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othernightslikethis · 2 months ago

Text

THE WHITE EMPEROR

Cap 1 here

Ningning x Male Reader x Winter (aespa)

3k words

There were two things your very core despised more than the colour green—which, for some reason, you had always loathed above all else—boredom and loneliness. And yet, it was precisely these two afflictions that now imposed themselves upon your existence with inexorable voracity.

Flat on your bed, staring at the ceiling like a shipwrecked man drained of strength, you lay prisoner to your own inertia. Your leg bounced incessantly—sometimes in aimless frenzy, sometimes in a more measured rhythm—as if that minuscule movement could somehow ease the crushing monotony consuming you. Sleep, ever elusive, refused to grace you with its veil of rest, even as lethargy spread through your limbs like a slow-acting poison.

The irony lay in the fact that this idleness did not stem from a lack of purpose but rather from a cruel, exasperating wait. Only a single day remained before you flew to London, yet each second stretching between you and that coveted moment felt like an eternity. Time, relentless and mocking, dragged itself forward with deliberate slowness, seemingly revelling in your torment.

Fate, a capricious creature of surprises, had a peculiarly fortunate misfortune in store for you. To your unexpected delight, an event of considerable excitement presented itself. The shrill ring of the doorbell—once a source of irritation and exasperation—echoed through the house with vigour, its sound travelling through the rooms until it reached the upper floor. Curiously, the very noise that had tormented you for an entire year now brought inexplicable relief, as though it heralded something of utmost significance.

With a drawn-out sigh, void of enthusiasm, you emerged from your sluggish haze, abandoning the bed with no particular haste. Your limbs, weighed down by idleness, moved with reluctance as you rose, utterly indifferent to the idea of dressing with greater propriety. Composure gave way to urgency as you descended the stairs, each step creaking beneath your indolent tread.

The night air, cold and slightly damp, slipped through the cracks of the windows, pricking at your bare skin. Yet, such discomfort barely registered, for your mind—still shrouded in the fog of unrested sleep—was wholly fixated on the source of the interruption.

At last, reaching the door, your hand hesitated on the handle. A moment of uncertainty lingered between you and whatever lay beyond. But with one final resigned breath, you turned the latch and opened the door.The silence blanketing the space was abruptly shattered by a lively, resonant voice from the doorway.

— How long do you plan on standing there lookin’ like a dead fish, bro?

Before you, dressed in casual attire, stood none other than Vinícius José Paixão de Oliveira Júnior—or, as he was more commonly known, Vini Jr. His eyes, alight with an energy impossible to contain, flitted upwards to where the unmistakable figures of Rodrygo Goes, Jude Bellingham, Kylian Mbappé, and Eduardo Camavinga loomed. Last, but by no means least, stood Antonio Rüdiger, adorned with a hat so utterly bizarre that its eccentricity was rivalled only by the effortless ease with which he wore it.

— We’ve come to drag you out for a bit. A farewell party—what d’you reckon? — Vini announced, a mischievous grin playing at his lips.

Time granted you all of two seconds to process the situation before the entire group, like a relentless tidal wave, breached the sanctity of your home without the slightest hesitation. Caught in the sudden invasion of your peace, your only response was to shut the door behind them, a quiet chuckle escaping your lips. Shaking your head in amused resignation, the hint of a smile still lingered on your face.

— I really do love these guys.

Strobe lights flashed at a frantic pace, reflecting in the eyes of those who stared at them, while deafening music pulsed from every corner of the room. And yet, far from being a nuisance, that chaotic symphony had a hypnotic allure—something that, strangely, you found enjoyable.

The table where you and your friends were gathered boasted a medley of drinks, each glass holding a different concoction, and the air buzzed with an ephemeral sense of celebration—a welcome distraction from the impending departure awaiting you at dawn.

Vini, ever the exuberant one, leaned towards you, giving your shoulder a light tap to steal your attention. His expression bore an almost childlike anticipation, certain that he’d draw the words from you that, deep down, you knew had to be spoken.

— So then? You and that girl you’ve been into… What’s the deal? — he asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.

You sighed deeply before bringing the glass to your lips, allowing the whisky to burn its way down your throat with a mix of sting and comforting warmth. The faint touch of honey attempted to temper the alcohol’s harshness—but to little avail.

— Feels like I’m talking to a ghost. — you murmured, setting the glass down with a dull clink. — She barely bothers to reply to my messages. One moment, she treats me with absolute indifference, and the next, she throws me a few scraps of attention. It’s like she sees me as a bloody pet—gives me a momentary treat, and there I am, wagging my tail and begging for scraps of affection.

The weight of frustration crashed down upon you so heavily that your head fell against the table with a dull thud—a quiet, resigned groan slipping from your lips amidst the indistinct murmur of the room

Rüdiger, in an almost paternal gesture, placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, while Rodrygo, his expression sombre, crossed his arms and took a slow sip of his drink before stating, with cutting pragmatism:

— And you’re just gonna stay like this?

His tone held no condescension—just a blunt, matter-of-fact certainty. Vini, nodding vehemently, reinforced the sentiment: — If she treats you like that, maybe it’s time to move on, mate. There’s no shortage of hotties in the world

— Leave him alone — Mbappé said as he settled beside you, sliding a drink in your direction. — He needs time for himself.

Just then, Mbappé and Camavinga arrived with the next round of drinks. The older Frenchman led the way, while the younger trailed just behind, tilting his head inquisitively.

Eduardo, however, remained standing, arms crossed over his chest, his expression scrutinising as he asked:

— What’s this all about?

Rüdiger, with a knowing smirk, tossed out a teasing reply:

— Our dear little Japanese friend is suffering over love.

— I’m Korean! — you snapped, irritation flaring as you scowled.A chorus of laughter erupted around you, a mix of exasperation and begrudging amusement washing over you.

— "Same thing!" someone called out between chuckles.

— My man, have you actually told her how you feel?

The silence that followed answered for you. Your hesitant glance and slight shake of the head were enough for Mbappé to exhale thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the rim of his glass.

— Hmmm… Then maybe you should. — He raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip. — She’s not a mind reader, man. She won’t know how you feel unless you tell her.

He let the words settle before setting down his drink with finality.

— But for now, forget about all that. Go dance. Leave the overthinking for later. Tonight’s your send-off—make the most of it! We’ll see you in a year!

The last sentence was repeated in unison by the group, followed by an enthusiastic toast. The clinking of glasses echoed in the air—a fleeting moment of celebration before the night continued.

---

Winter felt restless, to say the least. Anxiety coursed through her veins like an insidious poison, undermining her usual tranquillity. She had sent him a message three hours ago, and the silence that followed had become an unbearable weight on her chest. It was an unusual absence, unsettling, almost unnatural. She was used to receiving his response instantly, as if his very existence lingered on the edge of hers, always ready to dispel any shadow of uncertainty. What had once seemed charming now felt deeply disquieting.

Why hadn’t he answered? What was keeping him? Was it merely a distraction, or was something more serious standing between them? Under normal circumstances, she might have convinced herself that he was sleeping, wrapped in the languor of slumber. But no, Winter knew—with the unshakable certainty of one who observes a sacred ritual—that he never slept without receiving her goodnight. It had become an unbreakable tradition, a habit deeply rooted in their routine.

Restlessness settled in like a weed, choking her thoughts. With every passing minute, her mind wove increasingly disturbing scenarios, as if the absence of a single response could herald impending disaster. Almost involuntarily, her fingers hovered over the screen, hesitant, torn between reason and the impulse to send another message.

Letting out an audible huff, Kim Minjeong was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice Yu Jimin—Karina—settling beside her with quiet serenity. The leader, observing the vacant, distant expression on the younger girl’s face, reached out gently, resting her fingers on her shoulder in an attempt to pull her back to reality. But there was no response. Persistent, Karina insisted, giving her a light shake several times until Minjeong finally emerged from her daze. She blinked a few times, visibly confused, before lifting her gaze to the other girl.

— What? What happened? — she asked, her voice slightly hoarse, as if she had gone a long time without uttering a single word.

— Nothing in particular… It’s just that you haven’t said a word for nearly two hours.

As she spoke, she raised a hand and, with careful precision, placed her fingers against Minjeong’s forehead, subtly assessing her temperature. Her expression remained unchanged, but there was a trace of concern in her voice.

— I was worried.

Winter shook her head, forcing herself to push aside the thoughts that had insidiously invaded her mind. At last, she abandoned the brooding that kept her bound to that figure whose affection for her was so glaringly obvious. Who, after all, could ignore such evidence? And yet, she had never managed to discern whether, deep down, she could ever truly return it.

She had never been granted the boldness to do so, leaving her only with hesitation and the gnawing guilt of keeping him tethered to her so mercilessly. Sometimes, she saw herself as a jailer of emotions, depriving him of the freedom to seek love elsewhere, though never out of deliberate cruelty. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was the selfishness that pulsed within her in secret.

But for some unfathomable reason, merely imagining the possibility of him falling for someone else made her stomach churn, as if a venom coursed through her veins, robbing her of breath. The mere thought of his eyes—once fixed solely on her—turning towards another, of his smiles, his gestures, his very essence ceasing to belong to her, was an intolerable affront, an unbearable misfortune.

He was meant to be hers—from his first breath to his very last.

Two pairs of footsteps echoed through the room, accompanied by the sound of suitcases being dragged along the floor. Suppressed giggles dissipated into the air.

— She’s thinking about her prince charming! — Aeri teased, a sly grin on her lips.

Karina, slightly furrowing her brows, turned to her friend, arching an eyebrow in evident confusion.

— What are you on about? — she asked, doubt clouding her gaze.

— She’s talking about [Y/N.] — Ning chimed in, exhaling a sigh laden with exasperation before throwing herself onto the opposite sofa, arms crossed over her chest. — I don’t get what she sees in him. A rude, ill-mannered man with… Urgh! The most insufferable arrogance. I hate that man!

Her tone dripped with resentment, and the irritation that coloured her expression made her disdain painfully obvious.

— Oh, him. What’s her problem? Did they have a row or something? — Giselle, saying nothing, merely shook her head in response. — So?

The young woman, visibly exasperated, let out a sharp huff before finally voicing her grievance:

— That bastard! Not only did he spill orange juice all over me, but he didn’t even bother apologising! And to make matters worse, he had the audacity to say that if I was going to be a whiny baby, I should just wear nappies! The nerve of him!

Karina and Giselle exchanged a knowing look, as if trying to gauge how seriously she was taking her outrage, while Winter, unable to hold back, let out a quiet chuckle, covering her mouth in a feeble attempt to disguise her amusement.

---

The journey unfolded without incident, and the presentation in London proceeded in an orderly and formal manner. However, the reception was far below expectations—an inadmissible slight for someone of his stature. After all, it was a loan for a season and a half, but even so, his arrival should have been met with the pomp and reverence befitting his name. What kind of insolence was this? In just a year on the Old Continent, he had amassed more titles than those dull, uninspired nobodies had won in an entire decade. And yet, his arrival was marked by an infuriating coldness.

There was no frenzied crowd, no eager reporters vying for his words, no paparazzi scrambling for the best angles of his figure. No bombastic headlines, no fanfare. Nothing. They treated him like some random nobody, a mere afterthought, and the sheer audacity of it all made his blood boil. How dare they? How could they ignore his greatness? Talent and glory should speak for themselves, yet here, they seemed invisible. The silent disregard gnawed at his pride, fuelling his indignation. He was a blazing star, a force of nature destined to make history. And yet, here he was—cast into obscurity by a bunch of visionless fools.

London had better open its eyes and bow, for soon enough, it would have no choice but to kneel before his grandeur.

Even so, he was compelled to report for training that very same day, with no room for delays or indulgences. With meticulous resignation, he donned his gear, adjusting each piece with an almost mechanical lack of enthusiasm. A club staff member had been tasked with showing him around—a formality he found utterly tedious, devoid of charm or novelty.

The tour dragged on at a sluggish pace, punctuated by dull descriptions and robotic gestures. The staff member, diligent in his duties, detailed every facility with almost solemn seriousness, while he, in turn, absorbed the information with blatant disinterest, as if every word were a distant echo incapable of sparking even a flicker of curiosity

When he was finally given permission to begin training, his steps towards the pitch were slow, lacking vigour or determination. There was an air of laziness about him, a sense of weary indifference in the way he moved, as though every metre covered was an unnecessary burden. As he set eyes on the impeccably manicured pitch—an emerald carpet many would consider a sacred altar to the sport—he felt nothing but sheer boredom. A yawn escaped his lips, an uncontrollable reflection of his apathy, dissipating into the air like an unmistakable signal of his utter indifference.

Then, he felt an unexpected touch on his shoulder.

Upon entering the facility, he was greeted by a man slightly shorter than himself. His features betrayed his Korean heritage—just like his own, the idol of his national team, Heung-min Son. With an affable smile and an air of camaraderie, Son extended his right hand towards him in a gesture of courtesy.

— Welcome aboard, mate!

His face bore a friendly expression. His hand remained suspended in the air for a moment, waiting to be accepted. He considered the gesture briefly, contemplating whether to return the courtesy. But then, a sardonic smile curled his lips, and a low chuckle escaped his throat. He shook his head in refusal and turned his back on Son without hesitation.

— I’m the star here, old man.

As he walked away, Son remained there, his hand still hanging mid-air, his lips slightly parted in perplexity, his eyes widening just a fraction as if trying to decipher the logic behind such a blunt, unexpected reaction. However, after a brief moment of hesitation, he merely shrugged, resigning himself to the lack of explanation and choosing not to dwell on it.

Still, he observed him closely, noticing how he remained slightly apart from the others, detached from the interactions around him, sitting in wait for coach Ange Postecoglou, who would soon be giving instructions for training. There was a subtle melancholy in his posture—or perhaps just an involuntary sense of displacement, a feeling that he was a stranger in a sea of familiar faces.

And then, before he had even noticed the approach, someone sat beside him.It was Richarlison.

— Don’t even think about opening your fuck mouth, you donkey.

His response came swiftly, laced with contempt, cutting off any attempt at conversation before it could begin.

The striker, however, seemed entirely unfazed. He merely raised an eyebrow, as if hostility were nothing new, and shrugged indifferently—suggesting that, from the very start, he had perhaps never intended to say anything at all.

---

Throughout that week of gruelling training sessions, the Tottenham squad clocked onto the half-arsed effort you were putting in. Your shots were limp, completely lacking any proper power, like you couldn’t be arsed to give it some welly. Your movement, meanwhile, was lethargic, not a shred of graft or determination. Slacking off had become your most glaring trait, and the blasé way you treated every drill reeked of silent arrogance — a proper delusion that your spot among the starters was set in stone, no matter how pony your performance. But that bubble burst in the most humiliating way. On the eve of the clash against Brentford, as you scanned the starting XI list, your eyes scoured the names once, twice, three times, hoping to find yours. No such luck. Reality hit like a ton of bricks: your name wasn’t there. Your heart skipped a beat, proper gobsmacked, and like a mug, you checked again, squinting for a typo, a mistake, anything to explain the snub. But nah. No getting around it.

The air rushed out of your lungs in a proper rage. Your fingers tangled in your hair, yanking hard, as you exploded with a torrent of proper meltdown:

— THE ACTUAL WHAT?! — you bellowed, your voice bouncing off the changing room walls, dripping with disbelief and proper cheek. — WHO DOES THAT COACH THINK HE IS?!

The silence cracked with a calm but firm voice behind you:

— Your coach. — Turning, you faced Kulusevski, staring you down like he’d seen this tantrum coming a mile off. — S’only natural a player who can’t be arsed starts on the bench — he carried on, all chilled, almost taking the piss. — If you’re not grafting in training, why’d you expect a spot among the starters?

A mirthless, bitter laugh slipped out, stewing with that toxic mix of indignation and scorn bubbling inside. This twat who’d nicked your spot had the bare-faced cheek to chat like it was nothing, like he hadn’t proper mugged you off just by existing. Who the bloody hell did he think he was?The rage lit you up, proper fuming, moving sharp and narked. On a proper strop, you spun on your heels and charged at him, shoulder-barging him proper. The clash was a proper clatter, catching the lad off guard and slamming him to the deck before he could blink.

— What a fuck liberty, mate.

---

The match kicked off without you getting a sniff of the pitch, and no one needed to tell you how proper gutted you were. The team’s shambolic mess of a performance had zero tactical shape—proper car crash stuff, made even worse by the gaffer’s cluelessness. His decision to leave you rotting on the bench filled you with silent rage. Not even a hint of you coming on, like, he didn’t even glance your way! What’s that bloke’s problem? Instead of firing you up to work harder, it just made you couldn’t-be-arsed in training. A proper spiteful lethargy took hold, this involuntary sod-it-all attitude showing in your half-hearted drills and calculated sulking. Every drill, every shout from the coaches, your mind drifted further, already convinced you’d never get a proper chance under a gaffer who picked the squad like he was drawing names from a hat.

But then, as if fate decided to take the piss out of your sulk, the unexpected happened: when they announced the starting XI for the League Cup semi against mighty Liverpool, your name was in there. The initial shock turned into a mix of disbelief and proper disdain. Was this the gaffer’s desperate Hail Mary? A random whim? Or some weird power move? Didn’t matter. Like it or not, you were starting the biggest game of the season. Now, with the training-ground sulk behind you, it was time to decide: prove your worth proper, or let the apathy win and fade into irrelevance.

Soulmate ❄️

"Im playin' today."

"That's great, I've been kinda busy, but I swear I'll watch the highlights"

"Better do it, gonna play like always 😜"

Pocketing your phone with a smirk, you got your head straight. You pulled on the number eleven shirt—never your favourite. You’d always fancied the number ten, proper iconic, the maestro’s number… or maybe twenty-eight, a nod to the day you first locked eyes with Minjeong, that split-second moment etched in your mind like it’s framed in gold.

Taking a deep breath, you climbed the stadium stairs, boots clattering on concrete. The distant roar of the crowd mixed with the changing-room banter, a proper buzz of anticipation. Your chest tightened with nerves and adrenaline, the weight of the coming battle on that sacred turf. At the tunnel’s edge, you paused, shut your eyes, and let the cold wind slap your face—game on.

It’s gone past the 61st minute of the second half, and you couldn’t be more off the mark. The match had been a proper shambles for you, a right spectacle of frustration and gloom. The bloody ball barely came your way, dodging you like it couldn’t stand the sight of you, and your own teammates—far from linking up with you on the pitch—acted like you were a ghost, useless and aimless, blithely ignoring your existence.

Even when the round thing did finally land at your feet, your noggin couldn’t conjure up a decent move. Your attacks crumbled against the relentless wall Liverpool had thrown up, every defender like a slab of granite. And to top it off, you couldn’t be arsed to track back and help defend, leaving a gaping hole in your lot’s backline. The cost? Brutal: two lightning counterattacks from the opposition, both turned into goals that rubbed salt in the wound. Deep down, you knew—your half-arsed effort had weighed heavy in the collapse. But you weren’t the only one having a mare that night; your whole squad looked knackered, proper lost.

There was this cursed lethargy in the air, a sluggishness that turned your team into a piss-poor parody of itself. Football, in all its glory, demands grit and fire, but your lot just lay down, gutted and hollow.

Not that any of this bothered you much—you’d already made peace with the disaster. At least until your eyes caught that sodding electronic board glowing in the shadows, flashing your number without a shred of mercy.

— What?! — you barked across the pitch, half-laughing in disbelief. — Nah, no fucking way.

You shook your head, raking your hands through your hair, biting your lip till the metallic tang of blood hit your tongue.

— Fuck this.

You finally caved, trudging off the pitch without so much as a nod to anyone, straight down the tunnel to the dressing room.

Two hours after the final whistle, the worldwide web had turned into an absolute circus. Gutted and seething, you nearly launched your phone at the wall, as if that could wipe away the torrent of abuse flooding your mentions. The headlines were merciless, screaming in block letters about a collapse that’d seemed unthinkable. The story was unanimous—no sympathy, no doubts:

Moon [Y/N], the Biggest Disappointment of the Season?

Korean Star in Decline

Moon [Y/N]: Understand How He Went From Olympus To Becoming Football's Biggest Failure In Recent Years

Some Spurs fans were practically calling for his head on a pike while others defended him.

@fanaticalspur876: Moon was clearly lazy, just see for yourself!

@Yuliandremoslc: Someone told [Y/N] he could play football, and he believed it!

@hosterbigwf: We gotta be patient. Moon will get the hang of it and be our star player!

"Blimey, what’s the bloody issue with these blokes? Clearly, I wasn’t the only one to cock things up, to fail miserably at meetin’ the expectations that, God knows why, were piled onto me.

You, clockin’ the situation, shook your head with a mix of resignation and proper disdain, choosin’ to ignore the whole kerfuffle. But how’d you manage it? Bloody hell, how! You distracted yourself, chuckin’ yourself into hedonistic binges. Lost in huntin’ down raves in London—ones that’d make you forget the bloody shambles your life’d become—you decided to stumble into the first dodgy joint that crossed your path.

Gettin’ in wasn’t the hard part; the real struggle was keepin’ your act together. Pissed as a newt, you could barely stand upright. Before you knew it, you were lurin’ toward the dance floor, driven by some primal urge. There, you started grindin’ against some random bird, a total stranger who, despite her delicate appearance, radiated a vibe that didn’t match her frame. She was a good eight inches shorter and slim-built, almost fragile, you thought. But sod it, you were dead wrong! Fragile? Not a chance. Her arse kept rubbin’ against your thigh so insistently that your knob, already at full salute, felt ready to burst.

Her scent was weirdly familiar, like a distant memory, makin’ you wrap your arms round her waist, feelin’ her warm, smooth skin against yours. Your fingers trailed down, explorin’ every curve, till she leaned back with a soft sigh, her head restin’ on your chest.

— Please… Fuck, you’re so hard I’m goin’ proper mental. Let’s find a better spot… — she purred, with a sly grin that screamed both cheek and impatience.

You, playin’ along, let out a low chuckle and leaned in closer. Your lips met her neck, kissin’ it with a mix of tenderness and proper lust. She arched her head back, givin’ you more access, a silent, fiery invitation.

— You’re a bit keen, ain’t ya? Who said I wanna leave? — you shot back, tone dripping with cheeky defiance.Then her hand, quick as a flash, grabbed the bulge in your trousers, makin’ you jolt and yelp:

— Wow! hell! What’s that for?!

— “Can’t stand man who play daft. I’m gaggin’ for it, you are too—let’s skip the faff and just fuck already. — she fired back, no-nonsense, her bluntness borderline brutal.

— My flat’s nearby. Let’s go.

She turned around, and that’s when you got a proper look at one of the most fit birds you’d ever laid eyes on. Her eyes, near hypnotic, seemed to throw your whole world off-kilter.

For a split second, a weird déjà vu gripped your chest, like you’d met somewhere in another life. Both of you frowned and blurted in unison:

— Do I know you?

The synced words froze the moment—a beat of shock—before meltin’ into pissed, careless laughter. Without another word, you both staggered toward your flat, lurchin’ down the street like two sods surrendered to chance and pure, raging horniness."

---

When the two of you stumbled into the flat, you could barely walk without tripping over every bloody thing in your path. Your mouth was locked deep in a snog with the woman whose name you couldn’t even be arsed to ask, but who—with proper skill and heat—dominated your tongue like a proper expert. Her hands, quick and sly, slid under your black shirt, scraping lightly at your ribs, drawing out a muffled groan you could hardly stifle.

Your hands, once resting on her waist, slid down to her firm thighs, gripping them hard before hoisting her onto your lap. She didn’t hesitate, wrapping her legs around you, breaking the kiss just long enough to fix you with a blazing stare.

— Hhhnm, you’re fit — she whispered, breathless, trying to catch her air. — Tomorrow… I’ll… I’ll proper regret this…

She sighed deeply before a proper moan slipped past her lips as your teeth grazed her bare neck. Even as she bit her lip to hold back, she couldn’t stop grinding against you while you sucked and kissed her skin.

— You’re dead sensitive here — you murmured, earning a squeak as she shoved you back toward her neck with her hands.

A laugh slipped out, but you carried on for a bit, finally tossing her onto the bed to take in her full glory. Her lips were swollen from snogging, a slick of spit glistening at the corner of her mouth. Her neck was littered with bruises, and her chest heaved as she fought for breath.

Your hands moved to her earrings, carefully removing them and setting them on the dresser. Then you knelt before her, grabbing the hem of her dress and peeling it off slow, leaving her in nothing but a lacy white lingerie set.

— You’re like a goddess — you gasped, laughing under your breath. Leaning in, you pressed soft kisses to her flat, toned stomach, feeling her shiver and arch toward you. — Christ, you’re hot. Proper hot.

The only reply was a faint, languid moan—nothing like the loud, over-the-top noises you’d expect. Maybe she was too shy to let go, or maybe she was just the quiet type. Either way, it didn’t matter. With proper skill, you undid her bra, freeing her tits, and a smug little laugh escaped you.

— You pissed?

— Proper wankered.

— Just don’t spew on my bed, yeah? I’d owe you one.

She laughed, but it quickly turned into a sharp, ringing moan that filled the room. Your mouth latched onto her nipple, greedy, as her back arched and her body writhed. Your right hand squeezed her other breast, while your left slid down, slow and deliberate, to her soaked knickers.

— You’ve drenched these — you rasped, voice thick.

— That’s your fault — she shot back between gasps. — I’m proper soaked for you. Hurry up and fuck me already!

Her voice, though shaky, had an edge that vaguely reminded you of someone—though you couldn’t place who.

— Patience, babygirl — you replied, half-authoritative, half-seductive. — You’ll get what you want… if you’re a good girl for me, yeah?

She whined and clamped her thighs around your hand. You smirked.

— You like being called ‘babygirl,’ eh? Proper naughty, you!

You sang the words, sliding your hands up her body to her waist. With steady fingers, you tugged her knickers down, letting the fabric glide over her legs. Every inch revealed felt like a victory. You kissed her calves, working your way up to her thighs, where her arousal was already slick. The wetness was mad—had to be because of you, right? You’d stick with that to keep your ego intact.

When you finally tasted her, it was like the universe had cracked open. Even if you weren’t usually fussed about the flavour, hers was addictive. Your finger circled her clit, precise, and she gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. You stopped.

— What’re you doing? I want to hear you — you ordered softly.

You smacked her thigh three times, leaving red marks. Instead of fighting, she yanked your head back between her legs.

— Then shut it and eat me out already, you sod!

You obeyed, diving in like a man starved. Your tongue worked her over—licking, sucking, worshipping—and her moans drove you wild. She squeezed your head with her thighs, forcing you deeper.

— Yes, you bastard! Eat this pussy! — she cried, writhing. — This what you like, eh? Licking me like a proper obedient pup! That’s it, baby! Don’t stop!

She threw her head back, eyes wide, as you pressed her thighs harder. Not to suffocate—you wanted her to clamp down. She grinned, wicked.

— Christ, you’re fit… I’m gonna… Fuck!

You kept at it, feeling her shake. Her legs trembled until, with a muffled scream, she came hard—body arching, crushing your face into her. Her juices flooded your mouth, and you drank her down like a man possessed. When her legs finally gave out, you pulled back, breathless.

— Fuck… Never had anyone come that hard on my tongue — you muttered, admiration in your tone.

— Fuck, I’d love to suck you off right now, but I reckon I can’t even stay on me feet this second. — She pauses, catching her breath. — fuck me. Now.

You don’t show a hint of hesitation, guiding her firmly onto the bed. Settling between her thighs, you lean toward the nightstand—but she slaps your wrist away sharply.

— No condom.

Her tone brooks no argument. You briefly consider protesting, but let’s be honest—what bloke in his right mind would turn down bareback with a bird this fit? Your brain and your cock are in full agreement. Smirking, you line up against her slit but hold back, teasing her by sliding along her folds.

— Please… I’m begging… she whimpers. You almost pity her—almost—before leaning close to her ear and growling:

— Beg harder.

— Please! I need you inside me—every fucking inch. Don’t torture me! I need it so bad… Ruin me, stretch my cunt to fit your shape, fuck!

— Hmm. Good girl.

You murmur—then thrust into her without warning. You don’t wait for her to adjust to your length, nor care if it’s pain or pleasure twisting her face. You set a brutal pace, pounding into her like a piston. Soon, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, and the thud of the headboard threaten to bring the walls down. Her eyes roll back as she lets out a piercing moan.

— That’s what I want, fuck! Stretch and wreck this cunt! She’s all yours, you bastard! Fuck me!

Her screams climb as you pull out and slam back in. She’s babbling now, words crumbling into gasps and cries.

— M’brain’s turning to fucking muuuuuuush!

Her legs lock around you, heels digging into your arse. Grinning, you drive deeper—if not for the booze, you’d swear you could see the outline of your cock straining her belly. Her nails claw down your back, leaving red welts that sting like hell. You dip your head to suck a nipple, and the overload of sensation wrings a shattered gasp from her.

— Fuck, you’re so tight and wet, shit!

— Love my tight little cunt, don’t ya? — she pants, voice wrecked. — Wanna come inside, yeah?

You lot spent the rest of the night fucking like two rabbits in heat, going at it in every corner of your flat—spots you didn’t even know existed, positions you’d only seen in pornos. Even managed to smash your Tv — proper accidental-like, mind.

---

The woman was now on all fours, her raised arse flushed a bright crimson, marked by at least a good dozen slaps—the bruises nearly purpling by this point—as his cock pounded relentlessly into her cunt, driving with rough urgency. Their moans filled the room, echoing in a symphony of raw pleasure. Her eyes stayed shut tight, while his, sharp and hungry, fixed on the hypnotic slap of her arse cheeks against his shaft. Suddenly, her shoulders buckled, and she collapsed face-down onto the bed, arse lifted even higher, presenting herself wantonly for him to keep ploughing into her.

With a deliberate smirk, you slicked a finger with spit, paused for a beat, then guided it slowly to her backside, pushing it in without haste. She stiffened, a low, throaty groan escaping her.

— Oh, fuck, oh fuck! that’s new… Don’t you fucking stop! Today I’m your filthy whore—go on, spill your cum in this depraved little cunt! — she cried, voice trembling between submission and wild ecstasy.

---

She’d taken the reins, riding him with untameable fire, her hands—gripped by a near-feverish desperation—clutching his waist, steadfast and ravenous. Her body moved in a frantic rhythm, swinging between reckless rises and plunges, peppered with brief, calculated pauses where she’d twist and writhe along his length with a skill that left him gobsmacked. For a blink, his mind wandered, wondering if this bird might’ve been a dancer or summat, ’cause her movements dripped with near-choreographic precision, like a proper pro in the body arts.

His gob, though, was dead set on another job—mouthed at her tits, suckling and lapping with a hunger verging on proper primal. Clocking the sheer intensity of his bliss, she tossed out a remark dripping with cheek and sass:

— Oh, good boy! You’re like a greedy little bairn goin’ at me tits! Don’t fret, baby… Mommy’s got you!

---

— You’re moaning like a bitch in heat! My neighbours heard you. Got no shame, have ya?

The pair of you were drenched, the sound of water crashing down on your bodies in the shower doing sod-all to drown out the squelching, filthy noises you were both making. His hand fisted in her hair, twisting it into a messy plait—a proper half-arsed ponytail that screamed how rushed this all was. The water, pouring in a steady torrent, nearly managed to sober him up, but not enough to clock who she really was—not yet, anyway. Bit by bit, he noticed her legs were trembling, proper on the verge of buckling, so you grabbed her tight, spun her round to face you, and hoisted her up into your arms, settling her onto your lap.

Sharp as a tack, she got the message and shot back with a deep, blazing kiss, like she was trying to violate his mouth with pure, unrestrained passion.

---

Her legs, clasped round your neck with a languid fervour, while the curve of her back, taut as a bow, arched like a hillock bathed in twilight’s glow. The lady, whose voice had melted into husky sighs and broken whispers, had spent her strength on cries that once echoed off the chamber’s vaulted ceiling. You breathe deep, and your movements, once frantic, shift to a solemn, almost liturgical rhythm. She, cracking open her bleary eyes, stares at you with saucer-like pupils reflecting flames of unquenchable yearning.

—Fucking come inside me! Fill my womb, you bastard! Knock me up!

She pleads, voice tremulous as an autumn leaf, while your hips, now swaying to a sluggish tempo, trace slow, concentric circles in the humid ether. That gut-wrenching knot, known to lovers since time immemorial, twists your insides. Your brow grows heavy, cyclonic vertigo storms your mind, and the edenic ache of long-held restraint crests into inevitable release. With one final, desperate plunge, you drive into her like a ship into a tempest, and your spunk, in pulsing spurts, bursts forth.

As the blinding orgasm fades, more sober than pissed, the booze finally hits proper—leaving your eyelids leaden. You’ve just enough awareness left not to collapse atop her and crush her to death, but not nearly enough to stay awake.

---

I swear down, I’ve sat through this whole chapter at least six times 🥹🥹🥹.

Not gonna lie, I’m proper rubbish with all the smut stuff—honestly, this is me first proper crack at it, so go easy on me, yeah?

#male reader #winter x reader #winter x you #ningning x reader #ningning x you #ning yizhuo #ningning smut #premier league #tottenham hotspur #football

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loafysainz · 3 months ago

Text

the parent trap (remake) | CS 55

cast: carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: 100% fiction & remake

chap 1, chap 2, chap 3, chap 4, chap 5, chap, 6, chap 7

PART 6 MEETING MOM

As the summer camp buses lined up, Mr. Hamilton stood on the main lawn, a megaphone in hand, his voice cutting through the chatter of children reluctant to leave.

“Okay, everyone, I hope you packed everything! Don’t forget anything, and we’ll see you next summer!” he called, hugging children who clung to him in farewell.

Amidst the emotional goodbyes, a pair of boys stood under the shade of an old oak tree, whispering fervently.

“They’re staring at us too much, Matheo. Do you think they know?” Mattia adjusted the collar of his shirt nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

Matheo, ever the confident one, rolled his eyes. “No way. Stop being so weird, or they’ll suspect something. Do you remember the plan?”

Mattia hesitated before nodding. “Yes, but… maybe repeat it? Just in case?”

Matheo sighed, exasperated. “You’re hopeless. Fine. I’ll go home to Mom, and you’ll go to Dad. We’ll ask them why they split and figure out how to fix it. Got it?”

Mattia nodded fervently, clutching his suitcase. “Got it. This is for the greater good.”

“Mattia Y/LN! Your car is ready!” Mr. Hamilton’s voice boomed, making both boys jump.

Mattia grinned and gave Matheo a quick hug. “Good luck with Mom. And remember, don’t mess this up!”

Matheo smiled nervously, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his suitcase. “You too. Tell Dad… I said hi, okay?”

“I will.” Mattia smirked, ruffling his brother’s hair and let him jogging off toward the car.

****

London was breathtaking. Matheo pressed his nose against the car window, taking in the winding streets, the azure sky, and the amazing architecture of London. His heart raced as they approached the house—a beautiful, modest villa with ivy climbing the walls.

When the car stopped, he hesitated for a moment before stepping out. A wave of unfamiliar scents hit him—fresh sea air, blooming flowers, and something else... coffee? He clutched his suitcase and stepped inside, greeted by the cozy interior and a handmade sign that read, "Welcome Home, Mattia."

He smiled despite himself. As he wandered further, the smell of coffee grew stronger. Following it, he found a man sitting in an armchair, newspaper in hand.

“Grandpa?” Matheo ventured.

The man lowered the paper, revealing sharp blue eyes and a graying mustache. “Mattia! Is that you? My favorite little gentleman?”

Matheo grinned. “It’s me, Grandpa.”

Grandpa stood, pulling him into a tight hug. “My god, you’ve grown! But what’s this?” He leaned back, eyeing Matheo curiously. “Are you smelling me?”

Matheo nodded earnestly, "I’m memorizing it.” His grandpa chuckle a little and say "You’re as peculiar as ever.”

Before Matheo could reply, a soft voice floated down the staircase. “Mattia? My baby?”

Matheo froze. His heart thudded as he turned toward the sound. There she was Y/N—his mother, descending the stairs, her arms outstretched.

“Mom!” Matheo cried, running to her. She swept him into a hug, kissing the top of his head as he buried his face in her shoulder.

"I can't believe it's you," Matheo tried to say through his sobs.

"And I can't believe it's you, baby. Tell me, who was the person who dared to cut your beautiful hair?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she ruffling her son soft hair.

"He was a friend from camp, is it bad?"

"No, of course not. It suits you very well"

Then Y/N noticed Matheo's hair color. "What? A dyed hair too?"

Matheo tried not to get nervous so he grimaced

"Does it bother you?"

"As long as you don't turn into a bad kid, it's all good. Is there another surprise you have to tell me, baby? A piercing? A tattoo?"

Matheo cried more at his mother's sincere concern, he needed this, he had longed for it so much. Y/N worriedly watched as his son shed more tears.

"What happen baby? are you feeling hurt or something?"

"No, it's not that. It's just that I missed you too much."

"I missed you so much too. It felt like an eternity the time you weren't by my side."

She cupped his face, her smile softening. “Welcome home, my little man. You’re finally here.”

Matheo clung to her again, his heart swelling with a mix of relief and joy. For the first time in months, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

****

His mother pulled back, her hands on his shoulders, and smiled warmly. "Come now, tell me everything! Did you like everyone at camp? Was it fun?"

Before Matheo could answer, Martin, the ever-dutiful butler, appeared at the door with a small, unexpected guest.

"Excuse me, madam," Martin said, holding up a small, scruffy real madrid tightly. "It seems we have a plush in the suitcase."

Matheo's eyes widened in panic. Madi?! His real madrid plushie, he snatched the plushie from Martin's hands. "Oh! Uh, that belongs to my... friend," he stammered. "The one I told you about from camp. I have no idea how it got into the suitcase."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, amused. "Well, since it’s not ours, shall we dispose of it?"

"No!" Matheo blurted, clutching the stuffed real madrid tightly. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "I mean, no. I’ll mail it to him. He loves this thing a lot. Like, he can’t live without it. Especially not in, say, a foreign country."

"Very well," his mom said with a smile, clearly not buying his story but letting it slide. "Martin, that’ll be all. Thank you."

As Martin left, Matheo exhaled, holding Madi close.

#carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz fic #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz #carlos sainz x reader #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #cs55

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plotbunnysyndrome · 17 days ago

Text

More Than Honour

Chapter 1: The Season Begins

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: The season opens with silks and secrets, smiles and schemes. You, a beloved fixture in the Bridgerton household, are meant to be just another part of the family’s rhythm. But this season? This one hums with something different. A glance held too long. A conversation that lingers. A heart you thought you knew — and one that may never be the same again. Let the season begin.

Dearest gentle reader,

As the season commences, the ton is abuzz with anticipation, for what is a London season without its fair share of speculation and scandal? The debutantes, eager and resplendent, flock to the dance floors in search of favourable matches. Mothers sharpen their sights on eligible prospects, their ambitions rivaled only by their daughters’ own hopes for love—or fortune, whichever comes first.

Yet, amidst the familiar faces that grace our society, there are those whose presence requires no introduction. The Bridgertons, ever the picture of familial prominence, return to the heart of the season with the weight of expectation upon their shoulders. And at the helm of their ranks stands none other than Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, whose duty-bound heart is said to seek a wife at long last.

But let us not be quick to assume that duty will be his only companion this season. A certain cherished family friend, whose presence in their lives has been as enduring as it has been unquestioned.

One wonders—will this season bring nothing more than the usual pleasantries for our dear Miss Y/N? Or shall fate see fit to stir the waters of certainty?

As always, this author will be watching.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown.

The morning sunlight spills through the large bay windows of Bridgerton House, casting golden ribbons across the polished floors. The air hums with the sounds of a household in motion—servants moving swiftly through corridors, the faint clatter of breakfast being served, and, of course, the unmistaken chatter of the Bridgerton family gathered in the dining room.

You are seated at the long table, comfortably nestled between Eloise and Benedict, both of whom are engaged in a lively debate over the merits of poetry versus painting as the superior art form. Across from you, Anthony sits with his usual composure, skimming the morning paper with an air of practiced disinterest, his attention split between the news and the occasional interjection from Colin, who is, as always, brimming with some new tale of adventure.

“You cannot possibly believe that painting is the greater art,�� Eloise scoffs, stabbing her fork into a piece of fruit with dramatic flair. “Poetry captures the depths of human emotion in a way no painting ever could.”

Benedict smirks over his teacup. “And yet, a painting requires no words to move its audience. A single brushstroke can convey an entire story.”

You glance between them, amused. “And yet, a terrible painting is simply dreadful, while bad poetry is at the very least entertaining.”

Eloise beams in victory while Benedict lets out a dramatic sigh. “I should have known you would side with her,” he laments. “You always do.”

Anthony, having remained silent thus far, folds his paper with measured precision and sets it aside. “Perhaps,” he muses, his gaze flickering to you with mild amusement, “the issue lies not in the art itself, but in the interpretation of the viewer. One can appreciate both poetry and painting, and yet still prefer neither.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “And what, pray tell, do you prefer, my lord? Or are you admitting to having no artistic sensibilities at all?”

Eloise snorts into her tea. Colin chuckles. Anthony barely lifts a brow. “I prefer that my breakfast not be disrupted by fruitless debates.”

“How very poetic of you,” you quip, earning a grin from Benedict and an approving nod from Eloise.

Anthony exhales through his nose—a sound that is not quite a sigh, nor quite a laugh. It is a response you are more than familiar with; a wordless acknowledgement of the game you play with one another. Nothing unusual, nothing significant.

Just familiarity. Just friendship.

At least, that is what it has always been.

Across the table, Violet Bridgeton observes the exchange with an unreadable smile before delicately setting down her teacup. “Now that we have settled the great artistic debate of the morning,” she says with graceful finality, “perhaps we might turn our attention to the upcoming ball.”

A collective groan ripples through the younger Bridgertons.

“Must we attend?” Eloise laments. “It will be nothing but insufferable small talk and matchmaking mothers.”

“Precisely why you must attend,” Violent counters, her eyes twinkling. “And as this season marks Anthony’s search for a wife, I expect you all to be on your best behaviour.”

Anthony, having just taken a sip of his tea, nearly chokes. He sets down his cup with a bit more force than necessary. “I do not require an audience, Mother.”

“You require a miracle,” Colin mutters under his breath.

You bite back a laugh as Anthony sends his younger brother a sharp look.

Violet, ever the composed matriarch, merely pats her eldest son’s hand. “Nevertheless, you will be there, and you will be charming. That goes for all of you.”

She glances at you, warmth in her gaze. “And you, my dear, will be an invaluable help, as always.”

You incline your head, smiling. “Of course, Lady Bridgerton. I would not dream of abandoning you to such a task alone.”

Anthony exhales. “At least someone is sensible.”

You glance at him sidelong. “Oh, I have never claimed to be sensible, my lord.”

He gives you a look, but whatever retort he might have offered is lost as Violet claps her hands together. “Then it is settled. We shall all attend, and we shall all enjoy ourselves.”

Eloise slumps back in her chair with a groan. “Unlikely.”

You cannot help but agree. The season has only just begun, and already, it promises to be eventful.

And yet, for now, all remains as it has always been. Just as it should be.

Bridgerton House, Your Chambers

The late afternoon light filters through the lace curtains, casting golden warmth over the quiet sanctuary of your room. A gentle breeze drifts in from the open window, carrying the scent of wisteria and the distant hum of carriages passing beyond Bridgerton House. It is a moment of stillness, a rare pocket of peace before the grand affair of the evening.

You sit before your vanity, wrapped in the soft elegance of your dressing gown, as Violet Bridgerton stands behind you, deftly weaving your hair into an intricate style befitting the ball. Her hands move with the ease of a woman who has tended to many daughters, though there is something particularly tender in the way she fusses over you—adjusting, smoothing, ensuring perfection without a single harsh tug.

“You have such beautiful hair,” she muses, gathering a section and twisting it between her fingers. “It takes well to styling. Much better than Eloise’s—though do not tell her I said that.”

You smile at her reflection in the mirror. “Your secret is safe with me.”

She hums in amusement, securing another pin. “I must say, I am rather pleased you are joining us this evening. Balls can be so dreadfully tiresome when one attends them alone.”

You arch a brow. “Alone? You will have your entire family present.”

Violet sighs, a knowing glint in her eye. “Yes, but my sons are notoriously unhelpful when it comes to navigating such events. And my daughters—well, one would rather read, and the other would rather hide.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head just enough to make her still your movement with a gentle hand. “I do not believe Eloise is quite so terrible.”

“She is stubborn,” Violet corrects, though there is no true exasperation in her tone—only the fondness of a mother who knows her children too well. “Much like her brother.”

At that, you pause.

Anthony.

Violet’s hands do not stop their work, but you feel the shift in the air. The weight of what has not been said. “You worry for him,” you murmur. It is not a question.

Violet meets your gaze in the mirror, her expression soft but distant, as if she is looking beyond you, into a time long past. “I do,” she admits. “How could I not?”

You hesitate before speaking again, choosing your words carefully. “It is not merely a wife he seeks, is it?” Violet exhales, her fingers stilling for just a moment before continuing. “No,” she says, quieter this time. “He seeks a responsibility. A duty fulfilled. A perfect match, on paper and in practice. But love?” Her voice turns wistful, almost, almost mournful. “That, I fear, he will not allow himself to find.”

You watch her in the mirror, the way her gaze lingers not on you, but on something unseen—memories, perhaps, of a love she once had. A love Anthony lost before he ever had the chance to understand it.

“He believes love is a weakness,” you say, carefully threading the thought aloud. “Something that clouds judgement. That makes a man falter when he should stand firm.”

Violet nods, her lips pressing together. “I have tried to show him otherwise. I have tried to tell him that love is not something to be feared, but something to be embraced.” She sighs, securing the final pin. “But some lessons, I suppose, must be learned in their own time.”

You glance down at your hands in your lap, considering this. Considering him.

Anthony has always been a steady presence in your life—protective, reliable, occasionally insufferable. You have known him as the eldest Bridgerton, the viscount, the ever-responsible brother and friend. But love? That is something he has never let himself be.

Violet watches you for a moment before placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “He listens to you, you know,” she says, voice warm with something unspoken. “More than he lets on.”

You look up, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “Does he?”

She smiles, though it holds a trace of sadness. “Oh, my dear. If only he knew it himself.”

A quiet settles between you, thick with unspoken truths. Then, with a final part to your shoulder, Violet straightens. “There. You are ready.”

You rise, letting the dressing gown slip from your shoulders as you move to step into your gown for the evening. Violet helps with the delicate fastenings, smoothing the fabric once it is in place.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she says softly, “promise me you will enjoy yourself.”

You turn, giving her a small smile. “I promise.”

But as you glance once more into the mirror, seeing not just yourself but the weight of the conversation lingering in the air, you wonder if that will truly be possible.

#imagines #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton fluff #bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x y/n

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londonedge · 1 year ago

Text

Ashington House, Bethnal Green

Another example of London brutalism. The quirky and somewhat crazy Ashington House was designed by Noel Moffett for the then Greater London Council in the early 1970s

#London #Bethnal Green #brutalism #architecture #flats #social #housing #urban #urban photography #brutalist #Noel Moffett #England #UK

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k-s-morgan · 5 months ago

Note

"many people insist he was in the Blitz ( I don't mean fics, I don't mind that, I mean in canon discussions) so my post was specifically for the Blitz. For the 40's bomb, that you brought up, not my post, Tom left soon after, 7 days after. And as for the '44 bombings- Tom has already killed 4 people by that time- FOUR. I think it's safe to say death and suffering of the people around him wasn't one of his concerns.

Tom's fear of death doesn't have to come from bombing. Plenty of people fear death that had never been bombed. It is stated that his fear of death is because he thinks himself above all humans, it's in relation to his power, he says this to Dumbledore at 11 BEFORE ww2 started. He already said 'mom can't have been a witch because she died'. But yes, this post was about Dumbledore not sending Tom into the Blitz, like many people say, as if Dumbledore personally delivered Tom to the Nazis."

What do you think about this argument? I've written fics of Tom witnessing the Blitz. I thought that it was canon but I have had people argue that it is not. What do you think?

Hi! That's a really interesting topic, but one I came to dislike because it feels like most people have very black-and-white takes on it. I actually got involved in one of such conversations just recently. Maybe even the one you quoted from? I don't recall at this point.

Since I prepared a lot of materials for ATLWETD before writing it, I can give you a full answer supported by the research and some news clippings. It's going to get long, though!

So, first - the Blitz. Indeed, Tom never had to face it. It lasted from September 7, 1940 to May 11, 1941, and Tom spent this period at Hogwarts. However, the Blitz was neither the start nor the end of London bombings - and bombings of the surrounding areas and UK in general.

Citing from Mark Clapson, "Air Raids in Britain, 1940–45":

"A common misconception of the Blitz in the United Kingdom is that London was the only city under attack from September 1940 until the Nazis also turned their fire on other cities and towns in mid-November. Yet even before the Blitz on London began, other urban areas in the UK had been attacked from the air.

As the Battle of Britain drew towards a defeat for Germany, the first significant raid on a major British city took place in Cardiff and Newport on 10 July when over seventy German planes attacked the South Wales docks. In July and August, Birmingham, Coventry, Hastings, Liverpool, Newcastle and Southampton were all subject to air raids, signifying that when the main Blitz on the provinces began, industrial and coastal towns and cities were going to be key targets for the Luftwaffe … As Tony Mason shows, the first raid on Coventry had been on 18 August 1940, when both industry and housing were bombed."

Most of these locations are within the 200-300 km of London. Hastings is less than a 2-hour drive away. People don't live in a bubble, so hearing and reading about the bombings getting closer had to be terrifying for a child-Tom.

Now, getting even closer to London. The timeline taken from this website:

"16 AUGUST 1940

A series of raids were leveled against Norfolk, Kent and the Greater London area with airfields as the main targets, including Manston.

London suburbs were bombed, including Wimbledon and Esher, where shops and houses were hit. Bombs on Maiden, Surrey, railway station killed staff and passengers and put both lines out of operation. To the north, Gravesend and Tilbury were attacked, and bombs fell on Harwell and Farnborough aerodromes."

Tom would have definitely experienced the impacts of these bombings at least in some ways because the sound of explosions travels miles ahead. People would be in an increased state of panic, not knowing if London was going to be the next target any other second now.

A photo of the news clipping from August 17, 1940, titled: Germans Bomb London Suburbs:

From this website:

"A still earlier, and better recorded, raid took place the night before, on 15 August. 30 bombers targeted RAF Croydon aerodrome, which was then considered part of Surrey rather than London. Several people were killed, with damage to the aerodrome and nearby housing."

The distance between Croydon aerodrome and London is just 10 miles. Again, this is something the impact of which Tom would have very likely heard personally - add to this the feeling of fear and uncertainty over when and where the next attack is coming, and you get a recipe for a serious psychological trauma. Tom was only 13 at this time.

From the same website:

"Many sources state that the first bombs to drop on London landed in the early hours of 22 August 1940, affecting Harrow and Wealdstone (technically not then in London, but within the London Civil Defence Area). These caused damage to two cinemas, a dance hall, bank and houses, but nobody was killed. A further strike on 24 August [in London] killed nine people, and prompted retaliatory attacks on Berlin."

So, by these accounts, Tom experienced the bombing of his city directly at least once and likely heard the impact of bombings from the suburbs at least twice. Could be more - there were several bombings close, and we have no idea where Tom was in those specific moments. He could be taking a walk to the West End, going to the suburbs with his orphanage, and so on.

He was lucky to miss the bombings that followed (until 1944), including the Blitz, but I really hate when people dismiss the psychological impact of seeing your city in ruins, witnessing the massive destruction, and not knowing whether the bombs are going to drop again today. It's not like the Germans announced, "Hey, the Blitz is over, you're safe now!" Of course Tom thought he might experience another bombing, and of course this thought scared him.

The summer of 1944 was terrible for London because that's when the V1 were dropped. Quoting from The Blitz Companion by Mark Clapson again:

"Yet during the summer of 1944 worse was to come, and it would manifest itself in a frightening new weapon. For some months rumours had been circulating in Britain about a flying bomb that had no pilot and which could be guided almost mysteriously through the air at great speed to attack the capital city. This was the V1, the ‘V’ standing for vengeance … The V1s killed over 5,000 people and injured 15,000."

The timeline for these attacks is here.

This one is trickier, though, because based on Harry's era, by 1944, Tom already came of age by wizarding standards. So there is an argument that he could finally use his magic and leave London. On the other hand, he was still a minor by Muggle standards, and we have no idea what Hogwarts rules and laws of his era stated - meaning that it can all be up to interpretation.

For those who prefer to imagine that Tom was there: maybe back in 1944, a wizard had to be 18 to be considered an adult, and the limit was dropped closer to Harry's era. Or there was a rule stating that Hogwarts students must continue to live in their assigned places up until they graduate, especially in a Muggle world - because if a minor disappears from Muggle care when they are still enrolled in a magical school, it could trigger the involvement of authorities, which might be something Hogwarts would want to avoid.

We can't make strong arguments here because the canon says nothing about these details. So, if someone wants to imagine that Tom missed the bombings in 1944, there are very logical reasons to support such a view, but if someone wants him to have experienced it, it's also easy to imagine.

Either way, whether Tom lived only through the bombings of 1940 or both 1940 and 1944, to deny that he was affected by the war is to reject the most basic human psychology, in my opinion. Anyone would be terrified when they are surrounded by destruction and death, when they are confronted with the idea of their own mortality and when they feel helplessly trapped. And Tom saw the war horrors every summer even when there were no bombings.

I'm a war victim myself, and I don't feel safe on the days my city is not attacked. Because I know that the situation can change every other second. The psychological effect of bombings is devastating even when you aren't physically affected.

Does Tom's trauma justify his canon actions in any way, though? Of course not. Did his war trauma cause his fear of death? I think it was definitely at least some part of it. How couldn't it be? It's exactly because he considered himself above others is that his fear could be this amplified. He probably hated sitting stuck in a dangerous zone with the people he despised, threatened by the beings he didn't consider proper humans.

Maybe the war didn't give birth to Tom's fear of death, but I think it obviously contributed to it heavily since, again, he was living in one of the very targeted places, and he lived through at least one London bombing.

Also, yes, I do think Dumbledore and Dippet were absolutely abhorrent for sending an orphan child to a war zone when it was so easy to give him shelter. They were responsible for Tom's well-fare, and this responsibility shouldn't disappear in the summer. Tom could have easily been killed - again, it's not like the Germans announced when they were going to bomb or not bomb London and other areas. Letting him stay at Hogwarts or finding some family to take him in - or an inn! - would have been beyond simple.

Dumbledore also definitely knew Tom is related to a Slytherin bloodline, so there had to be families willing to take him in for this alone. Sure, it could be dangerous in other ways for a child as self-focused as Tom, but he was still a child, and his safety had to come first.

Finally, there is an argument that Tom was moved along with other children from London since it was supposed to be mandatory. This is also something that can be looked at from different angles. The reality of people following a law always differs from the theory of it. There were many issues with evacuations at that time. About 7,736 children died in London from the Blitz alone - not everyone could evacuate, especially the poor. Maybe the Wool's lucked out, maybe not. There are claims that only children within the ages of 5 to 14 were evacuated. But also, if Tom was moved, then there is no telling if he was more or less safe there since the location is unknown. It once again depends on what a specific person wants to imagine as a part of his life.

Now, anon, as for your fics in particular: if you wrote about Tom witnessing the Blitz, it's all right - I mean, the entire universe of Harry Potter is made up. Maybe, in a world where these characters might exist, the Blitz could have happened differently - why not? We have no idea about the dates of HP canon-Blitz. The events there don't have to take place in our specific world.

So, strictly speaking - yes, it's not canon, but more in relation to our world than to the world of HP.

#harry potter #tom riddle #ww2 #london #the blitz

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animeyanderelover · 1 year ago

Text

Alucard's part is a lot shorter in here as I had to be a lot more detailed for Sebastian, Claude and Ash all falling in love with the same darling.

Tw: Yandere themes, toxic relationship, possessive behavior, obsession, clinginess, paranoia, stalking, manipulation, gaslighting, isolation, abduction, death

Tags: @lovley-valentine7 @leveyani @chxxz

Angel s/o

Sebastian Michaelis, Claude Faustus & Ash Landers

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️Undoubtedly is it your presence that is going to be the first thing that will draw all of those men to you. You see, it is quite rare that asupernatural creature crosses the path of another one as only Shinigami have an active social life together, although one mainly build on their work. Demons are lonesome creatures who rarely spend time with their one kind or any existing creature out there as they are a species known to follow merely their one greed and desire and exploring everyone that could give them an ounce of pleasure, even if only for a brief moment. Angels are very withdrawn from the world in general, finicky with whom they spend their time with as they especially avoid demons for their lifestyle. They are pretentious but they at least have some boundaries. It is already a miracle that two demons and an angel exist within the same town, all bound temporarily by something in there. Yet perhaps it has been fate that has led all of them here as their mate also finds their way to London.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️Perhaps it is Ash who spots you first as he is the one least bound to the person he is serving as the Queen is a mere tool to serve his greater purpose. Ash upon finding another one of his own kind would be already ecstatic as it is for he has been shunned by them and the isolation shows itself as he is euphoric to find you. His joy is only heightened upon realising that both of you are bound by fate together, his rapture bringing him down to his knees as he gazes at you with reverent eyes, clasping your hands in his as he hastily utters that he'll arrange you only the finest accomodation. It seems like fate is smiling down on him as not only his plan is proceeding well but now he has also found his one true soulmate. The cleansing of London shall be his present to you as a sign of his unwavering adoration and dedication. Yet not only his greatest joy can overshadow his paranoia. Not only because of the common scum but because he's aware of two evil forces lurking within London.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️Sebastian is perhaps the second of the trio who discovers you as Ciel is heavily involved with the Queen as his house has sworn loyalty to her. Ash, even whilst begging for you to stay and wait for his return as he has to accompany the Queen, is unable to stop you as you are also an angel and for that possess powers of your own. You head out despite his warnings and pleas and so his biggest fear comes true as you are sensed by Sebastian and he senses you just as much. You are quite baffled as you sense the connection that humans could never share. Not only because a mating bond between a demon and an angel has been unheard of so far but also because you thought your mate was Ash. It is as disturbing as it is intriguing as you never knew that it was possible to be bound to more than one person. A short look of astonishment seems also to cross the butler's face as he senses that you are no human either before a devilish and handsome grin settles on his face as he makes his way to you.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️he bows courtly as he introduces himself as Sebastian of the Phantomhive mansion and asks for your own name, his red eyes intently and curiously studying you. You feel slightly uncomfortable in his presence as you can sense his greedy aura and even he seems to silently acknowledge your aura as the one of an angel, although he isn't 100 % certain just yet. Yet the mating bond has you gravitating towards this man and so you spend a lot more time than you anticipated with him, even though you still have your guard up. Especially since his hands like to brush against you during the conversation as he gets closer and closer to you only for you to quickly take a step back. Both of you are snapped out of it when Ash suddenly appears. His white hair wild and messy as if he has pulled at it and his purple eyes wide and paranoid as he pulls you behind him, doing his best to keep his composure in public. Red eyes observe you two before they widen in shock before squinting in displeasure. Sebastian knows.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️Ash has already been hysteric when he couldn't find you in your room and searched for you in sheer panic only to find you in company of the very creature he wanted to keep you away from. Yet when you confess to him that you felt the mating bond when meeting the demon as well, he shatters completely. He paces back and forth in your room, chewing his lips until he tastes blood as his eyes dart anxiously up and down as if he will find the answer if he keeps on looking enough, his hands trembling. This can't be right. It must be the work of the sinful demon who has manipulated something to mess with your senses. An angel as pure as you can't be bound to a being of greed and darkness. You hear him muttering under his breath as he walks in circles in your room, the sight reminding you of a man possessed, before his gaze lands on you and within a few long strides he stands in front of you, holding your hands and promising you that he'll protect you from the hands of the stained demon.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️As Ash and Sebastian already gear up for a fight over you, Claude remains still unaware of you. Alois is a demanding and clingy brat after all so he hasn't made any acquaintance with you yet. Still, there is something that has caused him to feel longing for someone, has drawn him to the city of London. It is a pinching sensation, one that seems to twist with his black heartstrings and it has caused him to feel quite moody. He attempts to dismiss the feeling yet the other demon servants around him notice whilst Alois seems to ignore Claude's recently soured mood. Eventually he receives message that a ball will be held for the Queen, one Alois is also requested for. The young boy takes the chance excitedly as he knows that he can torment Ciel again and Claude, despite feeling quite annoyed when thinking about the demon butler of the Phantomhive boy, somehow also feels an underlying sense of urgency for the ball to come sooner. Almost as if someone really important awaits him there...

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️In between tears Ash asks of you to stray away from Sebastian and to hide yourself. Somewhere you understand his sentiment and for the people there you have little interest yet it is the demon you still wish to see even if you know that demons are natural enemies of your kind. Yet his tears tug at your heartstrings and so you promise him to stay away as good as you can. Sebastian's eyes naturally search for you as soon as the young lord and him arrive, his looks impeccable as he has made sure to look as good as he can when he meets you again. Instantly the scathing glare of Ash is on him and both of them look at each other with disdain, although the angel is more obvious with his feelings. Eventually Sebastian gives him a taunting grin though, one that nearly causes Ash to lose composure as he knows instantly what the demon is planning to do once he finds you, defiling your beauty and purity with his sinful hands. That is when another presence suddenly enters the hall.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️Claude is fairly surprised to notice how little Sebastian is minding him in comparison to what he is used to as he instead notices how there is a new bad blood going on between him and Ash. Claude has little experience with Ash, although he is aware of his nature as an angel so that alone makes him already dislike the white-haired man. But he can't help but wonder what must have occured between Ash and Sebastian to be on such bad terms as he can sense killing intent from both of them, especially from the angel who seems to keep his eyes always on Sebastian as if to keep him within his sight. As the ball goes on, Claude slowly notices a weird pull in his chest that urges him to follow something. Initially he decides to ignore it but it grows worse as time passes on until he eventually decides that he can't forget about it. Without informing Alois, he quietly leaves the scene and follows where his instincts guide him to until he spots a lonesome figure in the hallway. When he meets eyes with you, he instantly realises why he has been feeling so weird for a while now.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️The amazement and wariness in your eyes is almost reflected in his own as he senses that you are no ordinary human yet he can't pinpoint exactly what you are. You observe him cautiously as he steps closer, straighting his posture as he asks you for your name and why such a beauty as you is not joining the ball like all of the guests. Truth be told though, he is glad for the privacy he has with his mate as golden eyes examine you with growing desire. Soon he is standing right in front of you, gloved hands reaching up to touch your face when suddenly Sebastian and Ash appear. Ash has already drawn his sword, fully prepared to cut of the hand that just tried to touch you whilst Sebastian's eyes have turned magenta as he lets out a growl more reminiscent of the true creature he is than what he portrays to be under the ordinary crowd. Claude instantly senses the warning within the growl, the unspoken claim that the other demon has already laid on you which causes his eyes to turn magenta too as he also lets out a growl. The air is tense and heavy and you know that the only reason all three of them aren't on each others throat now is because you are still standing there.

🐈‍⬛🕷️▫️The burden of being mated to three men at once is unheard of and it becomes a heavy burden for you as you realise that all of them will eventually kill each other to claim you for only themselves and your heart is silently wailing over the thought of losing two of three mates, even though you know that they could never work together. Ash isolates you completely from that day on, terrified that the demons will lurk outside and hunt you down as soon as you leave the building where he resides in with the Queen. You as an angel should know after all how cunning and wicked the demon kind is. Meanwhile Claude and Sebastian are also silently doing their preparations to get rid of the competition to have you only for themselves. Whilst Claude has the other demon servants and Ash has Pluto at his service, Sebastian has no such allies and he knows that as he calculates his own plan. The inevitable confrontation will soon come and then the entire city might be left in shambles...

Alucard

🩸Alucard has quite an interesting view on the topic on God which shaped his past significantly as he used to believe that having faith alone wasn't enough to get God's attention and that only by accomplishing great deeds would God be on his side. This belief of his was crushed when he ultimately sacrificed everyone and lost the war, leading him to believe that God had abandoned him and in return chose to do the same. Through years of immortality he has eventually come to the realisation that it was his own fault that led to his downfall as a human. Nevertheless, it is an interesting relationship he has to you as angels are commonly known as servants and messengers of God. He has abandoned God, has abandoned his own humanity as well and you may very well view him for his past sins as a monster that has long left the righteous path. It is natural to be wary around Alucard and the vampire understands yout caution and distrust as he himself has learned to regret his immortal life.

🩸Normal human eyes are unable to perceive the higher being that you are yet to his eyes and by extention even to Seras eyes your true identity is noticable. A dull glow of a hallow constantly embracing your body, your aura a contrast to the darkness of his own. It is repelling as much as it is appealing yet Alucard is tactful when he is around you. You are no ordinary vampire nor a common human, you are something much more and it is almost laughable that the very man who lost faith in God in the past now meets you with the slightest hint of reverence as someone who has learned to not use God's name as an excuse for the actions he took out of madness and lust. At the same time he recognises that redemption for him is impossible for he has chosen to forsake the human life he was gifted for immortality. This silent acknowledgement silently seems to fuel his greed though as there is no punishment from any holy beings he has to fear for he is already outside the mortal realm.

🩸He hides your presence from the Vatican and Alexander Anderson as they are a very religious group and he is sure that they would try to interfere if they were to find out that the No-Life King has been having his eyes on you for a while now. Surely they would see it as a blasphemous act for a creature of darkness and night to yearn for a creature of purity and light, although surely it is in character for a being closer to the devil to yearn for forbiddenlust. Anderson, by no accounts a normal human being, would surely also be able to sense the otherwordly creature that you are and would defend you against Alucard. Surely you don't need any protection as you are able to defend yourself against those who don't know any better yet even you seem to want to avoid a conflict with the man who is trapped in a darkness where even you can't bring him salvation anymore. In a way you suppose Alucard is ultimately just a pitiful and lost soul who is now forever a prisoner of an eternal life, doomed to remain detached from all life for all eternity as an outsider.

#yandere black butler #yandere kuroshitsuji #yandere sebastian #yandere sebastian michaelis #yandere claude #yandere claude faustus #yandere ash #yandere ash landers #yandere hellsing #yandere hellsing ultimate #yandere alucard

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