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0scarp1astr1 · 1 month ago

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˖ 𐔌 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐚𝐲࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || When the flu hits the Norris household, you're suddenly the full-time nurse, chef, and cuddle provider. With Lando down and sick. It's up to you to nurse him and the kids back to health. ||

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: More of the Norris Family on your feed. Some stories might not be as long as the others. I do apologize, I am swamped with some things, but making it work. As of now, here is some fluff about the Norris family. DOUBLE POST TODAY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

It started with Sebastian.

You were home on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, a warm mug of tea in your hands as the low hum of afternoon silence filled the house. Lyla was upstairs napping, snuggled into her favorite pink blanket with her bunny tucked beneath her chin. Lando had gone out for the afternoon to grab groceries and maybe meet up with Oscar for lunch. It was peaceful. Until your phone rang.

You glanced down, squinting at the screen. St. Mary’s Primary School.

That peaceful feeling? Gone.

You picked up immediately. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sebastian’s mum?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Nurse Rachel, I’m calling to let you know Sebastian isn’t feeling too well. He’s got a slight fever, looks a bit pale, and he’s complaining about a headache and chills. He’s resting in the office now, but we’d recommend picking him up as soon as possible.”

Your heart dropped. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, you were parking in front of the school, your chest tight with worry. As soon as you stepped into the nurse’s office, your heart broke.

There was Sebastian, curled up on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His curls were a mess, flattened to one side, and his eyes looked heavy and dull. His cheeks were flushed, lips dry, and the moment he saw you, he blinked slowly and reached out with a weak little, “Mama…”

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, rushing to his side. You ran your fingers gently through his curls and kissed his forehead. He was burning up.

“Let’s get you home.”

At home, things started okay. You and Lando worked like a well-oiled team—fluffing pillows, taking temperatures, setting timers for medicine, keeping cartoons going on a loop to distract him. You’d been through colds and stomach bugs before. This was just another one. Or so you thought.

But two days in, Sebastian was getting worse.

“He hasn’t eaten anything,” Lando muttered, pacing at the foot of Sebastian’s bed. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed on his son who was lying limp, glassy-eyed, not even responding to his favorite movie playing.

“I know,” you sighed, rubbing Sebastian’s back gently. “He won’t even drink juice.”

“He’s not… him. He doesn’t even want me to read to him.”

You both looked at each other then, the unspoken agreement passing between you like a bolt of electricity.

Doctor. Now.

The diagnosis: flu. A pretty bad one.

“Just rest, fluids, and keep monitoring his fever,” the pediatrician said kindly. “These days, the strains going around have been knocking kids out hard, but with proper care, he should be alright in a few days.”

Lando let out a long sigh once you were back in the car, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay. So we can do this.”

You smiled weakly. “Yeah. We’ve got this.”

You didn’t have this.

Because two days later, Lyla got it.

She woke up wailing in the middle of the night, her entire little body on fire with fever, cheeks damp from tears, and that heartbreaking toddler cry that said she didn’t know what was happening.

“Oh no,” you whispered as you scooped her into your arms.

From the doorway, Lando stood in pajama pants, his shirt long forgotten, with sleepy eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and dark circles under his eyes. “Not her too.”

“She’s burning up, Lan.”

The house descended into chaos.

You barely knew what day it was. There were humidifiers going in every room. Thermometers beeping every few hours. Medicine charts taped to the fridge. Lyla wanted nothing but cuddles. Sebastian was in a zombie state, and you were running on cold coffee and adrenaline.

One afternoon, while you were wiping down the kitchen counter, a soft knock came at the front door.

You opened it to find Oscar standing there, hoodie pulled over his head and holding a large brown paper bag.

“Hey,” he said with a small, apologetic smile. “Lando said you guys were in full-on crisis mode. I figured you could use a hand.”

“Oscar,” you blinked, almost tearing up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He stepped inside, pulling off his shoes. “I brought electrolyte drinks, cold meds, some soup, and—” he pulled a stuffed dinosaur from the bag with a small grin, “a get-well friend for Seb.”

You laughed softly, taking the items. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He looked toward the living room where Lando was sprawled on the floor with Lyla clinging to his chest, half-asleep. “How’s he holding up?”

You snorted. “Heroically. Stubbornly. Recklessly. Pick one.”

Lando looked up just then. “Oi! I’m doing my best over here!”

“You’re gonna catch it too, mate,” Oscar warned.

“Nah,” Lando said, stroking Lyla’s back gently. “I’ve got dad immunity.”

“You mean denial,” you muttered, setting down the soup.

But Oscar was right.

Two days later, you walked in from the store to find the living room in complete stillness.

Lando was lying facedown on the couch, motionless. Sebastian was snuggled on top of his back like a human blanket, fast asleep. Lyla was curled at the base of the couch with her head on Lando’s leg, mouth open, drool visibly soaking into the fabric of his joggers.

He lifted his hand lazily and gave you a pathetic wave.

“You’re home,” he rasped, voice so congested it didn’t even sound like him.

You set the bag of groceries down and crossed your arms. “Lando.”

He turned his head just slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was clearly on strike.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“No, I’m just tired,” he mumbled.

You arched a brow. “Tired? Your face looks like it’s been hit with hay fever, the flu, and a cold front.”

He huffed. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You have a seven-year-old with the flu asleep on your back and a two-year-old sneezing on your leg. You’re now patient three in this house of doom.”

“Don’t diss my babies,” he muttered, sniffling.

You walked over and gently lifted Sebastian off him, carefully not to wake him. “Come on, superhero. Time to go to bed.”

He groaned dramatically, trying to sit up before collapsing again. “This is how I go.”

“Lando.”

He opened one eye. “If I don’t make it, tell Oscar I forgive him for bringing me that soup with ginger.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tell the children I fought bravely.”

“You got the flu from cuddling a toddler.”

“...still brave.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The early morning had become your only moment of true peace.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but soft golden light was beginning to filter in through the tall windows of your Monaco flat, casting long, warm shadows across the quiet living room. The city beyond the glass was still sleeping, wrapped in the quiet hum of a new day not yet begun. No traffic. No coughing. No cartoons buzzing in the background. Just silence. Precious, rare silence.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tiles cool beneath your feet, wrapped loosely in your robe. One hand cradled a warm mug of tea while the other rested against the edge of the counter as you took a breath. Deep. Grounding. You could almost pretend the past week hadn’t happened—almost pretend the house wasn’t still full of flu-stricken chaos, discarded tissues, and sleepless nights.

But you knew better.

Your eyes wandered toward the hallway.

In your bedroom, Lando lay sprawled across the bed, curled protectively around a small, warm bundle. Lyla was tucked up against him, her tiny frame almost disappearing beneath the heavy duvet. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, her thumb still resting against her lips, breathing soft and even. One of Lando’s arms was draped over her securely, his hand resting gently on her back as if shielding her from even the remnants of the flu. His curls were a tousled mess on the pillow, his mouth parted slightly as he slept—exhausted, stuffy, and completely defeated by the same virus he’d insisted he wouldn’t catch.

You’d warned him. Time and time again, you told him to stop letting her cough in his face, to quit letting her nuzzle into his hoodie while she sniffled and sneezed.

“She’s a daddy’s girl,” you had said. “You’ll be the next one down.”

And now, here you were.

Across the hall, Sebastian was finally asleep too, curled up in his bright red race car bed. His tiny body lay limp under a Cars-themed comforter, his arms tucked beneath his pillow, one leg dangling out from under the blanket like it always did—flu or no flu. His cheeks were still a little pink, but the fever had come down overnight. You’d stood in his doorway earlier just to watch him breathe, just to make sure.

He looked peaceful. For now.

And for a few stolen moments, so did everyone else.

You sipped your tea, turning slowly back toward the stove.

“Breakfast,” you mumbled to yourself, eyeing the sparse options you’d managed to keep stocked through the week. There wasn’t much point in cooking something elaborate. Nothing seemed to stay down anyway. Every meal came with the risk of being met with a gag, a grumble, or worse—clean-up duty.

You sighed and set the mug down. “Oatmeal and yogurt,” you decided aloud. “Simple. Gentle. Not likely to end up on the floor.”

You grabbed the oats and a small pot, setting it on the stove to warm the milk. Your hands moved with practiced rhythm—quiet, calm. You sliced some banana, then carefully cut a few strawberries, arranging them in a little dish in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the colors might tempt Lyla or Sebastian to eat something.

The silence was comforting, for once. No crying. No sneezing. No soft calls of “Mama…” from down the hall.

Just you. Your kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The aroma of tea.

And then—ring ring ring.

You jumped a little at the sudden break in stillness and reached across the counter for your phone, sighing lightly. You glanced at the screen and smiled.

Cisca.

You picked up immediately. “Well,” you said with a chuckle, phone pressed to your ear, “it’s nice someone is calling me and not crying or throwing up.”

“Calling to check in on the family!” Cisca’s warm, familiar voice greeted you.

Your smile deepened. Lando’s mom had always been so caring—gentle but no-nonsense, the kind of woman you could rely on. She knew how hard motherhood could get, even with help.

You leaned against the counter, balancing the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “You have impeccable timing. The house is actually… quiet. For once.”

“I was hoping I’d catch you before the chaos starts again. How’s everyone holding up?”

“Well,” you exhaled, stirring the oatmeal slowly, “Sebastian’s fever finally broke last night. He’s asleep in his bed, looking like a little zombie racer.”

“That’s good news.”

You nodded to yourself. “Lyla’s still all sniffles and sleepy cuddles. And she’s in bed with Lando right now.”

Cisca laughed knowingly. “Let me guess—tucked under his arm like a little koala?”

You chuckled. “Exactly. It’s actually adorable. She’s latched onto him like he’s her personal comfort pillow. She refuses to be anywhere else.”

“She always was a daddy’s girl.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk, “which brings me to the bad news—he’s got the flu now too.”

“Oh no…”

You shook your head, scooping the finished oatmeal into a bowl. “I told him. Over and over. Stop letting her breathe on you. Stop kissing her forehead every five minutes. But he couldn’t help himself. He cuddled her through the worst of it and now…” You glanced toward the bedroom door. “He’s just another one of my patients.”

Cisca groaned. “He never did listen to advice when it came to sick days.”

You grinned. “Now he’s snoring like a bear, wrapped around his sick toddler like he’s the one keeping her alive.”

“Well, you’re a stronger woman than me,” she said with a laugh. “I’d have booked a hotel.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

You both laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

“You’re doing great,” Cisca said warmly. “I know this part is exhausting, but it’ll pass. Just make sure you don’t go down next.”

“Knock on wood,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I’m the last one standing.”

“For now,” she teased.

You chuckled again and looked over your shoulder, taking in the morning light filtering across the floor, casting a soft glow down the hallway. Behind those doors were your whole world—sick, tired, and helpless—but still your heart in three fragile, beautiful pieces.

And right now, you were holding everyone together.

“I’ve got it,” you whispered more to yourself than anyone else. “I’ve got all of them.”

The sound of a raspy cough pierced the quiet, interrupting your rare sliver of calm. You gently pulled the phone away from your ear mid-sentence.

“I think that’s my cue,” you murmured with a soft sigh. “One of the tiny patients is awake.”

“Hang in there,” Cisca replied sympathetically. “Call me later if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Cisca.”

You ended the call and set the phone down on the counter, already hearing the familiar rhythm of small footsteps padding against the wooden floors. And then—

“Mama!”

You turned toward the hallway, just as Sebastian appeared—his race car pajamas rumpled, curls flattened on one side of his head, and his cheeks still flushed from fever. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, dragging his favorite stuffed animal behind him.

Before you could respond, Lando stepped into the kitchen behind him, holding Lyla close to his chest. She was bundled in a blanket, thumb in her mouth, her heavy head resting on his shoulder. Her curls were tangled from sleep, her little body completely melted against him.

“Lando,” you sighed gently, though your tone carried the weight of exhaustion, “put her down. You all should be in bed. I’m making breakfast.”

He gave a tired shake of his head, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re fine, love.”

But you saw the truth in his eyes—the fatigue, the faint daze behind his movements, and most telling of all, the harsh cough that followed his words, forcing him to turn away from the stove area.

“Please,” you said more firmly, “not around the food.”

He nodded weakly, patting Lyla’s back as she made a soft noise in her sleep.

You set the spoon down with a soft clink and crossed your arms. “Okay. You three—back to bed. Now. All of you.”

“Mama…” Sebastian whined pitifully. He shuffled forward and leaned into your side, wrapping his arms around your leg. “I want to stay with you…”

Your heart tugged painfully.

You ran your fingers through his curls and crouched down to meet his tired gaze. “Oh, sweetheart… you three make me feel awful. I hate seeing you all like this.”

Lando watched you, still holding Lyla like a sick little koala bear. His lips were pale, eyes heavy-lidded. You stepped closer, gently brushing a hand over Lyla’s back and then across his arm.

“Lando, honey,” you said softly, your voice dipping into something tender, something pleading, “can you please lay back down? Take them with you? Just rest a little longer.”

He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled shakily. “I would,” he murmured, “but my head is pounding and I feel like my whole body’s made of wet paper.”

You sighed, leaning into him briefly, pressing your forehead to his arm. “I told you this would happen.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But she wouldn’t sleep without me…”

You looked down at Lyla, who hadn’t stirred once since they entered the kitchen, her little fingers fisted in the fabric of Lando’s shirt.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Come on. All of you—back to bed. I’ll bring breakfast to the bedroom. Just let me finish getting it ready. I’ll even add a bit of honey to Sebastian’s oatmeal and cut Lyla’s strawberries just the way she likes them.”

Sebastian sniffled and looked up at you. “With the little star shapes?”

You smiled tiredly. “With the star shapes, baby.”

Lando gave you the faintest, grateful grin. “You’re kind of a superhero, you know that?”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you forget it.”

As they slowly turned back toward the hallway—Lando shuffling like a sick penguin, Sebastian clutching his stuffed animal and trailing behind, Lyla still completely draped across her dad—you watched them disappear one by one into the bedroom.

The kitchen was warm with the gentle scent of honey and oats, the steam from the tea curling softly into the air. You moved with quiet care, filling the bowls with the oatmeal you’d just made—each one sweetened with a drizzle of honey and topped with star-shaped strawberries and banana slices. A small cup of yogurt sat beside each bowl, along with spoons, napkins, and the kind of quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the kids would eat today without rejecting it.

You poured a mug of warm tea for Lando—his favorite herbal blend with a slice of lemon, just the way he liked it when he was sick—and then filled a tiny glass with vegetable juice for Sebastian, placing it gently on the tray. You knew he didn’t love it, but he’d promised to try if you made it “look fancy.” Lyla’s sippy cup was filled halfway with the same juice, mostly in the name of fairness.

Balancing the two trays with practiced care, you made your way down the hall and into the bedroom.

What you found made your heart ache in that bittersweet way only motherhood ever could.

Lando had propped himself up against the headboard, hair a complete mess, cheeks slightly flushed. Lyla was curled up on his lap, wrapped in her blanket, her thumb tucked into her mouth as she blinked sleepily at you. Sebastian was leaning into Lando’s side, his little head resting on his dad’s shoulder, still holding tightly to his stuffed bunny.

“Goodness,” you breathed, stepping into the room, “you three amaze me…”

Lando looked up, managing a tired grin as you carried the trays in.

You set them carefully on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you sat at the edge. “Alright, breakfast is served—oatmeal, yogurt, fancy fruit, and drinks you’ll all probably ignore.”

“Ocker!” Lyla suddenly perked up, her voice muffled and sleepy as she looked at you hopefully.

You gave her a gentle smile, brushing a hand over her forehead. “Uncle Oscar’s probably busy right now, baby girl. And you’re too sick—he can’t come over until you’re feeling better, remember?”

Lyla frowned, clearly disappointed, but snuggled back into Lando’s chest.

Lando groaned softly, placing a hand over his face in mock defeat. “Great. Sick, miserable, and now my own daughter is choosing Oscar over me.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging his foot under the covers. “Relax. She’s not picking favorites.”

He peered at you over his hand. “Sure sounds like it.”

You glanced at Lyla, who was now absently poking the edge of her blanket and sucking on her thumb again. “You know when she’s anxious, she gravitates to people who make her feel calm,” you said gently. “And Oscar’s like her giant golden retriever. He’s quiet. Still. And he always lets her talk first, even when she’s babbling nonsense.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I don’t let her talk?”

You gave him a look. “You narrate her every move like she’s a Formula 1 highlight reel.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again, sheepish. “Okay… fair.”

Sebastian let out a soft laugh beside him. “You do that, Daddy.”

Lando gave him a playful nudge. “Traitor.”

You smiled at the sight of all three of them bundled up in bed together—your entire world, messy hair and flushed cheeks and all. You passed out the bowls carefully, helping Sebastian sit up straighter and placing Lyla’s tray on the bed where she could reach it, even if you’d probably end up spoon-feeding her half of it.

Lando took his tea with a grateful hum, blowing on it gently. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Yes, I did,” you said simply, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Because if I don’t take care of you three, who will?”

He caught your hand in his and kissed your knuckles softly. “When this is over, I owe you a week of sleep and massages.”

“Throw in some chocolate and a hot bath, and you’ve got a deal.”

Lyla leaned her head against Lando’s chest again, sleepy and warm, and Sebastian spooned some oatmeal into his mouth with a quiet, “Mmm, the stars are tasty.”

You laughed softly.

Even in sickness, even in chaos—you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Medicine hour. A warzone.

“Lando, for the love of everything, just drink it.” You stood over him, arms crossed, holding the measuring cup filled with thick, cherry-red syrup. “You’re setting the worst example.”

He groaned. “I hate the taste. I’d rather die than drink that stuff again.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, before grabbing a tissue and wiping a smear of sweat off his brow. “But fine. If you die, I’m throwing you out on the balcony so you don’t get the rest of us sicker.”

Sebastian, peeking from behind the kitchen island, gasped. “You’d throw Daddy off the balcony?”

You grinned. “Only a little.”

“Nooooo,” Lyla whined dramatically, half-laughing, half-crying from where she had crawled into Lando’s lap — seeking refuge. “No medicine! No meeeeedicine!”

“She’s hiding behind me,” Lando groaned. “I’m literally dying, and she’s hiding behind me.”

You gave them both the look. “I swear to God—”

10:00 AM They were scattered across the living room like sick little soldiers after battle. Lyla was curled on Lando’s chest, snot crusting around her nose as she finally gave in to sleep. Sebastian lay on his side with a cold rag on his forehead, muttering something about how he was “still in control of the situation.”

You were running on caffeine and desperation, perched at the edge of the armchair, flipping through temperature logs on your phone and timing medicine gaps.

“You okay?” Lando mumbled hoarsely, watching you through tired eyes. You hesitated. “I’ve been better.”

He gave you a weak smile. “I’d kiss you, but I’d infect you.”

You snorted. “You already did.”

12:45 PM Lunchtime was a joke.

Lando tried to stand and help but ended up throwing up water in the bathroom and groaning dramatically like a Shakespearean ghost. You had to threaten Sebastian with no Mario Kart for a week just to get three spoonfuls of chicken broth into him.

Lyla wailed when you brought the soup near her mouth. She refused to even open it unless Lando was holding the spoon, which he physically couldn’t. It ended with you holding Lyla, and Lando guiding your hand to her mouth with both of yours like some sort of messed-up relay.

“Say aaaaah,” you tried.

“No!” “Please?” “Noooooo!” “Fine, then no cartoon time for the day”

Her mouth opened like magic. You almost cried.

2:30 PM Nap time.

Not for you, of course. Never for you.

Lando was finally out cold in bed, one leg dangling dramatically off the side. Sebastian had passed out with a box of tissues under one arm and a Switch on the other. Lyla was asleep on the living room floor, a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest and tear streaks still drying on her face.

You just sat. In the silence. For ten whole minutes.

Ten peaceful, quiet, blessed minutes.

Until Sebastian shouted from his dream, “Don’t touch my kart!” and startled Lyla back awake.

4:00 PM Round two.

You had to strip Lando’s shirt when he started sweating through it again. He barely fought you this time, just muttered something about “this being true love” as you threw it into the hamper.

Sebastian vomited in the hallway. “I didn’t mean to!” “I know, sweetheart. It’s okay.” “Do I still get Mario Kart?” “…We’ll talk about it.”

Lyla bit your arm during her medicine dose. Not unusual considering who her father is.

6:00 PM You finally had them clean, medicated, in fresh pajamas, and watching a movie — a miracle. Lando took your hand from where he lay on the couch.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You haven’t sat all day.”

“Who has time to sit when you have three Norrises pretending they're fine but slowly dying in front of you?”

He laughed softly, rubbing your knuckles. “Seriously… thank you.” You kissed his temple. “Next time you say you’re fine… I’m duct-taping you to the bed.”

From across the room, Sebastian weakly raised his hand. “Me too?” “Yes, you too.” “And Lyla?” Lyla sneezed so hard she fell over. “Nooooooo!”

You exhaled, leaning back at last.

One long, flu-stricken day down. God help you — it probably wasn’t over yet.

But for now… they were okay.

And that was enough.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun had barely crept over the buildings of Monaco, casting soft golden streaks through the glass windows of the flat. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves rolled up and hair tied messily atop your head. The faint hum of the dishwasher was a low reward for your efforts, and the strong scent of lemon-scented disinfectant lingered in the air. You'd deep cleaned every surface before anyone had even stirred. You sanitized toys, aired out bedding, wiped down door handles — anything that had been sneezed, coughed, or whined on.

You were exhausted, but the apartment felt new again — lighter somehow, fresher, like the weight of the past 48 hours had lifted a little. Even Monaco, framed through the glass windows, looked like it had taken a deep breath alongside you.

Just as you were about to sink into the couch for the first time all morning, the doorbell buzzed. You already knew the voice before the intercom clicked:

“Delivery!” came Oscar’s cheerful tone.

You grinned.

Dragging yourself to the door, you cracked it open slightly. “You,” you said with a tired smile, “are the absolute best.”

He laughed as you opened the door the rest of the way. “I figured you needed it,” he said, handing over a large brown paper bag with your favorites — fresh croissants, some fruit, and what you knew was a much-needed double-shot latte.

You clutched the bag like it was sacred. “You're a hero. Truly. Come in?”

He shook his head. “Can’t. On the way to the simulator, but I wanted to check in.”

“How’s Lando? And the others?” he asked as you leaned against the doorway, exhaustion written under your eyes but a soft smile on your lips.

You let out a sigh that carried a world of chaos. “Well… let’s see,” you began, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’ve been running around handling cleaning and cooking and, you know, making sure no one dies from stubbornness.”

Oscar smirked. “Sounds about right.”

“Lando keeps trying to act like he’s fine, defending Lyla during medicine hour like some sort of sick knight in a hoodie. He practically begged me not to make her drink the syrup last night — while sweating through his own shirt.”

Oscar snorted.

“And Sebastian…” You softened a little, glancing toward the hallway. “He wants to do karting. He was almost crying this morning. Said he knows he can drive even if he’s sick — ‘just not with a helmet on because it squishes his head,’” you mimicked gently in Sebastian’s voice. “So, he’s very much stuck in the flat and not happy about it.”

You paused, then added with a chuckle, “And me? Well. I’m surviving. Officially crowned Mrs. Norris and her flu-stricken family. Put it on the mailbox.”

Oscar gave you a soft look, one of genuine admiration. “You always say you’re surviving, but honestly… you’re the one keeping the wheels turning.”

You gave him a tired smile in return, warmed by the words. “Maybe. But next time they all get the flu? I’m moving out. Temporarily. Maybe to your flat.”

“Ha! Yeah, okay. You, voluntarily away from them?” he grinned. “You’d last three hours before you’re texting Lando to send you pictures of the kids in their pajamas.”

You shrugged, accepting the truth. “Alright, fine. But I will complain the whole time.”

He stepped back, giving you a two-finger salute. “Hang in there. And seriously — nap when you can. You’ve earned it.”

You raised the coffee cup like a toast. “Oscar Piastri, Patron Saint of the Overworked Mother.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the corridor.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, sipping your drink, letting the warmth spread through your fingers and into your chest.

The house was quiet again. Peaceful, if only for a few minutes.

You closed the door and whispered to yourself, “Alright. Round three… let’s go.”

The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of soft whines, crumpled tissues, and half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite. Every corner of the flat held evidence of a war against the flu — juice cups only half drunk, bowls of soup pushed aside, little socks strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers.

Sebastian and Lyla had entered the “bickering phase,” where every toy, blanket, or parental glance became a battle.

“Mummy, Lyla stole my truck!”

“Nooo, mine!”

“It’s literally mine!”

You exhaled loudly from the kitchen, gently massaging your temple. “Please… one moment of peace. One.”

Lando, lying horizontal on the couch with a blanket thrown over his head like a man defeated, peeked one eye open. “Want me to mediate?”

“You fell asleep twice during Cars 2,” you shot back. “You’re barely qualified to stand.”

“I’m fine,” he said for the fourth time today — voice raspy, hair tousled, and one sock mysteriously missing. “Totally fine.”

You glanced at the coffee table, where a half-full mug of cold tea sat untouched next to a bottle of cold meds. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhm,” he said, eyes already closing again.

You didn’t push it. You just picked up another tissue from the floor and added it to the already overflowing bin.

Midday blurred into afternoon.

You dragged a basket of clothes out of the bathroom, a trail of damp towels and pajamas trailing behind you. Every time you passed a doorknob, you hit it with a disinfectant wipe. The light switches, the remotes, the handles to the fridge — all wiped in steady repetition like you were running your own personal hospital ward.

Lyla cried when she couldn’t find Bunny. Sebastian cried when Lyla touched his Mario Kart controller. Lando made a valiant attempt to make toast, only to collapse back into bed five minutes later, claiming the “world got a little spinny.”

And you… you kept going.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d reheated your coffee. You hadn’t brushed your hair since early morning, and your hoodie had a suspicious smear on the sleeve — you didn’t ask what it was. But still, you moved through the house like a quiet force, taking care of your people, checking temperatures, brushing sweaty hair from little foreheads, rubbing Lando’s back when he coughed hard enough to wince.

You were tired.

Utterly drained.

But you looked at them — at the mess, the madness, the family-shaped hurricane swirling around you — and your chest still swelled with that quiet kind of love.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not the mess. Not the noise. Not even the flu.

Because they were yours.

And all you wanted… was for them to feel better.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three more days.

Three more days of the same rhythm: tissues, thermometers, scattered toys, the faint beep of the washing machine in the background. You moved through the apartment with quiet determination, never stopping for long — cleaning surfaces with one hand, balancing a bottle of electrolyte solution in the other. You knew exactly how many crackers were left, how low the medicine was getting, and which blanket belonged to which feverish body.

You restocked what was needed, organized medications by time, wiped down doorknobs like it was second nature. You were the engine keeping the flat running — quiet, steady, reliable. But it was draining, and though you didn’t say a word of it out loud, your body ached with exhaustion, your eyes stung when you blinked too long, and your thoughts grew foggy from lack of sleep.

Lando noticed.

Even in his haze — buried in the couch, skin pale, lips cracked from dehydration — he watched you.

And it hurt him.

Every time he opened his eyes and saw you wiping down the remote or cleaning Lyla’s pacifier again, he felt it deep in his chest. Not the ache of the flu — but the ache of helplessness. The guilt.

He wanted to get up and take the load from your shoulders. He wanted to hold Lyla while you slept, chase Sebastian around the flat again, make you tea and tell you to lie down. But his body betrayed him. Every time he tried, the wave of nausea, of exhaustion, of weakness pulled him right back down.

Still… he silently promised himself: As soon as I can stand, I’m making it right.

And then — slowly, things began to shift.

Day Four of Illness.

It was subtle at first. But you noticed.

Lando made it to the bathroom on his own. No dizzy hands braced on the wall. No stumbling. Just… quiet steps down the hallway, and a simple, calm return to bed. He even flushed this time, a small miracle. When he laid down, he muttered, “Didn’t even gag this time.” It was ridiculous — and still made your heart squeeze.

His appetite came creeping back. He managed to finish toast without wincing, and even reached for a banana. “Don’t get too excited,” he said weakly when he caught your proud smile. “I’m still a shell of a man.”

Sebastian’s voice was still hoarse with a lingering cough, but he was no longer buried under four blankets in bed. Instead, he was camped on the couch, one leg hanging off as he watched cartoons, munching slowly on dry cereal. His eyes were brighter, not glassy anymore, and he even complained about how boring it was to be sick now.

“Can I go karting today?” he asked. You raised a brow. “Buddy… you’re still coughing.” “But I feel fast.” You laughed softly. “You’ll be fast again soon, promise.”

And Lyla — your little whirlwind — was finally playing again. Her fever had broken. She was dragging her plush animals around the living room like royalty, babbling half-words, climbing into your lap only to squirm out two seconds later. Her energy was returning in soft waves — not chaotic, but present.

And you?

You finally noticed you weren’t holding your breath anymore.

You weren’t setting alarms every few hours in the night. You didn’t have to make midnight runs to the bathroom cabinet. You no longer counted coughs or worried about temperatures spiking.

The house still held signs of the storm — the tissues, the blankets, the smell of menthol lingering in the air — but it was passing. Slowly, but surely, your family was healing.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you laid down in bed and didn’t immediately feel the pressure of duty pulling you back up.

And when Lando turned over to face you, his voice was low, scratchy, but more him than it had been in days.

“You can sleep now,” he whispered, his hand gently brushing yours under the blanket. “We’re okay.”

And you believed him.

So you closed your eyes.

And slept.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You almost thanked the heavens out loud when color returned to your family’s faces.

Sebastian was up earlier, bounding down the hallway with his usual chaotic energy, no longer curled up on the couch like a sad, blanket-wrapped burrito. He was asking about karting again, insisting he was at “90% top speed, maybe 95 if I have juice first.”

Lyla had less whines and more giggles, finally dragging her plush bunny around like a queen commanding her court. She followed Sebastian with a trail of toys and an occasional squeal of laughter, her little feet pattering like soft rain across the living room.

And Lando — God, Lando was himself again. Teasing the kids, poking Sebastian in the ribs until he laughed too hard and snorted, lifting Lyla over his shoulder with ease as she squealed “Daddy noooo!” through laughter. His eyes had lost that fever-dull glaze. His cheeks held their warmth again, his playful smile was back.

It was perfect. Finally.

You could breathe. You could wipe your forehead, toss the washcloth into the laundry, and declare — with exhausted triumph — mission accomplished. You’d nursed your flu-stricken army back to health. You'd survived the storm.

Dinner plates were no longer left half-full. No one was clutching their stomach or whining about sore limbs or sweating through pajamas at 2am. They were whole again.

And then, like cruel irony, a week later… it hit you.

It started slow. A dull ache behind your eyes. The scratch in your throat. A heaviness in your body that you desperately tried to shake off.

No, you told yourself. Not me. I’m the caregiver, the strong one, the immune one. I don’t get sick. I fix sick.

But the ache deepened. The energy drained. And by the time you found yourself in the kitchen, hunched slightly over the steaming bowl of chicken soup, elbows on the counter, face slack with fatigue — you knew.

It got you. The flu finally got you.

Your head lolled to the side as the world tilted just slightly under your feet, and you groaned, nose wrinkling. You didn’t even hear him come in, not until that familiar voice softened behind you.

“You okay, baby?”

Lando’s tone was light, but laced with immediate concern. You turned your head sluggishly and gave a small, pitiful hum.

“Think the flu is trying to attack me,” you mumbled, punctuating the sentence with a weak cough into your sleeve.

He was at your side instantly, hand brushing your lower back. You saw his face fall just slightly. Not the dramatic Lando face he gave the kids — the real one. The worried one.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “go lay down. No arguments.”

You groaned. “No. I still need to finish—”

“Nope. Don’t care. You took care of us. Now we take care of you,” he said, gently taking the spoon from your hand and setting it down. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn. You were a badass nurse. It’s my turn to suck at it.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You’re going to be the best and worst nurse. Somehow, both at once.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Right. Now off you go. Shoo. Mama’s off duty.”

You were about to turn, maybe even argue a little more — but then, with a cheeky grin, he slapped your ass. Hard enough to make you yelp.

“NORRIS!” you barked, rubbing the spot with a soft wince.

“What?” he laughed, completely unbothered, “I’m just encouraging the patient to move along. Nurse’s orders.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, incredibly handsome.”

He winked, ushering you toward the hallway.

You dragged your feet, muttering, “A nurse does not hurt the person he’s caring for.”

“Oh come on,” he murmured, catching up to you, kissing the edge of your jaw. “It’s my favorite part of you. Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

You turned back to give him the dirtiest look you could muster — half-hearted at best — and he smirked again.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he said, following close behind.

From the living room, Lyla squealed in laughter and Sebastian shouted something about racing plush animals. You smiled faintly, even through the growing ache in your head. They were okay. They were whole again. That was everything.

Lando guided you toward the bedroom, one hand still gently on your hip.

“Oh, and babe?” he added, grinning, “If I nurse you back to health, I get baby number three.”

You spun slowly on your heel. “You really wanna try that while I have the flu?”

He raised both hands. “Just planting the idea. Let it simmer. Like your soup. Which I’m now in charge of, by the way.”

You laughed softly — hoarse and worn, but genuine.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, pressed a kiss there. “Go sleep. I’ll check on the kids, do dinner. You’ve earned it.”

You nodded, curling under the blanket a few minutes later, body finally letting go.

Your husband — your teammate, your chaos, your comfort — was the biggest pain in your ass. But he was also the one always ready to carry you when you couldn’t walk.

And really, that made him the best damn nurse of all. Even if he had wandering hands.

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croquettish · 2 months ago

Text

Sexuality, Acceptability, Risk, and Medieval Bohemia

Someone commented on my Hansry fic recently about how a good number of fics in this fandom apparently feature the sort of modern protestant homophobia emblematic of the United States. This was baffling to me.

More recently I've seen a bit of backlash against this rather normative, America-centric approach to the historical homophobia (deeply entrenched in Catholicism, mind you) that they would have been subject to back then. And, as is quite normal with the internet, naturally the pendulum has swung way too far in the other direction. Jokes were made and then taken seriously by others. I've now seen sentiments floating around like "oh they wouldn't have cared at all," (not on tumblr) which is wild to me.

My doctoral studies have to do with queerness in the High Middle Ages, so seeing as I've spent the last several years of my life living on archive.org, knee-deep in this research, I feel like it's my academic responsibility to correct the record some. As usual, the answer lies somewhere in the middle of the two extremes.

All my sources are listed in the text (in the case of art) or at the very end of the post. For those of you just interested in what all of this means for Hansry, feel free to jump down to the purple heading.

I will start by saying that the "queer medieval utopia" you're looking for didn't exist. The closest you're going to get to that is the late 11th century / early 12th century, and even then there were limits to this general social acceptability. Paris and Florence were commonly considered to be gay dens of iniquity by people outside of those places, but even that was a bit of an exaggeration.

So where does this misconception come from?

Within the Catholic landscape, the body was considered separate from the spirit. Only one's "mystic sensorium" was supposed to be involved in spiritual intercourse with Christ and each other, and the overlap of the real and the ideal was… problematic at times, a genuine threat to chastity. Physical affection was meant to not broach certain limits. Kissing was acceptable. Metaphors were acceptable. In ancient Christianity, it was normal for women to kiss other women and for men to kiss other men as part of mass in the name of exchanging the kiss of peace, the pax. The idea here was to meet with the Spirit of Christ. Ambrose likened it to "lovers who, unsatisfied with the mere enjoyment of the lips, kiss so deeply as to interchange their spirits with one another." Which is all well and good, but this leaves a lot of leeway. How much physical affection was considered acceptable?

Anselm, the closest thing we have to a gay man of this time, would write things like this, in this case a letter addressed to two biological brothers that he hoped to join him in the monastic life:

"My eyes long to see your faces most beloved; my arms stretch out to your embraces; my lips long for your kisses; whatever remains to me of life desires your company . . . . Oh, how my love burns in my marrow . . . . [In coming to Bec] you have fused my soul with yours. If you now leave me, our joint soul will be torn apart, it can never again become two."

He had never met them before, nor should this suggest that they were about to enter a sexual relationship. In fact, around this time we see quite a few such expressions of affection coming out of the monastic space. Alcuin, writing to Arno of Salzburg, felt entirely comfortable writing that his love could not be prevented, even in the face of death, from licking Arno's innermost parts, a reference here (most likely) to Christ's side wound. In another letter, Alcuin is even more overt:

"It is exquisitely sweet to remember your love and intimacy, holy father; I wish the dear moment would come when I might embrace the shoulders of your love with the arms of my longing for you. . . . with what speedy hands I would rush into your fatherly embrace, with what pressing lips I would kiss not only your eyes and ears and mouth, but each knuckle of each finger, of each toe, not once, but many, many times!"

It would be extremely easy to assume that these letters suggested more than meets the eye, but historically speaking, as far as we know, this was not the case. Because this level of affection was considered to be in line with the "Christian" thing to do between brothers (no, I'm not joking). And there were harsh punishments if you breached these limits. Bear in mind, these letters could easily be seen by others!

Moreover, it should be noted that we don't see this level of affection outside of the monastic space (though it does still come up, albeit to a much lesser extent). You can think of it as code switching, essentially. Verbiage that would be considered insanely sexual in one space would not be considered as such within a monastic context prior to the shift in the 12th century.

Some scholars suggested that the use of such language implies ignorance or naivety about how this physical affection could look to the outside world, but we do know that Anselm at one point became worried enough that he might be misunderstood that he censored himself after leaving Bec for Canterbury. Even if his inclinations were chaste, he knew they could be viewed through the lens of homosexuality.

The ideal sexual state for a person to be in at this time was rooted in asceticism: chastity in the face of desire. You'd think asexuality would be a quick workaround for that, but unfortunately the lack of desire would just mean a lack of necessary effort on that person's part. Bear in mind, suffering is what's rewarded here. A gay man plagued with homosexual desires is just being tested by God. By denying himself those desires, he's rising in the ranks of holiness. A great example of this is Brother Lucas from KCD1:

According to the Rule of Pachomius, kissing boys on the lips was forbidden and punished by whipping, imprisonment, fasting, shaving, and six months of humiliation. In Fructuosus of Braga's Rule, a monk kissing or even being "too attentive to young men or boys would result in a very similar six month sentence as well as six additional months of manual labor, separated from his brethren, always under watch of at least two spiritual brothers. Never again was he allowed to enjoy private conversation or companionship with those younger than him.

"But Tam!" you might say. "This is just about monks! What about real people?"

I'm so glad you asked! Because we know that as well!

Penitentials, which were quite in vogue until around the 11th century and then again after the passing of Lateran IV in the early 13th century, were very punishing of all manner of sexuality, but especially homosexual acts, and, among them, especially oral sex. (The mouth is considered, to a certain extent, sacred. Don't ask me why, that alone is like twenty pages in my dissertation, though I could be lowballing tbh.) The Penitential of Theodore punishes it with 7 years of harsh penance and 15 years if the practice is habitual. Sometimes, however, it was "until the end of life" and considered to be the "worst evil," worse than fornication with one's mother. Harsh!

Ye olde penitentials were used as guidelines for later confession as well as those from before the 12th century. Conveniently for us, the late, great James A. Brundage came up with a fantastic chart/guide on when and how it was acceptable to have sex at all:

Did people follow this? My god, absolutely not. We wouldn't have the confessional records if this wasn't a problem in the realm of ~sin. But the guidelines were there and expected to be adhered to.

Don't get me wrong, the late 11th / early 12th century was a watershed moment in history in terms of overall acceptability of queerness, a time when Ovid and other Ovidian literature flourished. Punishments were rarely enforced. But the come-down from that era led us to a very rough landing. Lateran III kicked off the official canon ratification of outlawing homosexuality explicitly, and this, together with the outlawing of clerical marriage and the sudden flourishing of courtly love as a genre, led to a very dramatic shift in society from homosocial to heterosexual (which is, incidentally, what my dissertation is about).

The long 12th century was a red letter event in terms of history, not least because some of history's most notorious homophobes spread their ideas like wildfire. I am, of course, talking about Alain de Lille, renowned author of De planctu Naturae ("The Complaint of Nature"), which reminded everyone that homosexuality was against nature, and Peter Damian, who doesn't even deserve being commented on. The idea of homosexuality being "against nature" was far from new. The early church fathers like Augustine and Jerome condemned it pretty outrightly, and in the 13th century St. Thomas Aquinas was more than happy to further entrench the idea. Here, sodomy disrupts nature so much as to dissolve the soul.

We saw this in literature as well. Dante's Divine Comedy (early 14th c) slapped sodomites into the 7th layer of hell, but a real standout here is the Debate Between Ganymede and Helen, where the two have a very lengthy argument wherein she convinces Ganymede (often associated with homosexuality) that heterosexuality is infinitely superior to the alternative. She throws in such lovely arguments as insisting that he at least respect Nature, that he's been deceived by well-disguised filth, that he's been squandering his love between the thighs of men, and that he's been treating himself like human garbage as a result. In the end, he suddenly sees his crime for what it is, and the gods agree with him, stating that they've now also come to their senses. Sodomy is thus left behind by the gods and the choir swells in cheer at this tremendous success.

Canon law more or less exclusively had its grubby little fingers in the pies of what was and wasn't deemed acceptable in terms of sex until about the early-14th c, while afterward the government was delighted to also get involved in your bedroom activities. Particularly in the late 14th century homosexuality was increasingly legislated against, and in increasingly brutal ways at that. This wonderful and not at all problematic marriage of church and state is how we ended up with the Trials of the Knights Templar.

Let's say you're King Philip IV. The people have been revolting, you're running low on funds, you owe the Templars as it is, and you have a penchant for pogroms. You want money and land. What do you do? Well, naturally you write a letter to the pope about how you have all these horrible suspicions about these people you employ and who have come to your aid quite often!

Boy, oh boy! Wasn't that a fun time for them. Before, they'd been well-respected and well-off, supported by the king, with zero doubt in their respectability. Naturally, it all came tumbling down with that letter. Because the investigation was ready to find them at fault for something no matter what, under pain of torture of course. There's a particularly striking letter from a father to his daughter, written during the Bamberg witch trials (much later), wherein he explained that, after a particularly rough torture session, the executioner pulled him aside and told him this: "Sir, I beg you, for God's sake confess something, whether it be true or not. Invent something, for you cannot endure the torture which you will be put to; and, even if you bear it all, yet you will not escape, not even if you were an earl, but one torture will follow after another until you say you are a witch. Not before that will they let you go, as you may see by all their trials, for one is just like another."

Were the Templars recreationally homosexual? Maybe. For their sake, I sure hope so, because then they might have at least had some fun before going out. But either way, they were arrested, their territory, funds, and belongings seized, were convicted of heresy, sodomy, and black magic, and eventually burned at the stake. Two men were later burned at the stake as relapsed heretics after saying that they'd only confessed under duress and were actually innocent.

It even led to fun art like this one in 1350:

De Longuyon, Jacques. Voeux du Paon Manuscript. 1350. Morgan Library and Museum, New York. G.24 fol. 70r.

It was also around this time also that homosexuality was increasingly associated not only with heresy, but also with bestiality, suggesting that this crime against nature was effectively also a crossing of special boundaries (species-based, not extraordinary). In line with this, while homage to one's liege used to be sworn with a kiss on the lips (!!), over the course of the 14th century that was summarily done away with as well in a change that quite frankly swept across Europe (and we all wept).

In 1327, Edward II, who had a few boyfriends, was supposedly murdered by having a red hot poker shoved up his rectum. Even if this didn't happen, the chroniclers wanted us to believe it, and knowing what we do about Edward's sexual proclivities, it seems like this was a Statement if nothing else.

Where Bologna used to punish homosexuality with a fine, after the late 13th century the punishment was death by burning. The Portuguese, meanwhile, castrated convicted homosexuals and then, three days later, had them hanged by the feet until dead. In Siena, death by hanging was also the answer, but in this case, it was hanging by the dick until dead (not kidding). A particularly horrifying case was this one, happening just six years after when KCD canon takes place:

Which reminds us that this was most likely an issue that very much associated the clergy (known to be corrupt, especially around this time!). You'll recall the little comments made about this in the game, like Godwin casually committing heresy in front of the whole crew. "Do you think you need a priest for God to hear you?" Well geez, Godwin, according to the Catholic Church, you sure as shit fucking do! What a fantastic and not at all risky thing to say!

(Sidenote, this one is particularly upsetting to me personally in a fandom context because, not only is Augsburg not far from Bohemia, it really reminds me of the many associations between Hans and a caged bird.)

All of which isn't to say that sodomy didn't take place. Boy did it fucking ever. A great example of this comes from out of Switzerland, where, in 1475, a priest reportedly told his lover that "if everybody who committed [the act of sodomy] was burnt at the stake, not even fifty men would survive in Basel." ("Vnd solt man alle die so das tuend verbrennen, es bliben nit funffzig mannen jn Basel.") So, 1% of Basel. This is almost certainly a massive fucking exaggeration that this man pulled out of his ass in order to convince his partner that sodomy is fine, actually, but it does tell us something about the perception, if not the actual prevalence of sodomy in urban centers. (So, you know, if anyone needs to justify that Jadder have fucked at least once, if not more… when in Kuttenberg...)

It should be noted that Basel was very lax in terms of punishing homosexuality, but that was by and large not the most common outcome, as homosexuality was generally associated with divine punishment (I'm sure you've heard that drivel yourself before even in the modern day). Hilariously, it was the generally held belief that if someone learned of "the vice against nature" they'd naturally want to do it, and so priests were advised never to talk about it, even to preach.

So then, what does this mean for Hansry and co?

It means that this was at worst very much a fucking crime that you could very much be convicted for, in brutal fucking fashion at times, and at best the quiet part that you don't say out loud. But even then, it was fucking risky. Riskier if you're a member of the clergy (do recall how worried Brother Lucas was about his secret getting out, despite having never committed the sin himself), but risky even if you're not. All you have to do to see this reflected in canon is to look at Barnaby, the herbalist/hermit. As he explained it, he turned down a girl, she complained to her brother, and "he put two and two together":

Remember how I said that homosexuality was increasingly associated with bestiality? I find Barnaby's word choice fascinating here. Animals like him.

Of course, he beat them up and thus... uh, was able to survive:

Not that it didn't massively affect his quality of life. There's a reason he's a hermit! After all, he was unwelcome no matter where he went, no doubt because the brother and his friends ensured that this knowledge spread:

You might say, oh, it's different among the nobility! And to a certain extent, you're correct. Talking to the scribe in Troskowitz, he at one point gets to a part in the story about George the Lion of Wartenberg where he says this:

And then later, at the banquet where Hans loses his mind from jealousy, it comes up quite a lot in the conversation with Black Bartosch. First, he brings up Florian of Lomnitz:

And then, of course, we get the legendary conversation that follows, where the comment about Florian's sexuality makes Henry question Bartosch about his own:

It's soooo subtle. So, so easy to turn to plausible deniability. If anyone questions it, you can easily argue that your intentions were entirely chaste. And Henry can ignore it or even outright respond with a claim of heterosexuality:

But he can't question it like he can with the scribe:

Where the scribe then brushes it off as nothing and refuses to elaborate:

Even here this is a case of IYKTYK, like homosexuality is a club and in order to enter you have to know what's up. Because if you don't know and have to be informed, that presents a risk, namely that of suspicion being cast on you. Why do you know this information? What were you doing at this sodomitical devil's sacrament?

Honestly, at least among the nobility I'd liken it a bit to prohibition, but on a much less... widespread level. Oh, and literally everyone and anyone could be a cop. You could get away with it until you were caught. The risk was just a lot more pronounced. Even with Edward II the consequence of the very accurate rumors surrounding his sex life was public denunciation and possibly a poker up his ass. And if you're a noble involved with a commoner, multiply the risk exponentially, which is unfortunately relevant for both Hansry and Jamuel. If it really was as casually acceptable as some people claim it to have been (again, not on tumblr, I'm not here to stir up drama), I think Henry wouldn't have necessarily pushed Hans away, nor do I think they would have been as careful in their end-game conversation about what they do and don't say.

If anyone has any questions on this, tangentially-related topics, my sources, or literally anything else, by all means feel free to ask. I have the resources at my fingertips and the research very much at the forefront of my mind and will for the foreseeable future. On request, I've also added a list of further reading after my list of sources if anyone is curious to learn more of this for themselves.

Sources used:

Abraham, Erin V. Anticipating Sin in Medieval Society: Childhood, Sexuality, and Violence in the Early Penitentials, Amsterdam University Press, 2021

Anselm. The Letters of Saint Anselm of Canterbury. Translated by Walter Fröhlich, Cistercian Publications, 1990.

Brundage, James A. Law, Sex, and Christian Society in Medieval Europe. University of Chicago Press, 1987.

Dronke, Peter. Medieval Latin and the Rise of the European Love-Lyric, Vol. 1, Oxford University Press, 1965.

Major, J. Russell. “‘Bastard Feudalism’ and the Kiss: Changing Social Mores in Late Medieval and Early Modern France.” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History, vol. 17, no. 3, 1987, pp. 509–35. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/204609.

Mills, Robert. Seeing Sodomy in the Middle Ages. University of Chicago Press, 2015

Moore, R. I. The War on Heresy: Faith and Power in Medieval Europe. Profile Books, 2014.

Murray, Jacqueline, and Konrad Eisenbichler, editors. Desire and Discipline: Sex and Sexuality in the Premodern West. University of Toronto Press, 1996.

Perella, Nicolas J. The Kiss Sacred and Profane: An Interpretative History of Kiss Symbolism and Related Religio-Erotic Themes. University of California Press, 1969.

Puff, Helmut. “Localizing Sodomy: The ‘Priest and Sodomite’ in Pre-Reformation Germany and Switzerland.” Journal of the History of Sexuality, vol. 8, no. 2, 1997, pp. 165–95. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/3704215.

Puff, Helmut. Lust, Angst Und Provokation: Homosexualität in Der Gesellschaft. Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993.

Southern, R.W., Saint Anselm: A Portrait in a Landscape, Cambridge University Press, 1990.

Stehling, Thomas. Medieval Latin Poems of Male Love and Friendship. Garland Pub, 1984.

Recommended further reading:

Bailey, Derrick Sherwin. Homosexuality and the Western Christian Tradition. Archon Books, 1975. Originally published by Longmans, Green & Co., 1955.

Barbezat, Michael D. “Bodies of Spirit and Bodies of Flesh: The Significance of the Sexual Practices Attributed to Heretics from the Eleventh to the Fourteenth Century.” Journal of the History of Sexuality, vol. 25, no. 3, 2016, pp. 387–419. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/44862359.

Brundage, James A. "Playing by the Rules: Sexual Behaviour and Legal Norms in Medieval Europe". Desire and Discipline: Sex and Sexuality in the Premodern West, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler and Jacqueline Murray, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996. https://doi.org/10.3138/9781442673854-004

Bullough, Vern L. “Heresy, Witchcraft, and Sexuality.” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 1, no. 2, 3 Mar. 1976, pp. 183–199, https://doi.org/10.1300/j082v01n02_03.

---. “The Sin against Nature and Homosexuality.” Sexual Practices & the Medieval Church, edited by Vern L. Bullough and James A. Brundage, Prometheus Books, Buffalo, NY, 1994, pp. 55–71.

Bullough, Vern L., and James A. Brundage, editors. Handbook of Medieval Sexuality. Garland Publishing, 1996.

---, editors. Sexual Practices & the Medieval Church. Prometheus Books, 1994.

Burger, Glenn, and Steven F. Kruger, editors. Queering the Middle Ages. NED-New edition, vol. 27, University of Minnesota Press, 2001. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.ctttszw5.

Clark, David. Between Medieval Men: Male Friendship and Desire in Early Medieval English Literature . Oxford University Press, 2009.

Dinshaw, Carolyn. Getting Medieval: Sexualities and Communities, Pre- and Postmodern. Duke University Press, 1999.

Fradenburg Louise, et al., editors. Premodern Sexualities. Routledge, 1995.

Frassetto, Michael. Heresy and the Persecuting Society in the Middle Ages: Essays on the Work of R.I. Moore. Brill, 2006.

Gilbert, Arthur N. “Conceptions of Homosexuality and Sodomy in Western History.” The Gay Past: A Collection of Historical Essays, edited by Salvatore J. Licata and Robert P. Petersen, Harrington Press, New York, NY, 1985, pp. 57–68.

Goodich, Michael. “Sodomy in Ecclesiastical Law and Theory.” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 1, no. 4, 20 June 1976, pp. 427–434, https://doi.org/10.1300/j082v01n04_06.

---. “Sodomy in Medieval Secular Law.” Journal of Homosexuality, vol. 1, no. 3, 20 June 1976, pp. 295–302, https://doi.org/10.1300/j082v01n03_04.

---. The Unmentionable Vice Homosexuality in the Later Medieval Period. Ross-Erikson, 1979.

Jordan, Mark D. The Invention of Sodomy in Christian Theology. University of Chicago Press, 1997.

Karras, Ruth Mazo. “Attitudes to Same-Sex Sexual Relations in the Latin World.” A Companion to Crime and Deviance in the Middle Ages, edited by Hannah Skoda, Arc Humanities Press, 2023, pp. 84–101. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/jj.3716022.9.

---. From Boys to Men: Formations of Masculinity in Late Medieval Europe. University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003.

---. “The Regulation of ‘Sodomy’ in the Latin East and West.” Speculum, vol. 95, no. 4, 1 Oct. 2020, pp. 969–986, https://doi.org/10.1086/710639.

---. Sexuality in Medieval Europe: Doing unto Others. Routledge, 2012.

Kruger, Steven F. “Queer Middle Ages.” The Ashgate Research Companion to Queer Theory, 1st ed., Routledge, New York, NY, 2009, pp. 413–434.

Kuefler, Mathew, editor. The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality. University of Chicago Press, 2006.

Lees, Clare A., et al. Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages. University of Minnesota Press, 1994.

Pierce, Rosamond. “The ‘Frankish’ Penitentials.” Studies in Church History, vol. 11, 1975, pp. 31–39, https://doi.org/10.1017/s0424208400006276.

***Please note: my omission of Boswell's CSTH here is entirely intentional. I know that if people here got a hold of him he'd be considered a tumblr darling, easy. If I could, I would wear merch with his name on it. And normally I would list him loudly and proudly. But I'm not, because the man loved reading into things that at times aren't there, and there are countless critiques that have been leveled against CSTH, many of which Boswell himself agreed with. So. If the general tumblr population wasn't constantly pissing on the poor I might trust it in their hands, but as it is, I know that nuance is lost on people!

(would you believe me if I said I tried to restrain myself in curating this list? no?? well I DID)

#hansry #kcd #kcd2 spoilers #kingdom come deliverance #tam talks #history tag #kcd meta #is this... the nerdiest thing I've ever done?#maybe. maybe it is #WHAT ABOUT IT

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blueivyy99 · 4 months ago

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Finding a photo of his ex

Sylus x Non-MC

summary: a painful break up with your ex left you insecure, like you were never enough no matter what you do. then Sylus came to mend your heart. but when you found out who his past girlfriend was, you're left thinking: will he be like your ex?

tags: insecurities, exes zayne and non-mc, slight angst, comfort, fluff, sweet bf sylus, not set in LADS universe, VERY OOC Zayne description

note: SORRY ZAYNE I LOVE YOU PLS FORGIVE ME

taglist: @animegamerfox @lazypostfandomer

It was an accident. You were rummaging in Sylus's storage room looking for some books to pass by some time. You found one that piqued your interest; the book is squished under one of the old boxes obviously forgotten you pulled it out and looked over the pages.

As you were skimming, a photograph fell to the floor. When you picked it up and examined the photo your breath hitched when your eyes saw a familiar woman.

In the photo, she is grinning from ear to ear while Sylus gives her hand a kiss.

It was MC with Sylus.

This is not the first time you encountered her. Since she is a woman you know too well. The very woman who is the reason for your insecurities. The same woman who stole your previous boyfriend away.

You took a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. You knew that Sylus had a previous relationship. He knew about your past as well but you didn't expect that MC would be his ex.

Well, you didn't ask, that's one thing. But life seems to just like playing with you. Seeing her face again brought back bitter memories and little seeds of doubt started sprouting in your heart.

You didn’t mean to fall for another one of MC’s ghosts.

Zayne was first. Quiet, reserved, and soft spoken Doctor Zayne. You remembered chasing him back then. Asking to get noticed, being overly happy when given a mere glance. So when he relented and gave you a “chance" you wasted no time and showed him how much you love him.

At first, it was okay. You keep telling yourself that it's just the way he is and in no time, he will open up to you and let his walls break down but that didn't happen.

Not with you, at least.

Because when you saw him one time laughing and smiling with his childhood friend, suddenly everything just made sense.

What you were begging for him to do with you comes so naturally for him when it comes to her.

Lunch with you in the office? Nope, too unprofessional. But with MC, he would even go as far as cooking for the both of them.

Dinner after work? He's too tired to even lift a leg. But wouldn't mind driving to go to her place when she asked him to.

One social media post about you? Oh hell nah. He is not a social media person anyway. But would occasionally post their arcade escapades with a sassy caption.

You confronted him about it, but he just told you that it meant nothing. That she is a childhood friend nothing more and that she has a boyfriend.

But you knew that he was lying of course. You spent ages trying to learn him and loving him. You saw how his eyes had that air of sadness and anger when says that MC already has a boyfriend.

It was not a surprise when he started spending less time with you when the news of MC and her boyfriend broke up. Of course he'd be there.

But the more he kept choosing to be with her, the more you started spiralling to sadness as well.

You kept trying and trying to keep him by your side. Being the docile girlfriend that he needs. Never demanding, never yelling, never crying.

You held onto him long enough to believe he might look back.

But he never did.

So you let him go.

Or maybe he let you go first, you didn't know.

The break up became more of a relief for him and that's what struck the most. A part of you hoped he would at least feel remorseful and maybe even regret but there is none.

So you left. But with more insecurities as ever.

Was it really that hard for him to love you?

Was there anything you didn't do?

Why was it easy for him to just let you go and leave like you didn't matter?

Did he really love you or did he just get in a relationship with you to stop you from chasing him like a wild dog?

You ponder over it for a year or two. Just accepting that maybe you're just no match for her and guys like Zayne would always, always choose a woman like her over a woman like you. Because of that you swore to never love again.

Then came Sylus.

Rough, loud, reckless Sylus, who didn’t ask you to be anything. The same Sylus who didn't force you to return his feelings when he figured that you weren't ready yet and let you at your own pace.

Sylus who became the receiving end of your insecurities but gently kissed all the doubts away. Sylus who made you feel like loving again doesn't sound bad as it seems.

With him, the ache didn’t fade to zero but it stopped owning you.

Not until you saw this photo.

You have been doing a good job of reigning over the dark thoughts brought by your past but seeing this just makes you question everything.

Sylus never gave you a chance to doubt him. He showed you every day that his eyes are set on you and you alone. That no matter how many women fawn over him, he will always choose you.

But because of this stupid photo, you're seeing yourself as that same woman five years ago. Pathetic and a loser content with just a scrap of affection from her boyfriend.

The boyfriend who will choose the same woman in this damned photo over and over again.

You knew Sylus isn't like that.

Right?

But a voice in your head tells you that it will only take a matter of time before he realizes that she is the better option. That you are not worth wasting his time for. That once the opportunity presents itself, he will toss you aside like Zayne did just so he can run to her.

Sobs broke out of your lips and the photo on your hand is already crumpled by how much you're gripping it.

Just the thought of Sylus giving you that cold dismissive look made your heart shatter. It didn't help when the memory of you breaking up with Zayne and he had the audacity to be relieved kept popping in your head but this time, Sylus's face was in it.

It had been five years since that night. But everything is still fresh. Everything is still vivid. You don't know where Zayne is. You're not gonna bother finding out anyway.

But you're in the same city and Sylus crossing paths with MC is not impossible.

What if he sees her and thinks that he's wasting time with you?

What if he is with you out of pity because of how miserable you were before?

Your head is aching at all the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“– Sweetie?” Sylus's voice took you out of your haze. "What's happening?”

He looks at your tears streaked face and he quickly gathers you in his arms, grounding you back to reality. You sobbed in his chest holding him tightly. Silently begging for him not to go.

He took your hand and gently removed the photo from your grip, throwing it away on the floor. Connecting two and two together.

“I'm sorry, darling. Should've thrown that away. I didn't know it's still there." You feel him kissing your head and rubbing your back trying to make you stop from crying.

“P-please, please, don't leave me for her," you whimpered. “I'll do everything … anything. Just don't go."

You held him tighter while hoping and begging.

You felt him stiffen and you brace yourself for the worst. Maybe this is the part that he tells you that he will still leave. Maybe it's a good thing that you finally gave him a way out of this relationship just like what Zayne did.

He cupped your cheeks and looked at you with such bewilderment. “Where is this coming from? I'm not leaving you, sweetie. Never in a million years."

Fresh set of tears fell from your eyes again.

“B-but it's her. Everyone chooses her.” You replied.

Sylus isn't strange to the fact that your ex left you as a mess. He was there to help you pick up the broken pieces after all. He still wants to beat up your ex for being such an asshole.

But hearing you say those words, a realization occurred to him.

"Her? You mean the woman you told me about was MC?"

You nodded your head.

"My sweet little darling,” he wiped your tears away. "Try not to worry about it, okay? I won't leave you. I would die before anyone could take me away from your side. I love you. I love you so much.”

You yelped when suddenly his strong arms are lifting you up carrying you, transporting you back to the living room and settling in the couch making you sit on his lap.

“The best days of my life are with you, sweetie. I'd be a fool to let you go." He said. Your heart thumping at the sincerity in his tone. “You are perfect for me. The one I've been waiting for my whole life. Even if the women from my past come back and try to take me, I will always choose you. I will always stay with you for as long as you want me to."

You looked at his eyes. Trying to find deception and lies. But all there was was his overwhelming sincerity. You're trying hard not to believe him, but there is something in his gaze that begs you to have faith in him.

“Don't say that," you said almost above a whisper.

“Hmm why not?" He said with a little teasing in his voice sensing the shift in your mood.

“I might not let you go if you keep telling me those things."

A low chuckle escaped his lips. "Is that so? Then allow me to shower you with assurance so you'll hold me tight, sweetie.”

He held one of your cheeks and looked you straight to the eyes, “I love you. I'm not like your ex. I won't leave. You're not a burden to me, darling. As long as I'm alive, you're wanted here in my heart, sweetie.”

When he leaned closer to kiss your lips, you held on to him tightly pulling him closer as you answered his kisses. One by one, all your doubts were washed away.

Every brush of his lips against yours is a confession of his love, his loyalty. One that you have never felt before in your previous relationship.

“I love you, Sylus." You said in between kisses. It made him groan and kiss you more fervently.

As Sylus held you tenderly, softly caressing you and kissing you gently, you feel a part of you getting healed.

As your bodies collide, he reminds you that for him you are enough.

And maybe that's all you needed. To feel loved, cherished and assured that no matter how perfect she might be, someone will choose you within a heartbeat.

Thoughts? Comments? Lemme hear ❤️ luv u! Hope u enjoyed.

#love and deepspace #sylus x non mc #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lads fanfic #lads fic

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apatheticsunday · 5 months ago

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Villainous Woes

AKA "Inspired by that one post where Danny is adopted by a B-rate villain (like Kite-Man) except it's Harley & Poison Ivy and they love their little Eldritch toddler" prompt! And the Batfam side-eyeing the hell out of the women because what was that??

There's just so much potential!!

Maybe Harley's collaborating with Batman and Nightwing to take down Joker, they're in the Batmobile while driving to his potential hideout. Harley's in the front with Batman because, surprise, they're both catty and Harley likes to rib Bruce for dropping out of med school. Meanwhile, he makes snarky comments about her becoming a 'reformed' criminal. And then her phone starts the muffled choir of the Barbie theme song. She's like, "Hi, baby!! Hi, sweetheart!!" Batman and Nightwing then hear, clear as day, this unholy screeching like eighteen kazoos in various pitches.

Harley just laughs and says fondly, "Oh, are you tired, baby?? Mommy will be home soon, honey. " There's more screeching until Harley makes kissy noises at the phone and hangs up. Batman's face is deadpan as ever but Nightwing's face is pale.

"Oh, Danny's just a little tired. He gets grumpy if I don't read him bedtime stories." She shrugs as if to say kids, amirite? and Batman offers a grunt while Nightwing laughs weakly in the back. Once they're back at the Batcave, Dick is like, Bruce, what the hell was that?? A demon baby??

Or the time Poison Ivy is fighting Red Robin and Spoiler!! She's got them tied up with vines, monologuing about that one CEO about to dump 80k gallons of toxic waste into the Gotham Harbor, when Eric Satie's Gymnopedie No. 1 rings out from her pocket. She excuses herself for a moment, but Red Robin and Spoiler can still hear her say softly, "Yes, my love? I see. Of course, sweet boy. I love you as well." Then Ivy hangs up. Turns back to the vigilantes and says, "I apologize. My son is feeling unwell, so we'll continue our conversation at a later time." Batman finds them two hours later talking amongst themselves, did you know Ivy has a son?? Is it Harley and Ivy's son??

And when Selina Kyle comes over for a girls' night, she's met with wine, charcuterie, and a shrieking writhing mass of bright green tentacles.

"Danny's just hangry," Harley assures her. She's got The Thing in her arms and disappears into the kitchen while Ivy's setting up a horror movie on the TV. Sure enough, the screaming petters off. When Harley comes back, there's an actual toddler in her arms - chubby arms and legs intact. Overall, it's an uneventful night. Danny turns into goop at one point but Ivy just scoops him up into a bucket-like cradle. Selina does, however, call Bruce on the way home saying, Harley and Ivy have a goop baby. Yes, Bruce, goop!

Fast-forward maybe 15-18 years and Danny (former Goop Baby) is now in college because both his moms have Doctorate degrees. They empathize the importance of getting a good education, of exploring his academic interests, without being part of the Gotham Rogue gallery. So, he never actually meets any of the Batfam.

But then Danny meets (Robin) Damian, who's attending Gotham-U as a pre-med major. They hit it off! Danny ends up attending a family dinner with Bruce, Selina, Dick, Tim, and Damian. (Maybe Jason, Duke, Steph, Cass, and Babs are busy doing other stuff.) So, Bruce is interrogating conversing with Danny and Danny's like, "Oh! My mom talks about you sometimes."

And Bruce is all cordial, smiling and prompting, "Oh?"

"Yeah, my moms are Dr. Harleen Quinzel and Dr. Pamela Isley."

Tim splutters into his drink as he chokes out, "Goop baby??" (he'd been stalking Bruce when Selina talked about her girl's night) while Dick simultaneously shouts, "Demon baby???" Danny's confused because he's literally never met any of these people? And they're calling him goop and a demon??

(Bruce just feels very, very old. The Goop Baby is all grown up and going to college with his baby? Jesus. Just the thought makes all his joints ache.)

#dpxdc #dp x dc #batfam #danny fenton #danny phantom #maybe a little dead serious if you squint #yes selina and bruce are married i'm sorry i don't make the rules #old men need love sometimes too!!! let him have this #mine

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kenyummy · 5 months ago

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✰ 01. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 01. sparkless life.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: guys i couldnt resist posting criesssss . also master is used as a gender neutral term!!!! couldn't be bothered to put master/mistress every time so

prev. ✰ masterlist. ✰ next.

When you wake up, your eyes are permeated by a hard light. Your eyes are squinted hard and you're having a difficult time getting your eyes to focus.

Your brain is fuzzy and feels like melted candy in your head. What was going on, again...? This bed... it's really comfy. It's like laying on a bed made of clouds, fairy dust, and your hopes and dreams.

(Nothing like your lumpy mattress back home... May told you it built character.)

You reach your hand up, to try and block out the harsh glare directed right into your retina. It dims in a second, and for a moment—you think you've finally developed mutant powers of telekinesis. You sit up—only to discover you were not actually the one who turned off said lights.

"Apologies, Master [name]." An older man with a distinct British accent stands in the door—a few feet away from the bed you're resting on. "I did not realise you had awoken already. I would've turned down the lights, if I was aware."

You blink, surveying the room around you. It's big. Unfamiliar, as well. Modern. Really big. Wait, did he just call you—

"Master [name]?" Your mouth moves faster than your mind, and your brows furrow deep. "What... where am I?"

The older man looks genuinely puzzled at how defensive your stance is. "Oh dear. Perhaps you did end up getting lead poisoning. Or a concussion. ... No matter. This recent amnesia is common within traumatic injuries."

He clears his throat with strict elegance and straightens his posture, "[name]. I believe you were attacked in an alleyway, when your brother found you. You were in the hospital for a few days, and brought back here—back home—this morning. You're currently in one of your father's guest rooms. The doctors said you were healing miraculously fast."

You hiss lowly. You really hope they hadn't gotten a blood sample—you haven't had the best of experiences with people getting your blood.

"You seem to be alright now. A bit..." He looks at your exposed, scarred shoulders. "Scuffed up—but better than when Master Jason had found you."

Your brother... Jason...? Who even...?

What's going on here?

Your heart seems to skip a beat as the calculations start going off in your head. A world you had never heard of... a place you'd never seen before—perhaps you weren't on a different world, and like you had suspected... it was definetly some multiverse shenanigans again.

You knew you should've made Jess take that mission instead of you. Damn. You and your dumb rivalry with Doc.

But you couldn't understand why this random man knows you. He speaks as if you've lived a life with him—like he's known you since...

You chew down on your bottom lip. "... This is... my home. I live here, don't I...?"

You play with words cautiously, speaking slow and methodical. It only serves to confuse the man even further.

"Yes, you... do? Master [name], perhaps you should go back to the hospital. You're sounding rather frazzled—"

You almost jump up, out of the sheets, "Uh—no! I... I'm fine. My head's just a bit... messed up right now. Sorry."

It's not—after that flashbang, you're feeling fine. Your shoulder only burns with a stretch whenever you put too much pressure on it—but you're completely okay otherwise. But you don't think you should let him know that just yet.

"If you insist, Master [name]." He bows his head. "Do you require any further assistance?"

You blink, considering your choices.

Eventually, you land on the safest option. Search your surroundings. Find out what's going on here before going all Spider-ham on them. For all you know—they're super skrulls waiting for the right moment to strike. You need to be smart about this.

"Yes... I would like to go to my room... could you... walk me there?" You don't meet his stern gaze. "I'm not sure I'm able to walk on my own two feet just yet. I'm sorry."

You don't see how his stare softens at your words. "Of course, Master [name]."

He walks over to the edge of the bed and steadies you with a hand on your shoulder as you shakily stumble out of the bed. It's bouncy enough to launch you forward slightly—and it takes every muscle in your body to stop your Spidey-instincts from taking over and jumping backwards.

He slips your arm within his and steadies you as you both slowly walk out of the large guest room. If this was a guest room—you wonder what your room looked like.

The hallways weren't anything to sneeze at, either. Decorated with contemporary art pieces—sleek and so shiny you could see your face in the tiles below your bare feet. You felt so out of place—the civilian clothes you sported since you got here still dressed your body, and it wasn't even close to fitting in.

As you stumble down the halls with a bit of overdramacy, a man suddenly appears from around a corner. Deep black hair and the brightest blue eyes you'd ever seen. His smile is wide and he waves enthusiastically, "Hey, Alfred! I got back from Blüdhaven after uh—I heard what happened."

"Hello, Master Dick. It's lovely to see you back home again." Alfred nods his head. The man in question—Dick, apparently, which makes the immature teen in you giggle—gives you a sorrowful expression.

But... doesn't say anything past that. He continues small talk with Alfred—and you're left propped up in the older man's arms with a lost expression.

Did he... just blow you off?

One—that was pretty rude. Two, did he not just say he came back after he heard what happened? Not to toot your own horn or anything—but you'd assume being shot kind of counts as a "what happened".

You press your lips firmly together. This was getting awkward for you, especially seeing how comfortable this huge Dick (yeah, you're taking it and running with it) seemed to be with leaving this sickly, wounded (maybe you're being a tad dramatic) person to stumble like a baby fawn, in silence.

Alfred, however—catches sight of your one-sided tension, and abruptly ends his conversation. "My apologies, Master Dick, but I must help [name] to their room. I would love to continue this conversation at a later date."

"Oh yeah, no sweat, Alfred." He gives the older man a gleeful thumbs up. Then, his eyes meet yours. "Get better soon, okay?"

You avert his stare and only nod in response. Well, at least he noticed you were there. You're still in mild shock, but you somehow manage to keep a pleasant expression. With one last small smile, Dick walks away—where, you don't really care about.

Alfred slowly helps you up a flight of stairs. He only breaks the silence after you find yourself standing in front of a room with a faded name on it. Your name. "... All these years, and only now, you've suddenly changed. I wonder..."

His words are cryptic, but his expression even more so. What was he talking about? "... Huh?"

A small smile fades on his face. "Ah... no. It's nothing. I was thinking out loud. Call me if you need anything else, Master [name]. I am at your service. And please... get better soon."

Somehow, it sounds nicer when he says it. You smile a little, and give him a nod.

"Thank you..." You test out his name on your tongue. It feels natural. "Alfred. I'll try my best."

He leaves with a curt nod and not another word. You finally slide the door open, and take a look around.

You step inside, and it's like you've entered a whole new world, again.

It's... small. Not by regular standards—it's almost double the size of your room at home—but compared to a guest bedroom in this overly massive home... it's rather small. Like a closet, more than a bedroom.

It's empty, too. Your room at home is decorated with posters and trinkets of your favourite shows, pictures of you with Harry and MJ (sometimes even the four), and memorable items you've collected with your friends and family over the years.

Memories. You had memories.

There is nothing here.

It's like you're standing in a blank slate—in a world where you are nothing and yet everything you've ever had. It sends a chill down your spine.

You walk barefoot across cold wood and take a seat on the bedsheets. Bare white with a childish print. Something a young child would use. It looks pretty scuffed up. Old. The mattress creaks under your weight and you wince.

There's a bookshelf just opposite to you. There's not much in it—in fact, it's smaller than small and is almost completely empty. There's nothing but school textbooks and thick novels. And...

It catches your eye almost immediately. A little pink slip in the midst of deep black and brown colours. You stand up—ignoring the creak that follows—and walk over to the shelf.

You slip the book out, and immediately take in its cover. Pink, and with your name in wonky cursive. It's rather dusty, as if it hadn't even been touched in years.

You flip open the cover. Big bubble letters spelling out My diary flash you and you quickly flip the page before the glitter sears into your eyelids.

The first entry is there. Exactly seven years and two months ago. It's nothing like those entries you've seen on those corny 2000's TV shows for tweens—nor is it like those aesthetic journaling girls on Pwinterest.

It's something, familiarly, you. A short clunk of text about your day, on days that had some sort of exciting event going on—something you'd undoubtedly do. It almost makes you grimace.

This whole multiverse thing might be worse than you thought.

Two days ago I moved into a new house. My mom said she couldn't take care of me anymore, and I had to live with my dad. I've never seen him until today, but he's really busy, so we don't talk much. Alfred is nice to me, and his cooking is really yummy.

There's a little sketch of a baked dinner—and despite your pre-tween art skills, it does seem rather tasty looking.

You flip the page. The next entry is a week after the last.

I still haven't talked with dad yet. But I did meet two new people. Alfred said that they're my new brothers. Mom never wanted any more babies, so I was very excited to meet them! Jason is fun to play with. He's really bad at hide and go seek, though—I always win! Dick is fun too, but he's busy a lot, like dad. But he always makes time for me and Jason. I really like it here.

There's a small picture of three stick people holding hands. One is significantly short than the other two—labelled with your name above. The one on the left to you is Jason, with black curls and a wide grin. The one on the right is labelled Dickie, much taller than the other two and with shaggy black hair.

The drawing is innocent. Cute. Wholesome, if you will. There's even heart stickers pasted (and peeling, by now) between each of your heads.

You flip the page with a small, fond smile. The next entry is three days after that one.

Dad played with me, Jason, and Dickie today. He was really bad at hide and go seek too—but Dad and Jason chased each other all around the house before I caught both of them. I was so happy I won today! Dad took us all out for dinner, even Alfred. Alfred said he only came because I always look very happy when we're together. The dinner was really yummy!!!!

The drawing underneath is a picture of what looked like a smaller version of you, standing triumphantly with a little tiara on your head.

You flip the page. This time—there's a significant gap between the dates. This was a whole 5 months after you last wrote in your diary.

I don't know where Jason is. Dad and Dickie look really sad. They've been really busy for a long time, and we don't play much anymore. The only times I see Dad is at dinner. But we don't talk. Sometimes he doesn't eat dinner, either. Alfred still puts my drawings on the fridge, and he says that Dad and Dickie are just sad now, and they'll be better soon. I miss Jason. I want him back home.

There's no silly-looking drawing to go underneath this entry. This Jason—apparently the man who saved you—seemed rather fun-loving, despite whatever happened to him. You wonder what it was.

You flip the page, again. This entry was 3 months after the last.

I miss Dad, and Dickie. Dickie told me he had to go away for a bit, because he has something important to do somewhere else. Dad is busy all the time. I haven't seen him in 4 days. I don't play with anyone but Alfred now, but he's not that fun to play with, because he's so serious all the time. Dad tells me to go on my iPad and not bother Alfred when I'm bored, but I miss them.

Next one is 2 days after.

I met a new boy today. Dad told me he's my new brother. I was pretty excited because he's my age. But he didn't want to talk to me. He said he was too caught up in important stuff, and that I should just come back later. But he looked real annoyed when saying it—so I didn't come back. He didn't say anything, so I don't think he cared.

A week later.

My dad is Batman, and my new brother is Robin. I'm freaking out. He never told me—I saw them sneaking out one day and I got really mad. Why didn't he tell me? Did Dickie and Jason know? Was I the only one who didn't? Tim got mad at me when I started yelling. I felt really sad so I hid in my room to get away from them. I've been here since. Alfred brought me dinner, but I'm not hungry.

So... this Batman who you saw before, is actually your dad? In this world, this is your father? You almost drop the diary in shock, but you can't tear your eyes away. You can't stop reading.

The next few entries don't catch your eye—it's all teen angst about how you're sick of how busy your dad is, how annoying Tim can be, how Dick won't even visit your room anymore—until something else catches your eye.

3 years later.

Jason is back. He's back home. I don't know why, but he's back. I was so excited to see him again—everyone else has become so busy and won't even talk to me. Nobody else has time for me, but Jason did. But he looked different. He's way older than me, now. He won't even look at me. I tried to hug him but he just put a mask on and walked away. Why is everyone doing this to me? What did I do? It's not fair.

Your writing grows into chicken scratch near the end—as if conveying your frustration. You skim through a few more entries. More teen angst. More about how you can't even hold a conversation with your siblings anymore.

Some were sweet, like how you met some people, unnamed, and treasured their friendship so deeply, but they were few and far between.

I met a girl today. She's my sister now. Her name is Cassandra, and she has very pretty eyes. I tried to talk to her, but dad got pretty mad at me because apparently she doesn't like to talk much. How was I supposed to know that? She didn't even look at me as dad pulled her away. Who even is she? Why does my dad like her better than me? Why does he like them all better than me? It's not fair.

You're bitter. You're upset, and so, so bitter. It's so abundantly clear that as time went on, you became progressively more and more spiteful. It was rather sad to watch.

This stupid little kid tried to kill me. Claimed I was unworthy. I couldn't give less of a shit what he thinks—but my family couldn't give less of a shit about me. They said he's troubled, that he needs patience.

The new few words were less than family friendly. Unkind? Definitely. Deserved? Possibly.

I can't believe this. I'm so sick of this. I want to get out. I can't take this anymore. Jason kills people now, but Bruce still loves him. Even Steph and Babs get more love from Bruce than me. They're not even in the family, but they're better. Because they're superheroes, they're better. Maybe I'll be a hero myself. Maybe then, they'll see me.

You flip the page. That's the last entry. The last page of the book—but behind it, there's a page made of sticky notes on the back cover. Your eyes widen in shock at what you see.

It's all...

"Spidey," you read out the name atop this pasted page in a low whisper.

Your fingertips trace over the detailed drawings. Your costume. Though not made of nanotech—the suit was intricately designed with spider patterns falling all around your arms and legs, with a large spider torso. It looked somewhat like Silk's suit.

Web shooters, with thorough calculations on how much you'd have to bulk up to swing without taking your arm off (which, by what you're reading, was humanly impossible for a regular you), and detailed explanations on what the web fluid was made out of.

More environmentally sustainable than your ones. You'd have to take these notes back home.

It wasn't like your family would go looking—you can't help but think, chewing on your cheek. This was incredible. You must've been a real genius to figure all this out.

Back home, you had Reed and Tony help you with all your spider stuff. Sure, you were the one who came up with all the base ideas and constructed it all yourself—but they helped out a lot with all the technicalities. But to come up with something like, from what you can tell, all on your own...

It was nothing short of incredible. And your family had no idea.

You snap the book shut, eyes narrowing down at the ground. Your Aunt May never would've treated you like this—and if you were correct, this other you must be with your aunt right now.

Good for them, you think. Maybe they'd be happier there, anyway.

A sudden knock at your door brings you out of your stupor. You slip the book away quickly as Alfred opens the door, bowing his head slightly. "Master [name], dinner is ready. If you're feeling better, please come down."

The prospect of a family dinner leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, especially after all you've read from this diary. No matter. You don't know how this you behaved before, but you have bigger issues to deal with than becoming a copy of this sad child.

But despite everything... Alfred really did seem to care for them—for you. You nod, smoothing out your cami. "Thanks. Let's go."

You and he both head down the stairs, and you finally come face to face with the family you've heard so much about.

They're all grinning from ear-to-ear, laughing about something that "happened on patrol" as you take a seat at the end of the table—beside a blonde girl who you think was called Stephanie—chewing on the food.

It was good. Really good. Almost as good as Aunt May's meatloaf. The thought makes you feel a little homesick, but you persevere. The hard glare given to you across the table by this small kid (definitely Damian) isn't helping, though.

Dick catches the look and follows his little brothers gaze to you. He doesn't say anything about it—only ruffles the boy's hair, chuckling, and asks why he seems so glum. The child hisses and starts trying to stab the man with a steak knife, to no avail—of course.

That was the last time you were even glanced at for the rest of the dinner. You almost can't believe it. How could somebody really fade into the background like that? How could such a family let it happen?

How could they be so ignorant? You lose your appetite soon enough, and stand up. The chatter dies down for a second. Stephanie—being the closest toward you, gives you an uncomfortable smile, "Are you not going to finish? You were out for a while... you need energy to get back up and do..."

Whatever it is you do at home, you guess that's probably what she was thinking. Who said you hadn't gotten a telepathic mutation?

She doesn't finish her sentence. You'd just met these people and already you were sick of this. Seriously, you don't think you could get any more uncomfortable if somebody strapped you to a chair and tossed you down a dark well.

You miss the most fantastic of fours you know. They'd never do this to you. Sue was far too sweet.

You shake your head, plate held tight in your hand. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. There's much more important things out there in Gotham, isn't there? Besides—I have more than enough time to heal. Not like I'm doing any hero stuff, huh?"

Your laugh lacks any kind of humour, and you walk out in your typical Spidey fashion. The chatter doesn't spike up for a good ten minutes until after you leave.

You meet Alfred in the kitchen, and he's doing countless dishes alone. There's a stack of plates almost as tall as he is. You roll up your sleeves.

He gives you a confused look. "Master [name]? I have told you before, you—"

"I don't care what you told me." You say, suddenly—but you backtrack when you realise how flat your tone was. Cheeks flushed, you correct yourself, "Ah—sorry. I meant... I don't care what you told me, because it doesn't matter if you don't want help... I'll offer it anyway, you know? I can't help it. It's how I am."

It's why I'm Spidey. Not because I have powers. Not because I'm good at swinging around. Not even because the costume is awesome.

It's because you can't help but help others. You have the power to do so—now it's your responsibility.

You take a sponge, and douse it in dishwashing liquid. You scrub down a porcelain plate beside Alfred in silence.

The pensive look on his face was now replaced by a small, fond smile.

we getting into the typical diary entry stuff okokokkkk but. love interests next chapter. smirks let me cook!!!@

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi

if you asked to be on the taglist but aren't there, your account couldn't be tagged for whatever reason. im not too sure how tumblr works, but if you manage to fix it, ask me again!!!

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newobsessionweekly · 4 months ago

Text

She's my wife

Tim Bradford x wife!reader

part 1

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You are Tim's wife, six months pregnant, and refusing to rest. When you're assigned to recruit police officers for a new Metro team, your husband makes sure no one messes with his wife.

Fluff

A/N: Well, it's been a while but I guess I'm back in business. The most requested imagine of all! I hope you all enjoy it and excuse my disappearance. I can't guarantee you'll get more work from me as often as I used you to, but I can promise you I'll write and post all my ideas! Thank you for your support! Lots of love, bubs! Take care of yourselves! 🫶🏻

Warnings: None, pure fluff, (maybe mention of small injuries i guess?), not proofread yet

Requested: Yes!

Words: -

If there was one thing Tim Bradford never expected to happen in his lifetime, it was being completely and utterly wrapped around someone’s finger.

And yet, here he was.

It had started the second you told him you were pregnant. He’d been so sure he’d keep his cool—be the composed, level-headed Sergeant he was known to be. But the moment those words left your mouth, his entire world tilted on its axis. For the first time in years, something scared him. Not a suspect pulling a gun, not a high-risk Metro raid—this. You. The life growing inside of you.

Of course, you didn’t make it easy on him.

You had spent the first two trimesters of your pregnancy insisting that you were fine, rolling your eyes every time he tried to gently suggest that you should slow down.

"Tim," you sighed one evening, standing in your kitchen while he insisted on cooking for you. "You’re hovering."

"I am not hovering," he said flatly, though he absolutely was.

You arched a brow, leaning against the counter. "I’m pregnant, not dying."

Tim grunted, flipping the chicken in the pan. "Still not taking any chances."

You smirked, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. "You love worrying about me, don’t you?"

He sighed, tilting his head down to press a kiss to your temple. "Yeah, well. You make it impossible not to."

What he didn’t expect was that pregnancy would turn him into the world’s most overprotective husband.

It started subtly—making sure you ate on time, setting reminders on his phone for all your doctor’s appointments, researching vitamins when you weren’t looking. Then it got worse.

Like the time he woke up at 2 AM to find you scrolling through work emails.

"Are you kidding me?" He groaned, rolling over to take the tablet from your hands. "You’re supposed to be sleeping."

"I am sleeping."

"You’re awake," he deadpanned.

You just smirked, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. "Then make me tired, Sergeant."

But by the second trimester? Oh, he was doomed.

Because you were still you—stubborn, reckless, and infuriatingly unwilling to slow down.

He should’ve seen it coming. You had spent your entire career proving yourself in Metro’s elite tactical unit, earning every bit of respect that came your way. You weren’t just some officer—they called you a tactical genius, someone who could think three steps ahead in high-pressure situations.

So of course, when the brass suggested you take maternity leave, you laughed in their faces.

"You should take it," Tim had said carefully, fully expecting a figh

You scoffed, arms crossed over your chest. "And do what? Sit at home and wait?"

"It’s called resting, sweetheart."

You’d rolled your eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t get stuck. "Not happening."

And, of course, you won.

Instead of getting benched entirely, you were offered a leadership role—forming a new Metro team. It was a compromise. Less fieldwork, more strategy. And while Tim reluctantly agreed it was the best option, it didn’t stop him from hovering over you like a damn bodyguard every chance he got.

Now, here you were—six months pregnant and stationed at Mid-Wilshire, observing officers, evaluating skills, and deciding who was good enough for your team.

And here Tim was, barely keeping it together.

The Mid-Wilshire training room was filled with tension as the candidates for your Metro team sat in front of you. Lucy Chen, Angela Lopez, John Nolan, Nyla Harper, and a few other officers watched you with rapt attention as you paced the front of the room, flipping open the folder in your hands.

"Metro isn’t just about skill," you said, voice steady and firm. "It’s about adaptability, precision, and teamwork. Today, I want to see how you handle high-pressure situations."

You gestured toward the training mats. "We’re going to run a combat demonstration—basic takedowns, disarm techniques, and reaction time drills."

Tim immediately frowned.

He knew what you were doing. You wanted to prove yourself. Wanted to show these officers that pregnancy hadn’t slowed you down, that you were still as sharp and dangerous as ever. And while he respected the hell out of that, it didn’t stop the knot of worry from tightening in his chest.

"Are you sure—" Tim started, stepping forward.

"Yes," you cut him off before he could finish, shooting him a look that said don’t start.

He exhaled sharply but didn’t argue.

The officers lined up as you demonstrated a quick disarm technique, moving through the motions with practiced ease. But Tim saw it immediately. The slight hesitation in your step, the way your movements weren’t as fluid as usual.

Your balance was off.

Officer Matthews—new to Mid-Wilshire, cocky as hell—stepped up for the exercise. He moved fast, testing the maneuver harder than necessary. You reacted on instinct, blocking his attack, but—

You stumbled.

Not a lot. Barely anything. But Tim saw it.

Before anyone else could react, he was already there, hand gripping your arm, the other steadying your waist. His entire body was rigid, tension rolling off him in waves.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low, controlled—but barely.

You huffed, annoyed. "I’m fine, Tim. I just lost my footing—"

"You shouldn’t even be—"

"Don’t." You cut him off sharply, leveling him with a glare. "I know my limits."

Tim’s stomach burned.

And then Matthews laughed.

Your husband's head snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle the kid didn’t flinch.

"You think this is funny?" Tim’s voice dropped, low and dangerous.

Matthews shrugged, unfazed. "I just think it’s a little ironic that Metro sent a pregnant woman to recruit us."

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Lucy and Angela both stiffened, already knowing what was coming. Nolan looked like he wanted to disappear, and Nyla just smirked, waiting for the fallout.

Tim took a slow step forward. "You want to run that by me again?"

Matthews chuckled, oblivious. "I just mean, maybe Metro should—"

"That’s my wife." Tim’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Matthews’ smirk vanished.

Tim stepped closer, looming over the rookie, his entire body coiled with restrained fury. "That’s my wife," he repeated, voice sharp as steel, "and if you ever question her ability again, you won’t just lose your chance at Metro—you’ll lose your badge altogether."

Matthews swallowed, stepping back. "I—I didn’t know—"

"Yeah?" Tim’s tone was ice. "Well, now you do."

Silence.

The entire room seemed to collectively hold its breath.

Tim turned back to you, eyes scanning over you, checking—always checking. His hand found its way to your waist again, grounding himself in the solid reality of you standing there, unharmed.

"You okay?" he murmured, softer now.

You sighed, pressing a hand to his chest. "Tim, I’m fine."

He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. "We’re talking about this later."

"Looking forward to it," you deadpanned.

The tension in the room slowly lifted as Matthews slinked away, and Lucy finally broke the silence with a grin. "Well, that was fun."

Nyla chuckled. "I was wondering when people would finally figure it out."

Nolan exhaled, shaking his head. "I knew something was up."

You rolled your eyes, stepping back and addressing the room. "Alright. Now that everyone is caught up—back to training."

And just like that, the spell broke.

But as you walked back toward the mats, Tim caught your hand, squeezing gently. You looked up, meeting his gaze—warm, steady, and unapologetically devoted.

Because if there was one thing everyone knew now, it was that messing with you meant dealing with him.

And no one messed with Tim Bradford’s wife.

#tim bradford #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #the rookie #tim bradford x reader #tim x y/n #tim x reader #tim x wife!reader #she's my wife #tim imagine #the rookie request #the rookie fic #tim the rookie #the rookie fanfic #the rookie imagine #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc

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hyuckiefluff · 6 months ago

Text

Dr. Dreamy | Na Jaemin - Part 2

pairing: doctor!na jaemin x fem reader genre: smut wc: 5.1k summary: you’re the best valentine’s day gift jaemin’s ever had the pleasure of unwrapping. content warning: explicit sexual content, some bdsm-ish stuff (bondage), temperature play, breast play, usage of sex toys, multiple orgasms, edging, fingering, oral sex (m. receiving), mating press, lmk if i missed any! a/n: couldn’t wait for valentine’s day to post this sooo here it is (granted, over a month late) but i hope it makes up for the wait and satisfies all those who were craving a part two <3 thank you so much for reading and loving the first part. ps: read part 1 for the plot, this one is purely smut. oh and it feels important to add that juno by sabrina carpenter was on repeat while writing this. “have you tried this one?” picture jaemin saying that lol

part 1

Valentine’s Day had been exhausting for Jaemin. He barely had the energy to even think. The hospital was a madhouse. He’d never expected that so many injuries would come from couples trying something new with their partners. By the time he clocked out, it was already 11 PM, and he couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at him for missing your first Valentine’s Day together.

But as soon as he stepped through the door, his thoughts of guilt disappeared. There you were, lounging on the couch, eating strawberries. You were wearing nothing but the skimpiest piece of lingerie he’d ever seen before.

His breath caught in his throat as your gaze fell on him, a slow smile curling on your lips. “Long day?” you asked, your voice dripping with sweetness.

Jaemin’s throat tightened, but he managed to choke out a response. “Yeah… you could say that.” His voice cracked slightly as his eyes scanned over your body. “You look....”

“Good, I hope?” You giggled softly when he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“Absolutely,” he said, swallowing hard. “…Are you trying to kill me?”

You smiled and stood up slowly, giving him a full view of your curves. His gaze followed your every movement as you sauntered toward him. You stopped just inches from him, his body stiffening in anticipation. His hands ached to touch you.

“What’s the matter?” you teased, pressing your body against his lightly. “You look like you want something.”

Jaemin bit back a smirk, trying to hold on to his composure. He leaned in, brushing your hair back from your neck, his lips grazing your skin. “And you look like you're offering something.”

You laughed, the sound of it making him feel lighter, but he couldn’t ignore the way his heart pounded in his chest, or the tightness between his legs that was only growing. You seemed to notice it too, your hand slipping down his chest. “I think you might be right,” you said with a wink.

Jaemin tried to maintain some semblance of self-control, but his hands betrayed him by wandering to your waist on their own. You flinched slightly from the coldness and he smiled at that.

"You know," he said, with a half-smirk, "I'm not that easy." There was a playful challenge in his eyes. "You have to try harder than this."

“Oh, really?” you grinned, your voice dripping with mock innocence. "Well, I think I can manage."

He felt the heat in his body surge just thinking about what you had planned for him. When you turned and began leading him to your room, he couldn’t help but let his eyes trace every curve of your body, lingering on the flimsy string of fabric between your cheeks—just a bow for him to undo.

Jaemin followed you into the bedroom, his mouth going agape at the sight. Candles flickered softly on the bedside tables, and rose petals were scattered across the floor and on the bed. The whole scene looked straight out of a movie, but it was real, and it was for him.

“Wow,” he murmured, genuinely impressed. “Princess, this is amazing. I should’ve done this for you…” His voice dropped, a slight frown forming as he looked at you.

“You can do it next year,” you replied, and the fact that you were already planning another Valentine’s Day with him made his heart swell. You closed the space between you, pulling him down by his neck and kissing along his jaw.

“You must be tired,” you whispered against his skin.

Jaemin's hands roamed over your back, cupping your ass making you gasp at the sudden touch. When your lips parted, he took the opportunity to kiss you. He slipped his tongue into your mouth, tasting the strawberries you’d been eating.

“Not anymore,” he whispered, lifting you up by your hips, your legs locked around his waist. He carried you to the bed, never breaking the kiss, his lips moving against yours with need.

You pulled away, and for a moment he thought you would kiss him again. Instead, you gently pushed him down onto the bed and guided him to lie back. His chest rose and fell with anticipation, lips parted as you climbed over him and settled on top. He stayed still, pretending to be unaffected, but you noticed the way his muscles tensed as he fought to hold back.

"I want to try something new," you said, your voice laced with playful daring.

Jaemin raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh? Do I get a say in this?”

You paused for a moment before tugging his shirt up and over his head, letting your fingers graze his skin as you did. Your gaze roamed over him slowly, as if committing every inch to memory. His broad shoulders, abs that tensed whenever he took a breath, the faint happy trail he’d stopped shaving just because you said you liked it, the love bites still lingering on his chest from the other night.

Reaching for his hand, you guided it to the delicate bow at the center of your bra, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Go on,” you murmured, “unwrap your present.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow, smirking. He tugged on the bow and the bra fell open, exposing your breasts. He couldn’t help the soft, reverent exhale that escaped him. “Fuck…” he groaned, his hands reaching to touch you, but you stopped him with a soft but firm hand on his shoulder.

“Ah, ah,” you tutted, leaning in to kiss the frown from his face. “Let me take care of you first.”

Jaemin opened his mouth to protest, but then you were gone. He saw you searching in the drawer, and when you returned to the bed, you had something hidden behind your back. You leaned in close, whispering in his ear.

“Do you trust me, Jaem?”

He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Of course.”

Then, you pulled out a blindfold, and he froze, anticipation and excitement flooding his system in equal parts “What are you planning, love?” he asked, his tone soft but amused.

“Something you’ll really like,” you whispered, placing a kiss below his ear.

Jaemin chuckled nervously, shivering slightly. “Should I be worried?”

You only smiled, slipping the blindfold over his eyes. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding as his world went dark. His other senses immediately heightened and he tensed when he felt you reach for his wrists.

The soft touch of silk against his skin made him flinch. “Wait—what are you—” His breath hitched as you wrapped the restraints carefully around him.

His fingers twitched, an instinctive urge to move, but the fabric held him firm. He gave a small, experimental tug, testing the hold, and a shiver ran through him when he realized he couldn’t easily free himself. There was something almost dizzying about being kept like this, unable to touch you, forced to wait. The helplessness only made his excitement burn hotter.

“Wow,” he mused, voice light but strained, “Are we into bondage now?”

Despite his attempt at humor, you didn’t miss the way his chest rose and fell a little faster when you gave the restraints a small tug.

You leaned in, letting your lips ghost against his ear. “I want to see if you can last…” you whispered, your breath sending another shiver down his spine.

Jaemin swallowed, his smirk faltering just slightly. “What do you mean…” he asked, careful now, as if realizing he’d just walked into a trap.

You didn’t answer right away, and the silence only deepened the anticipation clawing at him. He tried to keep his breathing steady, to act unaffected, but the combination of the blindfold, the restraints, and the sheer uncertainty of what you’d do next made it impossible to be calm.

And then…cold.

A sharp gasp tore from his lips as the ice cube slid across his chest, its sudden chill stealing the breath from his lungs. His entire body stiffened, muscles flexing against the cold shock.

“God—fuck…” he cursed breathlessly. He yanked at the restraints, desperate to get away from the bite of the ice but craving more of your touch at the same time. “You really like torturing me, huh?”

You laughed softly, a wicked note in your voice. “Torture? No…” you murmured, trailing the ice lower, just skimming the waistband of his pants. “I just want to see how far you’ll let me go to make sure you feel really good.”

Jaemin let out a strained breath, his fingers flexing against the restraints. He was still trying to hold onto some shred of composure, but his body was betraying him. He felt himself grow harder in his pants and he wanted to beg for you to release him but he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of seeing him break down so easily.

“Tell me, Jaem… have you ever touched yourself on a particularly chilly night?” you asked, your voice smooth and teasing.

“What—…” His breath hitched when you slid the ice cube lower, past his hip bones. “I… I don’t know… I suppose so,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

“Did your cold fingers feel nice?” you continued, drawing the ice in slow circles on his skin. “Did you like it?”

Jaemin was trying to focus on your words, but the heightened sensation of the cold against his burning skin was making it impossible to think. The contrast was overwhelming, making his hips jerk involuntarily.

“I—fuck… I guess so,” he breathed.

Without warning, you pulled his pants down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, slapping against his lower abdomen and startling both of you.

“You seem excited,” you said, letting your finger graze the side of his shaft. His breath stuttered as he tensed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

The next thing he felt was cold sliding over his tip.

“Shit—” he gasped, his whole body jerking as he tried to sit up, hunching over in a desperate attempt to regain some control. His bound wrists strained against the silk restraints, but they gave him no leeway. And then you did it again, this time, dragging the ice along the side of his cock, the sensation both shocking and exquisite.

“Fuck… th-that feels weird…” he shivered slightly.

His lips were red and wet from how he kept biting them, trying not to moan too loudly.

You leaned in, kitten-licking the tip while still holding the ice against him.

“Wait—” he moaned, his hips bucking up instinctively.

With one last teasing kiss to his tip, you pulled back, watching the way he twitched, the way his body practically vibrated with pent-up need.

“Looks like you’re ready to play.”

Jaemin exhaled shakily. The way you were handling him was so different to what he was used to. He was always the one setting the pace, pulling pleasure from you at his leisure. But now, you had him completely at your mercy. And the craziest part was how much he was enjoying it.

He heard more movement, some shuffling and the quiet creak of the mattress as you settled back in front of him. His muscles tensed in anticipation, his whole body straining against the restraints. He wanted to reach for you, to pull you down and take what he needed but all he could do was wait.

“Jaem, do you know what a cock ring is?” you asked, your voice so soft and innocent that for a second, he thought he must’ve misheard you.

“Hm?” His brain was lagging, too focused on the lingering cold of the ice cube melting against him. Then your words sank in. “Yeah,” he swallowed.

“Good,” you hummed, and before he could react, he felt your warm hand wrap around him, pumping once, just enough to make his hips twitch, to make a moan escape his throat before he could swallow it down.

And then something hard pressed against his dick.

“Fuck—” he hissed, his body tensing as you carefully slid the cock ring into place. His sensitivity was already heightened, and the combination of your touch and the unfamiliar tightness made him shudder.

“I want you to hold on as much as you can,” you murmured, trailing your fingers up his stomach, nails lightly scratching at his skin. “Can you do that for me?”

Jaemin groaned, tugging at the restraints in frustration. “You’re so fucking unfair.”

You giggled, pressing a kiss to his hip bone. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Jaemin’s breath came in sharp, uneven pants as you pulled away, leaving him aching for more. His head tilted back, exposing the long line of his throat as he swallowed hard, trying to remain as calm as possible.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his voice shaky. His fingers clenched and unclenched where they were bound, his knuckles turning white from how hard he was gripping nothing. “You’re really trying to kill me…”

You only smiled, still running your nails lightly down his torso, making his abs twitch. “You’re being so dramatic, Jaem.”

His head snapped up at that, eyes still blindfolded, but his frustration was written all over his face. “Dramatic?” He let out a humorless laugh. “Princess, I’m so fucking hard it hurts, and you’re just—” He groaned, pulling against the restraints again. “God, you’re such a fucking tease.”

You hummed as if considering his words, then leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below his navel. “But it looks like you’re enjoying it.”

Jaemin’s hips twitched, but he still managed a weak scoff. “I’d enjoy it more if you actually fucking did something.” His voice was strained, cracking at the edges.

You let your hand drift lower again, wrapping around him with a slowness that had him sucking in a sharp breath. “Is this what you want?” you murmured, your fingers squeezing just enough to make him twitch in your grasp.

“Fuck—yes, that’s what I fucking want—”

You gave a single stroke, dragging your hand up his length at an agonizing pace.

Jaemin let out a throaty whimper, and the sound only intensified the heat pooling in your lower belly.

His chest heaved as his thighs trembled. His whole body jerked, but the cock ring kept him from reaching the release he desperately chased.

“Oh my god,” he choked out, his voice practically a whine. “Princess, please, I need—”

You tightened your grip slightly, cutting him off with another slow, teasing stroke. His hips bucked into your hand, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t fucking enough, and the frustration in his voice was turning into something dangerously close to begging.

“Please what, Jaemin?” you asked, tilting your head.

His lip was pulled between his teeth so hard it was turning red, his whole body trembling from restraint. “Please, just—fuck, I don’t even know—just something, please, princess, I can’t—”

His voice cracked again, revealing his desperation in every syllable. He was completely wrecked, yet still nowhere near getting what he wanted.

And that was exactly how you wanted him.

When your mouth dropped down on his dick again, you took in more than just the tip this time. You sucked and licked him just the way you knew he liked.

“God… oh god,” he groaned, his hips jerking up instinctively, but you kept him firmly in place, pressing down on his thighs.

“Be good,” you murmured against his swollen tip, lips brushing the heat of him. “Or I’ll stop.”

Jaemin let out a shaky breath, his fingers twitching at his sides, unable to do anything but take what you were giving him. “Fuck… you’re so—” His voice broke into a strangled gasp as you sank back down, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling along his length.

He was losing control. His thighs trembled under your touch, ragged gasps escaping his lips. His body was already screaming for release, but the cock ring kept him stuck on that unbearable edge, holding him in a storm of pure, agonizing pleasure.

“I can’t… anymore… please.” His voice was strained, broken apart by breathless moans. “Please, take it off.”

You pulled back just enough to let your breath fan over his tip. “Take what off, Jaem?”

“Everything,” he choked out. “Let me touch you… let me see you… let me fuck you…please.”

The little laugh you let out made his stomach tighten painfully. If he wasn’t so desperate, he would’ve held out longer just to make you work for it. But he was past the point of caring about winning right now.

“Well…” You let your hands caress down his thighs, feeling the way his muscles clenched under your touch. “I think you’ve been patient enough.”

The first thing to come off was the blindfold. Jaemin blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted, the dim light in the room almost blinding after what felt like hours in the dark. His gaze flickered over your form, hovering over him like a lioness about to pounce. Fuck, he forgot you were braless. His hands twitched against the restraints, desperate to touch you.

Then his eyes dropped lower. His dick was painfully swollen, red at the tip, the cock ring still keeping him from the relief he needed. His breath caught as you reached down, fingers brushing his base before you finally removed it. The rush of sensation that followed had his whole body tensing, his abs clenching as he gasped through the sudden overwhelming relief. He was seconds away from—

You moved to undo the silk restraints, and the moment his wrists were free, he lunged.

You let out a sharp squeal as he grabbed your arm and yanked you down, pressing your body flush against his chest. In one quick movement, he flipped you onto your back, looming over you with a wicked, predatory grin.

“Shouldn’t have fucking released me, princess,” he growled, voice still rough from moaning. He licked his lips, eyes raking down your body like he was deciding where to ruin you first. “You’re gonna take everything I give you now.”

There was no fear in your gaze—only pure, smoldering desire.

Jaemin’s lips crashed against yours, devouring you, tongue sliding past your lips as his hands finally claimed your body. His fingers found your breasts, squeezing, teasing, all while his hips rolled against your barely clothed core.

Then, he flipped you onto your stomach. You gasped, feeling his body press against your back, his lips tracing a heated path from your shoulder to the nape of your neck.

“Wanted to do this since I walked through that door,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. He hooked his fingers into the delicate lace of your underwear, undoing the tiny bow with a slow pull. His eyes went dark with greed and desire when he saw it fall apart and expose your bare backside to him.

He kissed along your spine, then rocked his hips against your ass with a shuddering sigh before flipping you over again.

You were already breathless, your mind hazy, and he still hadn’t even touched you where you needed him most.

But then, just when you thought he was going to finally take you—he suddenly grabbed your ankles and yanked you down the bed, shifting you so you were face-to-face with his abs.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, until you felt his dick sliding between your breasts.

“Gonna let me fuck your tits, princess?” he murmured, voice husky.

Heat pooled in your stomach at his words, and without hesitation, you pressed your hands against the sides of your chest, squeezing your breasts together, trapping him between them.

Jaemin groaned, the sound deep and raw, before spitting onto your chest to lubricate the area.

You gasped softly, the sheer filth of it making your thighs squeeze together, but Jaemin was also too far gone to tease you about it. He let out a low, guttural fuck as he thrust, slow at first, watching himself slide between the plushness of your breasts.

“Shit…” His breathing was heavy, his fringe damp with sweat, his jaw slack as he fucked into the tight heat of your chest. “Letting me fuck your perfect tits—fuck.”

The sounds filling the room were obscene. The wet slide of his dick against your skin, the breathy moans slipping from his lips, the quiet, desperate whimpers coming from you.

Your legs clenched again, seeking friction, your own arousal dripping down your thighs.

Jaemin’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts grew uneven, more desperate. “I’m—fuck, I’m close—”

Suddenly, his hand was on your jaw, tilting your head up.

“Open for me, princess.”

You parted your lips instinctively, watching through hazy, lidded eyes as he pumped himself, working himself closer and closer—until the first warm spurts landed across your chest and tongue. His thumb swiped through the mess on your chest, and before you could even react, he brought it to your lips.

“Taste.” His voice was hoarse.

Your tongue flicked out to catch it. His breath stuttered as he watched you.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his fingers pressing against your tongue just a second longer before pulling away. His cock twitched against your stomach, already getting hard again.

You let out a small whimper, rubbing your thighs together, the ache between your legs only growing sharper.

Jaemin caught the movement immediately.

“Oh?” He smirked, eyes flicking down to where you were shamelessly pressing your legs together for any friction. “You want more?”

You whined, squirming.

He hummed, as if amused. “Poor thing.”

“Jaem…” Your voice came out as a whimper, breathless, desperate.

His smirk deepened. He loved seeing you this way—helpless, needy, falling apart before he even touched you properly.

But he wasn’t going to make it easy.

“What’s wrong, princess?” His hand ghosted over your stomach before slipping between your legs, fingertips grazing your soaked folds. “You need help?”

You bucked your hips, but he barely applied any pressure, making you whimper in protest.

You let out a frustrated sob, moving to take over yourself, but his hand shot out and gripped your wrist, pinning it to the mattress.

“Ah, ah! We can’t have that,” he tsked, eyes flashing dark.

The next thing you know, your hand is being replaced with his own, two fingers sliding through your folds. Your entire body jolted at the contact.

Jaemin groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “Shit, you’re so wet, princess,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through your slick before pressing them against your swollen clit. “You like having my cock between those pretty tits that much?”

You barely managed a nod, too lost in the feeling of his fingers teasing you.

“Such a messy little thing,” he teased, rubbing slow, agonizing circles over your clit, just enough to make you desperate, but not enough to give you what you needed. “I should make you wait. Make you beg for it.”

“Jaemin—”

His fingers pushed in, stretching you, filling you just enough to make you gasp.

“Holy fuck,” Jaemin groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. His cock was already leaking against your thigh, his body trembling as he tried to hold himself back. “You’re so tight. You’re gonna fucking choke my fingers.”

He pumped his fingers in and out, slow but deep, so deep you were writhing beneath him.

“Jaem, please—” Your walls clenched, thighs trembling.

“Hm?” He purred. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

Your eyes were glassy, your body begging for it. “Please, just fuck me.”

Jaemin let out a sharp exhale, visibly shaking as he tried to hold himself back.

“You—” His voice broke. He looked down, seeing how you were practically dripping down his fingers, and groaned, cursing under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

His fingers slipped out with a wet, filthy sound. Before you could even whine, he grabbed your thighs, spreading you wide and pressing the head of his cock against your entrance.

Your breath caught.

But he didn’t push in.

He just teased, rubbing himself between your folds, coating himself in your slick. He watched with dark, hooded eyes as you twitched beneath him, whimpering at every brush of his cock against your swollen clit.

“You want it?” His voice dripped with sin.

“Jaem—”

“Beg for it.”

The jerk was using your own tricks against you.

Now, you were regretting edging him earlier, because this… this felt like hell.

You whined, your nails digging into his arms. “Please, Jaem. Please. I need you. I need your cock inside me, I—fuck—I can’t—”

That was enough for him. With a wrecked groan, he slammed inside you in one stroke, bottoming out so deep you saw white.

A choked cry left your lips, your entire body arching off the mattress.

“Oh my fucking god—” Jaemin’s voice broke, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you were sure it would bruise.

He was shaking, breathing ragged, his cock twitching inside you as he tried not to cum right then and there. You were so tight, so wet, so warm. He felt like he was going insane.

“You—” His voice was strained, wrecked. “You feel so fucking good, princess.”

His thrusts punched the breath out of you, slamming into you so deep you felt it in your stomach, your walls clenching around him like a vice.

“Holy shit—fuck—” Jaemin groaned, his hips snapping against yours in a brutal rhythm. “You’re so tight—I can feel you fucking squeezing me—”

You couldn’t even form words, just moaned and whimpered, nails raking down his back.

Jaemin growled, grabbing the backs of your knees, pushing them up and folding you beneath him.

The angle —oh god—the angle had his cock hitting so deep it left you shaking, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

“There we go,” Jaemin groaned, watching you writhe under him. “That’s the spot, isn’t it?”

“Jae—Jaemin—”

“Shhh,” he cooed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re taking me so well, princess. So, so well.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing fast. The pleasure crashing over you all at once.

“Cum for me, baby,” Jaemin rasped, barely holding himself together. “Make a fucking mess on my cock.”

Your orgasm tore through you, so intense your vision blurred, your entire body shaking under him as you cried out his name.

Jaemin groaned, feeling you clench around him. His hips stuttered as he buried himself deep, moaning against your throat as he came again, filling you completely.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing and shaking limbs.

Jaemin finally lifted his head, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead, eyes dark.

He smirked a cat-like smile.

“I hope you don't think we’re done.”

He was still inside you, his cock twitching, throbbing, still semi-hard despite just coming deep inside you. He could feel you clenching weakly around him.

You didn’t want it to be done.

You felt empty, even with his cock still buried inside you. You needed more, needed all of him, needed him to ruin you completely.

And he could tell.

Jaemin tilted his head as his fingers dug into your thighs, keeping them spread wide for him. His thumbs traced slow circles into your skin both soothing and possessive, a silent reminder that you weren’t going anywhere.

“Think you can handle more?” The low rumble of his voice had you feeling dizzy.

You nodded, too fucked out to form anything coherent.

He hummed, pretending to consider. “Now that I think about it… you were pretty mean to me earlier.” His hands slid lower, gripping your ass and giving it a sharp squeeze that made you jolt. “Do you even deserve it?”

“Yes—yes, please, Jaem—”

He laughed, a breathy chuckle that broke apart into something rougher, needier.

“Insatiable little thing.”

And then he was pulling out achingly slow, dragging every inch of himself through your trembling walls. The friction sent a helpless whimper tumbling from your lips.

Jaemin nearly lost his mind at the sound.

He stared down at you, his ruined, pretty girl. Face flushed, hair sticking to your damp skin, lips swollen and parted, body still twitching from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He growled, gripping your waist and flipping you onto your stomach in one swift movement.

You gasped, heart pounding as Jaemin manhandled you effortlessly, positioning you exactly how he wanted with your chest pressed to the mattress and ass high in the air.

He moaned, running his hands down your spine, over the curve of your hips, before gripping your ass and spreading you open for him.

“Look at you,” he breathed, watching the way your slick dripped down your thighs, his own cum still leaking from your core.

His cock throbbed painfully at the sight.

“Fuck, baby, I made such a mess of you.”

You whimpered, pushing your hips back toward him, trying to tempt him. But Jaemin only smirked, rubbing the tip of his cock against your entrance, teasing you, making you squirm.

“What do you want, princess?” His voice was low, smug.

You whined, pressing your face into the pillow, trying to grind back against him.

“Jaem—please—”

He tutted, gripping your hips to hold you still. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

Then, he slid inside you again, slowly making you feel every inch. You cried out, hands gripping the sheets desperately.

Jaemin groaned, rolling his hips slow but deep. His cock pressing against a spot that made black spots appear in your vision.

“Oh, my god—”

“That’s it,” he praised, gripping your waist tighter. Watching the way your back arched, how you clenched around him so perfectly.

He was so deep like this, hitting angles that had you completely unraveling beneath him.

“God, you’re perfect for me,” he groaned, his hips snapping forward just a little harder, making you choke on your breath.

His hands traveled down, reaching for your arms, and before you could even react, he pulled you up, pressing your back against his chest. One hand snaking around your waist, the other gripping your throat lightly.

Your moan was sinful, body trembling as Jaemin fucked up into you, the new position letting him bury himself impossibly deep.

“Shit—” Jaemin choked out, pressing his lips to your sweaty temple.

His free hand slid down your stomach, two fingers finding your clit, rubbing torturous circles in time with his thrusts.

You gasped sharply, hands grabbing at his wrists.

“Too much?” He teased, his voice taunting, but the way he was shaking against you, the way his thrusts were growing sloppier, told you he was just as close as you were.

You could only moan, pleasure overwhelming you, his cock dragging against that perfect spot over and over, his fingers pushing you closer—

“Cum for me again, princess.” He said, lips pressed to your jaw, groaning with every thrust. “I want to feel you squeeze me.”

And just like that another orgasm crashed over you, your walls clamping down on him so tight he nearly screamed.

Jaemin cursed, feeling you pulsing around him, dragging him straight into his own orgasm.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” His body convulsed, hips stuttering as he filled you up once more, letting go with a strangled moan against your throat.

Jaemin finally collapsed, pulling you down with him. He wrapped himself around you, pressing lazy kisses to your bare shoulder.

His arms tightened, as if he never wanted to let you go.

“God,” Jaemin exhaled, still breathless, lips brushing against your ear.

“I think I might have broken you, princess.”

divider creds toastray

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