ā¢ Soft/Family
When he has a crush on you
When he is your Boyfriend
When he is your Husband -> Up Comming
As Girl Dad -> Up Comming
As Boy Dad -> Up Comming
I'm not touchy (but he is)
Falling asleep while Y/N talks
Soft Girl vs Bad Girl
When you are an Angel -> Up Comming
Hates static ā except when Y/N causes it. -> Up Comming
Soft moments Vox hates to admit -> Up Comming
Private vs Public -> Up comming
ā¢ Obsessive/Possessive
Notices when your heartbeat changes -> Up Comming
Alastor is your (best) friend
Angel is your (best) friend -> Up Comming
ā¢ Thoughts
She doesnāt know how often I save her life -> Up Comming
She looks safest when sheās angry at me -> Up Comming
ā¢ NSWF
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The confessional booth was dark, only the faint glow of a candle through the lattice separating you from him. His voiceādeep, steady, holyāalways unraveled you more than it should.
āGo on,ā Father Barnes murmured, his hand making the sign of the cross on his chest. āTell me what weighs heavy on your soul.ā
You swallowed, fingers twisting in your lap. āItās you, Father.ā
Silence. A pause so sharp you thought your heart might stop. Then the rasp of breath.
āYouā¦ dream of me?ā
Your cheeks burned, your thighs pressing together under your skirt. āEvery night. I think about your handsāhow theyād feel on me. I canāt stop. I know itās wrong. I know Iām supposed to be ashamed, butāā
The wooden screen creaked. He leaned close, his voice a low growl, nothing like the sermons he gave on Sundays. āYou tempt me with your confessions, little sinner. Do you know what youāre asking for?ā
Your breath hitched. āTo be cleansed.ā
The door to your side of the booth opened. He was there, looming in black, collar snug against his throat. For a moment he just stared, like he was fighting every vow heād ever taken. Then his hand cupped your jaw, thumb pressing your lower lip until it parted.
āOpen.ā
You obeyed. He slid two fingers inside, slow and deliberate, his eyes dark as sin. You moaned around the intrusion, heat flooding you, shame and arousal twined until you couldnāt tell them apart.
āFilthy little lamb,ā he hissed, pulling his fingers free to trace them down your chest, lingering at the swell of your breasts. āYou come to me begging absolution but all you want is to be ruined.ā
āYes, Father,ā you gasped, arching toward him.
He smiledāwolfish, dangerous. Then he bent, mouth hot and hungry on your neck, teeth scraping skin like he wanted to mark you for the devil himself. His hands pushed up your skirt, fingers finding the slick proof of your sins.
āYouāre soaked,ā he growled, plunging two fingers inside you without mercy. āDripping for your priest. Tell me, lambādoes that feel holy?ā
You sobbed his name, clutching at his cassock. The rhythm was relentless, his thumb circling your clit until you were trembling, thighs clamping around his hand.
When he finally dragged himself free, his hardness straining against the black fabric, he pressed the head of his cock against your slick folds and murmured, āThis is your penance. Take every inch of me and maybeāmaybeāIāll forgive you.ā
And you did, crying out as he filled you, every thrust a prayer youād never dare say aloud.
The old wood of the booth groaned with each thrust, the tiny confessional barely containing the sound of sin. His hand was braced against the wall, the other tight around your throat, holding you in place while he split you open on him.
āLook at you,ā Bucky rasped, sweat beading along his temple, collar skewed but still clinging to his throat. āSpread and begging in the house of God. You want forgiveness? Youāll earn it on my cock.ā
Your moans echoed in the tiny chamber, each one swallowed by his mouth when he kissed youārough, punishing, like a starving man. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting every sinful whimper.
When he pulled back, he dragged you up onto his lap, settling on the hard wooden bench with you astride him. The cassock pooled around his thighs, his cock buried deep inside you. āRide me, lamb. Show me how badly you want salvation.ā
Your hands clutched at his shoulders as you moved, rocking against him, his girth stretching you so good it nearly broke you. Every grind of your hips made him groan low, his lips at your ear.
āYou feel that? Thatās what youāve been praying for at night, isnāt it?ā His teeth caught your earlobe, sharp enough to sting. āTell me. Tell your priest what a filthy girl you are.ā
āIāā your voice cracked, body shaking as his hand slid down to spank your ass, hard enough to echo.
āSay it.ā
āIām filthy,ā you gasped, bouncing harder, lost in the rhythm. āIām your sinner.ā
āMine,ā he growled, slamming up into you so deep you saw stars. āYou donāt belong to God right nowāyou belong to me.ā
Your climax hit sudden and brutal, your nails raking down his shoulders as your body seized around him. He held you there, buried to the hilt, groaning like he was the one being saved.
And thenāhe broke. His thrusts grew erratic, desperate. His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. āFuckāgonnaāā He didnāt finish the thought, just spilled inside you with a guttural groan, filling you so deep it left no question what heād done.
Silence followed. Heavy. Sacred in its own way. He didnāt move, still inside you, still clutching you close. His chest heaved, his lips brushing your temple.
āGod forgive me,ā he whispered. But he didnāt let you go.
He shouldāve left you there, trembling and wrecked in the booth. Shouldāve pulled his robes back into order and begged for penance of his own. But instead, he dragged you out into the chapel, past the rows of pews, up the steps to the altar.
The cross loomed above, silent witness as Father Barnes lifted you onto the cloth-draped table where so many had knelt in reverence. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you shamelessly.
āLay back,ā he ordered, voice shredded by desire. āYouāll take your prayers from here tonight.ā
Your back hit the altar, breath shuddering, and before you could even answer, his mouth was on youātongue lapping greedily, beard scraping your soft flesh. He feasted like a man starved, like communion itself had been rewritten to taste of you.
āSay it,ā he groaned between wet strokes, eyes flicking up to yours. āPray for me while I ruin you.ā
Your fingers tightened in his hair, body arching. āHail Maryāfull of graceāā The words broke into a moan as he sucked your clit, relentless. āThe Lord is with theeāahāā
He growled against you, devouring every broken syllable, dragging the prayer out of you with his tongue and fingers until you sobbed it, gasping through the rhythm of faith and filth.
āBlessed art thou among women,ā he mocked against your cunt, voice thick with blasphemy. āAnd blessed is the fruit of yourāfuckāsweet little body.ā
You shattered again, crying out his name louder than the prayer, and he roseāchin wet, eyes wild. His cock was out again in seconds, heavy and red, pressing against your entrance.
āFinish it,ā he demanded, pushing inside you in one punishing thrust that stole your breath. āFinish your Hail Mary while I split you open.ā
Tears burned hot down your temples as you clung to him, the words spilling brokenly between cries of pleasure: āHoly MaryāMother of Godāpray for us sinnersānow and at the hour of our deathāā
Each line was punctuated by his thrusts, deeper, harder, until your body was a trembling prayer itself.
When you reached the final words, he lost control completely, slamming into you with abandon, groaning like a man damned. His release tore through him as you clenched around him, your own climax crashing down like a hymn sung too loud.
The church was silent again when it was overāsave for your ragged breathing, the creak of the altar beneath your bodies. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping.
āYouāll be the death of me,ā he whispered, voice wrecked and reverent all at once. āAnd Iāll go to hell smiling.ā
___/
It was supposed to be routine. Just another evening confession. But when you slid into the booth, heart hammering, you could feel it in the airāthicker, heavier. He didnāt even wait for your whisper this time. The little door creaked, and suddenly he was in your space, eyes burning, cassock hanging loose around him.
āYou came back,ā he murmured, almost a prayer in itself. āYou shouldāve stayed away.ā
But his hands cupped your face like he couldnāt stop himself, thumbs brushing your lips. And when you kissed him, when you opened willingly, he groaned like a man finally surrendering to the devil heād been running from.
This time, he didnāt bother with the pews. He led you straight to the altar again, but it wasnāt bare. A dozen candles burned, their wax dripping slow and thick. A rosary lay coiled neatly on the linen, waiting.
āOn your knees,ā he ordered softly.
You sank without hesitation, the hem of his cassock brushing your cheek as you looked up at him. His cock, already straining, filled your mouth the moment you parted your lips, heavy on your tongue. He kept the rosary in one hand, beads slipping through his fingers as his hips moved shallowly against your mouth.
āSay your prayers while you take me,ā he demanded, voice ragged.
The beads brushed your face as you obeyed, muffled words slipping out around his length: āHail Mary, full of graceāā He groaned, hand tightening in your hair.
When he pulled you off, slick running down your chin, he bent to lift you onto the altar again. This time, he looped the rosary around your wrists, binding them above your head as he slid into you with a brutal thrust.
āHoly Mary,ā he hissed through gritted teeth, setting a punishing rhythm, āMother of Godāpray for us sinners.ā
Your moans echoed with the prayer, body straining against the beads biting your skin. He bent low, mouth to your ear, each thrust punctuated with blasphemy.
āYouāre my sinner,ā he growled. āAnd thisāā His hand pressed hard to your lower belly where he bottomed out inside you, making you cry out. āāthis is the only kind of worship Iāll ever give again.ā
You prayed louder, sobbing the words through pleasure that felt like punishment and reward all at once.
He came undone inside you again, spilling deep, his own voice breaking on the last line of your prayer: āNow and at the hour of our deathāā
When he collapsed against you, still buried, still trembling, he kissed your bound hands like they were holy relics.
āIāll burn for this,ā he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. āBut Iāll burn with you.ā
The church was packed, pews filled with the dutiful. You sat in the third row, hands folded sweetly in your lap, the light from the stained glass spilling across your face like a benediction. But you werenāt alone.
Your boyfriendās arm was draped around your shoulders, casual, protective. He whispered something during the hymn that made you smile, and that smile nearly broke Father Barnes in two.
From the pulpit, he tried to keep his eyes on the Gospel, but his voice caught, thick with something more than scripture. Each verse tasted bitter when he saw your head dip against another manās shoulder. His hands clenched the Bible tight enough his knuckles went white.
When the final hymn ended and the congregation spilled into the bright Sunday air, Bucky caught you before you could follow the others out. His hand was firm on your wrist, disguised as pastoral kindness to anyone watching.
āStay a moment, child,ā he murmured, his voice calm in a way that masked the storm inside. āI need a word with you.ā
Your boyfriend gave a nod, respectful of the priest, and left you there. Bucky didnāt speak again until his office door shut behind you, the lock clicking into place. The air grew heavy, charged, the silence almost painful.
āYou think I didnāt see?ā His voice was low, dangerous. He stepped closer, cassock brushing against your knees as you sat in the chair by his desk. āYou let him touch you. In Godās house.ā
You swallowed, trying to find words. āHeās my boyfriend, Father, Iāā
āNo.ā His hand slammed down on the desk, the sound making you flinch. His eyes burned, blue fire under shadow. āHe cannot give you what you need. Not your body, not your soul. Thatās my duty.ā
He crouched in front of you, hands braced on your knees, forcing your gaze to his. āDo you hear me? You break it off with him. Today.ā
āFatherā¦ā your voice trembled, heat flooding your cheeks. āThatās not your decision.ā
āIt is,ā he growled, fingers sliding higher up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until you gasped. āBecause Iāve already claimed you, lamb. You confessed your sins to me, and I took them into myself. Youāre mine now. Mine to guide. Mine to care for.ā
His hand slipped under your skirt, brushing against the damp heat already soaking through your underwear. āDo you feel this? Tell me he does this to you. Tell me he makes you tremble in a church pew just by looking at you.ā
You shook your head, breathless. āHe doesnātāā
Buckyās smile was dark, triumphant. āThatās because heās not meant for you. I am.ā
And when he dragged you from the chair into his lap, robes parting, cock already hard against you, you knew the sermon wasnāt over.
He didnāt give you a warningāthere never was one with him. One breath later he was kneeling again between your thighs, fingers parting you like a benediction, robe pushed up, rosary knocking softly against his wrist. The room smelled of old paper and candlewax, the hush of leaving parishioners still clinging to the walls, and his mouth was hot and urgent.
āSay my name,ā he murmured, voice rough as a confession.
You obeyedāhis name a prayer on your lipsābecause youād spent too many nights whispering it into pillows, because the sound of him turned all your shame into worship. His tongue found the place where you ached, mapped it with slow, precise devotion. He tasted you like scripture, like something sacred he wasnāt supposed to touch, and everything inside you folded toward that heat.
His hands kept you open, soft and commanding, thumb tracing lazy circles over the place that made you dizzy. āLook at me,ā he demanded, and when you did he swallowed you whole with his eyes: hungry, reverent, terrible.
You trembled, close, the world narrowing to the scrape of the desk, the bead of sweat at his temple, the impossible hush around his breathing. Just when your body was ready to give, when the first bright edge of release started to nudge you forward, he pulled back. The sudden absence was worse than the act itselfācold air on your wetness, silence where the hymn had been.
He rose with that terrible, sacred composure, eyes burning as if forged in some private hell. For a beat he simply watched you, like a man counting the measure of a soul. Then he leaned close, breath hot in your ear, and the words came out quiet but absolute.
āLeave him,ā he said. āLeave him and marry me.ā
The floor of your certainty dropped away. āWhatāā you managed, voice raw, half-laughing, half-pleading. āYouāre a priestāā
āI am a priest who knows what you are to me,ā he cut in, steady as a command. āIt is my duty to care for you. To guide you. To wash you. Not only inside these walls.ā His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking the tremor there. āMarry me. Let me be the one to hold your vowsāso I can keep you clean in the dark, the same way Iāve been doing in the light.ā
You could feel the weight of the rosary at his wrist, the tiny crucifix like an accusation. He sounded impossible and devastating and unbearably sincere, like a sinner whoād decided to sanctify the sin by ownership. The proposition was insaneābut then, so was everything between you.
āMarry you,ā you repeated, tasting the words before theyād settled. Your body still buzzed with the aftershocks heād teased out of you, and that ache at the center of you flamed with want. āTo beā¦ yours? Publicly? Secretly?ā
āHowever you need,ā he said, voice folding around the mercy of the promise. āSecretly, if you must. Or loudly, if you want me to claim you in front of God and man. But break him off. Give me the right to cleanse you without looking over my shoulder. Let me be the one who says your name and means it.ā
A laugh bubbled upābroken, incredulous. āYou want me to leave himā¦ for you? For this?ā You gestured, helpless, at the ink-smudged appointment book on his desk, at the collar at his throat, at the chapel windows where light still pooled like witness.
āYes.ā He sounded both brittle and ferocious. āI want you to be mine in every sense. I want the right to mark you as saved by my hands. To be the man who takes your sins and keeps them where they belongāon me.ā His fingers tightened in your hair, gentle and not, anchoring you to the moment. āAnswer me.ā
You should have run. You should have fled the office, called your boyfriend, untied the rosary from some dusty place in your head and burned it. Instead the heat that had been poured into youāhis ministrations, his lips, the way heād made you pray as you cameāpressed you into a single, reckless decision.
āYou wouldā¦ if I asked?ā Your voice was a tremble gone brave. āWould you really do that? Marry me?ā
āYes.ā The syllable was a blade of light. āI will."
He was asking more than a name on a registry. He was asking for the fracture of your life, the burning of safe things, the letting go of a hand that had once kept you from being alone. It was monstrous and impossibly tender. It was a vow tangled with lust.
āThenā¦ prove it,ā you said, breath hitching. āProve Iām worth the sin.ā
His grin was a dark benediction. He pressed his mouth to yoursāhard, holy, claimingāand this time he didnāt pause. He moved with the surety of a man who had decided on damnation. He laid you back, let the rosary slide from his wrist and coil on the desk, and then he kissed the place inside you where warmth pooled, where your answer lived.
He buried himself deep, hands braced at the small of your back, and you rode the rawness of his need until the room blurred. Each thrust was a sermon; each cry, a confession. You said his name like a vow, and when you came it was all at once: the relinquishment of what youād known, and the terrifying, sweet acceptance of what he offered. He followed, heavy and hot and utterly his, and when he collapsed over you afterward his breath was a shaky psalm.
āIāll make arrangements,ā he whispered, thumb drawing lazy, possessive lines over your clavicle. āIāll make it rightāfor us. For you. For what we are.ā
You let the truth of it settle in the smear of candlelight and sweat. Outside, the church bells wound down into the evening; inside, the two of you lay tangled, secrets braided with something that would be called many things by other tonguesāsin, salvation, love. You didnāt know what the church would say, what the world would do, but when he threaded his fingers through yours, rosary forgotten on the desk, you feltāterrifyinglyāsafe.
The realization didnāt come with a thunderclap. It came on a Tuesday.
(Y/n) was sitting in the cramped lounge of the aviation academy, sipping on cheap coffee and reviewing a checklist from their mock ATC drill. One of her classmates, Theo, was scrolling on his phone beside her. "Dude, the Monaco GP recap is finally up," he muttered.
"Grand Prix?" she asked, half-interested.
"Formula 1. The race they just had? Itās all over the place. Lando Norris was in top form."
Her brows pulled together. Lando?
Theo turned his phone toward her. A video played. Loud engines. Papaya-colored cars. Swarms of press. Then, walking into frame, in a crisp McLaren team uniform and a cocky half-smile, was him.
Lando.
Her Lando.
She blinked.
"Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Thatās Lando?" she asked, pointing at the screen.
"Yeah. Lando Norris. Are you living under a rock?"
She barely heard him. Her coffee remained suspended halfway to her lips.
She had met that man through a sugar dating app? Had been having dinners, long talks, quiet walks with that Lando Norris?
She bolted out a laugh. Theo glanced over, confused.
"You good?"
"Oh, Iām just fantastic," she said, grinning into her sleeve.
They met at his flat later that week. Not the sprawling penthouse she expected, but a modern, minimal apartment tucked above the harbor, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that could quiet even the busiest mind.
He opened the door in a hoodie and socks.
"Hey," he said casually.
"Oh my god," she drawled dramatically, stepping in. "Itās Lando Norris. Do you sign autographs or just race hearts?"
He groaned. "You're never letting this go, are you?"
"Not a chance."
She tossed her bag down and wandered toward the windows. "You do realize you couldāve just told me?"
"And risk being liked for my net worth instead of my sarcasm? No thanks."
She turned and raised a brow. "You think it was your sarcasm that charmed me?"
He laughed. "So, what was it?"
She pretended to think. "The coffee budget. Definitely."
They slipped into conversation as they always did, but something had shifted. Not awkwardly. Just a new awareness. She wasnāt just sitting across from some generous stranger. She was spending time with someone whose face plastered billboards, who was tracked by cameras, who carried pressure she hadnāt understood before.
That night, over takeout and a documentary she half paid attention to, Lando asked, "Have you ever seen a Grand Prix in person?"
She looked at him like heād grown a second head. "Do I look like someone who has Grand Prix money?"
He grinned. "How about Grand Prix access?"
"What are you offering, exactly?"
"The Spanish Grand Prix is next weekend. Youāre off Friday to Monday, right?"
She tilted her head, amused. "You memorized my class schedule?"
"I have an excellent memory when it comes to people I care about."
Her chest did that weird flutter thing again.
He continued, "I can get you a private pass. You wonāt be on TV. Not with the media. My family will be there. Oscar and Lily too. Youāll be somewhere...safe. Away from all of it."
She hesitated. "Does your family know about me?"
He shook his head slowly. "They know Iāve been in a good mood lately. Thatās about it."
"So, they donāt know Iām a broke aviation student with a sugar app profile?"
He smiled, but it was soft this time. "No. And when they do, theyāll be meeting the version of you I get to see every week. The one who makes me forget how insane my life is."
She swallowed. Then nodded. "Okay. Letās go to Spain."
The private flight wasnāt flashy, just quiet. Calm. He let her nap on his shoulder, let her pick the music, and even helped her revise a few notes for her systems check exam.
In Spain, everything was discreet. They had separate transportation. A hotel suite with a private elevator. She had passes under a pseudonym. The paddock was off-limits, but Lando made sure she had access to the upper VIP terraceāa space reserved for family and close friends.
There, she met Oscar Piastri, who was polite and oddly hilarious, and Lily, who immediately took to her like an old friend.
"So, you're the mysterious girl," Lily said, sipping champagne. "Heās been grinning for weeks. I thought it was the car upgrades."
(Y/n) laughed. "I assumed it was the carbs."
They clicked instantly.
Zak Brown gave her a brief nod, too busy on the phone. But it was Landoās parents who made her nervous.
His mother, Cisca, was kind but observant, while his father, Adam, seemed focused more on Lando than anyone else. Neither asked questions, and (Y/n) was glad. No need to explain why she still wore her student ID in the side pocket of her backpack.
From the terrace, she watched her first race.
The roar of the engines. The choreography of pit stops. The sheer velocity. It was beautiful.
And watching Lando driveāknowing now what it took, the persona he wore, the life he didnāt brag aboutāmade her chest tighten in a way she hadnāt expected.
She held her breath as he crossed the finish line.
P3.
Not a podium, but he looked proud. Happy. Exhausted.
Later that evening, she found a note waiting for her on the suite pillow.
Harry's got a reputation on campus, and you're curious to find out if the rumors about the enigmatic literature professor are true. When a question about your essay turns into an unorthodox lesson, you realize Professor Styles might be able to teach you more than you bargained for. But as tension deepens and boundaries blur, youāre left wondering; can you balance your academic future with the dangerous allure of a forbidden connection?
Tropes: Forbidden Romance | Professor x Student | Power Imbalance | Secret Relationship | Slow-Burn
Warnings: NSFW, smut, praise kink, power dynamic, forbidden romance, emotional tension, angst, secrecy (more specific warnings in each chapter!)
Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your
Henrik couldn't remember when the silence started to feel like chains. At first, it had been comfortingāJamesonās quiet strength, his patient gaze, and the way he never interrupted. But now, every time Jameson looked at him, Henrik felt as if his ribs had been pried apart and his heart put on display.
Tonight, the laboratory was dark, filled only with the steady hum of equipment. Henrik worked with shaking hands, trying to stitch a wound on his armāan old experiment had reopened, torn too soon. The sutures failed. His fingers wouldnāt cooperate. He cursed quietly to himself.
Then Jameson appeared.
A gloved hand gripped Henrikās wrist, stopping it before the needle could pierce his flesh again. Jamesonās touch was firm, unyielding. His eyes glowed in the low lightātoo bright, too focused. Slowly, he reached for the tools, taking them from Henrikās hands as if he were a child playing with fire.
āDonātāā Henrik began, but stopped as Jamesonās hands moved, signing quickly and urgently:
āYou hurt yourself. You donāt know when to stop. Let me. Let me take care of you.ā
Henrikās throat tightened. āNo. I am not yours to fix.ā
Jamesonās smile was gentle, almost sad, as if Henrik had hurt him. His hands shook as he spoke:
āYou are. Always. Donāt you see? Without me, you would fall apart. Without me, you are just broken pieces.ā
Henrik yanked his arm back, but Jameson held on, his eyes filled with desperation.
āHƶr auf!,ā Henrik snapped, a hint of steel in his voice. āI was a doctor before you. Ein eigener man! of my own making. You cannot keep me like this.ā
Jameson slammed the needle onto the tray, the sound sharp like a gunshot. His hands moved in a rush, frantic and almost violent:
āYou were nothing before me. They used you. They laughed at you. I gave you purpose. I gave you strength. And now you are mine.ā
The words hit Henrik like a physical blow. His jaw clenched, breath coming in quick bursts. For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in Jamesonās faceāfear or madness, perhapsābut it vanished as quickly as it came.
Jameson reached out again, this time brushing Henrikās bandaged throat, his jaw, his cheek. The touch felt tender, almost reverent. His eyes glowed with a devotion that made Henrikās stomach churn.
āYou will see,ā Jameson signed, his hands calm now. āIn the end, you will understand. I do this because I love you. And because I cannot let you go.ā
Henrikās heart raced in his chest. He wanted to deny it, to spit in Jamesonās face, to break free from this suffocating love. But when he opened his mouth, no words came. Just silence.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
Free to watch ā¢ No registration required ā¢ HD streaming
hellooo!! can you suggest me some fics with power difference
thankss!<33
Hi, anon! You're very welcome! Here are some fics for you:
Forgive Us Our TrespassesĀ by @silverstuff50
Larry After Dark Fest Prompt 90: Louis goes to church to confess his sins, and Harry is the priest who uses them in his favour to make Louis his. BDSM undertones.
through walls of treesĀ by @ineverateakiwi
Elesdon is a country divided into five kingdoms and had long been considered peaceful. After a coup in the heart of the country, Lady Sulia ascended to the throne and imprisoned the four courts, stripping them of their powers. With the exception of King Louis Tomlinson, who submitted to her favors.
But something is changing on the horizon. Magic no longer obeys her, and scarcity threatens her reign. Desperate to stay on top, she brings Harry and Liam back into play, entrusting them to her most loyal warriors.
The beginning of a series of mistakes that may give them the opportunity they needed to defeat her.
i'll crash until you notice meĀ by @stylinsoncity
Louis sets off to Barbados to oversee the massive resort his family owns known as Sandy Hill. For years, he's been looking for a change in the monotony of his life, seeking adventure and perhaps love too. What he doesn't expect is the bright eyed boy who spills a milkshake on his shoes.
What Happens When a Real Man Walks Into and Sits at Your Soy Party
Spoiler: Your voice goes up an octave and your girlās legs go numb.
Letās set the scene.
You and your little friends are hanging out.
Everyoneās got oat milk, opinions, and anxiety.
Thereās finger food.
Thereās progressive banter.
Thereās six guys talking like theyāre all three minutes from crying ā and one girl who thinks sheās the cleverest person in the room because no oneās ever challenged her.
And then he walks in.
Not loud. Not angry. Not flashy.
Justā¦ present.
A real man.
And suddenly?
The air changes.
So does your posture.
So does she.
I. You Feel It Before You See It
He doesnāt yell.
He doesnāt joke about himself before speaking.
He doesnāt apologize for existing.
He walks in,
and your nervous system clocks him as a threat
before your conscious brain catches up.
You start clearing your throat more.
Your leg starts bouncing.
You keep looking at your girl to see if she noticed him.
She did.
Before you did.
But unlike you,
She didnāt feel threatened.
She felt safe.
Which is worse.
II. You and Your Friends Were Alpha Until a Man Showed Up
You were mid-rant.
Something about late-stage capitalism.
Something about dating being hard.
Something about āemotional labor.ā
You all nodded.
You all agreed.
You all felt smart.
Until he sat down.
And said nothing.
And the silence hit like a shotgun blast.
Because suddenly the contrast was too real to ignore.
You werenāt the thinkers.
You were the noise.
III. Your Girlās Body Language Betrayed Her Instantly
She sat straighter.
Uncrossed her legs.
Touched her collarbone.
Played with her sleeve.
Because while you were talking,
he was listening.
And while you were posturing,
he was radiating evolutionary insurance.
IV. Heās Not Competing ā Because Youāre Not Even Registered
Thatās the worst part.
You think heās there to dominate you.
To prove something.
To show off.
But the truth?
He didnāt even see you.
Not as competition.
Not as a threat.
Just as furniture.
And that kills you inside.
Because you realize: Youāve spent your whole life practicing masculinity.
And this man just is.
No script. No performance. No costume.
V. Suddenly, Everything Youāve Ever Said Sounds Embarrassing
You start replaying all your lines in your head:
āI just feel like men need to cry more.ā
āShe ghosted me, and thatās her right.ā
āIād never approach a woman without consent signals.ā
And now youāre hearing them out loud for the first time ā
And they sound wet.
Apologetic.
Pre-castrated.
Not because he mocked you.
But because he didnāt say any of it.
And that silence is louder than your entire identity.
VI. Sheās Looking At Him Like You Never Existed
You see her face.
That expression.
Not lust.
Worse.
Submission.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Her eyes dilated.
Her lips parted slightly ā the same way they do
right before she does something she regrets in the name of āit just happened.ā
She wasnāt flirting.
She was evolving.
In real time.
Away from you.
VII. You Think Itās Toxic Masculinity.
She Thinks Itās Finally.
You try to call it out.
Say heās intimidating.
Say heās being alpha.
Say heās not emotionally available.
And she says:
āI meanā¦ I think heās just confident.ā
And now youāve lost.
Because you realize, for the first time,
that confidence isnāt words.
Itās tone.
Itās presence.
Itās biology not asking permission.
VIII. You Go Home and Sheās Quiet
Thatās when it really hits.
You try to talk.
She gives one-word answers.
You try to cuddle.
Sheās stiff.
And when you finally ask whatās wrong?
She says:
āNothing. Iām just tired.ā
Which is a lie.
Because what she meant was:
āI forgot men like him existed. And now I canāt unsee it.ā
IX. What Happens When a Real Man Walks Into Your Soy Party?
He doesnāt say much.
He doesnāt play your game.
He doesnāt āeducate himself.ā
He doesnāt flinch.
And he doesnāt want your girl.
But her body wants him.
Your ego collapses.
Your worldview stutters.
And she goes quiet ā because her body spoke for her.
This post is a psychosexual satire exploring gender dynamics, masculine contrast, and subconscious behavioral triggers. Any pelvic tension, emotional panic, arousal spike, DM drafting, or sudden shift in body language is the natural result of cadence-based shame entrainment, mirror neuron activation, and biological realism. You are not broken. You just read Blacksite Literatureā¢.
š§ QUOTE REBLOG PACKā¢
āYour soy circle was fine until a real man made you all sound like anxious interns.ā
āHe didnāt flirt. He didnāt compete. He just existed and now your girlās nervous system wonāt let it go.ā
āShe didnāt laugh. She obeyed.ā
āHe walked in. You disappeared.ā
āYou used words. He used oxygen. She chose oxygen.ā
š” CALL TO ACTION
REBLOG FOR MORE!
Reblog if youāve seen a room shift without a word.
Reblog if youāve been replaced without being touched.
Reblog if the real man didnāt even want her ā but got her anyway.
Reblog if you remembered who you were supposed to be.
Reblog if your soy party just got canceled by biology.
