#the house is cold without him

[b3achysurfur]

so u fast pass freaks , does Mike banner appear in chapter 65 or not?

[chettyspagetti]

CONFETII 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉 I’m needing more ideas to draw them …. Any middle school or highschool headcannons you have for them are 100% appreciated

[ridiasfangirlings]

Post-RoK S4 is hosting a community christmas event. Munakata plans to play Santa Claus as a fun experience but Fushimi thinks it's stupid cause Santa isn't real (Niki made sure to tell him that). While they're setting up the community center, they come across some excited kids who are talking about the upcoming event as they watched and they're excited about Santa. They asked Fushimi if Santa would really show up and Fushimi thinks he didn't want to be like Niki and told them that he would.

Munakata can’t believe such slander against Santa Claus, he himself stays up every year on Christmas Eve indulging in increasingly elaborate plans to capture Santa Claus and learn his secrets. Of course, even though Munakata believes in the true Santa he also assumes there’s nothing wrong with dressing up in his stead, and the local children will enjoy this important community outreach. Munakata acts like this is just something he’s doing as part of S4’s duty but watching him prepare Fushimi just clicks his tongue all ‘you say it that way, but you’re really enjoying this aren’t you?’. Munakata feels that this is the time of year to indulge in good cheer and bring happiness to children, as Santa does. Fushimi snorts and says Santa isn’t real and shouldn’t they tell brats that sooner rather than later. Munakata’s face falls and Fushimi is just like ‘…don’t look at me with that expression,’ like he suddenly feels weirdly uncomfortable. Munakata smiles then and says regardless, the existence of Santa is a thing that brings joy, so even if Santa were to be fake (which he is not), isn’t it fine to let children indulge now and then.

Fushimi leaves to continue his work, thinking that not telling kids about Santa is how you end up with a ridiculous boss who wants you to stay up and assist in the Santa Capture Mission. Fushimi never believed in Santa even from the start — well, maybe once, when he was very little and his teacher had everyone make cookies for Santa. Fushimi woke up the next morning to find Niki snacking on them (after this Fushimi anticipates the future and adds extra salt and also sometimes rat poison), laughing that his little monkey still believes in Santa. It’s not like Fushimi was disappointed though — of course Santa doesn’t exist, only a stupid kid would believe that. It’s better that he learned the truth from the start, rather than believing like an idiot for way too long.

As it gets closer to Christmas Munakata has Awashima and Fushimi accompany him to the community center to get things set up for the party. Fushimi is complaining about all the work that’s piling up as he tries to hang some streamers, probably pinning them to the wall with knives (at least he was until Awashima walked by and informed him that’s too dangerous to do with children around). There are some local kids already running around talking about what they want for Christmas and Fushimi just rolls his eyes all how stupid. One of the older kids says his big brother told him Santa doesn’t exist and the younger ones argue, he does so exist. They look over at Fushimi all ‘mister, Santa Claus does exist, doesn’t he?’. Fushimi clicks his tongue all ‘why are you asking me’ under his breath, but the kids are still waiting for an answer. Fushimi opens his mouth, ready to tell them that no, Santa doesn’t exist…but the kids are looking at him with hopeful eyes and Fushimi finds himself saying instead ‘yeah. He exists.’

 The younger kids cheer and Fushimi goes back to his work, rolling his eyes. Suddenly Munakata is behind him, noting with a smile that he thought Fushimi didn’t believe in Santa. Fushimi says he doesn’t, but it isn’t his job to tell brats that, their parents can do that. Munakata is still smiling all oh is that the reason and Fushimi snaps that yes, that’s why, don’t you have work to do. Munakata thinks that Fushimi certainly is good with kids and Fushimi clicks his tongue in response. He finds himself looking at where the kids ran off to though, thinking that it’s just maybe he didn’t want to be like ‘that guy,’ and to let the kids believe a little longer.

[navybluetriangles]

.

[daydreamerdrew]

Iron Man (1968) #104

[harryshomebaby]

just tested positive for covid for the first time 🙃

[rusted-phone-calls]

do you think brant has tried to ask for jolie's forgiveness. begged his memory of her (that's all left of her no one else REMEMBERS her anymore her light her joy her fight her BETRAYA-) to forgive, please, come back,

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[holeforzenin]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI!

Tw - STEPCEST, cheating, age-gap(early 20s n early 40s), anal play, daddy/dad kink, oral, some really inappropriate and gross stuff. Stepcest isn’t blood related. Not proofread.

A/n - “Toji wouldn’t do th-“ I don’t give a shit, goodnight.

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who secretly rubs your little pussy through your thin cotton panties from underneath the blanket while you're having a movie night with your family in the living room.

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who tells your clueless mother that he’s taking you on a daddy-and-daughter bonding trip for a few days so the two of you can spend more time together and get to know each other more which only ends up with his hefty cock being stuffed deep into your innocent pussy— filling you up to the brim in some random hotel not too far from your house.

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who instantly gets rock hard whenever you'd call him “dad” or “daddy”. He just can’t help when a sweet young thing like you is innocently batting your eyelashes up at him and asking him for his assistance. God, you’re so helpless, you can’t do anything without the help from your dad, not even cumming. :(

Which is why he has to sneak into your bedroom dead at night and skillfully poke his stepdaughter’s g-spot with his fat tip till you can finally cum and make a big mess on his cock.

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who's obsessed with you sitting on his face, your warm dripping pussy nestled in his mouth while his eager tongue skillfully laps at the essence of your arousal from your glistening entrance. His nose presses into your rim purposefully, causing your adorable hole to wink against his nose in playful response to his inhales and breathing. He needs you on his face at least once a day :(

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who you coincidentally encounter in the bathroom, late at night while he’s pissing so that quickly escalated with his girthy cock now being shoved down your throat and he's thrusting it rhythmically in and out your mouth. Your eyes begin to well up with tears which only fuels him even more to use your mouth to his favor as he deviously grins down at you when he notices how you're helplessly playing with your drenched pussy with your fingers.

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who gets off from being risky, especially when your mom is dozing off on the couch and he has you forcefully bent over the cold marble kitchen counter with one of his muscular hands pressed firmly against your lower back so you won't escape from his hold. His fat thumb is clogging your ass and his veiny cock is stretching your little pussy apart around his shaft while his angry tip is exploring the depths of your cunt.

He'd be such a mean man and force his thumb deeper and deeper into your asshole just so he can get a cute reaction from you and hear you whine while you desperately claw at his beefy forearm for him to stop :( He only chuckles and laughs at how scared you are as if you don't love it as much as he does.

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who loves referring to himself as Daddy while he's balls deep into your slippery hole. Your trembling knees are knocking against your soft, bouncing tits and you're desperately gasping for air while your nails are sinking into his strong hand that's encircling your neck. "Shh shh c'mon be a good little step-kid f'daddy and take my cock". He whispers, trailing a thumb up to your glossy lips before inserting it into your mouth for you to suck on.

His cock is crammed into your tight pussy, and the way you keep sucking him in deeper and deeper every hazy second makes him not want to pull out anytime soon. He just can't get enough of your pussy. "That's it, that's baby, yer making daddy feel sooo good".

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who has developed a habit of sniffing your cunt and ass, he just can't help it :( he just loves your natural scent and can't get enough of you when he's bending down behind your small figure while you're engrossed in cooking dinner for the family and pulls your shorts down to bury his pointy nose in your moist pussy.

A plague of worries clouds your head when you feel his nose prodding into your tight entrance in the open. "T-toji! n-not here, she'll see!", you pleaded as you attempted to push his head away from your rear only for him to clasp both of your hands into his larger ones with just a chuckle rumbling against your cunny. soft whimpers escape your lips when you hear his loud whiffs of your pussy.

GRIMY STEP-DAD TOJI! who loves nothing more than licking his step-daughter’s little pussy at any given chance he gets :(

It's so prohibited and “taboo” and the older man is very much aware of that but he just can't help it when he's quietly slipping into your bedroom late at night to run his salivating tongue over the sapping mound— He’s been practically thinking about it the entire day.

His clothed cock immediately starts twitching uncontrollably every time his grimy thoughts clouded his vivid imagination, all he could do at work was discreetly palm his hardened bulge and give it a hard squeeze for friction and temporary relief.

He barely could wait till everyone was asleep to taste your delicious pussy again.

A deep involuntary groan leaves his lips from the taste of your creamy pussy melting on his tastebuds. The sensation of the sticky slick clinging onto his tongue stirred a desperate throbbing in his cock, yearning for more. God, every fiber of his being ached to plunge his hard cockhead into your warm, virgin pussy and ravish you until you painted his shaft with your cream but he won't... at least not yet.

Luckily for him, you were sleeping on your stomach and the tranquility of your slumber allowed him to cautiously lower your adorable panties down, gently resting it at your lower thighs, and parted your plush cheeks using his thumbs to peek at your delicate pussy. The glossy sheen veiling your folds glistened in the dim light, making his fat cock throb with urgency.

“Fuck, so pretty” he whispered breathlessly, sticking his tongue out to lap at your messy folds, his tongue flickers back and forth, licking up at your wetness and replacing it with his spit and intertwining saliva. Unfortunately for him, you weren’t a heavy sleeper so the sensation of his soft, wet tongue wiggling against your most intimate place was enough to stir you awake.

Your eyelids flutter open weakly, giving way to the heavy fog of slumber that still clung to your countenance. Sleep is evident in your features as your tummy tingles from the continuous sensation of the stimulation. Your vision was clouded with fuzziness but you could still make out the muscular silhouette of your step-father.

He was huge and muscular, he wasn’t built like some ordinary man so there was no mistake that it was him.

“Daddy?”You mumbled innocently, rubbing your eyes in hopes of having a clearer view after.

“W-hat are you doing?”

“Shh shh, go back to sleep doll. Dad’s gonna take care of ya” he lightly chuckled before caressing your ass and placing a few wet kisses on your soft cheeks.

[sophia-zofia]

Ghada's campaign on GoFundMe has had it's transfers paused without cause. She relies greatly on donations to survive and now she is in desperate need of support. These are her words. Please donate and share.

Hello, I'm Ghada Mhasen, 20 years old, mother of a child born in war. She married shortly before the war and became pregnant a month before the war. The war came and killed my joy with my pregnancy and marriage, as we were forced to leave our house and flee. I left my belongings and things behind. I couldn't take anything. It was a difficult period with great difficulty. We found a tent to shelter my husband and me, because we had nothing. No one helped us. We tried to manage our affairs with the simplest and least things, but we also had to flee again, as we fled to Rafah. I heard the news of my house bombing and it was shocking news for me because it was all we had. My condition deteriorated and I was afraid for my unborn baby. Time passed and we tried to manage our affairs, but we almost died of hunger and almost lost my child, but thank God he remained fine. We continued to be displaced and our condition worsened. My husband and I were very tired until we visited Khan Yunis for the last time. It's time for me to have children and be born in a tent, a contaminated tent. There was no medical supplies. My condition was critical, but thanks to God, my child and I survived. Now I can't provide for his basic needs. We put below zero. I have now resorted to creating a Chuffed account to ask for help from you. Please help me, please. We need a tent to accommodate us from the winter and the needs of my child. We need food and drink. We need medicine. My husband worked hard to provide the simplest things for us, but while he was working, a wall fell on him and broke his foot. Now there's no way to help us live except for this donation link. Please save us. Please, every donation is important. It would have saved us from war, hunger and cold. We are not in one war. We are in three wars: the war of Zionism, the war of hunger and the war of cold. I ask you to save us. Every donation, up to $20, will save us from these wars. I am now living in a cloth that covers four sides without a roof. If winter really comes, we will die. Save us. Thank God, now after the end of the war, we are still living a very difficult life. I still can't provide for my child's needs or provide any of our needs from eating and drinking, even water with difficulty, we bring it. We always wait for any help to come to us, but unfortunately, my child does not come, he is exposed to a lot of infections because of the bad Pampers that we use for. I just want to provide what is necessary. I want to ensure a good life for him most of the time. It's rainy, uninhabitable tent. We always sink. I hope you to help us if in $50, please sympathize with us and my child. I trust you and thank you.

[alaa-famile]

I am Alaa… Can you hear me?

I am a woman from Palestine Gaza 🇵🇸.

I once had a modest but loving home with my husband, Mohammad, and our four children: Mahmoud, Somaya, Mostafa, and little Sila.

Our house was small, but it held our world — filled with warmth, laughter, and dreams.

Mohammad worked as a tailor, using his hands to stitch dignity into our days, providing just enough for us to live in peace.

But in a single, brutal moment… everything disappeared.

An airstrike hit our neighborhood.

Our home collapsed under the force of the explosion.😭💔

We escaped with nothing — not clothes, not memories, not even the toys my children cherished.

Mohammad’s tailor shop was demolished by Israeli bulldozers, leaving him without work, without tools, without hope.

Now, we live in a torn, fragile tent.

It doesn’t shield us from the cold.

It doesn’t protect my children from hunger or fear.

Rain seeps in. The nights are long and cruel. My children cry themselves to sleep.

I am a mother who cannot provide warmth, food, or safety.

I watch them suffer — I hear their tiny whispers asking when we’ll go home again… and I have no answers.

I am Alaa😓.

I don’t ask for much.

Just a chance to live with dignity again.

Just a moment of mercy.

If you hear me… if you feel my pain…

🌸Please help us🌸🙏.

Even the smallest act of kindness can bring light into our darkness.

Donation link

From a mother with nothing left but a trembling voice… thank you❤️🫂.

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[ryuusei-niu]

I feel like rambling right now and needing someone to listen

[buckyseternaldoll]

He Still Smelled Like Home

Pairing: exhusband!Avengers!Bucky x civilian!afab!reader

Summary: A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), heavy angst, emotional abandonment references, hinted depression, marriage separation, unresolved tension, emotional breakdown, longing, heartbreak, near-death-experience (implied), emotionally intense smut, marking/claiming kink, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, timeline is loosely based on somewhere in between TFATWS and Thunderbolts*

Word count: 4,110 *finalized. No one's reading 29k words

You stared at the emptiness of your home.

The house that was supposed to echo with laughter, with midnight kisses in the hallway, with the low, raspy way Bucky used to call you baby when he walked in after a long day.

Instead, it echoed with silence.

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that said: Home. Ours. Always.

[reignpage]

State of Affairs

ꕤ Ever wondered how the room looks after a whole night of fun with each jjk men?

Gojo

ꕤ Scent: Fruity due to the strawberry mochi lube you used. How did he get strawberry mochi flavoured lube? He's Gojo Satoru; don't worry about it. There's an underlying saltiness in the air, more from his cum which stains the sheets, than anything else. It's an intoxicating smell reminding both of you of all the dirty things you got up to, and one sniff the morning after is all Satoru needs to get going again.

ꕤ Messiness: The mess is all over the house. Pots and pans on the floor in the kitchen, tower of rolls of tissue paper knocked over, towels on the floor, in the bathroom, throw pillows torn open with the stuffing all over the ground in the living room, and there are handprints and oily residue all over the windows, tables and walls. The party had spread to all the rooms in the house and ended in your bedroom.

ꕤ Toys: Quite fond of anal, there are beads hanging around somewhere, thoroughly used and thoroughly traumatised. Despite knowing how easily he could get out of them, fluffy handcuffs, broken in two, are on the bed — one on your ankle and the other on Satoru's wrist.

ꕤ Positioning: Spread eagle, Satoru's gangly limbs threaten to push you completely off the bed. He's got a foot shoved up your ass and a fist to your face, taking up more than three quarters of the space with the blankets kicked off, leaving you cold and shivering. Eventually, he'll groggily wake up at the crack of dawn, yawn and stretch, and then grin. He thinks you've never looked prettier still swollen from the night before and completely relaxed. Wrapping an arm around your waist, he pulls you into him and spoons you from behind, burying his nose into your hair.

Geto

ꕤ Scent: Oddly enough, there's not a strong overwhelming scent of sex. There's a tanginess to the air, for sure, but the clearest scent comes from the cigarette he's smoking or has just smoked, wafting in from the balcony. It also just smells like his precious hair mask.

ꕤ Messiness: Mildly messy, your shared room has certainly seen better days. Clothes are strewn haphazardly all over the floor, used condoms either just about hanging off the rim of the nearby trash can or lying at the foot of it, on account of Suguru throwing without looking, intent on keeping his eyes on you, devouring your beautiful expressions. The sheets are carefully placed on top of your body, shielding you from the coldness. Don't be fooled though — if someone shined a black light on the room, it'd look like a crime scene.

ꕤ Toys: A blindfold...folded neatly on the bedside table.

ꕤ Positioning: He's lying on his back with you tucked into his side, snoozing. Absentmindedly and unable to sleep, he pats your head, feeling comforted by your warmth. You've got a leg thrown over his, warm and wet pussy pressed to his thigh. He grinds it ever so slightly against your cunt and smiles softly when you moan in your sleep.

Choso

ꕤ Scent: There's a thick, toxic cloud of sex suffocating anyone who's unfortunate enough to wander in. It smells of pussy juice, dried salty cum, sweat from a marathon runner, and a wild mix of all sorts of flavoured lube.

ꕤ Messiness: Super messy. Disastrous even. Bottles of lube spill on the floor, on the bed, and on the bedside table. Clothes are all over the place, panties covering a plushie, boxers in a glass of water, blankets on the floor, and bedsheet clinging to just one corner of the bed. Scrunched up tissues cover the floor like rose petals on Valetine's Day. So do the used condoms. The legs of the bed have given up and the mattress has slid ever so slightly on the floor, completely soaked and unusable. There are even polaroid pictures of you scattered across the room, some stained with cum and the others just soaked through.

ꕤ Toys: Literal stuffed toys were used. The nose of your teddy bear is soaked...

ꕤ Positioning: Having fallen asleep in the sixty-nine position, your head is at his dick, balls up your nose, and his chin pokes at your pussy. He has a hand groping your ass in his sleep, drool down his chin and nose twitching. Still asleep, his senses lead him to the delicious scent he keeps smelling, lazily making out with your pussy again, making mhm noises.

Toji

ꕤ Scent: Dirty. Dirty. Dirty. It smells like someone was thoroughly fucked. It smells like tears, a flood of cum, and no regrets. There's nothing clumsy about the scent — no spilled lube or fancy, experimental condoms. This is man and woman meeting in the most raw way. Au natural baby.

ꕤ Messiness: Contained chaos, one could say. It's messy but only in the places you had sex at, which to be fair was...everywhere. Your clothes are all ripped up, so are your panties, and they hang like streamers on the lamps, on desks and drawers, even on picture frames of your family. Sorry Mom (I'd say 'Sorry Dad' too but let's be honest, if you're a Toji kinda girl, you probably don't have one). The thinnest condoms man could invent have been used and no attempts to throw them out have been made. In fact, you're pretty sure at some point, he made you suck on one of them...

ꕤ Toys: Again, au natural. Bay. Bee. The toys he used were those beefy arms of his, choking you into making slutty confessions like, you'll never want any other cock than his or how you want to be filled with his cum 24/7 in all your holes.

ꕤ Positioning: Toji's lying on his back, one hand on his balls and the other holding you to him. You're facing away, cuddling up on the arm he's wrapped around you just so he can hold a tit, jiggling it whilst asleep like the weight keeps him grounded. It's a great position to wake up in actually because then he can lift one of your legs and insert himself from behind.

Nanami

ꕤ Scent: Floral. It smells like heaven. No, really. He lit some candles to set the scene, not that he needed to, but he just wanted to find a time to use it. It barely covers up the smell of sex though— the kind of sex no married couple has. Just one sniff tells the story of two people filled with so much love and adoration fucking like they absolutely hate each other's guts.

ꕤ Messiness: Not very messy at all. The mess is mostly contained to the bed. The rest of the room is untouched — Kento never let you out of bed, not even for a second, not to pee or eat, and certainly not to take a break. Moreover, because no condoms had been used, most of the mess has pooled between your legs. Thankfully, your sweet husband remembered just how much you hate cleaning up so he kept you plugged all night with his fingers. It'll be a waste otherwise, he thought. Eventually, when you're both ready to start the day, he'll do all the clean up, starting with his tongue on your pussy.

ꕤ Toys: Does a costume count as a toy? Well, he did use a vibrator on you at one point. But the main event had really been the maid costume you put on, fit with a collar he couldn't stop looking at. It had stayed on for most of the time, the skirt flipped over your hips so he can ram inside you and hear the slapping of skin. By morning time, it was soaked in sweat and cum and hanging by a thread, barely covering any inch of skin.

ꕤ Positioning: You're cuddling into each other, his chin resting on top of your head, your face in his chest, legs tangled and arms holding each other tight. From the sight alone, none would know the nasty bumping and grinding your bodies had gotten up to the night before.

Sukuna

ꕤ Scent: Like something had been burnt the whole night. It almost smells like incense, with the smoke and subtle scent of sweet musk permeating the air. Overpowering and overwhelming, the entire hallway estate would have to be cleared like the radiation could somehow burn the servants' skin.

ꕤ Messiness: At this point, it's not messiness but rather complete and utter devastation. No furniture was spared. The entire decor would have to be replaced by expert renovators. There are holes in walls, dents in the floor, glass shattered on every surfaces, the bed looks like it's been disassembled by a giant baby, and there are scorch marks as far as the eye can see in every room, on every wall, and in every corner. It looks like the whole estate had been used as a rage room.

ꕤ Toys: A tangle of red rope hangs from the ceiling, just as you had been the night before. He doesn't care for vibrators (annoying little things) or handcuffs (useless inventions and if you wanted to be restrained so badly, he can, and does, use two of his four arms to keep your limbs tied up).

ꕤ Positioning: You're lying on him, using him as a bed, in the garden. One of his hands cradles your head, another is petting your back, one cups your ass, and the last is fitting his cock back inside your pussy. He's warm and was able to shield you from the cold of the outdoors and best believe his malevolent aura was warding off any bugs. The sun is rising and Sukuna curses it, irritated by the fact that its bright light will rouse you from slumber, but at least, he supposes, he can devour you all over again.

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

PRETTY LITTLE SECRET

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ simon riley x reader

big strong farmer simon riley secretly having rendezvous with his neighbour’s wife

cw: cheating, vaginal sex, age gap, size difference, unprotected sex, not proof read

after retirement simon had settled down in the small country side town, a small house in the middle of the greenest fields with sheep and cows running around. his usual days of bloodshed missions were now replaced with small labour tasks around the farm.

simon was a man with strong morals, he was a strict man, consistently following a routine like he did back in the military.

that included having a secret little rendezvous with his neighbour’s sweet wife.

it first started off in the small dive bar, the two of you tucked away in the corner after simon noticed how anxious you were.

you told him about your troubled marriage, how your husband simply refused to show you any sign of affection. simon didn’t understand it, still to this day he hasn’t. you were gorgeous, sweet and caring as he watched you hand out your baked goods during the week to the children. a pure heart and soul, beautiful inside and out.

the conversation then shifted to physical intimacy, which clearly your marriage lacked. you complained about how lazy your husband was, only asking for head and never giving it to you in return, or how he failed to make you come.

without even thinking the words, “i’ll show yer wots it’s like.” slipped out of his mouth.

it was a mistake, well… that’s what he told himself. clearly, his body however reacted differently, his pants now suddenly a little too tight as his mind drifted off to the most lewd thoughts.

he wondered about the sounds you would make, how you would moan his name and not your husband, how you would wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer, your pathetic excuse of en engagement ring on your finger.

and that’s exactly what happened.

but it didn’t stop.

now, your husband away for a business trip out of town, you found yourself in simon’s house - more specifically, his bed.

“doin’ so well swee’heart, s’just us here, no need to be quiet.”

his large hand tugging your hair back in a pony tail as he fucked you from behind, his cock snuggly shoved into your small cunt.

despite being a man of morals, simon’s ego was clearly shown as he watched you turn into a pathetic mess, your body trembling as you dumbly moaned out his name like a mantra. he loved sending you back with your usual post sex glow, but now he had you all to himself.

“‘s a cold winters night hm? can’t have a sweet thing like yer gettin’ cold.”

he manhandled you with ease, turning you back on your back before slamming into your cunt again, your nails scratching his back as he kissed your neck, inhaling the sweet scent he loves so much. his large body caged you in, keeping you warm as he whispered the filthiest things into your ear.

it was wrong, the two of you knew it since he was balls deep inside you, a girl who was married, and a decade younger than him.

but it didn’t stop him from filling up your cunt over and over again, watching your body slowly become limp as you sank deep into the sheets.

tag list:

@happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666 @ghostsd8s @ama-eve @webmvie @your-internet-tenshi @novthewolf @1ilo @simpingreader @angeldoll1e @avgdestitute @anonymouse1807 @chaieanne @i-live-in-spite