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Imagine if Scott did magic with cards in front of Gambit and his response to Scott was “How do you do that?” I want Scott to teach his magic tricks to Gambit in Doomsday lol.
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sweet in private, embarrassed in public. Is keeping your sexuality private a valid boundary, or is it unfair ?
My neighbor refused to move her daughter’s Jeep for just three days, even after I explained that my father had Parkinson’s disease and struggled to walk. She told me he could park farther down the street or struggle up my steep driveway. But when her own husband overheard her response, he exploded and demanded that she stop being selfish.
I lived in a quiet neighborhood where my neighbors across the street had eight cars but no garage space, so they filled the street with their vehicles. Their daughter regularly parked her Jeep directly in front of my house. It was annoying, but I never made an issue of it.
That changed when my father planned to visit for three days.
Me: Hi, I wanted to ask you a small favor. My dad is coming to visit, and because of his Parkinson’s, he has difficulty walking. Would your daughter mind parking her Jeep somewhere else for just three days?
Neighbor: Somewhere else? Why should she? She always parks there.
Me: I understand, but my dad struggles to walk. I’m trying to make it easier for him to get into the house.
Neighbor: Well, the street is public. You don’t own the parking space in front of your house.
Me: I never said I owned it. I’m asking for a favor.
Neighbor: Then your father can park farther down the street. Or he can use your driveway.
I stared at her in disbelief.
Me: My driveway is steep. He could fall trying to get up it. That’s why I’m asking you.
Neighbor: That sounds like something you should figure out before he arrives. My daughter shouldn’t have to change her routine because your father is visiting.
Me: Are you serious? I’m asking for three days, not three months!
Neighbor: Don’t raise your voice at me! You came to my house asking for something, and I’m telling you no.
Clothes covered the floor.
My husband had another woman slammed against the wall.
Her thighs clamped around him while he fucked her dripping cunt without mercy.
His tight pouch slapped her with every brutal thrust. Both hands spread her open.
She looked at me over his shoulder and moaned deliberately louder.
He spread her wider and drove deeper.
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They said "toxic masculinity" was a problem, then Jason Momoa walks in like THIS. Yeah, explain that one to me 🔥
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A strange man started calling my mother every Sunday evening.
He never spoke for more than thirty seconds.
My mother always went into another room before answering.
Whenever I asked who he was, she said it was someone from work.
But my mother had retired years ago
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the office coffee budget was $0, and the coffee had been arriving every monday for fifteen years.
i'm the new finance guy, and my job was to find "unauthorized spending" after we got acquired. one line kept bothering me. every month, a 12-pound bag of beans, filters, and a tub of creamer showed up at the break room. there was no invoice, no purchase order, and no cost center in our system.
i asked around. nobody knew who ordered it. Marta in HR said, "it's just always been there." the guy in shipping said, "it's the coffee, man, don't touch the coffee."
i traced the shipment back to a supplier in Ohio. the account was paid every month by one personal credit card, belonging to "R. Dunning."
my stomach dropped. Roy Dunning was our founder, retired since 2012.
i called the number on the account, and an old voice picked up on the second ring.
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My husband brought a younger guy home to fůck me while he watched and stroked himself. He said he wanted something new… and I ended up coming harder on that thick cóck than I had in years..
He told me about it two days before. “I want to watch someone else take you,” he said, voice low. “A younger guy. You’ll like it.” When the knock came that night, my stomach flipped and my pussy clenched. The guy was mid-twenties, tall, quiet, already looking at me like he knew exactly why he was there. My husband poured drinks, then sat in the chair across from the bed, pulled his cøck out, and nodded.
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What makes Ramsay Bolton more disturbing than the other villains in Game of Thrones?
The most terrifying thing about Ramsay Bolton wasn’t his intelligence, political influence, or ambition. It was how much he enjoyed making other people suffer.
Petyr Baelish manipulated people because he wanted power. Cersei destroyed her enemies to protect her family and secure her position. Walder Frey betrayed his allies because his pride and desire for revenge mattered more to him than honor. Joffrey used cruelty to satisfy his ego and prove that nobody could challenge him.
But Ramsay? He turned suffering into entertainment.
His treatment of Theon Greyjoy wasn’t simply about defeating an enemy. He systematically stripped Theon of his identity, dignity, and sense of self, transforming him into Reek. He didn’t just want to win; he wanted to break the person standing before him.
That’s what separates Ramsay from many of Westeros’s other monsters. They could justify their actions through power, revenge, or survival. Ramsay’s cruelty often went far beyond what those motives required.
And yet, there’s an important distinction: Ramsay wasn’t necessarily the most dangerous villain in Westeros. He was one of the most personally disturbing. Littlefinger could destabilize kingdoms, and Cersei could destroy entire political alliances. Ramsay’s evil was more intimate, making his victims’ suffering the point rather than merely the cost of achieving something else.
Westeros was full of people willing to do terrible things for power. Ramsay was terrifying because he seemed to enjoy the terrible things themselves.
So, who is worse: the villain who commits atrocities to achieve a goal, or the one who takes pleasure in the suffering along the way?
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妹: お兄ちゃん、母さんの貯金を使ったって本当?
兄: 誰から聞いたんだ?
妹: 母さんよ。銀行に行ったら、口座のお金が思っていたより少なくなっていたって。あなたが管理していたんでしょう?
兄: そうだよ。でも、全部使ったわけじゃない。
妹: いくら使ったの?
兄: それは……少しだよ。
妹: 少しって、いくら?
兄: 二万ドルだ。
妹: 二万ドル? それが少しなの?
兄: すぐに返すつもりだったんだ。
妹: 何に使ったの?
兄: 事業を始めようと思ったんだ。最初はうまくいくと思っていた。でも、取引先からの入金が遅れて、支払いができなくなった。
妹: それで母さんのお金を使ったの?
兄: 会社が倒れたら、従業員にも迷惑がかかる。何とかしなければならなかったんだ。
妹: どうして私たちに相談しなかったの?
兄: 相談したら、反対されると思ったからだ。
妹: 反対されたくなかったから、母さんが老後のために貯めたお金を勝手に使ったの?
兄: そんな言い方をするなよ。
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After collecting my first money on the OCR program I decided to visit Bet9ja shop
Please wish me luck as I wish to double up the money
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My figure skating instructions hands on my hips during a lift changes the whole sport for me..
I started skating when I was twelve and it was never sexy. It's cold and your nose runs and the rink smells like wet metal and rubber from the mats and you fall on your ass so many times your tailbone has its own ZIP code. Skating is bruises and early mornings and blisters from laces that never break in right. It's a lot of things but sexy is not one of them.
Until the new instructor.
He transferred from a rink across the state and the first time I saw him he was already on the ice doing crossovers like the surface was made for him specifically. Broad shoulders under a fitted black jacket, dark hair pushed back, stubble that didn't belong in a rink but looked right on him, and hands. Big hands in leather gloves that he'd take off and tuck in his pocket before working with us. He smelled like cold air and something woodsy, like cedar, even after an hour on the ice.
Private lessons were my mom's idea. She wanted me to get my double axel consistent. He wanted the same thing. I wanted his hands on my waist again.
Because that's the thing about figure skating. Your instructor touches you. It's necessary. He holds your waist during spins. He grips your hips during jumps. He lifts you by the ribs for pair elements. It's professional. It's technical. It's also his hands on my body with his face inches from mine and the cold making every nerve ending sharper.
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What if Agatha was never the real villain of the Witches’ Road, but Billy Maximoff was unknowingly responsible for creating a deadly trial that cost witches their lives? Did Billy’s lack of control make him more dangerous than Agatha, or was Agatha the real monster for exploiting a world created by a grieving teenager?
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HR accidentally emailed our entire department a spreadsheet containing everyone’s salaries.
At first, people laughed about it.
Then we noticed something disturbing.
A woman who had been with the company for eight years earned less than a man hired six months ago to do almost the same job.
She had trained him.
By lunchtime, three employees had submitted formal complaints.
By Friday, management announced that the spreadsheet was confidential and anyone discussing it could face disciplinary action.
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Nine days before our daughter's wedding, my husband told me his cancer was back and he might have four months to live.
Then he asked me to keep it a secret from her.
The doctor called on a Wednesday. Tom took the call in the garage, the way he took every call he didn't want me to hear. When he came back inside, he sat at the kitchen table and folded his hands like he was about to say grace.
"It's back," he said. "And it's everywhere this time. They're saying months. Maybe four. Maybe less."
I don't remember standing up. I remember the cold kitchen tile beneath my knees, his hand in my hair, and the strange sound coming out of my mouth.
When I could breathe again, he said the thing I would hear for the rest of my life.
"Ruth, you can't tell Emma."
Emma was our only daughter. She was twenty-eight and had spent two years planning an October barn wedding because October was when her father had proposed to me, forty years earlier, in a pickup truck with a broken heater.
She'd chosen the song for their father-daughter dance in March. She'd even made me promise not to cry because her mascara cost more than my first car.
"Not until it's over," Tom said. "I won't take this from her. She gets one day when I'm just her dad. Promise me."
"I need to think about it."
He looked at me with eyes that had already started saying goodbye.
"Ruth. Promise me."…..
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I left a man who was planning a future with me for a man who was only planning his next visit to my house. The day I discovered the difference, I nearly lost my mind.
My ex-boyfriend treated me like a princess. He was consistent, caring, and serious about our relationship. He checked on me, made time for me, and never made me beg for the bare minimum.
But I made one terrible mistake: I became so comfortable with his love that I started craving the excitement of another man’s attention.
This other man was always available. He spent money on me, wanted to see me every day, and made me feel like I was the most beautiful woman alive. Every time my phone lit up with his name, I smiled.
I started comparing my boyfriend’s familiar love with this man’s exciting attention.
I convinced myself that I had found someone who understood me better.
Before I knew it, I had crossed boundaries I should never have crossed. I gave myself to the new man, and the guilt eventually pushed me to end things with my boyfriend.
He asked me if there was somebody else.
I lied.
He looked at me for a long time before saying, “I hope you don’t regret this decision.”
I thought he was just hurt.
I had no idea those words would haunt me.
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Sexual fantasies women want to experience at least once.
The first one is: being taken the second the door closes.
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My older brother Lucas left our house in Curitiba when I was 14. He was 18.
He packed a backpack on a Sunday night and said, "I'll be back, Fe. Take care of Mom."
He never came back.
I'm 36 now. I'm an accountant, married, with a 5-year-old son.
Last week, a woman I'd never met called me from Macaé.
"Hi Fernanda. I'm Priscila, Lucas's wife. He had an accident on an oil platform. He can't walk anymore. I'm eight months pregnant, and I can't take care of him and the baby alone."
"Could you please come?"
Lucas missed my high school graduation, my college graduation, and my wedding.
He missed our mother's funeral four years ago.
I stayed in Curitiba. I dropped out of my first semester of college to take care of her. I cooked, did her insulin, drove her to dialysis three times a week.
I said, "He left a 14-year-old to take care of a dying mother. Why should I do anything for him?"
Priscila was quiet. Then she said:
"He told me one thing about you. He said, 'My sister is the best person I know, and I'm not worthy of her.'"
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I had been dating Vanessa for almost two years. We talked about marriage, our future, and even having kids together. I genuinely believed she was the woman I would spend my life with.
One Friday night, she came to my apartment to spend the weekend. While we were cuddling in bed, I noticed fresh ink on her upper thigh.
“Baby, what’s that?” I asked.
She tried covering it, but I insisted on seeing it.
When she finally showed me, my heart dropped.
It was her ex-boyfriend’s name.
“Vanessa, are you serious right now? You tattooed another man’s name on your body while dating me?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “It’s just a tattoo. Stop making it a big deal.”
I asked her why she did it.
Her response destroyed me.
“Marcus was my first real love. I wanted to remember what we had.”
I asked her, “And what about what we have? Does our relationship mean nothing to you?”
She insisted it was her body and she could do whatever she wanted. I agreed, but I couldn’t understand why she needed her ex’s name permanently on her thigh while planning a future with me.
The next morning, I asked if she was still in love with him.


























