#oneshots

“hudson! hudson, over here!”

“is that your girlfriend?”

“look this way!”

your hand found his automatically. hudson squeezed back hard, his other arm coming around you, anchoring you to his side as the door opened.

“just keep your eyes forward,” he murmured, “stay close to me.”

you stepped out between him and a guard, boxed in but still exposed. the sidewalk felt like it was vibrating, people pushing against barricades, shouting questions that weren’t really questions at all.

security tried to funnel you toward the hotel entrance, but someone still managed to break the line.

a photographer stepped forward without looking, trying to get a shot over a guard’s shoulder, and slammed straight into you. the impact jolted you, knocking you off balance with a gasp.

before security could even react, hudson was already there.

“hey!” his voice cut through the noise as he shoved the guy back, pure instinct. “back the hell up.”

the guards pushed toward the guy immediately, pulling the photographer away, barking warnings, but he barely noticed. his hands were on you, shaking just slightly as he looked you over.

“are you okay?” he worried, “did he hurt you?” quickly checking you over.

“i’m okay,” you reassure him, breathing uneven. “i swear, i’m fine.”

his jaw was tight, anger simmering just under the surface. more security closed around you tighter now, practically forming a wall as they rushed you the rest of the way inside. hudson stayed half a step behind you, one hand at your back.

the hotel doors slid shut, muting the chaos outside.

hudson turned to you immediately.

“let me see you,” he said as he searched for bruises that hadn’t appeared yet. “i know you said you’re okay, but just let me look.”

you softened then, seeing how rattled he really was.

“i’m really okay,” you promised.

he shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “they had security. we had security and still-”

you stepped closer to him before he could fully spiral.

your hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing gently along his jaw. he stilled at the touch, eyes snapping back to yours. you tugged him into a hug, arms wrapping around his neck, holding him firmly.

“i’m okay,” you whispered. “‘i need you to believe me.”

he hesitated only a second before his arms came around you, tight, grounding himself in the feel of you. his forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath finally slowing.

“i lost it,” he admitted quietly, “my managers going to kill me.”

“you did what you had to,” you smile, “and they’ll handle it.” you tilt your head slightly towards the impatient security guards behind you.

“just want you to know that i've got you.” he whispered.

you smiled gently, brushing your thumb back over his cheek. “i know you do.”

you rose onto your toes to kiss him, before pulling back, your hand hooked around his arm as security urged you toward the elevators.

the interviewer grins, clearly pleased. “yeah?”

“oh, i binged it in less than a day,” you ramble. “like, canceled plans, phone on silent, unwell about it.”

somewhere just off to your left, you're oblivious that hudson is mid interview himself, glances over, already slightly smirking to himself. he knows where this is going.

“the chemistry,” you continue, hands coming up as you talk, animated now. “that’s what got me. it wasn’t just tension for tension’s sake, you know? there was so much chemistry. like, the way they looked at each other-”

you cut yourself off, laughing. “sorry. i’m getting too into this.”

“no, please,” the interviewer says. “go on.”

“it just hooked me,” you nod, “i don’t even know how to explain it. you start one episode thinking you’ll stop halfway and then suddenly it’s four in the morning and you’re like, what am i supposed to do with myself now?”

the camera zooms slightly closer.

“and,” you add, turning fully toward the lens now, eyes sparkling with mischief, “i am formally begging. publicly. on record. please cast me in season two.”

the interviewer laughs, “oh?”

“i don’t care if it’s a small scene,” you insist, clasping your hands dramatically. “i’ll be a random girl in the background. i’ll do something embarrassing. i’ll do anything.”

you glance straight into the camera again, completely unserious and fully committed. “call me.”

hudson actually snorts from his interview, shaking his head.

you’re still smiling when movement catches your eye, someone passing just by you. tall. dark suit. familiar face.

connor storrie.

your brain short circuits instantly.

“oh my god, wait, connor,” you blurt, turning completely away from the interview without hesitation.

the interviewer looks momentarily startled as you call out, “hi! hi, sorry, hi!”

connor stops mid step, clearly surprised. his face breaks into a grin the second he realises you’re talking to him.

“hey,” he acknowledges, laughing a little, stepping closer.

you don’t even think, you reach out, lightly grabbing his arm to get his attention fully. “hi. i’m so sorry, i’m being rude, i’m mid interview, but i wanted to say hi.”

he laughs, shaking his head. “no, it’s okay, hi to you too.”

he leans in and pulls you into a quick side hug, arm warm and around your shoulders. it’s brief, cameras immediately swing toward the two of you.

“good to see you,” his words quiet against your ear.

“you too,” you reply, beaming up at him. “seriously.”

he gives a little nod, still smiling, before letting you go and continuing on toward his own interview spot.

the second he’s gone, you turn back toward the camera, pressing a hand to your chest dramatically.

“i’m fine,” you announce, “woo! i'm totally fine.”

the interviewer laughs, “you alright?”

you fan yourself with your hand, a little over the top. “it should be illegal.”

“what should?”

you glance between where connor disappeared and now realising where hudson is doing his own interview a few feet away, then back to the camera.

“is it weird if i say that they both smell and look so good?” you fangirl, “it’s actually unfair to the rest of us.”

“i mean,” you continue, grinning, “how is anyone else supposed to compete with that? i walked onto this carpet confident and now i’m just-”

you flutter your hand again, mock dazed.

“ruined,” the interviewer finishes for you.

“ruined,” you confirm.

hudson glances over again, catching the tail end of your dramatics. he watches you with an amused, fond smile, completely unaware that he's just watched you just publicly sing his praises.

“and final question,” the interviewer says, still smiling. “if you were cast in season two… who would you want scenes with?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“both,” you blurt out, “together, preferably.”

the interviewer laughs as the segment wraps, thanking you. you step back, still riding the buzz, cheeks warm, heart thudding.

as you finally move toward the ballroom entrance, hudson finishes his interview too, catching up to you as you go and take your pictures.

walking side by side with you now, he raises his brows, amused. “did i hear my show just got aggressively promoted?”

you grin. 

“i regret nothing.”

You didn’t know the words that had been said, but you didn’t need to. Damian was your son, blood or not, and the quiet way he protected his family said everything you needed to hear.

Bruce had heard the bones of the story that night — Damian’s clipped statement, “They insulted my mother,” and the defensive set of his jaw. But Dick filled in the rest later, once you’d gone upstairs to tuck Thomas in. He told Bruce word-for-word what had been said, and it took everything in Bruce’s control to keep his expression neutral.

By the time the house was quiet, Bruce was in his office with his tie loosened, sleeves rolled, and his laptop open. He pulled up the Gotham Academy student files, cross-referenced names with public records, and then with the Wayne Enterprises private database.

In less than four hours, he knew everything.

The next morning, he was in full Bruce Wayne mode — billionaire CEO, not Batman — and he set the plan in motion.

Phase One: The Fathers

The first father was in a corner office on the 23rd floor of a steel-and-glass tower. He looked up from his desk, startled, when Bruce walked in unannounced.

“Mr. Wayne! This is— I didn’t know you were—”

“Sit.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, but there was no room for refusal.

The man obeyed.

“I own this company now,” Bruce said plainly, setting a leather folder on the desk. “As of this morning, Wayne Enterprises holds the controlling interest. That means I control your future here.”

The man swallowed hard. “I—what is this about?”

“This is about your son. And you.” Bruce’s gaze was like cold steel. “Your son shoved my six-year-old and mocked him. He and his friends called my wife a ‘cow’ and a ‘tramp.’ You encouraged that. You will correct it.”

“I—Mr. Wayne—”

“You will deal with your son,” Bruce continued smoothly, “and you will issue a public apology to my wife and both of my sons. If you fail, you will be terminated immediately. And I will make sure every other company in Gotham sees the report on why.”

By the time Bruce left, the man was pale and sweating.

It was the same at the next two offices. Calm, precise, surgical — no raised voice, just the promise of ruin if they didn’t fall in line.

Phase Two: The Wives

Thursday morning, Bruce walked into the city’s most exclusive salon. The sound of blow dryers and gossip cut off when the receptionist recognized him.

The three women were seated together, hair in foils, mid-laugh. Their faces froze when he stopped in front of them.

“Ladies,” Bruce said, voice smooth as glass. “I own this salon now. As of this morning.”

One of them laughed nervously. “Is this… a joke?”

Bruce leaned down just enough for them to see the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Silence.

“You will publicly apologize to my wife and to my sons,” he said evenly. “And you will deal with your children. If you do not, you will be banned from this salon and every other in Gotham. Permanently. Try to book anywhere, and I will know.”

Their lips parted, but no one dared speak.

“If you want your hair done again,” Bruce added, straightening to his full height, “your husband can cut it. I’m sure he’ll do a fine job.”

The color drained from their faces.

The Public Apology

Two days later, at the Spring Fair’s closing, you stood with Damian and Thomas near the baked goods table, beaming as you told a group of parents about Damian’s recent science project. Thomas gripped his stuffed dog proudly, chattering about how “Damian made it work all by himself!”

Across the lawn, the offending families approached. The fathers gave stiff, awkward apologies; the mothers mumbled theirs with a forced sweetness. You thanked them politely, unaware of the iron fist Bruce had wrapped around their lives.

From a few feet away, Bruce watched, his arm folded, eyes cool.

Damian caught the look in his father’s eyes and smirked faintly. Jason, leaning against a nearby booth, muttered just loud enough for Damian to hear, “Guess money’s good for more than just cars.”

Damian didn’t reply, but the faint satisfaction on his face spoke volumes.

The house was quiet. Damian was in his room, Thomas curled up asleep with his stuffed dog. You’d just finished putting the last of the fair-day clutter away when you felt Bruce’s presence in the doorway.

He was leaning against the frame, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled. His eyes found you immediately — not a passing glance, but that long, deliberate stare that made it feel like he could strip you bare without touching you.

“Come here,” he said, low and quiet.

You stepped toward him, and he caught your hand, pulling you against his chest. His kiss was slow at first — deep, lingering, his palm warm against your cheek. He didn’t rush it; he kissed you like there was nothing else in the world to do, tasting you, savoring you.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t move back. His hand trailed down to your jaw, his thumb stroking lazily. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how beautiful you are?”

You started to shake your head, to deflect, but his voice cut through, firmer now. “Don’t. Don’t downplay it. You’re perfect.”

He backed you toward the bedroom slowly, his mouth never leaving yours for more than a breath. When your knees hit the bed, he eased you down, his hands moving to the buttons of your blouse.

It wasn’t hurried — he unfastened each one with unshaking patience, parting the fabric to reveal skin like he’d been waiting for this all day. His gaze followed his touch, sweeping over the curves of your breasts, your stomach, the softness of your waist. His fingers traced over them like they were precious, his lips following to kiss every spot his hands explored.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, between kisses at your shoulder, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. “Every inch.”

When he had you stripped down to just your panties, he sat back for a moment, eyes roaming over you with open hunger. Then he leaned in again, kneeling over you and lowering his mouth to your stomach, pressing slow, lingering kisses there.

“I love this,” he murmured, kissing lower, his hands holding your hips like he was anchoring you. “I love you.”

By the time his fingers hooked in your panties, you were warm all over, your chest rising and falling faster. He slid them down and tossed them aside, his eyes meeting yours with that smoldering mix of reverence and intent.

When he finally pressed into you, it was smooth, deep — and that’s when the shift happened. The tenderness sharpened into something else, his grip firm on your hips.

“They called you names,” he growled, his voice rough against your lips. “Said things I should have broken their jaws for.” His thrusts grew harder, his cock filling you completely with each one. “They’re wrong. So fucking wrong.”

He held your gaze as he drove into you, his breathing harsh, every movement a wordless reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

“You’re mine,” he said again, almost a snarl now. “My wife. My love. The mother of my children. No one — no one — gets to speak about you like that.”

The pace built, his earlier worship now a possessive rhythm that had you clinging to him, the pleasure curling tight inside you until it broke. You came with his name on your lips, and he followed with a guttural groan, holding you close, keeping himself buried deep.

Even after, he didn’t let you go. His forehead rested against yours, his hand sliding along your side.

“Beautiful,” he whispered again. “Perfect. And the only opinion that matters is mine.”

The smell of coffee and something sweet pulled you from sleep. When you sat up, the house was still hushed — but the faint sound of Thomas laughing carried from the kitchen. You pulled on one of Bruce’s shirts from the floor and padded out barefoot, hair still mussed from the night before.

The sight waiting for you made your chest ache in the best way.

Damian sat at the counter, clearly pretending to be disinterested but eating a stack of pancakes topped with berries. Thomas was next to him, swinging his legs and grinning, crumbs all over his face. And behind the stove, still in pajama pants and a black t-shirt, Bruce was making another batch of pancakes from scratch — not the boxed mix.

“Morning,” he said when he saw you, that small, private smile tugging at his mouth.

Thomas waved enthusiastically. “We’re having pancakes! Damian likes them but he’s pretending he doesn’t!”

Damian scowled without looking up. “I’m not pretending. They’re tolerable.”

Bruce slid a plate toward you, the pancakes perfectly golden, steam curling up from the butter melting on top. He poured you coffee without asking, just the way you liked it, then leaned down to kiss you slow enough to make Thomas giggle.

When you went to sit beside the boys, Bruce’s hand caught your waist and guided you to his side instead. He stood behind you, one hand resting on your hip, the other idly tracing over the curve of your thigh while you ate. It wasn’t overtly possessive in front of the kids — but it was a steady, warm reminder of the way he’d touched you last night.

Halfway through breakfast, Damian said in that flat, matter-of-fact tone of his, “Father made these pancakes himself. He doesn’t usually do that unless it’s for someone important.”

You blinked at him, caught between surprise and warmth. “Oh?”

Damian didn’t look up from his plate. “He wanted to make sure you knew you were worth the effort.”

Bruce’s fingers pressed lightly into your hip at that, and when you glanced back, there was that same look from last night — the one that told you you’d never have to question your worth in his eyes.

Jason wandered in just then, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked between Bruce, you, and the kids, then smirked. “Guess we’re having a family breakfast. That’s… new. Did I miss something?”

Damian smirked faintly, not looking up. “You missed Father proving a point.”

Jason arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Figures.” He stole a pancake off Damian’s plate, earning himself a fork jab.

Bruce only tightened his arm around your waist, leaning down to murmur in your ear, just for you, “And I’m not done proving it.”

The rest of the morning passed in warmth and ease — laughter, coffee refills, Thomas insisting Bruce flip more pancakes. But under it all, there was a quiet, unshakable certainty: Bruce had made his stance known, not just to those who’d insulted you, but to you, to the kids, to himself.

You weren’t just his wife. You were his everything.

It happened a week later, in one of Gotham’s high-end shopping districts. You had the day free and decided to take Thomas for a treat at a little gelato café — Damian had even agreed to come along, quietly shadowing you both like a watchful guardian. Bruce had been called into a short meeting but promised to join you after.

You were leaning over Thomas’s tiny cup of strawberry gelato, helping him keep it from dripping everywhere, when a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s favorite charity case,” one of the Spring Fair mothers drawled.

Damian’s eyes snapped up instantly, narrowing like a hawk sighting prey. You straightened slowly, turning to face her. She was dressed to impress — gold jewelry, tailored dress — and her smirk said she thought she’d already won whatever game she thought this was.

Another of the mothers from that day was with her, though this one wouldn’t quite meet your eye. She shifted uncomfortably, mumbled a hello, and excused herself to cross the street.

But the first? She doubled down. “Enjoying spending Wayne money, are we? Or is your husband keeping you on a tighter leash now?” Her voice dropped into a mock whisper. “Don’t worry, sweetie. He’ll tire of you eventually.”

Damian stepped forward before you could, his voice sharp as a blade. “Watch your mouth.”

She scoffed. “Oh, please. You think anyone takes you seriously, little prince?” Her gaze slid back to you, and she spat out a word that made Damian’s entire body go taut — vile, ugly, dripping with disdain.

Before you could react, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“What did you just say?”

Bruce’s presence was immediate, his shadow falling over the woman as he stepped up beside you. His hand found the small of your back, steady and grounding, but his eyes were locked on her — cold, unblinking.

The woman faltered, but only for a moment. “I’m just saying what everyone thinks—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted, his tone deadly calm. “You’re saying what you think. And you seem to have forgotten the agreement we made.”

Her smirk flickered. “Agreement?”

“You were told to apologize and keep my wife’s name out of your mouth. You failed.” Bruce’s voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. “You’ll find out exactly what that means the next time you try to book your salon appointment.”

She found out two hours later.

The moment she walked into her usual salon, the receptionist went stiff. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid, but your account’s been flagged. We can’t take you as a client anymore.”

“What?” she demanded. “This is absurd—”

“It’s non-negotiable,” the receptionist said, clearly uncomfortable. “You’ve been blacklisted from every affiliated salon in Gotham.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s face went red. “Blacklisted? By who?”

The receptionist hesitated, then answered quietly, “Mr. Wayne’s order. It’s… permanent.”

⸻

Back at home, you sat with Bruce on the couch, Thomas curled against your side while Damian read in the armchair.

“You didn’t have to—” you began.

“Yes,” Bruce said simply, his arm tightening around you. “I did. And I’ll keep doing it. As many times as it takes.”

Damian glanced up from his book, his mouth twitching in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Thomas, oblivious, declared, “Daddy’s the boss of everything.”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “Just of the people who need reminding.”And in that moment, you believed him.

⸻

Two days after the salon ban, Jason was leaning against his bike outside one of the trendier coffee shops when he overheard it.

Mrs. Kincaid — the same woman — was standing with a friend, voice pitched just loud enough for passerby to hear. She was going on about how “some bakery brat tricked Bruce Wayne into marriage” and how she wasn’t “done telling people the truth.”

Jason’s jaw flexed. He didn’t step in, didn’t even look directly at her — not at first. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the bin, and strolled casually toward the parking lot where her shiny imported SUV was sitting pretty.

No one paid him any mind as he crouched by the back tire, flicking open his knife. One smooth motion and the hiss of air escaping filled the quiet. He moved to the next one. And the next. And the next. By the time he straightened, the SUV was sitting on four very dead tires.

He didn’t bother hiding the satisfied smirk as he swung a leg over his bike. He caught Mrs. Kincaid’s gaze across the lot, tapped two fingers to his temple in a mock salute, and roared off.

⸻

That night, Jason strolled into the manor’s kitchen where you, Bruce, and Damian were finishing dinner.

Bruce eyed him over his glass of wine. “You look… pleased with yourself.”

Jason’s grin was slow. “Let’s just say our favorite salon exile won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

Damian glanced up from his plate, catching the implication instantly. “Did you—”

Jason winked. “I didn’t say I did anything. But if four luxury tires happened to go flat at once, I’m sure it was just… coincidence.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile. “Jason…”

He shrugged, grabbing a biscuit from the table. “What? You married into the family, Ma. We protect our own. Some of us just have more… hands-on methods.”

Bruce didn’t comment, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch — just enough to know he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

Out of all of them, Dick had known you the longest. He’d been there the day you first walked into Wayne Manor with a box of pastries from your family’s bakery, wearing that modest coat and smiling at Alfred like you’d known him forever. He’d liked you immediately — not because you were marrying Bruce, but because you fit. You didn’t treat any of them like charity cases, you didn’t try to impress them, you just… cared.

So when Dick overheard two Gotham socialites whispering at a charity gala about “the bakery girl who landed the Wayne fortune,” something in him went ice-cold.

They didn’t even notice him at first. He was just part of the crowd, easy smile in place, champagne glass in hand. But the second one of them called you “a professional gold digger with good PR,” Dick stepped right into their conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” he said, flashing that easy, charming grin that could disarm anyone. “You’re talking about Mrs. Wayne, right?”

Both women froze, caught between surprise and guilt. “Oh, we were just—”

“She’s my mother,” Dick cut in smoothly. “So, here’s how this works. You stop running your mouths, and I don’t repeat your names to Bruce.” His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes had gone sharp. “Because if I do, you’ll be lucky to find an invitation to a soup kitchen, let alone another gala.”

He set his empty glass down on the nearest tray, gave them a mock salute, and walked away without another word.

Later that night, when you came by to drop a plate of cookies in the study for him and Bruce, Dick just smiled up at you from the couch.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said lightly — but there was a weight behind it that made Bruce glance at him over his papers, curious.

You didn’t know what had happened at the gala. But Dick knew, and that was enough.

Tim hadn’t said much during the aftermath of the Spring Fair incident nor the Gala. He’d been there when Bruce came back from “handling” things, and he’d smirked a little when Jason bragged about his “coincidental” tire work. But Tim’s version of protecting family didn’t involve boardrooms or crowbars.

It involved data.

So when he heard Mrs. Kincaid was still mouthing off at luncheons — claiming you were “nothing but a social climber” — Tim decided she’d had her last word.

It took him all of fifteen minutes. A few lines of code, a VPN bounce through three countries, and he had her social media logins. The next five minutes were just… artistry.

Profile pictures? Gone. Posts? Deleted. Friend lists? Wiped. Years of carefully curated photos of gala dresses, brunches, and “candid” vacation shots — erased. Her entire online identity, the one she used to preen and posture, vanished overnight.

As a finishing touch, Tim made sure her accounts were locked from recovery — the password changed to an unguessable, random 48-character string he didn’t even bother saving.

By morning, Mrs. Kincaid was essentially a ghost online.

⸻

At breakfast, Tim strolled into the kitchen, poured himself coffee, and sat down without looking up from his tablet.

Jason glanced at him. “You look smug. What’d you do?”

“Nothing illegal,” Tim said mildly. Then, after a beat, “Just… digital housekeeping.”

Bruce didn’t ask. Damian smirked faintly. You blinked between them, suspicious.

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Tell me you didn’t—”

Tim took a slow sip of coffee. “She won’t be posting anything about anyone for a while.”

Dick barked out a laugh, though you had to hide your smile.

"You didn't have to, but thank you Tim."

The manor was warm with the smell of dinner — Alfred had outdone himself, as usual. You were in the dining room, setting out the last dish when the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from the hall.

Damian appeared first, carrying Thomas on his hip like it was second nature now. “Your son,” he said dryly, “insists he needs to show you his art before dinner.”

Thomas grinned, holding up a crayon drawing — a messy but heartfelt depiction of the entire family, complete with you in the center, smiling. “See? You’re the hero,” he said proudly.

Jason came in behind them, dropping into a chair with all the grace of a wolf flopping down to nap. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Tim was next, sliding his phone into his pocket as he smirked faintly at you. “Don’t worry. No one’s saying anything about you online anymore.”

From the doorway, Dick added with that familiar easy grin, “Or at the galas. I made sure of that.”

Bruce stepped in last, shedding his jacket and kissing your temple in front of everyone without hesitation. “And the boardrooms are quiet too,” he murmured, his voice warm enough to melt the steel in his words.

Alfred appeared with the roast, clearing his throat with a subtle smile. “It’s rather impressive, madam. You seem to have the entire household working security for your reputation.”

Jason snorted. “Damn right.”

Tim lifted his glass. “To our favorite Wayne.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but the faintest smirk betrayed him. “She is.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but when Bruce’s hand found yours under the table and Thomas leaned against your arm, you felt it — the truth in all of it. You weren’t just married into the Wayne family.

You were at its center.

but jake, sweet pure-hearted jake, he always answered with kindness, he always agreed to help, because how could he assume that they had an ulterior motive?

this was the 3rd time this week that he had to stay back because he wanted to help someone with their notes.

seriously, how could he not know this was the oldest trick in the book to hit on a hot nerd? and you'd done it before, but that doesn't mean they could, too. he was yours.

your whole mood was sour as you walked in your lecture with jungwon, pouting slightly as you sighed out of frustration.

"what is it this time?" jungwon asks knowingly. sometimes you wonder if he could read you too easily, or if you're really just that obvious.

you look at him, your pout deepening. and although you always tend to call jungwon your child, he seems to parent you alot more than you do. "wonnnnn, is this what I get for being a slut before settling down?" you whine, and he tried to hold in his laughter, keyword: tries.

"don't laugh!" you hit his shoulder, but he only shakes his head. "I'm not laughing. it's just.. it's fun to see you all riled up while jake doesn't even notice it."

"that's the problem! I can't even tell him. because what if I'm being this weird insecure girlfriend and he breaks up with me?"

"impossible, he's smitten with you." he added

"but we just started dating." you argue, still in distress about this. oh how you wished jake would just see how much you liked him.

sure, you had a reputation for your questionably short relationships. you get over people easily, you break up with your boyfriends using stupid excuses, because you can't just say the truth: you get bored.

not in the mean way, at least not how you view it, but it happens. It was easy to catch feelings, for you to get attracted, it was even easier to get someone to date you, who'd reject you? but then they'd mess up. you let it slide once, then twice, but more than that? you get bored. bored of their empty promises, bored of their ulterior motives that had nothing to do with your happiness and everything to do with their pleasure, bored of them, the idea of them, and everything that comes with it.

but with jake, it was different. sure it was an accidental kiss that started everything, but you always noticed him.

you noticed how he stumbled over his words when asked a question, you noticed how he toyed with the hem of his sleeve when nervous, you noticed how messy his hair looks after a long study session, just because he ran his fingers through it one too many times, you noticed everything that felt distinctively him.

and when fate pulled you two together, when you finally got to be with the one who made your heart race like no other, you were over the moon.

so now? seeing girls all over him when all you ever wanted was hold him close and leave an imprint that said he was yours? it made your blood boil.

you weren't angry at him, no, you knew he meant no harm, but you still couldn't tame this unexplainable jealousy.

who knew you were capable of such emotion? it's not like any of your past relationships has made you feel this way.

you were deep in thought when jungwon's voice pulled you out your bubble. "don't even think about it." he scolds, how'd he even know?

"won! how else am I supposed to get him to look at me?" you whine once again, jungwon only rolls his eyes.

"maybe without being a brat and trying to make the poor guy jealous."

"its just an idea!" you defend.

"a bad one."

you slump in your chair, out of ideas. annoying jungwon, always has to be the responsible one.

you focus in your lecture, trying to push any distracting thought out of the way.

as you were packing up, with students filling out after the end of the lecture, you felt something poke your cheek, or rather, someone.

you look up to see jake standing there, an endearing smile on his face at the sight of you.

"yunie!" you stand up, a smile automatically painted your face.

"hi, love" he says softly, and it makes you melt.

"why are you here?"

jake giggles, it almost makes you blush. "to pick you up, aren't we having a sleepover today?"

right. you were so occupied with your own jealousy that you forgot the plans you'd made together.

"right! right.. let's go then?" you say as you pack up your bag and wave goodbye to jungwon, who was still there.

jake just holds your hand, leading you out the lecture hall.

'this is fine, you're fine, there's no need to be jealous, no need to make a scene over your emotions.' you insisted.

you look down at your intertwined hands, was it really fine?

the rest of the day went well, really well. at least, that's what you kept telling yourself.

you were on edge. still unsure if it was okay for you to voice feelings like this, or if you should just suck it up and deal with it yourself.

it's hard when you've never been in a proper relationship before. were you always this timid?

it all broke down when you were watching a movie, some romcom with a classic ending, but the words came out before you can stop them.

"do you think jealousy could break up a relationship?" you asked carefully, looking for an answer in his eyes.

jake was surprised by the sudden question, and the seriousness of it, but he could see the doubt in your eyes, the part of you that wants to brush it off and deny everything.

"I think it could, but I don't think it should." he says carefully, his gaze burned your skin.

"if someone I care about is jealous, or if I'm the jealous one, I'd like hear their thoughts, and share mine. I'd want them to understand my feelings, and not brush them off as unimportant, or ridiculous." he answers, and it leaves you in a daze of questions.

you look down at your lap, unsure what to say now. you never knew how to deal with your own feelings.

his hands move to your cheek, cradling it softly as he tilts your head up so you could meet his gaze.

"what's wrong?" he asks gently, and it sends a tug through your chest, he was so gentle it hurts.

"y/n?" no response.

"baby?" still none.

so he leans in, and catches your lips in a searing kiss.

he was so overwhelmingly gentle, making sure you're responding before he deepens the kiss, pouring everything you wouldn't understand with words into the kiss.

when he pulls back, panting, you chase after his lips instinctively, making him giggle.

"as much as I'd love to, we can't kiss all night." he said while stroking your hair, and you let out a small whine, barely a protest.

"why not? if two people like each other, they can kiss as much as they want."

"they can.. but what if these two people aren't being honest with each other?"

you frown "what do you mean?"

"is there something you're not telling me, y/n?" he prompts.

"maybe.." you start, unsure if you can lie your way out of this one.

"hm?" he softly nudges you, looking at you with tenderness you've never seen before, and suddenly, you don't have it in you to lie.

"I'm a bit jealous.. of everyone. I hate that everyone suddenly wants to look at you, I hate that girls now ask you for your number, I hate that some of them try to make moves by asking you to tutor them or help them with something. but I cant control what you do." you somehow admitted, your breath shallower than it was a few minutes ago.

you continue, "I know I shouldn't be. I know you like me. there's just this part of me, this voice inside of me that won't shut up about it."

you couldn't meet his eyes after, scared of his reaction.

jake could see it. the way blood rushed to your cheeks from embarrassment, the way you were bracing for something painful, like a bad reaction from him.

he just smiled fondly.

"I chose you. flaws and all. you're the one who makes me smile with just a look, you're the one who makes my heart beat in an unexplainable rhythm, you're the one I look at and wonder, 'wow, I can't believe she chose me.' y/n, it's you."

your eyes widen, because for the longest time, you forced yourself to believe you were the only one who felt this deeply about your relationship.

"you can tell me when you feel these types of things, I'll comfort you, I'll reassure you, I'll hold you tight and never let go." he searched your eyes for approval, and when you finally looked at him, teary eyes you couldn't quite explain, he engulfed you in a tight hug.

your fingers curled into his hoodie.

"do you believe me now?"

"I do. I believe you."

and he smiles, holding you tighter.

© juwonsicle . 2026

You whimper softly, sleepily.

“Steve..?” You rub your eyes, turning your head a bit to glance at him.

Sure enough, his brows are knit together and his hips are bucking. You sigh, turning around in his hold to face him.

Cupping his jaw, you very lightly smack his cheek a couple times to wake him up. He groans and takes a moment to actually open his eyes.

His cheeks flush when he meets your critical stare.

“Sorry, baby. Was I rubbing on you?” He asks, voice low and laced with guilt and embarrassment.

You nod, nuzzling your nose into the side of his neck. Your thumbs run over his jawline and you meet his gaze.

“S’okay.” You mumble. “M’sorry I woke you before you came.”

He laughs slightly and presses his face into your hair.

“I am a bit sore now, yeah.” He readjusts himself, trying to get more comfortable with full and achy balls between his thighs.

“You can put it in if you want,” You offer sleepily. “just not all the way in.”

His cock is too much stimulation when he forces it in in its entirety. It hurts and presses on your sweet spot too much. Shallow, on the other hand, would just be comfy and gentle.

He mumbles a quiet thank you and pulls himself out of his boxers.

A hand slips in the front of your pyjama pants and two fingers rub at your clit in wide circles. It’s the perfect technique, enough to get you wet, but too little to completely wake you up.

You let out a soft whimper, his free hand palming at your breasts.

“Not so much foreplay, Steve. M’tired, c’mon.” You beg, just wanting to get back to your beauty sleep.

He concedes and removes his hand from your pants, using it instead to tug them down enough to reveal your soft hole.

His tip rubs haphazardly through the wet folds before it catches on your entrance. He presses his hips forward, sinking himself 4 inches into your heat.

Stopping when he hits your cervix with his tip, he allows a pause to adjust. The thickness of his cock was nice for real sex, but right now it was a pain in the ass. Literally.

You don’t get as long as usual to acclimatize because his dream made him so horny, and he starts to rock himself in and out of you.

The gentle push and pull of it makes your mouth part slightly and some drool to darken a small spot on your pillow.

“That’s my good girl,” He whispers. “s’good for me. Fuck, baby, you’re so warm.”

His voice is rough with sleep and raw need as the quiet wet sounds fill the otherwise silent room.

He won’t force you to come, the absolute gentleman. He generally tries to avoid your clit and just keep his hips rolling.

His cock is twitching, but his balls seem to also twitch a bit too, the skin tightening just seconds before his smooth come paints your insides.

A soft whimper is vibrated into the skin of your shoulder.

“Thank you.” He breathes, finally feeling relieved.

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