#wedge sole shoes

[unproduciblesmackdown]

efforts in developing winston billions hair geometry; turned to kim possible geometry as a guiding light

[northqueen1973]

[sweaterkittensahoy]

So, this week I ordered a new couch pillow because I had a husband pillow full of shredded memory foam, and the thing needs to be opened and shifted around about once a week with the way I use it so it doesn't shape up weird and actually fuck up my back when I bought it to NOT fuck up my back.

I now have a wedge pillow, made of one piece of foam. And I ordered a book cushion from etsy, and I just wanna say to anyone who has thought "that adaptive thing seems like it would be useful, but I'm not disabled, so maybe it's not for me?"

It's for you. Trust me. My back hurt because I was slouching weird on the couch. I got a husband pillow. It helped a lot. But, it turns out, what I need is one giant piece of memory foam, not a bunch of tiny bits.

And the book cushion? Books are heavy sometimes. Being able to rest it higher in my lap so it's easier to read and hold? Better for my body.

Also, do you wake up with pain in the mornings? Try a contour pillow and a knee pillow.

Get those extra-strong treaded soles to wear with your heels because you wobble otherwise.

Wear compression gloves when you type. Get those orthopedic shoes because you can walk longer distances in more comfort. Buy the bra that actually supports the weight of your boobs. Get a lapdesk for your computer. Use a neck pillow even at home to keep your neck straight. Wear socks to bed. Listen to audiobooks. Read large print books.

You see something that you think will work for you and improve how you feel? Use it! Let's fucking normalize adaptative shit for everyone!

[aldenarmy]

[total-drama-brainrot]

Heather and Alejandro are 5'10 and 5'11, respectively. You'd never know this, since the two of them seem to wear exclusively heeled shoes that lift their already respectable heights to well above 6'.

It's a point of pride for the both of them. And, if pushed to confession, they'd also reveal that towering above their peers was a very subtle and very effective intimidation tactic. Hence their choice of footwear.

And it works for the two of them. For a while, at least. Until Alejandro gets a new pair of boots - almost exactly the same as his last, but with an extra inch in the heel (an indulgence he'd never admit to). Suddenly, their meagre height difference is noticable. Heather hates it.

So she buys herself a new pair of wedged sandals. And if they just so happen to be two inches taller than her last, well, who's to say?

Then Alejandro decides to try out a new look, donning a pair of heavy looking boots with a noticably chunkier sole... about five or so inches thick.

Heather matches his play with a pair of stilettos that have Alejandro as infuriated as he is impressed.

Their game continues, with increasingly taller and increasingly ridiculous footwear choices.

By the end of their little (or, perhaps, not-so-little) competition, the two of them are hovering a measly few inches below 7'. The others have started a betting pool on who will break an ankle first.

[slowd1ving]

Hello !! Do I ask for a Jinyoung Park x husband reader ? please fluff and one shot

NOSTOS . ⁺ JINYOUNG PARK

nostos: defined by homecoming, as after a long journey Gone are the days of an empty stomach and the taste of blood on your tongue. Tonight, your biggest worry consists only of explaining the ball of fur (wedged damply under your raincoat) to your oh-so-beloved husband. anon this is my first married fic ever so I hope this is decent enough fr pairings: jinyoung park + husband reader warnings: none! (literally my only one with zero warnings) wc: 1.1k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Forgive me. Two words repeated themselves like pious mantras while you trudged up the stairs. The rubber of your soles colliding rhythmically against the linoleum of each step sounded comforting, unlike the frivolous allegro of your heartbeat. Residue rainwater left miserly puddles in your wake, and you felt guilty for the soft-spoken janitor who’d tend to the mud tracked into the flooring. 

Forgive me. For what? There were a million mellifluous syllables to describe the long wrongdoings of your life, but to list them all would blur them into flowery wine rather than the sour plums that they were. Lying to good people? Purging the murky cesspits of Gapryong’s Fist? Muddying up the downtown apartment complex your penthouse had been reduced to? 

Gone was the gilt that came with the blood. Your biggest sin this week was making a babe cry with your brief glance, and perhaps the parcel wedged beneath your warm body and raincoat. 

With one hand, you fumbled a rusty key into your lock—third floor, no lurkers, no telltale signs of intruders—and with the other, you clutched the bundle to your chest with the fervour of a starved man. It’s open—!

“Oh.” There he is. 

“‘Oh’ is right. You are late,” he seethed, eyes roaming from the very crown of your soaked head to the tips of your muddy boots. “And you’re getting mud everywhere.”

“Forgive me.” You sounded perfectly contrite, and somewhat abashed—and the sincerity in your tone caused Jinyoung Park to somewhat deflate. You— he— he could never stay mad at the face of his downcast husband after all, even if he knew full well the trembling furrow in your brows had been practised and machinated until Gapryong damn Kim himself twitched in irritation at your performances. 

Well. You weren’t the Infiltrator behind the Fist for no reason. 

“If you’re sorry, take a hot bath before you catch a cold. I’ll heat up the jjigae so you don’t get sick,” he grumbled, but anyone and everyone who knew him could see the soft-worn affection behind his grousing. He wasn’t your husband for no reason. 

There was no move from you. You remained holding your coat to your chest, ring glinting on your finger as you shifted. The back of his neck prickled. 

“Err, might be a bit of a problem, doc,” you said. Sheepishly. Like you always did before that mouth of yours caused your target to become tetchy as they threw something at you. 

His hand instinctively reached for your pink fluffy slipper on the shoe rack to whack your arm with. 

“You got injured? What did you do?” But rather than land on his target, he grasped your arm. There might’ve been a meow. Did it come from you? Maybe. He could never be too sure with you. 

With a loud, obnoxiously obvious gulp, you slid the material of your windbreaker aside. It rustled as though it was making excuses for you, since you wouldn’t argue your case. In fact, you would probably cheerfully agree with whatever he flung at you. 

“A… cat. A cat,” he stared dumbly. A soggy feline juvenile stared dumbly back. 

Huh?

“A… cat?” he repeated, still processing the mental shock. Its matted, damp grey fur and huge splotch on your shirt suggested you’d carried this wretched creature for many miles. And, knowing you, you probably had. Despair wrought his face pallid. 

“Sur… prise?” you echoed in a mimicry of his cadence, and he buried his forehead in his clammy palm. No, he prepared himself to say, already expecting the imminent question. No, his mouth formed. No. “And it’s a kitten, not a cat. Be nice.”

“Can we keep him?” you asked as though this wasn’t the cheap apartment you’d purchased in this district. No, he wanted to reproach, since you did somewhat acquiesce to his request on your whims. You stared, just as dumbly as him and that cat—an unfortunate trio if he ever saw one. “We can call him Jake.”

“We are not calling him the name of my nephew,” he shot back instantly, then immediately cursed at both himself and you for your masterful deceitfulness. Damn you. Damn his silly, obnoxious, beautiful husband drenched and pitiful from the rain, pleading with those eyes of his and causing him to unintentionally fold. You played him like a damn fiddle. 

And judging by the bright beam you wore, it seemed you knew that a bit too well. 

“Well, I’ll be off cleaning our dear nephew,” you zipped past him, still clutching that little furball with all the tenderness of a new father. He was so lost in the happy glow of your smile that it took him quite a few seconds to recall exactly just what you had said. 

“We are not naming it Jake!” he gritted out. 

“You can finally be the favourite uncle!” you sang, partially drowned out by the flow of hot water. 

Staggering, he propped his elbow up against the thin door leading to the bathroom—sharp glare poised right at it. 

When will I learn to refuse him?

 . ⁺ 　

“Who are you and what the hell did you do to my husband?” Shellshocked, you gaped at the scene before you; Jinyoung Park, the man you had sworn to cherish forevermore, had been replaced by someone who’d actually tolerated the kitten’s presence. Nay, the man had the very furball—that he glared at—sequestered away on his very lap while he looked over research files from his lab. And he was stroking behind its ears and under its chin nonetheless! 

What a conundrum. 

“Being the favourite uncle,” he replied with a half-smirk that couldn’t be hidden from your prying eyes. For once in your long life—riddled with more lies and deceits than you could count—you were stumped. 

You cooed to the kitten, attempted bribing it with treats, and even brandished the foxtail you’d found on your way back home. All for naught—the feline remained firmly wedged on his lap, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. 

“Well, your prophecy did work out. We’re both favourite uncles now,” he bragged, and a tear might’ve slipped from your eye as you watched the heartwarming scene. 

“Save a space for me on the couch after I shower,” you demanded, though it was not with any malice nor aggression—just a raw affection for this little bubble. 

“I’ll see.” However hard he denied it, he was still that wily man you’d fallen for; in the hazy evening lamplight, though, he was much softer round the edges.  

And perhaps you were too. 

For despite your lack of piety, you sincerely prayed this would be the domain of the future.

a/n: yes the cat is still called jake

[scorpioriesling]

Too Hot To Handle - Episode 1

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Characters featured: Reader, Feyre, Morrigan, Gwyn, Elain, Emerie, Amren, Cassian, Lucien, Eris, Tarquin, Rhysand, Helion, & Tamlin

Warning(s): None

SR's Note: Okay, so I know this show was runner up for the most votes on the poll. However! I liked this idea so much that I am writing series for both Too Hot To Handle and Love Island if this one does well. So... please like, comment, reblog, and don't forget to vote! You literally control the outcome of this story -- every vote counts. xo

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The summer sun cast a warm glow across the chrystalline water in the bay, the reflections like little silver fractures along the surface. The smell of salt in the air only surges you forward, the clicking of your wedges against the wood of the dock a contrast to the swishing of the boats in the water.

The large, white, pristine yacht comes into view, tied directly at the end of the dock, practically calling your name louder and louder with every step closer you take. You raise a hand to shade the sun from your vision, and can make out a few figures on the deck. Your heart rate picks up, a small smile spreading across your face as another adrenaline wave courses through you again.

This was it -- you'd finally made it to the retreat you'd been so anxious to attend. This could finally be your chance at finding not just another partner for the evening, but a real, true partner for life.

All you had to do was step onto the Love Boat.

"Y/N?" The captain greets you politely as you step up to the ramp leading to the boat's main deck. You meet his eyes, and he extends his hand. You take it, and he shakes as though you're equals, his gaze never leaving your eyes as he nods politely. You smile appreciatively, knowing in that moment, under his direction, you would be in good hands.

"It seems you're the last to board, dear. Please -- step aboard whenever you are ready." He nods once more.

"Thank you!" You say with a little too much enthusiasm. He only smiles politely, his face turning to peer out at the ocean beyond once more. You take a hesitant step onto the path toward the main deck, the soles of your shoes clicking differently on the metal than they did the wood. You continue your stride, up and up and up the path...

When you can see the opening onto the main deck, you halt, ruffling your fingers through your blown-out hair and adjusting the strings of your bikini. If you're really about to walk onto a deck full of males (and females, for that matter) who were all here for the same reason you were, you had to make sure what needed to be covered -- and what needed not to -- was or wasn't... right?

With a satisfied sigh, you took one calming breath before taking the final step past the interior walls of the boat, and heading toward the crowd of other bikinied females and half-naked males before you. You could have sworn your mouth dropped open at the sheer amount of options you had -- and not one of them was a bad one! Everywhere your eyes darted, all you could see was muscle, toned abs, defined legs, and amid the whistles and cheers, a very loud:

"Oooh! Who have we got here?"

✧･ﾟ:

All you can do is laugh nervously as every eye on the boat seems to be on you. You haven't felt self-conscious in ages, but with everyone staring at you like this you feel so... exposed. Nonetheless, you're grateful when a pretty girl walks right up to you and holds out a flute of champagne to you with a smile.

"A glass of champagne for you?" She asks. You graciously take it from her, and your eyes meet her caramel brown ones.

"Thank you, yes, absolutely," you chuckle. "God, I'm so nervous, I feel like everyone's-"

"Drinking you up?" She says, her brow raising. You shrug, chuckling as she looks around at the guys waiting to come over and talk to you. "It's because everyone is. You're the freshest glass of water on this boat, and every guy wants a taste." She winks, and your cheeks heat at her words. She laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder, the sun shining on the radiant golden locks as though they are made of the metal itself. "My name is Morrigan -- uh, Mor, I mean. Everyone just calls me Mor." She sips her bubbly champagne, and you take note. The bubbly one is Mor -- like the champagne on the boat.

"Well, I'm happy to meet you Mor," you say. "I'm Y/N." She glances over her shoulder, her eyes only briefly meeting yours once more before she leans in close.

"Between you and me," she says lowly. "I have my eyes set on that one over there," she glances toward a very tall, dark-skinned male with short black locks. He is laughing at something the brunette beside him says, his smile adding to the glowing aura around him.

"You should move in now then," you suggest, and Mor shoulder bumps you.

"Heyyy you're just saying what I was already thinking," she smiles. Her aura shines just as brightly as she wades through the crowd, making her way toward the joyous male. It's only a matter of minutes before you're approached once more, this time by a much taller, much more handsome person.

"Well hello there darling," the raven-haired male's deep tone sends a flutter about in your stomach. You smile up at him, your eyes dragging across the sculpted panes of his tanned skin.

"Hello," you politely greet. He smiles coyly, taking your free hand in his.

"And who do I have the pleasure of meeting today?" He drawls. You shyly introduce yourself, and he nods as if your name is quite suitable.

"Y/N," he affirms. He places a featherlight kiss to the top of your hand and you blush, noticing his subtle glance toward your bikini top as he does so. "You're quite beautiful, Y/N," he says.

"And you're quite charming...?" You raise your eyebrows in question.

"Rhysand," he finished. Ahh, Rhysand. "However, "Charming" would do just fine, if it is a Prince you are looking for." He chuckles, a small dimple forming in his cheek. You giggle along with him, and he raises his whiskey glass to you.

"Cheers to finding your Prince Charming, hmm?" He winks, and heads off toward where a few other ladies have congregated near the railing. It isn't long before he says something and they all laugh, surely all fawning over him already.

Rhysand the Charmer. Got it. Boy, whoever goes for that one will have quite a few ladies in waiting to battle it out with to get to him-

The loud blaring of the ship's horn has everyone flinching in suprise, so much so that you almost spill your champagne. You manage to keep it all in your glass, that is until the ship disembarks from the dock, the sudden motion causing you to sway a bit in your wedges and loose your balance.

"Woah-"

Two hands brace your arms, catching you mid-wobble before you could topple over. Your upper back brushes across warm, hard skin and you shudder at the contact, feeling alight with energy and embarassment at your sudden sea legs.

"Are you alright, miss?"

You turn, peering over your shoulder as your helped upright onto your platforms once more. Only a bit of champagne has slipped from your glass, but not enough to warrant a scene. Nonetheless, you can't help but feel ashamed in front of yet another beautiful man before you.

"Oh, I'm alright -- just quite embarassed really. I can't believe... I mean I'm usually not so clum...s...y..." You trail off, your eyes meeting a pair of the most beautiful ones you'd ever seen. The heterochromia was instantly attractive, the deep amber on the left such a contrast to the burnt golden on the right; Gods you couldn't stop staring.

"Well, it seems your slight misstep has maybe affected your ability to talk then?" He jokes, his red hair flowing behind his shoulderblades with the slight breeze off of the ocean. Your cheeks flare, and you chuckle nervously.

"No! No not at all, I... maybe my wit just isn't quite as good as yours?" You arch an eyebrow at him, earning you a delighted laugh in return. You quickly scan him when he tosses his head back -- all the way down to his burnt orange swim trunks-

"Lucien," he says, holding out his hand. You take it, and immediately cringe when you remember the champagne you'd sloshed over it moments ago. He lets out a breathy laugh.

"What is it, now you don't like the way my hand feels either? Moments ago you didn't mind..." He teases. You let go, and playfully shove his shoulder, which earns you another grin.

"Nooo, I just spilled some of my drink when I slipped earlier and I realized it got on you too," you explain.

"Ohhh, I see I see," He says, inspecting his hand palm up. He shrugs.

"Well, now I'll just remember that you've put something sticky all over my fingers," he wiggles his brows, and you gasp.

"Lucien!" You can't help but laugh. He only smiles at you, glancing around before taking a step past you toward the stairs.

"You didn't tell me your name yet, love," he says looking back.

"Y/N," You say. He nods, glancing at his palm once more.

"Got it... Y/N, the pretty girl who got my hand sticky and wet. I'll remember you for sure," he says with a wink.

Add Lucien sticky fingers to the list.

✧･ﾟ: *

Over the next hour or so, you'd walked around the boat, admiring the views of the ocean, exploring what wasn't locked off from retreat attendees, and meeting a few more guests. You hadn't had any other males approach you yet, but you did meet another girl while watching the waves.

"What's brought you to the retreat?" She asked kindly. You smiles softly, thinking about the few males you'd already met today.

"Honestly, I haven't had much luck in relationships in my past," you explained, looking over at the freckled female beside you. Feyre was her name, she'd said. Feyre with freckles.

"Oh, I can understand that. Honestly, I've been through some shit myself." She says, peering out at the vast expanse solemnly.

"I just feel like maybe this is a way to finally meet someone looking for the same thing I am, you know?" You continue. She nods, her long golden braid swaying behind her and ending just above the waistband of her midnight blue bikini.

"Oh, absolutely." She agrees, her eyes meeting yours. "Let's just hope these guys we're forced to share this yacht with for a month aren't total dogs, hm?" Her crystalline blue eyes crinkle at the sides as she cracks a smile, and you chuckle in agreement. Just a few moments later, Mor approaches once more from across the deck, her ruby red bikini unmissible from a mile away.

"Ladies!" She exclaims. You and Feyre both turn, taking her in fully as she approaches happily with two margaritas in her hands.

"I see you've found the bar?" Feyre muses. Mor hands her a margarita, and then thrusts one into your hands.

"Oh I've found something better than the bar girls -- I found the hot tub!" She squeals in delight, hopping from foot to foot and somehow maintaining her balance in her very high heels. You and Feyre exchange a glance, but ultimately shrug as Mor links arms with you and pulls you toward the main stairs to the top deck.

"...Oh! And after I talked to Helion, there was this other guy Eris who was like, mega hot but I don't really know if he's my type? Oh, and I almost forgot about Gwyn too, she is such a sweetheart, oh gosh..." Mor keeps rambling on as you and Feyre follow her to the hot tub, your eyes trained on yet two more delicious males already seated inside, engaged in conversation. You and Feyre quietly remove your shoes, and as you bend over to undo the straps, you can feel the blonde one staring directly at you, as though peering right through the thin fabric of your bikini. When you stand again, Mor has already gotten in, the bubbles swirling around her and Feyre's ankles as she wades in as well, banalcing her margarita in her hand. You nervously step in, the slipery stair below only providing deja vu from your earlier embarassment.

"I can hold that, if you'd like," the very muscular, tan, tattoed male with the short brown hair offers a kind smile and a hand to you. You smile back, and hand him your drink.

"Aww, how sweet of you!" You chirp. His smile only grows as you slowly sink deeper into the water, the bubbles foaming just below the strings of your bikini top. You sit next to him, getting a better look at him. He hands you back your drink, and his perfect teeth grin down at you before he says;

"I meant your hand, but I'll help however I can I suppose." You blush, and he only chuckles at you.

"Oh gosh," Mor loudly exclaims. "I forgot! These are my new friends too." She hiccups, clearly intoxicated, and gestures around the hot tub to each individual. You pull your eyes from the handsome male beside you to the blonde, mysterious one across the way who's been staring at you since he'd first seen you. You only meet his piercing emerald eyes for a moment before looking away shyly.

"Feyre... then me, obviously," Mor gestures to herself. "Then we have Y/N, and then Cassian..." Cassian. Hmm... the cutie, you supposed. He glances to you again, a small smirk on his lips as hishand under the water slightly brushes against your thigh. It's enough to cause your breath to hitch.

"...then lastly is Tamlin!" You're immediately pulled from your daze upon hearing the quiet stranger's name. You'd need to be sure to get him alone later, something in his gaze was quite... hungry. It was almost like a need, perhaps one he came to satiate just as you had. It was like you were his prey, he was a hunter out for you in the forest...

Tamlin's target. That'd do.

Conversation buzzed around you as more people joined, left, rejoined, and drank in the hot tub while the sun began to set in the distance. Another kind male, (Tarquin with the Tequila, you'd deemed fit as he kept grabbing you fresh margaritas) a strikingly dark one with white locks offerred to refill your drink -- a few times, actually -- but with each passing hour, you only felt as though you wanted to at least talk to Tamlin. Alone.

"Yeah, there are only half the beds on board, so we have to share," your fuzzy attention clears as you re-engage in the conversation before you. Rhysand furrows his brows, taking in what Cassian had just said. You can't help but do the same.

"Wait, what do you mean half the beds?" Feyre asks. Cassian shrugs, looking around the tub at each person, his eyes drifting over you for only a moment.

"That's what I heard before I got on -- the rules of the Love Boat is that we have to couple up every night to sleep," he explains, then his face contorts in confusion. "Wait, were you guys not told this before you boarded? Or..."

"If it was in the contract, then I probably just skimmed over it," a pretty, fair skinned brunette girl admits. You nod in agreement, you definately didn't read every single word in that thing. But if that's the case...

"Well, if that's the case," Feyre says, rising from the bubbling water and making her way toward the stairs. "I've got some decision making to do then." She says in finality, descending upon them one by one. You sigh, your head fuzzy from the drinks and judgement clouded on what to do. You'd already met so many fine men today, sure, but you hadn't met them all -- but, even so, the sun was setting, and you needed someone to share a bed with tonight.

You rise as well, your hunter tracking your every move. Sure, did you pull your bikini up a little higher for the viewing pleasure? Maybe. Did you sway your hips when getting out of the hot tub? Also... maybe. You knew he was looking, and you quite liked it as such.

As you descended the stairs, you found most of the girls lounging on the beach beds on the main dock, all chatting away. You slipped in, sitting on a corner between Feyre and another gorgeous female with stunning chocolate skin and a long brown fishtail braid.

"Well, I'm planning to bed with Helion," Mor says confidently. She looks to a pale girl with stunning blue eyes that match the ocean's surface, her wispy red hair blowing beautifully behind her. "Gwyn, who are you thinking?"

Gwyn -- the mermaid, with those oceanic eyes -- perks up, her hand rubbing over the skin of her arm. "I haven't really met many males today, so I'm not really sure... Tarquin was nice, but I met Tamlin too and he was very interesting." Her lilting voice is so sweet, you didn't doubt any male in here would find that endearing about her.

"Personally, I'm feeling Rhysand a little bit," Feyre admits. You raise your eyebrows at her, and a few other ladies in the bunch nod in agreement.

"I met him today too -- he was really sweet," the girl with the fishtail nods. Mor giggles at her.

"Emerie, I feel like you've always liked tan guys," she says. Emerie chuckles.

"I mean, I have a type anddd... he fits the bill," she admits. Emerie who likes tans.

You glance to Feyre, who only sits quietly beside you, seeming to be thinking a million things at once in her head before her focus lands on the fair-skinned brunette from earlier.

"Elain? Have anyone in mind?" She asks. Elain's cheeks turn as red as a rose, but she smiles and covers her cheeks with her hands. She reminds you of a flower in a garden.

"I... oh, I just don't know yet, Fey." She admits. The smaller female next to her only shakes her head, her pin-straight short black hair swishing as she does.

"Better figure it out soon... these men will be pouncing like cats soon enough." Her blood red lipstick gleams in the evening sun, and Feyre glances to you again.

"Were you thinking of anyone yet?" She asks quietly. You slowly shake your head.

"No... I mean, yes... I mean, maybe? I don't know, I've only met a few guys, and I don't know... making the first move usually isn't my style." You bite the inside of your cheek. Feyre rests a hand on yours and her blue eyes peer at you.

"Y/N, you don't have to worry... I'm sure you'll have a few males asking for you tonight." She says, a soft smile curving her lips. You only chuckle, giving her hand a light squeeze.

"Oh please -- you're a total catch! Rhysand is yours if you go for him first." You glance quickly at Emerie, who is still listening in on whatever Mor is drawling on about now. Feyre takes a deep breath, and nods in agreement.

"You're right -- I should make my move first." She rises quickly, her sudden motion drawing all eyes to her.

"Okay... ladies uh... nice chat... um..." She stutters. You rise next to her, swinging your arm over her shoulders.

"Let's move in on these silly boys before they mess any of our plans up, shall we?" You declare. A chorus of cheers in agreement ring out as the group disbands, making their way about the yacht as the guys seem to be doing the same.

You take your time, slowly walking the floors and trying to avoid contact with the other males before you're able to at least converse with Tamlin. You ascend the stairs, hoping he'll be in the hot tub still...

Sure enough, he is.

He turns as you walk up to him and you say a silent prayer in thanks that you're the only two up here. His swirling green eyes meet yours, and you sensually make your way into the hot tub once more, the steam a warm greeting against the ever approaching evening air.

"I see you've made your way back." He says, his deep voice sending a thrill down your spine. You sit a few feet from him, leaning against the edge of the tub and gazing into his eyes. His stare that seems to eat you alive.

"I wanted to at least talk before..." you trail off. He raises an eyebrow slightly, and you chew on your bottom lip.

"Before..." he repeats your words.

"Before... we had to... you know-"

"Choose someone to sleep with tonight?" He finishes. You nod silently, and he sighs, his arms dipping below the water's surface. His gaze flickers toward the evening sunset for a moment, and you study his face before his eyes settle back on you once more.

"And you... only came up here... to talk?" He rasps, and you stare wide-eyed as his long fingers gently find purchase on your thigh, running up and down softly. You'd be lying if you said it didn't set your core on fire; your sex drive was already high as-is.

"I... uh, well I mean..." You suck in a sharp breath when his hands find your knees, lightly tugging you closer to him. The water swirls around you, the steam adding to your flushed complexion as he pulls you mere inches from him. He leans in close, practically hovering over you as a small smile spreads across his deliciously kiss-able lips.

"What was that you were saying, Y/N?" He whispers. The way your name rolls off of his tongue is mouth-watering... as though he's the freshest glass of water in the room, and you simply...

Wanted a taste.

You push off the hot tub bench, the water lapping at your waist as you smush your lips onto his. You were right -- they are quite kiss-able. The instant attraction is very apparently two-sided as his hands rest on the esposed skin of your waist, your hands caressing his sharp jawline and lightly threading through his bleach-blonde locks. He parts his lips, allowing you in and you take it, your tongue dancing with his in a tango of passion and instant attraction.

He guides you onto his lap, pulling you to sit atop him and continue to makeout. Every soft groan from him sends wave after wave of arousal to your core, and you couldn't help but feel excited to share a bed later. Oh, the things you had planned...

He pulls back, his half-lidded eyes searching yours as his puffy pink lips curve into a small smile, revealing his (of course) perfect smile.

"This means we're sharing a bed tonight, hm?"

✧･ﾟ: *

When the announcement came over the speakers that the passengers would be disembarking for a luxury dinner, everyone was quite thrilled! You'd found Mor again, who was happy to report that Helion confirmed he'd share her bed for the night (you hadn't yet told her about Tamlin) and a few of the other males you'd met that day fell in line beside you as you filed off the yacht, one by one toward a very expansive, very theatrical scene.

Fire dancers, bongo players, hula skirts all around -- this was a party! Everyone whooped and cheered as the group made their way toward the building, the festivities only creating more excitement as we ventured on.

"Love Boat passengers!" The Captain called from the back of the group. Everyone halted, turning to look to him as he removed his hat and gazed over the crowd.

"I have been asked to inform you that... unfortunately, you will not be re-entering the yacht," he explains. A wave of confused mutterings overtakes the group, but the Captain continues.

"Nevertheless -- you'll ride out the remainder of your retreat in a luxury villa!" The confused murmurs switch to excited chants, suprise overtaking the group.

"Lastly, I will not be in charge of you any longer. You'll be monitored via cameras, and by Lana." He announces, and begins retreating toward the yacht.

Many people call after him, asking who Lana is and looking around for another host among the entertainers on the beach. Instead, a robotic box emerges from the end of the path with a white cone-shaped device atop it, glowing with light as sound eminates from it.

"Greetings guests. I am Lana, and I am your host."

Many people look around, groaning in confusion over your new cone-shaped hostess. Lights flicker on behind the cone, illuminating the vast expanse of the luxury villa the Captain had mentioned earlier. Cue another round of excited whoops and hollers.

"Welcome to my retreat, Too Hot To Handle. The villa behind me is where you'll reside for the next four weeks while you explore the meanings behind forming deeper connections with others, bonding with people on a personal level, and forming connections that go beyond the physical standpoint." The cheering dies down, and many of the entertainers lessen their movements as Lana's spiel draws to a close.

"I hope you're ready for the journey -- because you'll be completing this retreat adhearing to my rules. And my biggest rule is that you'll complete this retreat... without the use of any physical intimacy."

✧･ﾟ: *

[lemonlover1110]

𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Warnings: Angst, Just Toji being an ass and regretting it, Satisfactory ending if you're against Toji

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Toji often remembers the night he left you. You were six months pregnant with your daughter, and he decided that he wasn’t in love with you anymore. He was in love with someone else, so he left you. Guilt eats him alive ever since.

Three years later, every time he sees his daughter, he wants to cry. Mainly because he wasn’t in love with someone else. He just mistook the love for attention as actual love. You just started to focus so much on your pregnancy that you didn’t pay as much attention to him. She gave him that.

Now, every second of every day, he regrets it. You’re so stunning. So kind. So attentive. An amazing mother. Every time he sees you, he falls more in love. And he’s thinking of winning you back, yet he doesn’t have the courage to. He knows better. 

You’re civil with him, but that’s because of your daughter. He knows you hate him. Because of him you ended up in the hospital, nearly losing the baby you’ve always dreamt of having. He showed up to your labor with his new girlfriend, and the first few times refused to visit unless she was allowed to come with. He’s caused you so much pain.

“Daddy!” He hears, and he watches his three-year-old daughter run to him. He stands up from his chair and crouches down to open his arms and receive his daughter with a warm hug. When she’s in his arms, he kisses the temple of her forehead. 

“My princess, how are you?” He asks, picking her up from the ground. He focuses on her, before he notices you. You wear a cute flowy dress that shows your cleavage a bit, some wedges, and a bit of makeup. It makes him fall in love all over again. 

You give him a weak, insincere smile before you take a seat. You usually meet up at this café to drop off your daughter, solely because there’s a playground which your daughter loves. And you two sit together, awkwardly, watching as she enjoys her play time. She never gets bored of it.

Toji helps her take off her shoes before she goes to play. When Toji takes a seat across from you, he thinks of what to say. You don’t bother to look at him, watching your daughter. 

“How’s life treating you?” He speaks up, which makes you look back at him. You shrug. He feels as his heart skips a beat, thinking about bringing up the idea of rekindling your relationship. He taps his pointer finger on the table before he clears his throat,

“Have you ever thought of… Getting back together?” He questions, making you raise an eyebrow. “For our daughter… I’m asking for our daughter.”

“Not really.” You respond. “You left while I was pregnant, so why would you care now? You’re unreliable.”

“I’ve changed, y’know…” He brings up. Maybe he wasn’t the best father with Megumi, but he sure is trying with his daughter. He’s changed so much ever since she was born.

“That’s nice to know, Toji.” You answer. You don’t care to entertain the subject, focusing back on your daughter. “I’m seeing someone too.”

“What–” Toji replies. He finds his cheeks turning pink due to embarrassment. “I hope all goes well.”

“He treats me better than you ever did.”

[eli0004]

Kneel- A Sub!Levi drabble [9:20 PM]

Silence. Perhaps she’s contemplating a response. Perhaps that’s only the least fear-inducing option in his brain. Then again, it is that very fear that kept him on his toes. A high that leaves him desperate for the next fix.

He takes a breath to ground himself, and raises his head, meeting her eyes with his own. An expression that leaves him shivering and yet, he can’t quite read its meaning. The eye contact only lasts for a few short moments before she speaks, voice eerily calm.

“So, what I’m gathering is,” she takes a few slow steps forward “You’ve been acting like a miserable little bitch all day because you wanted attention? You’ve had a damn stick wedged up your ass all this time, because you wanted your little dick wet?”

Levi crosses his arms with a scoff “No, i just figured since it was your only day off this week you’d at least-“

He flinches and steps back, heart catching in his throat as he is interrupted by her clutch purse and keys slamming down against the marble countertop

“KNEEL!” Her voice booms. In a flash, Levi drops to his knees as if he’d been waiting for the order to do so his whole life, an enthusiastic gaze lingers on her figure, as she slowly steps towards him.

“Tsk tsk…A man nearly 35, acting like such an impatient little brat. Has your attitude caught up with your size?” She sneers “I hope you’re happy, it’s only one day a month that I choose to go out with my friends and have my fun, and here i am putting up with your antics. You’d better make it worth my while.” Stopping in front of him, she grabs a fistful of his silky dark hair, yanking his head back

Levi grins up at her slyly, hands cheekily gliding up the bare skin of her legs “Just give me the chance baby.” He whispers. Oh no, this won’t do.

She raises her leg to place the sole of her shoe square against the center of his chest, harshly shoving him down to the floor. Levi hisses at the sting of the 6 inch heel digging into his sternum, but somehow he’s never been so painfully hard in his entire life. He can practically feel himself leaking through the front of his pants as he gazes up at her standing over him.

“Correct that before I leave you here to bitch and moan by yourself.”

“Yes ma’am.” he all but moans, a sly smirk on his face.

[oneforthemunny]

honeysuckle day dream |cowboy!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: a thought I had about cowboy!eddie. you, eddie, and honeysuckle.

edit by @eddiemunsons-missingnipple <3 everyone say yee-haw!

contains: MINORS DNI 18+. language, sexual themes, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral male & fem receiving, face sitting. mostly sweet fluff a little smut at the end :)

"Be careful comin' over here, baby." Eddie's rough soled boot, thick and leather, a little worn from the work on the ranch, crunched down onto the branches and twigs in the path. "'S a briar patch, be careful."

His hand held yours, rough, calloused hands that were hardened from years of hard work. He always teased you about your soft hands, how you "wouldn’t know a hards day of work if it bit you in that sweet ass, girlie" but he refused to let you lift a finger. He was good to you like that, so caring and doting on you.

"Here, put your foot right there." Eddie nodded to the crumples mess of branches he's smushed for your foot to wedge its way in unscathed from the thorns. "Told you 'bout them shoes." His brow furrowed under the brim of his hat, amber eyes catching every glint of sun and shining down at you making that menacing glare a little less mean.

You frowned lightly, looking down at your little sandals. To be fair, you didn't know you'd be hiking down to the creek when you'd gone out to see Eddie, or you would've wore tennis shoes at least.

"I didn't know we were gonna hike all the way out here," You huffed, positioning your foot carefully in the cleared space. Eddie's hand moved to your waist, balancing you gently while he guided you through the thicket. "Thought you'd be training all day." You pouted with a little eye roll.

Eddie's hand smacked the fat of your ass sharply, leaving you squealing and jumping at the stinging impact. His grip held onto your waist, eyes cutting to you dangerously from under the wide brim of his dark hat. "You better watch it, darlin', 'fore I make you pick a switch out here."

The treat had your tummy rushing with that familiar heat, rising up through your chest and leaving your blistering on your cheeks, ducking your head to hide your grin, jumping to the clear patch of soft grass out of the briar thorns. Eddie pivoted behind you, heavily stomping into the place beside you, hands easily finding your waist, squeezing your hip affectionately.

“Wanted to spend time with you.” Eddie beamed down at you, all dimpled grins and shining eyes. “Too pretty of a day to not spend it with my best girl.”

You blushed, wrapping your arm around his waist, cheek smushing into the side of his scratchy work shirt, protective from the sun and anything else that could scathe the cowboy. It was a beautiful day, cloudless blue skies that left the sun shining freely down on all the freshly sprouted crops of the earth. You sighed contently, taking in the scenery around you, the grass a vibrant green and wildflowers sprouting from the tall ground, fields of clover blooms and sweet grass and dandelions lining like a botanical carpet rolled out all the way down to the creek.

"Did you bring a blanket?" You asked, tilting your chin to look up at Eddie, squinting at the sun shining through his curls, illuminating each curly tendril like a golden halo. He looked so pretty.

"No," Eddie grinned, shaking his head down at you playfully. "Is it gonna kill ya to sit on the grass?"

You rolled your eyes. "Maybe. If there's a bug... or a snake." You paused, scanning the tall grass, then looking back at Eddie, clinging to him tighter around his waist. "If there's a snake, Ed, you have to kill it."

Eddie tipped his head back, laugh ringing from deep in his chest, hat nearly falling back with ever tilted shake of laughter. "I'm being serious, Eddie." You huffed, tone teetering dangerously on the verge of a whine. "You know I'm scared of snakes."

"I know you are, sweet girl." Eddie pulled you closer into his hip, wranglers rubbing beside you with every step through the soft earth.

He remembered the time you'd seen a little garden snake, barely a few inches long, slither across the path to the stables. You'd screeched so loud, startling him and the horses, shoving him in front of you like he was your own personal shield. Eddie had teased you endlessly about it, cackling and pretending to go towards it, until you were furious with tears. He didn't grab the snake, of course, he wouldn't ever do that to you, opting to coddle you and promise he'd take care of you instead.

Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of your head, a loud smack that was dramatic and sweet, left you blushing none the less. "You know I won't let you get hurt." Eddie said nonchalantly, humming lightly when he looked around at the nature surrounding him. It was so flippantly a fact, left you a little dizzy with warmth and content swelling furiously inside your chest.

You could hear the streams of the waters, crashing in a light steady flow over rocks and brushing over the bank where the creek lied. Eddie would go wading in the water sometimes, jeans rolled up to his calves and boots discarded, picking up crawdads and frogs to show you. Sometimes you'd join him, most of the time you'd just watch, content in basking in his company from the soft grass of the bank.

"Look over yonder," Eddie's inked finger pointed towards the tree, a bustle of yellow and white flowers blossoming gorgeously on the greenery around it. "Y'know what those are?"

You shook your head. "Flowers? I'm guessing." You smirked up at him. "Are they blackberries?" Eddie had a blackberry patch near the fields, one he wasn't sure where it came from but the horses were always messing in it. Sometimes he'd pick a few for you, bring them in so you could wash them and the two of you could share them in the summertime.

Eddie shook his head. "Honeysuckle." He nodded towards them. "You ever had honeysuckle?"

Your nose scrunched. "Is that, like, honey?"

Eddie snorted in laughter, hand moving to grab yours, pulling you through the clover fields towards the tree. "It's a flower, but you can drink its juice." He explained simply. "Wayne used to take me down here all the time when we'd go fish. Taught me how to get the nectar outta it. I thought these died in the drought of '87, but guess they've come back."

He smiled so proudly, eyes twinkling the way they did when he'd tell you a good memory, a rare happy one from his childhood. "How do you get the nectar out?" You tilted your head to the side lightly. "Thought only bees and butterflies could do that."

"Nah, honeysuckle's special, darlin'." Eddie grinned, he squatted in front of the green bush, climbing high on the trees and vines around it. He plucked a yellow-cream colored flowers off it, rolling it between his fingers.

"Watch this," Eddie's eyes lifted, round and big, shining with excitement. You matched his little smile, leaning in. "You just pinch this bottom like that, and pull this part," Eddie ripped the flower apart so delicately in his big hand, revealing the long stem in the middle, a single watery drop of nectar clinging to it. "Here, open up, baby. Taste it."

You stuck your tongue out, obediently, eyes lifting to meet Eddie's. It was an automatic reaction now, one Eddie wanted to beam in pride at you for remembering, his jeans tightened around the crotch at the sight. He placed the nectar covered stem on your tongue, rubbing it over your taste buds gently. It was more bitter than you expected it to be, earthy with a floral sweetness that tasted... odd, but intriguing on your tongue.

"Hmm," You hummed, rolling your tongue around in your mouth, brows furrowing ever so slightly up at Eddie. "Not really what I expected." You giggled, crystal and warm, it made Eddie's knees buckle.

"Yeah?" Eddie giggled back, brows raising. "Y'want another one?"

You contemplated for a moment, nodding. "Show me one more time how you did it."

Eddie grinned, his cock twitching behind the zipper of his wranglers. He plucked another flower, pinching, pulling, and eyeing at you to open your mouth. You did, holding his gaze while he smeared the sweet flower's nectar over your tongue.

You nodded slowly, rolling the nectar around your mouth. "It's pretty sweet." You shrugged finally. "Good. You want a taste?"

"Yeah," Eddie nodded, swallowing thickly. He could feel his heart beat in the throbbing tip of his dick, eyes trained on you. "Let me have a taste, sweet girl."

You gave him a wicked grin, eyes batting at him playfully. Oh, how many times you'd heard that in a very different circumstance.

"Pinch it, pull it, and..." You revealed the long string, smiling up at him triumphantly. "Open up for me, handsome."

Eddie snorted in a laugh before obliging, tongue out and eyes on you while you repeated his actions, rubbing it over his tongue. Eddie moaned loudly, eyes pinching close and lashes fluttering. "Mmm, tastes delicious." He groaned. You blushed at the vulgarity, eyes casting down, catching the growing tent in his jeans.

You paused for a moment, eyes lifting to him wickedly. He smiled back at you shamelessly, those muddy irises darkening with every passing second. You lifted a brow. "Seriously?" You asked, trying to feign annoyance, like you weren't pulsing something fierce between the knees.

Eddie shrugged. "Just what you do to me, sugar." He grinned cheekily.

He sure did know how to make you blush, you thought, turning to hide your heated face, flicking the flower towards the ground. "Does the honeysuckle have some kind of natural viagra in it?" You asked playfully. "That why you wanted to bring me out here?"

Eddie howled in laughter. "I dunno, baby, not that I know of." He grinned, perfect, pretty teeth and plump lips. "Maybe. You feelin' horny too?"

You blushed, scoffing at his blatant question. "I think you are, Munson." You nodded towards his bulge. "You want me to help you out?"

"I'd sure love it if you did. Be awful sweet of ya." Eddie grinned salaciously. That little shit.

You sighed heavy, dramatic and playful, but sinking to your knees in the cool grass. Your hands were already working on his belt, expertly undoing that thick buckle he'd won at a competition. You could remember the first time you'd tried to take one off, fumbled and irritated until he'd helped you, and told you not to rush that there was no need. Everything was easy, a little slower out here; that's why you loved it so much.

You pushed his stiff wranglers down to his knees, shuffling on your own to get closer, placing a sweet, gentle kiss to his tented briefs, his erection angry underneath.

"Stop that teasin', darlin'." Eddie grunted lightly, jaw clenching at the feeling of your soft lips against his shaft. "I'll be just as mean if you don't play nice with me." He warned.

You just gave him a tight lipped smile, pushing his underwear down, his cock springing free and curving up towards him, the foreskin stretching around his angry head, already leaking for you. You drooled, wetting your lips, before you took it in your hand, pushing the skin down with a fluid movement.

Eddie exhaled slowly out of his nose, eyes fluttering down to watch you through thick lashes. You blinked up at him, jacking him slowly, thumb circling the sensitive tip until his hips jerked in your grasp. Eddie nodded at your gently, a bow down towards you that was your go-ahead signal.

You took him your mouth easily, sucking on the tip, tongue swiping over the sensitive head that leaked for you. Eddie groaned loudly, hands moving to thread through your hair, tangling his calloused hands through the soft locks. Your mouth, velvety and wet, sucking him down gently.

"Just like that, girlie." Eddie breathed a sigh of contented pleasure, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. He could feel his tip brush the back of your throat, head still bobbing to take him further. "Goddamit, baby, feel so good."

You hummed at his praise, moving to cup his balls while your head bobbed slowly, eyes straining to look up at him. His eyes fluttered down to you, seeing you looking at him obediently, just like he'd taught you. Eddie beamed, thumbs stroking over your hollowed cheeks.

"Look at you, my best girl, aren't ya? Just so good." Eddie rasped, voice drowned out at the chirping birds singing and flitting in the wind, water babbling down the creek making the most serene background while you shoved him vulgarly down your throat.

Your hand cupped, squeezed his balls lightly, pulling back to suction on his tip and move down his shaft, breathing deep and slow to regulate your gagging. Eddie could feel his own abs clenching with every slow drag of your mouth squeezing around him, your nails tickling his balls lightly and making them jump and squeeze at your expert movements.

"Holy fuck, baby," Eddie gritted, tightening his grip in your hair. "You just get me so good, don't ya? Just my perfect, little, sweet girl. So good to me."

You hum in response, vibrations from your throat tickling and sending shockwaves through his head to his sac. Eddie felt himself clench, knees planting in a firmer stance. He wasn't going to last long with you out here, you were too good at this. Too good at knowing him so well.

Especially the way you'd tilt your head to the side, ducking down to take his sack into your mouth, sucking them lightly while your soft hands stroked his length with perfect flicks and grips.

"Open up that mouth." Eddie grunted through clenched teeth, nose scrunching.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think you were hurting him, but you did know him- you knew he was so close his toes were curling, coil in his tummy pulling closer and closer until it snapped. Spilling hot spurts of his seed onto your flattened tongue. You caught is easily, eyes still meeting his while he milked himself into your mouth, finger hooking to catch a dribbled spurt on the side of your lips before he pressed them in your mouth.

"Swallow f'me, sweet girl." Eddie rasped, chest rinsing and falling in sharp, fast breaths.

You swallowed him in one gulp, opening your mouth open to show him, eyes still round and meeting him. You ached, a slick, throbbing mess underneath your little sundress- the one that drove Eddie wild when it'd get caught between your cheeks.

"That's my good girl, so good." Eddie praised, cupping your blushing face. "You just take such good care of me, don't ya, honey?" Eddie cooed at you.

You smiled, sweetly and a little bashful. Eddie was sure if he wouldn't have just busted his cock would be lurching, sputtering to life all over again. "I love to take care of you, Eddie." You purred, lashes batting up at him, tight rubbing together for friction.

Eddie smirked. "I know you do, baby. Do such a good job at it too." He praised you, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to your cheek, hands moving under your arms to tug you up. "Now, 's your turn, ain't it?"

You blushed, standing to your feet on shaky legs. You looked back at the ground, seeing the butterflies flit around, dragon flies whirring by. "Wait, I don't- I don't want to lay in the grass." You pouted gently. "I don't wanna get my dress dirty, Eddie."

Eddie rolled his eyes hard, feigned annoyance at you. "When did I say anything about that, huh, girlie?" He gave you a dark, pointed look.

You frowned at him confusingly, watching him sit on the grass, placing his hat beside him, dark curl melting into the grass when he laid back. "C'mon," Eddie grinned up at you, chin tucking to his chest to look up at you. "Get ready to ride, cowgirl."

You blushed, shimmying the hem of your dress up, lifting it so it was bunched by your waist, shuffling over to him, legs parting wide to climb over his body. You sunk to your knees, blushing under Eddie's wild eyed gaze, excited and lustful.

"You let me know if you can't breathe?" You asked, lifting a brow towards him. "I don't wanna suffocate you."

"I couldn't think of a better way to go out, darlin'." Eddie grinned cheekily. "Smothered by that delicious pussy by the creek? Sounds like paradise to me."

"Eddie." You whined, shuffling back towards his chest.

Eddie's hands gripped your thighs fiercely, pulling you protectively towards him. "'M just kiddin', baby. I'll let y'know, alright?" He smiled sweetly up at you, hands rubbing up the soft swell of your hips, pushing your dress up further to reveal your puffy, slick lips to him.

"Here," Eddie reached over, grabbing his hat and holding it out to you. "You put it on. You're ridin' today, girlie."

You blushed but put the dark hat on, tipping it onto your head before Eddie had you pulled into him with a slight oomph! his mouth latching to your swollen clit, lapping and suckling at you.

You bucked and rode his face, hips grinding and bumping against his nose, hands gripping his curls like the reigns to a horse, while your knees rubbed into the soft grass beneath you. You'd lost the hat after you tipped your head back too suddenly, it tumbled onto Eddie and then toppled onto the ground, but you were too caught up to care.

Eddie buried himself in you, devouring your cunt while you cried and gushed all over him, his eyes fluttering shut, savoring every last drop of your delicious nectar. He decided then, that honeysuckle was good, but nothing compared to the sweetness of you.

[shoesparadise]

New Summer Women Clogs Fashion Pink Cute Wedges Platform Garden Shoes Beach Sandals Thick Sole Increased Slippers Women Slides

[howtofightwrite]

Clothes Followup

Hi there. Professional sportswear outfitter and part-time athelete here just chiming in on how these choices are perfectly believable, in my humble opinion: #1 SHOES "sneakers" is a loose definition. but, if the character is wearing casual/lifestyle "sneakers" like jordan lows, vans, etc., these type of shoes are FLAT (not narrow running shoes). Flat soled sneakers are often preferred training shoes for mixed arts or lifting at the gym. You could wear boots, but you're sacrificing agility. As a female, I can say that a female character likely would not inflict such a handicap as BOOTS on herself. Feet are very resilient and resistant to pain and injury. Being able to move on your feet matters a lot more than protecting them does. PASS #2 PANTS. you are not punching someone's pants while boxing. and have you watched fight club? they mostly wear jeans. they're durable, wick moisture (although it feels unpleasant), and if they're fitted properly, they're not going to get in the way of your agility. Jeans are light armor if you're speaking in tabletop rpg terms. PASS #3 SHIRT. a good tshirt of a decent quality will wick moisture, will not be bulky or baggy, and will move with its wearer. tshirts are not expensive and are the best option outside a sleeveless top or topless for martial arts. Especially if you have boobs. Boxing in only a racerback sports bra is also viable, but a tshirt will provide light protection to the skin, which is a good idea in amateur boxing. If they're WEARING GLOVES, nobody is grappling anyone's shirt so there is no risk of clothes-grabbing violations happening there. If this ring is literally underground, it's probably cold. Clothes can be shed between matches, but it's often more important to be clothed appropriately so as to prevent both overheating and chills. Becoming chilled between fights is a greater danger to performance than getting sweaty is. PASS I also have questions as to the type of boxing gloves being used. Are they full padded gloves? Light knuckle pads? Do the boxers wear headgear? Mouthguards? What areas are allowed to be hit or is it a free-for-all? Maybe you think these details are mistakes, but I disagree. Half my job is punching boxes all day. Hot, sweaty, fully clothed, wearing comfortable shoes. Lots of moving around. If I am going to punch boxes (or faces) for hours, that's exactly how I'd dress. The rest of my job? Literally outfitting people with boxing equipment. Literally selling people clothing for athletics. I am also a footwear specialist. Thank you for taking the time to read this. :) -lilkittay

So, apologies in advance, lilkittay, but you're about to get dragged. This might come as a shock, but I actually have a copy of the novel Fight Club. I just found it wedged between a copy of Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson, and the Demolished Man by Alfred Bester. I'm not going to try to figure out what lead to that sorting peculiarity. The book is exceptionally good, and if you've never read it, it's an easy (if somewhat unpalatable) recommendation. Stick it up there with books like Native Son, or Ivan Denisovich, in that it covers some really ugly subject matter, but discusses a problem exceptionally well. And, in the 27 years since the novel was originally published, it has proved itself fairly prescient. It's not about the violence, it is an excellent discussion on the underlying psychology of toxic masculinity.

Now, the last time I mentioned Fight Club, someone immediately piped up with, “you've lost all credibility.” That's their problem, but I didn't actually define it, and it is a term that gets thrown around without being defined. Toxic masculinity refers specifically to an individual who cannot engage with their own emotions, particularly painful ones, in a healthy way, because they view those behaviors as effeminate. As a result, they respond aggressively and, or, violently. That's the toxic part. You get dumped. Your pet dies. You get passed over for a promotion at work. And, instead of dealing with that in a healthy way. In any healthy way. You go out into the world and try to make someone else suffer. That is toxic.

Unfortunately, Fight Club is not the grown up version of Calvin and Hobbes, though that is an amusing fan theory, and something that holds together better in the film thanks to Brad Pitt's costuming decisions.

I'm saying all of this to point out, the characters in Fight Club have no idea how to fight.

More than that, jeans are not light armor. Motorcycle leathers? Sure, those would be light armor. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're described as light armor in D20 modern. But, the only place I'd expect to see denim categorized as light armor is a game that used, “light armor,” for mage gear, “medium armor,” as rogue's leather and chain, and, “heavy armor,” as warrior gear. Which is to say, yeah, that's not how that works at all.

The problem with jeans as armor is, they're really bad at it. Someone with a crowbar? Yeah, jeans aren't going to do anything about that. Someone with an axe? I've heard about the aftermath, it was not pretty. Against a sword? Nope. Against a knife? Personal experience says the knife will win without issue. In an underground fighting arena against someone driving a shin kick into your knee? Yeah, your jeans may look fine after the fact, but you're probably not using that leg again anytime soon.

But, that RPG comment made something click together a little, so back to footwear for a second.

Why would someone wear boots? Now, personally, I wear motorcycle boots in my day to day life. Not because I'm a rider, but because I find them more comfortable and convenient than normal dress shoes, and so long as I keep them buffed out, they pass for men's dress shoes at a glance. The interesting thing about this is that my heel has a wide, flat, block of wood under it at all times. If it was a matter of life and death, I could probably grind off a significant chunk of my heel bringing a bike to a stop without suffering any injury. Now, I bring this up, because driving 200-300lbs of force behind a sharply edged wooden mallet into your unarmored instep will not improve your agility.

In the real world, armor doesn't work like D&D. There's no equivalent exchange between mobility and being able to soak a hit. (And if you think there's an irony in substituting a term from one RPG for another... well, yeah. You're not wrong.) If you think someone's going to stomp on your foot, bring steel toed boots. What you lose in agility today, you make up for in your ability to walk without a cane tomorrow.

The paradox of humans is that we are both stupidly resilient, and horrifically fragile, at the same time. Now, at this point, I do want to say something genuinely nice to you, even if it sounds a tiny bit condescending. You've never looked at another person as 150-250lbs of ambulatory meat and considered the best way to take them apart with your hands. And you know what? That is a good thing. Embrace that, and don't let go, because never finding yourself in that kind of a place is a credit to you, and the world you've been able to live in.

All of that said, fighting another human being is not a workout. It's engineering. You're looking at an organic machine with roughly the same parts and pieces you have, and your goal is to make that machine stop thrashing around, screaming, and leaking on everything, before it does the same to you. It's not better. It's not worse. It's different, and it comes with different considerations. You don't dress to look good or stay comfortable, you dress to avoid life altering injuries if at all possible.

Competitive fighting does land at a meeting point of these two considerations however. The fighter wants to come out intact, the sponsors want good show, one that will draw an audience. This leads to things like fighting in a sports bra. Yes, it may be the most, “agile,” option, but if you're going to be in a fist fight, a heavy leather jacket, preferably one with fiberglass plates may not breathe, but it will take far more abuse than your body can. (Actually, I think sometimes the inserts are made out of memory foam these days, which should also take a hit pretty effectively, especially against an unarmed foe.)

This isn't a major issue, but it is something to consider, when thinking about the temperature of the arena, it's important to remember that human body heat in a crowded space is somewhat cumulative. So, a room that starts out at around 60 degrees, could easily warm up to a comfortable temperature once the spectators are present. There's actually consistent math for calculating what you should set the thermostat for in an amphitheater when it's unoccupied so that the temperature is comfortable when the seats are filled, but I can't remember the numbers, and can't find it on short notice.

You do bring up a good point, the original Anon did not specify what kind of gloves were used. I assumed those were nominally regulation boxing gloves, but those could be something like the UFC gloves from a couple decades back, that left the fingers exposed while armoring the knuckles. The armor on those gloves allowed the wearer to inflict all kinds of horrific injuries on one's foes. In an event Michi is quite happy to recount, her younger brother almost lost an eye to a skull fracture from one of those during a poorly supervised sparring bout. It's fairly credible to suggest that an illegal fight club might use those simply to excite the crowds with actual bloodshed.

Now, as someone who has worked in shipping, I know full well that sometimes boxes do hit back. However, they are the exception rather than the rule. There's nothing wrong with practicing on punching bags, but boxes aren't trying to break you. At worst, they may just want to take a nap on the floor without regard to whether you're in the way or not. Live opponents? They're looking at you as however many pounds of meat machinery, and trying to end you. Looking good doesn't make their job harder, but armoring up does.

Anyway, like I said to the original Anon, nothing in their explanation was outright wrong. A lot of it was non-optimal, but not to such a degree as to shatter belief. The mistake you're making, and I really do say this with respect, is that you're looking at it like any other physical activity. As I said, combat is not a work out. Combat as a hazardous environment beyond the reach of OSHA. You wear protective gear (if you can) because that protection may be the difference between walking out alive and (basically) unharmed, or never walking again. You wouldn't (or at least, really shouldn't) take a bike out on the freeway at 60mph in jeans and a tees, you really don't want to get in a fight wearing them either.

-Starke

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[ddejavvu]

hey for mvm, how about poly dbf marauders picking you up from a date after the guy was awful to you or from a party after your friends ditched you, whatever you like more 💕

this post is 18+ (and so are its characters), minors dni.

You're lucky you were able to remember Sirius's number to dial it on the phone in the home office you're standing in, and you feel bad for whoever's house this is, because there's whiskey on the carpet and a pizza slice closed in his laptop. Sirius has promised that no matter what time it is, day, night, somewhere in between, he would gladly come pick you up, and Remus and James had echoed his sentiments.

You stumble through the party in your wedged heels to the lawn outside, preferring to wait on the grassy lawn for Sirius than stay inside sandwiched between drunk and high people alike. The cool night air nips at your bare skin that's exposed by your shirt, and your miniskirt doesn't offer much warmth either.

It's Remus's car that pulls up to the house, not Sirius's motorbike, and you're only a little disappointed you won't get to feel the wind whipping over your skin. You're more excited than you are downtrodden, though, because all three men spill out of the car, beelining across the grass for you.

"Hi, dovey." Remus reaches you first, squatting in the grass to kiss your flushed cheek, "I'm glad you called us."

"Yeah, 's a good girl," James croons, smoothing a hand down your hair, "Let's get up into the car, m'kay?"

"Okay," You nod, brain hazy as Sirius grips your underarm. James takes your other bicep, helping to haul you up off of your ass. Your heels sink unevenly into the dirt and Remus crouches down once more to take them off, maneuvering the straps out of their buckles and sliding the shoe off of your foot. He lifts your foot up to get the shoe out from under your sole, and he drags it up the rest of the way to his face to kiss your ankle. You send him a tired smile from where James and Sirius are holding you up, and he kisses the expression when he stands again.

"Come on," James croons, leading you to the middle seat in the back row, "Siri'n I'll sit back here with you, 'kay?"

"Then Remus is alone in front," You realize forlornly, watching him worriedly through the mirror as he gets settled into the driver's seat.

"S'okay, dove," He soothes you, reaching back to squeeze your hand while Sirius does up your seatbelt, "I'll take you back to my place, 'n we can cuddle all night to make up for it."

[lowkeyremi]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 !

pairing: k. bokuto x lene (fem!reader) note: this is a writing commission (trade) for my beautiful mootie lene!! (@satorisoup) I really hope you enjoy it lovely girl ! (anyone can read but the reader has an assigned name and gender + hair color) summary: you and bokuto have been talking to each other a lot at school, one day after he wins his game he asks if he can kiss you ! content: high school au, getting together, kisses, fluff (lmk if I missed anything!!) wc: 1.4k

At this point you aren't surprised to find a little note card wedged in your locker anymore. It's become muscle memory to see little, white cards with the scrawled hand-writing on it. Without much though you pick up the card and quickly scan over it.

Will you make it to tonight's game? I have a surprise if we win..

-KB :)

Bokuto's notes are usually very detailed, with ink splatters and scratched out words because of how excited he is to have you read them, so it's quite unusual for him to send such a neat note with no excitable writing. And what does he mean by a surprise? Well, you're bound to find out if he wins- no- when he wins his game.

"Hurry up, Lene! First period is starting soon," A good friend, Maya is waiting for you by the entrance to the building of Fukurodani. That cheeky girl has been entertaining the thought of you and Bokuto dating for some time. Ever since she saw him ask you out to homecoming (as a friend his words not yours) she has been teasing you about your crush on him.

"I'm coming! Let me change into my inside shoes!" You quickly slip out of your own shoes and put on the ones the school provides for wearing inside of school. It helps with the school's cleanliness.

You and Maya make a quick trip to your locker so you can get all of your textbooks and notebooks. "Sooooo, what did today's note say?" She's also very nosy, but how could she help it when she believes that she is the sole reason you and Bokuto are talking to each other? Maya believes that she's some kind of matchmaker.

"It said mind your business!" She leans in closer thinking you were going to actually tell her just to sigh and roll her eyes when you don't.

"Come onnnn I tell you all kinds of things." You've already decided once you've read it you would tell her, but what's the fun of saying it out right? Some teasing can occur.

"Fine fine, he asked if I would come to his game tonight." The nosy girl gasps in surprise, excitement laced in her next sentence, "Well, are you?!"

Her voice carries when she gets excited. A few looks are thrown your way, she quickly apologized before turning back to you for an answer.

"I don't know... i'm kinda busy tonight." You aren't busy at all, so you're pretty sure you'll go, but once again, it's quiet fun to tease her.

"Lene, you have to!! That's basically him asking you out on a date!" Her antics make you laugh a little bit, "That's a little extreme dont'cha think?"

"Nope! Not at all. Considering he didn't invite any of us, only you. Every time he has a game he'll ask all of us, but this is the first I'm hearing of a volleyball game." She's right, it's unusual for Bokuto to only ask you to go to one of his games.

Maybe there is a deeper meaning to his note? You're sure hoping so, because you've liked him since the your first year of high school.

"Okay, I'll go." A little smile blooms onto your face when you see your friend smile.

"Keep me updated!!!" Maya says whilst dragging you down the hall. Of course you will, because even if you don't, she'll figure out a way to get a status update.

It's around 5:45 pm when you reach the gym for his game. It started fifteen minutes ago but you had some homework that was calling your name. Once all of it was completed you had hurried to make it to the gym without missing too much of the beginning.

As of now Fukurodani is in the lead with seven points, but don't let that fool you Nekoma is right on their tail. Also, it's only the first set, this could be anyone's game.

The whole time you're on the edge of your seat, because of how exhilarating the game is. Both teams are extraordinary, Nekoma's been holding the lead but Fukurodani is able to keep up with them.

It's the last set each team has one point, so whoever wins this set will win overall. It's Bokuto's turn to serve, and before he makes his serve he looks around the crowd until his eyes lock on you.

Your cheeks immediately flush and you mouth, "You got this!"

The ace's grin almost doubles and covers his whole face. Hopefully your encouragement will help him make these serves.

The whistle blows almost immediately flipping a switch in Bokuto's head. He bounces the ball three times before tossing it up to hit it over the net.

Yaku, the ever relentless libero of Nekoma, receives Bokuto's serve. Bokuto does frown at this, Akaashi had to remind him that Yaku barely made the receive.

The final whistle blows and all of Fukurodani's supporters and cheerleaders start to scream out in joy. All the boys on the court are sweaty and somewhat tired, but they still have energy to shake hands and yell out, "Good game."

Kuroo daps up Bokuto, they give each other a pat on the back and Kuroo whispers something into Bokuto's ear that causes his cheeks to flush. The captain of Nekoma has a sly smirk on his face.

What could Kuroo have told him that has him embarrassed like this?

Everyone starts to leave the gymnasium, you stay seated though, Bokuto's note replaying in your mind.

After a few minutes the man in question appears in front of the bleachers.

"Lene! You made it!! Did you see me? Did you see us?! We won!!!" Excitement bounces off of his voice. He's so adorable that you can't help giggling.

"I did, you did amazing, Kou-kun." You two have been on first name basis for some time now.

He smiles brightly at your praise. With haste you make it down from the bleachers to meet him down on the court. His golden eyes stare into yours and you aren't really sure what to do at this point.

"Heh, I'm guessing you got my note, huh?" You nod briefly, clasping your hands together behind your back.

"Lene- I-" He pauses, frustration takes over his face. You give him time though, he needs to process his words.

"Lene! I really really like you! Like not as a friend- wait! I mean I like you as a friend but I would really like you as my-"

He suddenly stops ranting and avoids your eyes. Maybe Maya was right about why he wanted to see you. You take in a slow breath before finishing his cut off sentence.

"Girlfriend?" He smiles nervously while nodding furiously.

"Yeah, I really do like you a lot. The way you smile or laugh, your voice, your kindness, even when you scold me for something, I find myself being in awe." Your eyes soften at his confession.

"Of course I'll be your girlfriend, Koutaro." Those funny eyebrows of his raise up to his forehead in shock and excitement.

"Really? Gosh I must be the luckiest guy on earth!!!" Without thinking he embraces you in a hug. It's warm and inviting, and even though he does smell of sweat, it smells awfully a lot like home to you.

The athlete keeps you in his embrace for a few minutes. He suddenly breaks the silence, "Hey, can I give you a kiss? Or is it too soon?"

You want him to kiss you, so you shake your head furiously fast. "It's not too soon. I'd be happy to kiss you Kou."

He loosens his grip on you to connect his lips with yours. It's awkward and unfamiliar at first, but after the first few pecks it feels right, like his lips were made for yours.

He pulls away first in a pout, "Gosh I don't know what I'm gonna do when I become a professional athlete and I have to leave for away games. I don't think I'll survive without your lips." He's not even joking either, the way he pouts is absolutely adorable.

"I think you'll live, I'll give you plenty of kisses before you leave and plenty when you return." Butterflies swarm your tummy when you realize that he's thinking of his future with you.

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites thanks!

[davesbigwhirlwind]

My forced formal transformation story - the things we do for love...

Sam was the love of my life. She was more stylish, more cultured, more intelligent. I had a reasonable job and was a fairly popular and trendy guy, but I was punching above my weight and I knew it. But we clicked. There was a connection and it just worked. I'd do anything for her. 

We'd been going out for about 5 months when she suggested I should move in to her family home. She lived with her father in a large house alongside their 2 staff. Now her father was a traditionalist, and, like her, was very well educated and informed, and I liked the fact he was very direct. He was a successful business owner and by default seemed to be in business mode, and always wore a somber suit and a serious expression on his face. His wife had sadly passed, but I respected the great job they had done in raising Sam into the fine woman she was. 

He told me that he'd be glad of me to move in - separate rooms of course - but as our relationship was clearly serious he wanted to help us, but emphasised that he wanted to help me develop both intellectually and physically, and while he would take things slowly, he would require me to embrace both the learnings and recommendations he made to help guide me towards being a good husband, should we reach that point. 

I readily agreed. 

A month later and I moved in. Stephen started straight away teaching me much of his knowledge on everything from etiquette to literature, and the art of being a good partner. He explained the man's place was not about fashion, beauty and flamboyancy, but, rather about masculinity, dependability and stability, and being understated, while allowing Sam to take the limelight. He explained that the correct appearance was every bit as important as how you act and how would help guide me through these factors over the months ahead. 

The first change came the following Monday. I woke to find in my wardrobe that all my t shirts had been replaced by good quality white formal shirts, and accompanying white vests to wear under them. And I was gutted to see that my entire trainer collection had disappeared and been replaced by 3 pairs of, very traditional, formal lace up black leather Oxford shoes. Even when selecting my smartest dark jeans, they still looked very out of keeping with the formal white shirt, and pulling on the shoes the leather creaked as my feet adjusted to being wedged into the pointy toes. I tied the laces and saw my face reflecting in the incredibly highly polished leather uppers. Walking in these shoes was a challenge, as the smooth soles meant I had to walk much more slowly and with poise, in order to not skid. 

I would never have chosen these clothes but went along with it, with Sam encouraging me. I got a few wise cracks about shiny shoes at work but that was about it. I worked in IT so it had a fair variety of oddballs, from geeks wearing cartoon t shirts, to goths, so while my change in style was out of character for me, it wasn't a major issue. 

I also needn't have worried about the jeans not looking right, as, by the end of the week, these had all been removed, to be replaced by heavy, pale grey wool trousers, tightly tailored and with razor sharp creases that hung straight down with just a small break above the seam which grazed the top of my Oxfords. A shiny black formal belt was also provided. 

This became what I wore every single day. It felt particularly strange wearing this at weekends when seeing friends, and the wise cracks at work focused on it being my school uniform, but Sam kept me up, telling me how handsome I looked. If she was happy, then I'd cope. I no longer worked out at the gym, and I controlled the time I spent with friends to ensure I committed the time to my new family and to this process.

The following Saturday Stephen announced we'd be making a trip to his barber. 

I was straight into Anthony's chair, and with a glance on the mirror I got a last look at my prized hair. Everyone loved my hair. I got lots of great comments about it. it was long, luscious, tousled and framed my face beautifully being roughly parted to drape down and across my forehead and feel flowing to lying on my collar. 

There was no discussion as Anthony combed through my hair. For years my shoulder length hair has been roughly parted above my right eye, but now a very severe straight part was created on the far left side of my head with the hair scraped to either side of this stark white line. 

Without ceremony the clippers were powered up and ploughed up the left side of my head towards the part, while Anthony used his comb to angle out the hair so that the clippers left a slightly longer length at the top, but otherwise a fine pelt of military length hair was left three quarters of the way up. This continued round my head as my ears became uncovered for the first time. And boy are my ears massive. Alarmingly so. Jug ears without a doubt, and definitely having benefited from the hair that had very satisfactorily covered them for over 20 years. Next Anthony took his scissors and was cutting the top down with massive chunks. Nothing longer than an inch and a half remained. The next shock was just what a big forehead I had. With so little hair, my facial features were really standing out. A razor then took off the hairs at the back of my neck, that had never caused an issue before, but were now clearly too scruffy to remain, while my sideburns were removed to the top of ears.

Pomade was then rubbed into my hair and a comb carefully pulled the hair across my head, while Anthony styles a small quiff at the front and showed me how to re-create this. 

He showed me in the mirror the remains of my hair. The uniformly clipped hair ran over half way up the back of my head before tapering to a slightly longer length leading to a small ridge ran round my head at the point that the clipped hair met the wet-looking slicked hair on top. This ridge dipped slightly at the back, but still remained high up my head, allowing the virgin scalp to shine through across most of my head. This was very much a short, no-nsense business man's haircut

I went to sit with my cold - and much lighter - head, while Stephen got a trim. I realised he had an identical cut. Same left part, clipping, ridge, slicked quiff. Though Stephen wore the cut far better as he had far less expanse of clipped scale due to having a much lower hairline and smaller, rounder head. While my head was very clearly very elongated and egg-like. He also had small ears that sat neatly tucked into the side of his head, unlike my satellite dishes. I ran my hand down the back of my head, which sent a shiver down my spine from the bristles that were an alien feeling. 

Sam looked genuinely shocked when she saw me. I couldn't blame her as my features seemed to have moved round my face from this brutal cut. My massive pale gleaming forehead and giant ears exposed for the first time, and the brutality of the cut showing the elongated oval shaped head that had been hidden for so many years. I felt shell shocked, but Stephen offered a rare word of encouragement by saying how positive it was that the men of the house were now setting a clear standard on grooming. I truly hated this haircut and how it made me feel and look, but a part of me also really felt proud that Stephen wanted me to take on part of his style. This really was a defining moment of moving from fashionable to formal. 

Friends and colleagues either looked in horror or laughed but told me it would soon grow. However I very much doubted this would be allowed to happen. It was the second haircut 2 weeks later that got the worst response, as no one could begin to fathom why I would inflict this same style on myself for a second time. But this became routine that ever 2 weeks we'd both be shaved, trimmed and slicked to ensure the stubble remained short enough to pass muster. 

I think even Stephen realised I needed to get used to my new look as the next few weeks were more about using my new skills, such as Sam and I attending small dinners at home with close friends and associates of Stephen.

Then, an upgrade came. A plethora of very sombre ties in shades of navy, burgundies and dark green appeared alongside a navy double breasted blazer with rows of gold buttons running down the front sides. This became standard attire, as my heavily starched shirt collars now became buttoned to the top and digging into my neck, with a Windsor knotted tie, together with tie clip as standard from morning to night and the blazer whenever with company, and fully buttoned whenever I wasn't seated. I now looked like an off duty naval officer, but it did too make me sit up straight and hold myself taller as a result. 

A couple of other hurdles came over the next month. First I was taken to the opticians for the fitting of my new glasses. It was a surprise to me I was getting glasses, as I lived constantly in contact lenses, having only a small pair of rimless frames for emergencies. However the frames that had been chosen for me were big gold framed aviator glasses that filled the width of my face, and the frames glinted in the light as I moved. However as I was so myopic the lenses were extremely thick, and the lenses shrunk down my eyes (one of my best features, which now looked weirdly small and watery and hidden by these large rectangular fishbowl lenses, with strong reflections) as well as creating a very visible cut in the side of the lenses meaning my head looked like it had had chunks taken out of it. My contact lenses were removed and these became a daily dominating feature on my face, as the world now saw me as a bespectacled man for the first time. Due to the weight of the large panes of glass that now sat across my face, they kept sliding down my nose. They were adjusted, but the result meant the arms of the glasses dug into the side of my face, creating permanent creases in the temples of my head.

I also had my tattoo on my arm removed by Lazer. It wasn't appropriate. It was a painful correction. Both in the emotional loss of something I loved and the physical agony of it being eradicated. 

This was me now, this was my daily uniform. I didn't now need to spend time thinking about what to wear or what to buy, as it was already a given. When I stood beside Sam, she looked radiant and beautiful as ever, while I remain dependable and reliable beside her. Ultimately I was grey. Yes I looked very smart and could be very charming, but no one would give me a second look beyond my formal and traditional appearance. I admit that the old me used to like the glances I'd get from women checking me out, and I would flirt with women and preen myself to be as attractive as possible. Now no one I would have found attractive would give me the time of day, and if people stared, it was now for very different reasons This was me now. Formal, nerdy, a bit ugly. From my smartly quiffed hair and geeky big glasses and smart outfit. But I was fully committed to Sam, as it should be, and that was what mattered. 

[juneknight]

•.Be Lost.• 2

Chapter One | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter Two | Chapter 2.5

*

“You talk about them often enough. I feel like we should formally meet. What’s the equivalent of putting a face to a name, but with sex toys?” Marc asks, voice warm with mirth from the other end of the phone. It’s the only thing warm about living up here in the constant snowstorms. Your feet ache today from stomping around in the fields on the frozen earth. Even though Spring approaches on the calendar, you don’t yet feel it in the air. 

You dread the thought of possibly having to delay your return home, to Marc, because of the weather. 

Your box of sex toys (it’s a shoe box, yes, some nice Cat’s boots with steel in the toes and thick insulated soles, a half-size larger than usual to allow for thick wooly socks which you favored) sits on the bed. You no longer even owned the shoes, but the box was heavy, the lid bulging from two years of collecting an eclectic set of sex toys. 

“I’ll show you. But I have rules,” you say, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. 

“I’m listening.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and it drives you nuts. 

“One–absolutely no naming them. I’m serious. The last thing I want is to be trying to get off and remember that you named a certain dildo Colonel Mustard.” 

“I’m more of a Professor Plum kind of guy anyway, but consider your objection noted.” 

“No making fun of me of any kind. Not even light teasing.” 

“Agreed.” 

“And no questions.” 

“That’s…yeah, I don’t think I can agree to that,” he says, surprising you given how amicable he’s been so far. “Can we agree on premeditated questions? Some basics that you answer for each of them?” 

You purse your lips and sit down heavily on your bed. The box rattles beside you, lid almost coming off. “Depends on the questions, I guess.” 

“When was the last time you used it, and your personal rating out of ten.”

You relax somewhat. Whatever you had been worried about Marc wanting to know—’gross, why that?’ or ‘who used that on you?’—disappears. Maybe it says something about the men you’ve been with lately that your first fear is that Marc will become jealous or judgemental. You should have known that Marc would be different. “Yeah, okay. That’s fine.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice growing firm. “I don’t want you to say something’s okay when it isn’t. That’s a big deal to me.”

“I’m sure, dad.” 

Marc snorts. “Okay, champ. FaceTime. Let’s go.”

You press the button, and while it connects, you experience all five stages of grief, chewing on one of your thumbnails as you shift from one socked foot to the other. At last his face appears, and it’s like a punch to the gut. Marc is so handsome: his brows, the curve of his nose, his whiskey-warm eyes, the curls spilling onto his forehead. His hair is longer now than the last time you saw him, and it makes your heart clench. You find yourself smiling without meaning to. 

“Hey, beautiful,” Marc says, eyes squinting with his smile. “Long time no see.” 

“Too long,” you admit. You study the picture in the background, trying to piece together where he is in his apartment. Judging by the lighting (warm but dark) and the lamp in the background, he is in his bedroom. This is confirmed when he rolls over onto his side and props himself up onto his elbow on one of the fluffy pillows. 

Once, you had gotten too drunk to drive home and Marc had let you sleep in his bed. You had spent the whole night rolling around on the soft sheets, breathing in his scent, aching but too guilty to touch yourself. 

“You okay?” he asks, brows lifting. His mouth settles into a soft, more neutral position, like he is being careful not to convince you one way or another. His lips are so full and soft looking… “If you don’t want to do this, we can say forget it. I just like to know what my options are.”

His options—oh fuck. 

Your face burns hot. You slap one palm against your cheek, feeling the heat your skin gives off, knowing that Marc is watching you (which makes your face burn all the hotter). Fuck, how can he just say stuff like that, calm and casual in his soft, warm voice? You think about turning the camera away for a moment just to catch your breath. 

“You’re so shy right now,” Marc says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “God. It’s cute.” 

“Quit,” you groan, parting your fingers so you can glare at the phone. His grin just grows. “I’m not shy, I have a strap-on.” 

“If you think having six inches between your legs makes you immune to shyness, I’ve got news for you.”

“Is that all you’ve got? Six inches?” 

“You want to see?” The way he raises his brow, the way he so expertly calls your bluff makes your thighs clench together. Like a great neon sign flashing behind your eyes right now are the words MARC’S COCK. You’ve never seen it, but you know Marc is well hung. You’ve seen him adjust his hard ons before—in the morning after waking up, during a particularly steamy scene on Netflix. The bulge in his sweats has made an appearance or two in your dreams, yes. 

“Maybe,” you admit, wondering if he’ll show you. Right now. On FaceTime. Just whip his dick out for you to drool over. 

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he says, mouth quirking into a smirk. “But really. Go on. I have work in the morning, and I want to see every last toy.” 

You bring out plenty of things that are “normal”. G-spot vibrators. Clitoral vibrators. Rabbit vibes, and pretty glass dildos. Most of the items get a high score—you have narrowed them down to your favorites. A natural selection amongst sex toys, if you will. 

Sometimes you glance to Marc and get flustered at the solemn, studious expression on his face. He hangs on your every word, committing the things you say to memory. No man has ever given you attention the way Marc does: whole-heartedly. Singularly. Unconditionally. 

Your throat gets choked up for a moment at the thought. God, you’re falling in love with him, you think in terror to yourself, as if you haven’t already. As if your knees aren’t skinned and palms bloody from the fall. 

“You okay, honey?”

You jump a little, having gotten lost in your own thoughts. You clear your throat. 

“Yeah, no, I’m good.” You pick up the next item, a candle. When he asks you what scent it is, you laugh a little. “The wax melts at a safe temperature for wax play. You know. Pouring wax on somebody.” 

“Rate it.” 

“It’s…maybe a four. May-be.” 

Massage oil (8), cuffs (10), collapsible spreader bar (9), bite gag (5), blindfold (10), harness (7), all come and go. It is easier to continue once you get talking, and by the end you feel like late night Dr. Ruth. 

At last, the box is empty. 

“That’s all she wrote,” you tell Marc. He looks a little sleepy, though his eyes are still sharp where they focus on you, tracing over your features. He is quiet. You prod: “Well?” 

“I’m going to have to use every last one on you,” he says, eyes on your own. “And until I can, I’m going to be thinking about you using every last one on yourself.”

His shoulder shifts, arm moving off screen—adjusting his hard cock. 

“Fuck, Marc,” you sigh brokenly. “You can’t say shit like that.” 

“That wasn’t one of your rules,” he says, eyes going heavy-lidded. You thought he was just adjusting himself, but the motion continues. Not enough for him to be full-fledged jerking off, but you think that’s he’s teasing himself. Massaging himself maybe. Your thighs squeeze together. Would he notice if you did the same? “Thank you for the show-and-tell. You’re such a good girl for me.” 

You groan. 

He laughs, the sound gentle and teasing. “That gets you, huh?” 

“Don’t laugh at me,” you bark, endeavoring to cover your face as best as you can with one hand. The truth of his observation doesn’t matter; it’s the principle of the thing. Peeking through your fingers, you catch his expression, and your breath hitches. Marc looks at the phone screen with something unbearably tender in his eyes, something so terribly soft. 

Marc looks at you like he loves you. 

“Which one’s your favorite? Let me see it again.” 

Your favorite. Hmm. You step back from your bed and look at the toys spread out so neatly, your brain turning over the question. All of them get you hot in one way or another, but there is one that stands out. You end up choosing a relatively simple rabbit vibrator. It’s ol’ Faithful; what else can you say? 

“Is this what you grab when you want to blow your own mind, or is this what you grab any old night?” 

“I want to blow my own mind every old night, Spector.” 

“Noted. But you’re not pouring hot wax on yourself every old night,” he says. It is utterly distracting how his shoulder still tenses periodically, hand moving off-screen. You spend an inordinate amount of time watching those small muscles flex, trying to recreate the image of what his hand must be doing in your mind. “What is it about this one? What do you like about it?” 

“I like that it fills me up,” you admit. It is a little easier to talk when you’re so distracted by him. “I like that I can use it without hands. Sometimes I put the spreader bar on and bind my hands to the headboard so I can feel like—” 

Marc’s arm has stopped moving. His eyes are sharp, burning hot, like iron from the furnace. How voice is quiet but brooks no room for avoiding the question when he asks: “So you can feel like what, baby?” 

“I…I don’t know,” you say. It isn’t a lie, either. You aren’t sure where the sentence was heading, and so much about your relationship with being submissive eludes you when you try to put it into words. You chew on the inside of your cheek while you think, and Marc is utterly quiet and still while you contemplate. “Like…like I’m suffering for somebody. Like my pleasure belongs to somebody else. Whoever tied me up. I don’t know.” 

Marc nods a little, quiet for a moment himself. “From now on, it belongs to me, yeah? Even if you’re the one tying yourself up—you’ll be doing it because I tell you to, alright? And you’ll be doing it safely. It’s dangerous to tie yourself up when you’re alone. That’s not like my good girl. I don’t want to hear you doing that again.” 

“Sorry,” you whisper. You kneel on the floor, bed too covered in toys to lay on. You rest your head against the edge of the mattress, adjusting the phone so that he can still see your face. 

“I’ll forgive you when I hear that you won’t do it anymore,” he says. His hand is moving again. Maybe he is jerking off. “Promise me.” 

“I won’t tie myself up when I’m alone. I promise.” 

Marc lets out a breath, a literal sigh of relief. His eyes go squinty as he smiles, pride evident in the curve of his lips. “There’s my good girl.” 

You groan again, turning to bury your face in the mattress. 

“Are you on the floor right now?” he laughs. 

You groan in an affirmative. 

“Kneeling for me?” 

You hadn’t intended it that way, but now that he says it, you realize that you are. You nod your head, face still hidden. 

“Thighs apart?”

You peek an eye at him and hope he can tell that you’re scowling. Determined to follow his rules (even if your sex positively aches between your thighs) you shift your legs apart. 

“You make me feel so powerful,” he says, voice a little shaky. His eyes are looking just off screen, like he can’t make eye-contact with you right now. “Kneeling for me, following my orders. So powerful. But so, so small. You know that? Because you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. And I like it.” 

“I like it too,” you murmur, head a little foggy. 

“Why?” 

“It feels real safe,” you admit. “Like you’ll take care of me. Like you’d never have me do something that might hurt me or embarrass myself.” 

“I wouldn’t, baby, I swear I wouldn’t,” he says. Then he sighs. “You’re driving me fucking crazy. I’m jerking off twice a day just to function.” 

“Marc,” you say, your voice literally shaking. “Are you—right now?” 

He hums and lets his arm grow bolder. The motion is unmistakable now. Marc Spector is masturbating on the phone with you—because of you. The knowledge is like an electric zap that you feel from your head to your toes. Is his dick out? Does he have a hand beneath his sweats? All of this is too much; your own hand falls between your thighs. 

“At-at,” says Marc. His shoulder stops moving. “No touching yourself.” 

“What?” you whine. “That’s not fair!” 

“I stopped too!” 

“You’ve been jerking off for twenty minutes though, you owe me!” 

“That’s not how this works,” he laughs. “Not to mention, there isn’t a chance in hell you’d last twenty minutes even if I did let you touch yourself. No—we’re going to wait.” 

“Til when?” 

“Spring. The first time I hear you cum, it’s going to be with my fingers tucked inside you. I want to kiss you and swallow every sound.” 

“Then can we hang up?” you ask, shifting on your knees. “I need to touch myself.” 

“Use your cute little vibrator,” he murmurs. You both hang up. 

He’s right. There’s no way you could have lasted twenty minutes when you barely make it to two. 

Spring is never going to come. 

*

Except it does. Of course it does. There is still the occasional snowstorm, but they are irregular enough that you are no longer needed. You book a flight back home, and send Marc a screenshot of your ticket. 

I’ll pick you up. 

The thought makes your belly flip with nerves. You decide that as eager as you are to see Marc, you are just as anxious too. You would rather prolong it a fraction more, would rather it took place on more familiar turf (outside your apartment rather than the strange unfamiliar-familiarity of an airport). So instead you tell him to meet you back at your apartment. If he brings some basic groceries, bonus points for him. 

Though planes don’t often make you nervous anymore, you find yourself gripping your folded hands so tight that you leave marks from your fingernails. What are you doing, agreeing to have sex with Marc? This could ruin everything: your most valuable friendship. The one person in the world who had stuck beside you through thick and thin, even when you had lost people you thought you’d die without. 

Even more frightening: what if everything goes right? 

Landed, see you soon!! You hope that your exclamation points cover up your anxiety. 

Don’t be nervous, he sends back. Fuck. 

The Uber is the longest of your life, familiar scenery passing by as you leave the airport and enter the city you’ve called home for so many years. The city where you met Marc. The city where you meet him again and again in the spring, like Persephone coming home. It always happens like this too. 

The Uber pulls up to the curb outside your apartment, and Marc is sitting there on the steps. Today is only different because he’s pacing—maybe you aren’t the only one who’s nervous. He’s dressed for spring in just a light jacket, t-shirt, and his jeans. He doesn’t recognize the car when it pulls up, but he recognizes you in the passenger seat. God. His face lights up. Marc goes to the car door and opens it for you, draws you out and into his arms. The first hug he always gives you is bone crushing. He lifts you off the ground and twirls you in his arms before helping you regain your footing. 

“Long time, no see,” he says—like always. 

“Too long,” you say, clinging to him. 

“Uh. Don’t forget your bags,” your Uber driver calls through the open window. 

“I got them,” says Marc. He insists on carrying them inside and up the stairs—nice to see that the elevator is still out of order even after the winter. On the way up, Marc fills you in an the uneventful time he spent popping into your apartment every other day to collect your mail, to dust, to water your plants. 

You wonder if he slept in your bed. If he laid amongst the scent of you and wanted to touch himself, like you had that night you were too drunk to drive home from his place. You hope that he did—you hope that he touched himself. You—

“Bed,” he says, giving you a jumpscare. At the wide-eyed expression on your face, he misunderstands. “Not for sex! Just—your exhausted. That’s what you get for taking such an early flight. You should nap. Then we should get dinner, my treat. Then we should—”

“Talk.” 

“Exactly.” 

At his mention of it, your exhaustion (which you had been adamantly pushing back with nerves and adrenalin) resurfaces. He’s right; you always take the earliest flights you can manage, to get home as soon as possible, and yes you arrive to the airport way too early. You’re a woman with anxiety; it’s a given. But the last thing you want to do right now is part ways with Marc. A part of you believes that if he leaves, then you might chicken out. You might never let him back in…

“Stay?” you ask. 

“For a nap?” he wonders, mouth stretching in a grin that reeks of fondness for you. 

“Sure.” 

“In your bed?”

You swallow past the sudden knot in your throat. Fuck, it feels so real. You’re going to have Marc in your bed tonight—for more than just a nap. You push the thoughts away with violence, feeling the way heat rises in your face at the thought alone. Come on, get it together! The way you’re pining for this guy is ridiculous, like you’re a virgin on her wedding night!

Fuck, but can you help it? 

“Just sleep,” Marc says, interrupting your spiraling. “Then, dinner. Then…we’ll talk.” 

Something inside you relaxes, your shoulders drifting away from where they had been climbing to your ears. Just sleep. You can do that. You’re certainly exhausted enough. A trail of you is formed throughout the apartment: your keys left in the dish by the door, shoes toed off at the shoe-rack, suitcase left haphazardly outside your bedroom door. 

Inside, your room is as pristine as you had left it. The sheets are fresh. You have suddenly never been more tired in your life. Taking the last few steps to your bed—a full, larger than the twin you had suffered on during the winter—you collapse on top of the blankets. Who needs to be underneath them? You’re tired enough to sleep just like this. 

But Marc pulls the blankets and the sheets back, working them free from beneath your body. He tucks you in, and he climbs into the bed on the other side. Peeking one eye open, you see that he is on his side, watching you. He grins when he catches you looking. 

“Sleep tight,” he says sweetly. 

God, you do. 

When you wake up, the shadows have changed on the wall. It is early evening, your sleep schedule properly fucked. Marc has come to spoon you sometime during your sleep, and you relish the feel of his strong arm looped around your waist, his warm chest pressed flush against your back. The both of you had fallen asleep in your jeans and socks, and neither one cared. For a moment, you let yourself lay there, enjoying the intimacy. It’s easy to pretend you are lovers when he holds you like this. 

Then his nose brushes a line up the side of your neck and his breath is hot against your ear as he whispers: “Sleep good?” 

“Holy shit, I didn’t know you were awake.” 

He snickers, unapologetic. 

“Yes,” you say, twisting in his arms. “I slept great. But now I’m starv—...ing.” 

As soon as you had turned in his arms, Marc’s eyes had gone molten. Outside, a car alarm goes off. There are horns honking. Someone plays music, but it doesn’t matter. Inside you room, the only sound is the heaving of near-silent breaths as you both lean precariously over the ledge of friendship—whatever rests below, who knows!

“I’m hungry too,” he says, innuendo in his words. His hand on your back traces a line down to the curve of your hip and then up to your ribs. His thumb barely brushes the space beneath your bra. He whispers your name. 

He kisses you, a soft press of lips on lips. Again, heads tilted a little differently. Again, noses brushing in a way that has him smiling against your mouth. You part for a single heartbeat before he is leaning back in and kissing you deeper, tasting the seam of your lips with his tongue. Eager, you part your mouth and let him in. Fuck the uncomfortable angle of your neck—you’re kissing Marc Spector. 

And God, what a kiss it is. He explores you in a way you hadn’t been explored before. Oh yes, you’d been plundered: had men whose tongues were like their cocks, thrusting away at your mouth, no finesse, no savoring of the moment. Marc kisses you like this is the first and last time he might get to. He traces the line of your teeth with his tongue. He softly nips your bottom lip. He coaxes your tongue into his mouth just to suck at it sweetly. Never have you felt so worshiped from a single kiss—nor so aroused. 

Your hips rock against him, finding that he is already erect. You manage to loop one leg around his waist before he breaks the kiss, laughing breathlessly. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he teases. 

“Aren’t we—?” you blink. 

“I said dinner first.” 

“But I’m hungry,” you remind him, arching your back to drag your sex over his hard cock. You’ll never forget the sight of his eyes rolling back, his mouth going a little slack as he takes a shuddering breath. 

He rolls you over and straddles your hips, hands finding your wrists and pinning you to the bed. His cock tents the seam of his jeans. Like this, you suddenly feel so small. Something inside you gets small and soft and says, ‘Be good for him. Do as he wants.’ You have long come to terms with the instincts inside you that make you crave this, knowing that they do not make you less of a modern woman but God, it’s still so embarrassing how easily you want to fold!

You argue instead, arching up to rub yourself against him, a spark in your eyes. A challenge. Marc’s own eyes narrow. He kneels up off of one of your legs, gripping your thigh to push it up-and-out, spreading you open for him, and God for a moment you think that you’ve convinced him, swayed him with just a wiggle of your hips, and the coming satisfaction will be (almost) as strong as your disappointment. 

Instead, he brings his hand down on your pussy in a spank. You yelp. Muffled as it was through the denim, you could still feel the strength in his hand, and you are sensitive enough that it leaves you with a brief, stinging ache. He cups your sex with his palm, soothing it with the warmth of his hand. 

“Dinner first. Where’s my good girl at? The girl who fell to her knees a thousand miles away without me even having to ask her, huh?”

You’d cover your face, if your hands were free. Suddenly you are shy and embarrassed at your own behavior. You don’t even allow yourself to rub up against his touch, light though it may be. Looking at him through your lashes, you say: “I’m sorry, I just…” 

“You need it,” he says, thumb smoothing along the sensitive stretch of your inner thigh. “I understand, baby. Was I harsh?” 

“No.” 

“No, what?”

“No sir,” you whisper shyly. 

His grin is broad, beatific. It turns teasing almost right away. He leans down and brushes his nose against yours before releasing your wrists and rolling off of you. 

“I want to be just friends for just a while longer,” he admits in a whisper. “Throughout dinner. There’s something important I need to tell you.”