells him to.
“i’m not lying.”
“you are.”
the words land like a stone in water — heavy, certain, unshakable. he exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, like he’s trying to wrestle down something that wants to claw its way out of him. anger, maybe. fear. something sharper than both. he takes another step toward you. you don’t move.
his presence is overwhelming in the low light. tall. broad-shouldered. coiled under his skin like a storm he refuses to let break. everything about him is deliberate control — from the way he squares his shoulders to the way his boots scrape the pavement as he closes the last bit of distance.
the courtyard lamp flickers overhead, casting him in a halo of uneven gold. when he speaks again, his voice is flat and steady — but the steadiness only makes it more dangerous.
“if i hadn’t shown up,” he says, “what would they have done?”
your breath catches. he sees it. his eyes darken — not with rage. with something colder. something scarier. his hands are still in his pockets, but his shoulders tighten like he’s holding them there on purpose.
“don’t answer,” he says. “i don’t want to hear your guess.”
you swallow. “han-ul—”
“no.” the word is quiet but final.
he steps even closer, until you feel the warmth of him cut through the cold air. his shadow merges with yours on the ground. your heart is sprinting now, and he notices — you see it in the way his gaze dips to your throat, watching it work with each shallow breath.
“i’m not angry at you,” he says, voice low, roughened. “you do know that, right?”
you nod.
“good.”
he looks away for a second, jaw clenching once, hard, like he’s trying to bite down words he doesn’t trust himself to say. when he looks back, there’s something new in his eyes. not softness. not gentleness. focus.
“i’m angry because someone else thought they could touch you,” he says. “look at you. talk to you. corner you.”
the wind rushes past, lifting leaves and hair and tension all around you — but he doesn’t blink. “i don’t like that.” his voice drops an octave — quiet, razor-edged. “i don’t like anyone thinking they can get close to you.”
your breath stutters. he sees that too.
for the first time, he breaks his own rule and takes a hand out of his pocket. his knuckles are still scraped, the skin raw from some fight he probably didn’t even bother to mention. slowly — deliberately — he lifts that hand. his fingertips hover near your cheek. not touching. not quite. the heat of him brushes your skin like a warning.
“you’re still shaking,” he says again, softer now.
“because you’re scaring me,” you breathe.
that gets him. his jaw tightens, and he drops his hand instantly — as if touching you would set off something he isn’t ready to face. he steps back half an inch. not much. just enough to breathe.
“i’m not trying to scare you,” he tells you. the controlled fury is still there — banked embers under calm ash — but it shifts, cooling, redirecting. “i’m trying not to.”
you stare at him. and for a fraction of a second, you see it — the boy beneath the chaos. the one who watches every hallway you walk through. the one who gets angry when he’s worried. the one who feels safer in fights than in moments like this.
the courtyard light flickers again, then steadies. han-ul’s shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, and his voice drops to a rumble you feel more than hear.
“come with me,” he says. not a demand. not a command. a request. quiet and taut and impossibly vulnerable beneath all the steel.
the city is a bruise-colored sprawl beneath you. han-ul didn’t say where he was taking you — he just hooked a finger in the strap of your backpack, tugged once in silent instruction, and walked. not fast. not slow. just with purpose. like if he stopped moving, the anger simmering under his skin would finally boil over.
you follow him across empty streets and past shuttered storefronts, the cold air stinging your cheeks. he doesn’t look back, but you can feel him checking on you in every sharp exhale, in the way he slows half a step when you stumble over a broken bit of pavement.
the rooftop is old — the kind of building that probably used to be something important twenty years ago. now it’s forgotten. a place no one looks at twice. perfect for someone like him.
han-ul pushes open the metal door. it groans in protest, its hinges shrieking. the air up here is colder, thinner, carrying the scent of exhaust, rain-soaked concrete, and the metallic tang of city night.
the skyline glitters in uneven lines — neon signs blinking, windows glowing like fractured stars. the wind whips at your clothes, pulling hair across your face. han-ul walks to the edge.
you hover several feet back. he braces both hands on the railing, head bowed. his shoulders rise and fall in slow, uneven breaths. he looks like a storm trying not to tear itself open.
you wait. you know better than to speak first.
his voice comes out rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “they shouldn’t have been near you.”
you swallow. “i’m all right.”
he laughs — not a real laugh. a sharp, humorless breath. “don’t say that right now.”
you blink. “han-ul—”
he turns.
the wind shoves cold air between you, but his expression makes everything inside you go still. his jaw is tight, eyes too bright under the flickering rooftop light. anger coils through every line of him — but it’s not the wild kind you’ve seen when someone pushes him in the hallway. this is quieter. heavier. almost frightening in its restraint.
“i almost hit one of them.” the words scrape out of him. “i wanted to.”
you step closer. “they didn’t touch me.”
“that doesn’t matter.” his voice cracks — barely, but it does. “the way they looked at you—”
the sentence closes in on itself. his knuckles flex.
he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he can’t stay still. “i’m good at fighting. that’s all i’m good at. i know that. but i—” he grits his teeth. “i lose it when it comes to you.”
your heart presses hard against your ribs. “han-ul.”
but he’s spiraling — quietly, controlled, but unraveling all the same. “i shouldn’t care this much. i shouldn’t feel—” his breath stutters on the cold air. “—this angry. this afraid.”
afraid. that word settles in the air like frost.
you walk toward him slowly, each step cautious, intentional. he doesn’t move, barely breathes, like he’s afraid he’ll snap if touched too suddenly.
you reach for his hand. at first, he doesn’t give it to you — his fingers hold tension like steel cables. but when your thumb grazes his knuckle, something in him softens. not much. just enough. his fingers curl around yours, tentative but desperate.
you squeeze his hand gently — but before you can say anything, he pulls it away and turns his back to you. not in rejection. in self-defense.
his shoulders are bunched tight beneath his jacket, muscles shifting like he’s wrestling with something you can’t see. the city wind lashes at him, tugging at his hair, his clothes, but he stands rigid, unmoving.
“don’t…” his voice breaks off, thin and ragged. “don’t look at me right now.”
you take a small step closer. “why?”
“because,” he says, breath shuddering out of him, “i’m barely holding it together.”
the confession hits harder than any shout would have. han-ul has always been the type who thrives in motion — in chaos, in adrenaline, in the wild crackle of a fight. but standing still in front of you, with no one to swing at and nothing to focus his fury on, he looks… lost. cornered.
his hands grip the railing again, knuckles pale in the cold. when he speaks, it’s a low, shaking whisper.
“when those guys had you there… when i heard them—” he swallows, voice fraying. “i saw red. i didn’t think. i didn’t even feel like myself.”
you step close enough that your coat brushes his back. “han-ul. look at me.”
he freezes. for a moment, the rooftop goes impossibly quiet — just the distant rumble of traffic far below, the hum of neon lights, the metallic rattle of a loose billboard chain shifting in the wind.
finally, slowly, he turns. and that’s when you realize he’s not angry anymore. he’s terrified. his eyes are glassy under the rooftop light, but not with tears — han-ul doesn’t cry. it’s something rawer. sharper. like he’s been stripped down to nerves and bone.
“you said i was scaring you,” he whispers. “and you were right. i could feel it. i was… too much.”
you shake your head instantly. “you weren’t—”
“i was.” he steps closer, voice quiet but fierce. “i’ve scared people my whole life. i just…” his breath catches, “…i never wanted to scare you.”
the wind curls around you both, tugging at loose strands of hair, pushing the scent of rain-soaked concrete between you.
“han-ul,” you say softly, “you’re not scaring me anymore.”
his jaw works, but he can’t seem to find an answer. so you take the risk — you reach up, gently, fingers brushing his cheek. he goes still. absolutely still. like the slightest movement would shatter him. his eyes close, lashes trembling.
his voice comes out small — too small for someone who fights the way he does. “i don’t know how to be… gentle,” he admits. “not with how i feel when it’s you.”
your thumb sweeps along his cheekbone. “then let me teach you.”
his breath leaves him in one quiet, broken exhale. he leans forward — not all the way, just enough that your foreheads nearly touch, enough that you feel the heat of him mixing with the rooftops’ cold, enough that the electric hum of the city slips away until there’s only this. only him. only you.
“don’t walk home alone,” he murmurs, voice barely there.
“then stay with me,” you breathe.
his hand comes up — slow, hesitant, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you again — and he cups the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your pulse. you feel him tremble.
“okay,” he whispers.
han-ul’s thumb is still resting against your pulse when he finally lifts his eyes to yours — dark, storm-warm, searching. the rooftop wind tugs at his hair, pushing a loose strand across his forehead. you reach up without thinking, brushing it away. your fingers skim his temple, soft, careful.
he inhales sharply. not because of the touch — but because of the tenderness in it, something he’s not used to surviving.
his hand flexes at your neck. “don’t…” he whispers, but the word dissolves before he can finish it. his gaze flickers down to your mouth. just once. just long enough.
your breath catches. he notices — of course he does — and his jaw tightens like he’s trying to swallow the urge right out of himself.
“han-ul,” you murmur.
that’s all it takes. he moves in slow, as if giving you every chance to pull away — but you don’t, and that last bit of restraint inside him finally gives. his forehead presses to yours first, a warm, quiet anchor. he breathes you in. you feel the tremor in him, subtle but real. then he tilts his head the slightest angle, brushing his nose against yours — a soft, searching nudge that makes your heart stutter.
something in him unravels. he leans in, and his lips meet yours — not rough, not wild, but careful. impossibly careful. the kind of caution that feels more intimate than any urgency could. his hand slides from your neck to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, as if grounding himself in every second of the kiss.
you rise onto your toes, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. he responds with a quiet inhale against your lips — like he didn’t realize he’d been starving until now.
the kiss deepens just a little, slow and warm, the city wind circling around you both while the rooftop lights flicker above. when he finally pulls back, it’s only by a breath — his lips still brushing yours, his hand still cupping your face.
you open your eyes. he’s already watching you. and the storm in him? gone. in its place is something steadier. quieter. terrifying in its honesty.
“this,” he whispers, thumb sweeping your cheekbone again. “this is what scares me.”
you lean into his touch. “it doesn’t scare me.”
his lips ghost yours once more — softer than the first time, a barely-there brush that feels like a promise he can’t yet say out loud. and for that moment, on a forgotten rooftop above the sleeping city, pi han-ul isn’t the leader of the entire school. he’s just a boy kissing you like he finally found something worth losing control for.
summary 𓂃 the one where Jason breaks a pen, walks home in the snow, and almost says the thing he's been biting back for fifteen years.
cast 𓂃 Jason Todd and posh dickhead Oliver (irrelevant side character)
tags 𓂃 childhood best friend!jason todd x fem!reader , university au , canon compliant , jealous!jason todd , study group , gotham city , grumpy!jason x sunshine!reader , pre relationship , mutual pining , Jason’s pov , idiots in love , unspoken feelings.
wc 𓂃 2.1k.
— oneshot request ! part two of this series.
Snow.
It's fucking snowing, and Jason Todd is already in a bad mood.
Not because of the snow—Gotham in December is basically a slushy, gray, miserable hellscape regardless of precipitation—but because of him.
That posh dickhead Oliver.
Even the name sounds like wet cardboard. Like someone tried to invent a pretentious trust fund baby in a lab and accidentally created the most punchable face on the Eastern Seaboard.
Jason adjusts his grip on his pen, the cheap plastic creaking under his thumb. The seminar room's fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional pallor that makes even the most beautiful people look vaguely jaundiced. But somehow, somehow, Oliver still looks like he just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.
Dark academia aesthetic, Jason thinks derisively, watching Oliver gesture expansively with both hands while explaining something about Keats's odes. The guy probably owns a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Probably drinks Earl Grey from an actual teapot. Probably has a father who plays tennis and a mother who calls brunch "luncheon."
Jason's own fingers are stained with ink and old calluses. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, revealing the faded henley underneath — something he'd bought secondhand three years ago and hadn't bothered replacing. His combat boots have salt stains climbing up the sides from last week's patrol in the Bowery.
He looks like he walked into the wrong building.
And Oliver keeps. Touching. You.
It's subtle. A hand on your shoulder when you laugh at something. Fingertips brushing your wrist when you reach for the same annotated anthology. Leaning in closer than necessary to point at a line of poetry, his breath warm against your temple.
Jason's jaw aches. He's clenching it so hard his molars might crack.
"Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' is obviously about revolution," you're saying now, your voice bright and familiar and so goddamn warm that Jason wants to wrap it around himself like a blanket. "It's not just about autumn — it's about death and rebirth. About tearing everything down so something better can grow."
You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, and Jason watches the motion like it's sacred. He's watched you do that a thousand times. A million. Since you were both nine years old and you sat next to him in Mrs. Albright's fourth-grade classroom, your ponytail askew and a pencil tucked behind your ear, asking him if he wanted to share your crayons because his were all broken.
"Your crayons are sad," you'd said, already pushing half the box toward him. "These are the good ones. The ones that don't have paper. They feel nicer."
He'd stared at you like you were insane. No one shared with the kid from the bad part of town. No one offered him anything without wanting something back.
But you just smiled at him — that ridiculous, sunshine smile — and went back to coloring your tree purple because "green is boring, Jay, don't you want to live in a world where trees can be purple?"
Jay. That was the first time anyone had ever called him that.
He'd colored his tree orange that day. Just to be contrary.
You'd laughed.
He'd felt something crack open in his chest that he didn't have a name for yet.
"Interesting interpretation," Oliver says now, and his voice is smooth. Educated. The kind of voice that's never had to shout to be heard over gunfire or police sirens. "But I think Shelley's more concerned with the personal than the political. The west wind as a metaphor for creative inspiration, not violent upheaval."
He looks at you when he says it. Like he's inviting you into a secret.
Jason's pen snaps.
The sound is sharp in the quiet seminar room. Heads turn. Professor Chen glances up from her notes, eyebrows raised.
"Everything alright, Mr. Todd?"
"Fine," Jason grits out, and he pulls another pen from his jacket pocket. This one's metal. Harder to break. "Pen was cheap."
You're looking at him now. You've got that expression on your face — the one you always get when you're worried about him but don't want to make a thing of it. Your forehead creases slightly. Your lips part.
He looks away before you can ask.
Don't. Don't ask. Don't make me say it out loud.
Oliver is still talking. Something about Keats's "l on a Grecian Urn" now. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" — that is all you know on earth, and all you need to know. Oliver thinks it's about transcendence. Jason thinks it's about how beauty and truth are both violent, both painful, both things you can't hold onto no matter how hard you try.
He thinks about the urn. Frozen. Perfect. Preserved forever in a moment that never actually happened.
He thinks about how he came back wrong. How his hands don't feel like his hands anymore. How sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees a ghost wearing Jason Todd's face.
You've never treated him like a ghost.
You were there when his mom — Catherine, not Sheila, never Sheila — got sick. You used to sneak him food from your own kitchen because you knew the Todds didn't always have enough. You sat with him in the hospital waiting room when he was ten and terrified and trying not to cry.
You were there when Willis went to prison. When the social workers came. When Catherine died.
You were the one who found him in the cemetery afterward, sitting on the wet grass in the rain, and you didn't say anything. You just sat down next to him and put your head on his shoulder.
"I'm cold," you'd whispered.
"So go home," he'd said, his voice wrecked.
"Not without you."
You were there when Bruce took him in. You met Batman when you were twelve years old and you didn't even flinch. You just looked Bruce Wayne in the eye and said, "You take care of him. Or I'll find you."
Bruce had been impressed. Jason had been embarrassed.
He'd also been — something. Something warm and terrifying and too big for his chest.
The study group ends eventually. Forty-five minutes of Shelley and Keats and Byron, forty-five minutes of Oliver finding excuses to touch you, forty-five minutes of Jason fantasizing about putting his fist through a wall.
Or Oliver's face. Oliver's face works too.
You pack up your things slowly. Jason shoves his notebook into his bag with more force than necessary, the spiral binding catching on a loose thread.
"Same time next week?" Oliver asks, and he's looking at you. Only at you. Like none of the other students are there. Like he isn't even there.
"Sounds good," you say, and your voice is casual. Friendly. Oblivious.
Jason wants to shake you.
He's flirting with you. He's been flirting with you for three weeks. How do you not see it? How do you not—
"Great." Oliver smiles. It's a nice smile. Perfect teeth. Probably had braces. Probably never been punched in the mouth in his entire privileged life.
Jason shoulders his bag and starts walking. He doesn't wait for you.
He knows you'll follow anyway. You always do.
The snow is coming down harder now, fat white flakes dissolving against the asphalt. The campus paths are empty — everyone else has gone inside, or gone home, or gone somewhere that isn't here.
Jason walks fast. Too fast. His boots crunch against the frozen ground, and his breath clouds in front of him, and his thoughts are a hurricane of everything he can't say.
I've known you since we were nine.
I watched you cry at my mother's funeral.
I died, and I came back, and you were the first person I wanted to see.
You're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human.
And I can't—
"Jason!"
Your voice cuts through the snow. He hears your footsteps hurrying to catch up, the familiar rhythm of your stride. He doesn't slow down.
"Jason, wait up! What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
He grits his teeth. You always call him on his bullshit. You always have.
You fall into step beside him, slightly out of breath. Your coat is unzipped — you always forget to zip it — and your scarf is trailing behind you like a banner. Your cheeks are pink from the cold, and there's snow in your hair, and you look so alive that it makes something in his chest ache.
"Is it patrol? Did Bruce say something? Was it—"
"It's nothing," he says again, and his voice comes out harsher than he meant. "Drop it."
You don't drop it. When do you ever?
Your hand catches his elbow, and he stops walking because he can't not stop. Not when you're touching him. Not when your fingers are curled around his arm like you're anchoring him.
"Jay. Come on. Talk to me."
Jay. No one else calls him that. No one else is allowed.
He stares at the snow on the ground. At the footprints they've left behind. At the way your shadow overlaps with his on the white pavement.
"Do you like him?" The words come out before he can stop them. Low. Rough. Almost angry.
You blink. "Who?"
He won't repeat it. He can't. Saying it once was bad enough.
"Forget it." He pulls his arm away from your grip — gently, as gently as he can manage when everything inside him is screaming — and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
The rest of the walk is silent.
He ends up at your apartment because you live closer, and because Jason can't bring himself to go home to his own cold, empty space. Your apartment is small and cluttered and warm, full of mismatched furniture and stacks of books and fairy lights that you never turn off because "they make everything feel softer, Jason, don't you think?"
He thinks they make everything feel like a lie.
But he doesn't say that. He just sits on your couch and watches you put on a kettle, and he tries very hard not to think about Oliver's hand on your shoulder.
You make tea — chamomile, because you always make chamomile when he's upset — and you sit down next to him, close enough that your knees almost touch.
"Okay," you say softly. "Start talking."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Jason Peter Todd."
He flinches. You only use the middle name when you're serious.
"I'm not going to let you sit there and pretend everything's fine when you broke a pen with your bare hand in the middle of a seminar," you continue. "That was terrifying. And also kind of hot. But mostly terrifying."
He snorts — and sighs — despite himself. "You're impossible."
"You've known me for fifteen years. You should be used to it by now."
Fifteen years. God.
Fifteen years of you. Fifteen years of sunshine and stubbornness and never, ever letting him push you away.
Because god knows he’s tried… and failed. Terribly. You’re like a living, walking, breathing boomerang.
He looks at you now — really looks — and you're watching him with those eyes that see too much. That have always seen too much. You know about his parents. About the streets. About Robin and the Joker and the crowbar and the grave.
You know about the pit. About the rage. About the things he's done since he came back, the blood on his hands, the monsters he's become.
And you're still here.
You're still here.
"He likes you," Jason says finally. The words scrape against his throat like broken glass.
"Who?"
"Oliver."
You tilt your head. "Oliver's just being friendly."
"He's not." Jason's jaw tightens. "He's not just being friendly. He touches you. He—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. I'm being an idiot."
"You're not an idiot."
"I'm acting like one."
You're quiet for a moment. The kettle clicks off, but neither of you moves to pour the tea.
"Jason," you say, and your voice is different now. Softer. "Why do you care if Oliver likes me?"
Because I love you.
Because I've loved you since fourth grade when you gave me your purple crayon.
Because I died and I came back and the only thing that made sense in the whole world was you.
Because I'm afraid one day you'll realize you deserve someone who isn't broken. Someone who isn't a monster. Someone like Oliver with his perfect teeth and his perfect life and his perfect hands that have never hurt anyone.
Because if you choose someone else, I don't know who I am anymore.
He doesn't say any of it.
He just looks at you, and you look at him, and the snow keeps falling outside the window, and the fairy lights glow soft and warm, and his heart is beating so loud he's sure you can hear it.
"Jason," you whisper again.
And he thinks — maybe.
Maybe this is the moment.
Maybe he could reach out. Touch your face. Kiss you. Finally, finally stop pretending he doesn't want to spend every night wrapped up in you, breathing you in, being someone better because you make him want to be better.
His hand moves before he can stop it.
His fingers brush against yours.
You inhale sharply.
And then—
"Aren't you going to pour the tea?" he asks, and he hates himself for it. Hates the way his walls snap back into place. Hates the way you blink, confused, and then slowly, slowly, pull your hand away.
"Right," you say, and your voice sounds strange. "Tea."
You stand up. Walk to the kitchen.
Jason watches you go and feels like he's just lost something he never had the courage to claim.
Later, after the tea is gone and the silence has stretched thin and he's standing at your door with his jacket zipped up to his chin, you stop him.
"Jason."
He turns.
You're standing in the doorway, haloed by the warm light from inside. Snowflakes catch in your hair. Your eyes are bright.
"Oliver doesn't matter," you say quietly.
He stares at you.
"I don't care about Oliver," you continue. "I've never cared about Oliver. I care about—" You stop yourself. Swallow. "Just. He doesn't matter."
"...Okay," Jason says, because he doesn't know what else to say.
You smile. It's not your sunshine smile. It's something softer. Something sadder. Something that looks like hope and fear and everything in between.
"Goodnight, Jason."
"Goodnight."
He walks home in the snow, and his hands are freezing, and his heart is pounding, and he thinks—
