#Beard Oil Boxes

[custompackagingboxes]

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[verdancepackaging]

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Introducing Beard Oil Boxes by Verdance Packaging - where style meets functionality for your grooming essentials! Elevate Your Brand: With our Beard Oil Boxes, you can showcase your grooming products with sophistication, leaving a lasting impression on your customers. Tailored to Perfection: Whether you're packaging beard oils, balms, or grooming kits, our boxes can be customized to fit your product dimensions and branding requirements perfectly. Superior Protection: Crafted from high-quality materials, our Beard Oil Boxes offer superior protection for your products, ensuring they reach your customers intact and pristine. Eco-Friendly Options: At Verdance Packaging, we prioritize sustainability. That's why we offer eco-friendly materials for your Beard Oil Boxes, allowing you to align your packaging with your brand's values. Stand Out on the Shelf: With eye-catching designs and impeccable finishing, our Beard Oil Boxes help your products stand out in crowded retail environments, enticing customers to purchase. Partner with Verdance Packaging: Let us help you create Beard Oil Boxes that reflect the essence of your brand and elevate your packaging game to new heights! Contact Verdance Packaging today to discuss your Beard Oil Boxes needs and unlock your brand's potential.

[ibexpackaging]

These personalised beard oil boxes are made from premium materials and are intended to protect your beard oil while showcasing it. The front of the box has a window as part of the modern design. Customers can look inside and get a sense of the colour and consistency of the oil by doing so.

[packagly-boxes]

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[mistimstar]

Savage Soaps : The Coolest Gifts of 2023

[websterstylemag]

Basil and Sage June 2023 Unboxing "Juneteenth"

Basil and Sage is a men’s and women’s Luxury Gift box service featuring lifestyle products from black-owned businesses across the United States. Each item is carefully curated to fit the theme of the box for the occasion. Each box offers five lifestyle items from Black-owned Brands.___________________________________________________________________________For more information about Basil and…

[lisenberry]

Snippy-snip of Ch. 3 of this one because I'm making myself cry as I write it and I don't want to be alone.

CW: a bittersweet goodbye.

“Here’s the keys to the truck, and to my place.  Just in case.”  He tossed a set into the bowl on the sideboard.  “I know how much you’re dying to go snooping in my cupboards.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Except you totally would. At the first opportunity.

“Afraid of what you’ll find?”

“An expired box of Earl Grey in the kitchen, perfectly sorted socks in the bedroom.  Stinky smelling beard oil in the bathroom.”  You flashed a cheeky grin at the last, in an effort to keep the tone light. 

If he could be strong, so could you.  You wouldn’t be the one to break.  No matter what you felt like on the inside.  You’d save it for when he was gone.

“Beard oil?  This is all natural.”  As if you’d insulted his manhood, he smoothed his mustache down with two hands, in a way you’d seen him do a thousand times.  He’d trained any willfulness from his facial hair with nothing but nose grease and perseverance.  Molded by time and patience, like marble cliffs and silt-shined creek beds.

“But I was right about the socks though, wasn’t I?”

“And the tea.”  He hitched his mouth into a smile and turned his focus to the gurgling baby perched on his hip, yapping and cooing like she was in on the conversation.

The way he looked at her gave you hope that he’d call it all off.  He’d sit back down on the couch and turn on the football.  Put his heavy feet up on your table and let his flight leave without him.

“I’m sure we can find some priceless antiques in there she can teeth on.”  They’d start coming in soon.  Another change he’d miss.

“Look, you don’t have to wait.”  He paused to clear the words he was looking for from his throat.  “I understand if you—”

“I just got you, John,” you cut him off, saving him from the self-sacrificing speech, and looked down at her chubby fist wrapped in a white-knuckle grip around his finger.  “You’re not getting rid of us yet.”

Don’t let go, sweetheart.  Don’t let him go.  You willed it into her with your own thoughts.

Your world had gotten so small in the last four months.  You’d gone from having a job that needed you, coworkers and clients with a network of responsibilities, down to having just one job. 

One person who needed you.

But it would’ve been a lot smaller without him.  How lonely would you have been without someone to share it all with?  How much of him had seeped into your life, and your heart?

“Be nice to your mum,” he whispered against her downy head, as he kissed her cheek and passed her back to you quickly.  Looking everywhere but at you.  “You have Kate’s number?  In case you need anything?”

You pulled him closer with your free hand to his waist, forcing him to see you. Eyes wide and blue, he looked scared. For the first time.

Anything more than a kiss to the forehead would have broken you both.  You’d already said your goodbyes the night before, and again this morning.  So, you simply tilted your head up to him, your own eyes kind and trusting, and felt his mustache graze your skin one last time.

And then you watched him go.

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 6

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Wyoming (Part Three)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]

Chapter Summary: Charlie strikes a deal with the mechanic.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.3k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, slow burn, horny thoughts, food mention, eating, handcuffs, one bed, shower, dog grogu, guns

Notes: None really. Hope you like it, thank you for reading!

A bell chimes when Din pushes open the door to Giddyup Auto, and again when he lets it swing shut behind you. 

It’s just as cluttered inside the shop as it is outside. Pornographic magazines have been stacked alongside NAPA catalogs and tattered notepads on top of tool boxes. Promotional branding from popular auto parts manufacturers patch the steel walls, occasionally broken up by snarky signs that read things like KWITCHERBITCHIN AVE and I CAN FIX ANYTHING EXCEPT STUPID. 

Country music crackles from blown speakers at the back of the shop, echoing off the tall ceiling. The rough, strained sound blends horribly with a high-pitched whir coming from beneath a 1989 Dodge Ram 250. 

Din inhales the scent of motor oil and metal shavings. Adolescent nostalgia wells up in his chest like pride, some vague understanding of what it means to be a man. The responsibility of maintenance. Caretaking and custodianship. 

He catches a glimpse of his adoptive father wringing his hands with an oil-soaked rag while rattling off the basic components of an internal combustion engine. Then he blinks it away.

Out of the corner of his eye, you adjust your grip on the wriggling dog, slipping one hand beneath his bottom and the other across his chest. Grogu huffs at the intrusion, but once he’s steadied to a higher vantage point, he seems pleased. His ears stand at attention, jowls sealed shut, the tip of his snout twitching with curiosity. 

Both you and the dog look around the garage with the same kind of wide-eyed wonder. Two explorers ready to investigate this whole new world. Din leads the way deeper into the automotive bay, following the shrill grinding sound to the old rusted-out truck. 

When he comes to a halt, so does the noise, then Paul slides out from under the truck on a creeper. 

“Hey there! Sorry, I didn’t hear y’all come in,” he gestures to the impact wrench in his hand as he sets it down. 

“Hi, Paul,” you greet him with a cheerful smile.

Rising to his feet, he beams, “Miss Charlie, how’re you today?” 

The twinkle in his bright eyes makes Din feel uneasy. Strands of gray streak his dark beard and pepper his slicked-back hair. Hard-earned wrinkles crease his face. He’s twice your age at least, and Din can’t quite determine whether his intentions are cordial or flirtatious. 

Either way, you hardly seem to mind. You perk up at the attention, taking a step towards him as you reply, “Can’t complain. Yourself?” 

“Oh, just fine. Annie get y’all set up at the motel?” 

“She sure did. It was nice to sleep in a bed for once, y’know, after being on the road for so long. Thank you for recommending it to us.” 

“‘Course. Yellow Seed’s been treatin’ you alright?” 

“Yeah! We got to poke around a little yesterday. Went and got supper at the Outlaw Saloon, which was good,” you glance at Din and chuckle a little, “The locals didn’t seem too keen on us. Got a few dirty looks, but that’s not surprising.” 

Paul laughs at this, crossing his arms as he leans back against the truck, “Well, you know, we small town folks don’t always like outsiders.” 

“I’m used to it,” you shrug dismissively, then your face lights up, “But, hey, I talked to the owner and they’re gonna let me play a couple sets tomorrow night if you wanna swing by.”

“No shit?” Paul grins and catches himself, “Pardon my language—”

“It’s fine,” you wave it off. 

“Playin’ a few sets at the Outlaw Saloon,” Paul repeats, shaking his head with amusement, “What kinda music you play?” 

“I know a little bit of everything. These kinds of gigs, I try to feel out the crowd. I catch a country music kinda vibe around here, so probably some Hank Williams Jr, Alan Jackson, Johnny Cash. Stuff like that,” you tilt your head at him, “Got any requests?”

“Know any Waylon Jennings?” 

“Sure, I have a few of his tunes up my sleeve. Any particular song?”

“Surprise me,” he winks. 

Din tries to retain his stoic demeanor despite the discomfort writhing beneath his skin. The dog must pick up on this, because he whines at his owner and starts to squirm in your grip. 

Struggling with Grogu’s protest, you ask Paul, “Is it ok if I set him down?”

“Go on ahead, darlin’,” Paul tells you, then turns to Din, “How about you? Settling in ok?” 

“How much will it cost to fix?” 

Paul raises his eyebrows and pushes off the truck, “Right down to brass tacks, huh?” 

“He’s not much of a talker,” you smirk as you set the dog on the cement floor and start roaming around the shop, leash in hand. 

“I can respect that.” His gaze lingers on your wandering form for a moment longer before he looks at Din and sighs, “Well, I had some luck calling around to a few junkyards lookin’ for salvaged or used parts. Found a good price for what I need. With that ‘n’ labor, it’ll run you twenty-five hundred, long as everything goes smoothly.” 

Din weighs the cost against his bank account, factoring in the motel room, gas to get to the next job, and food for a few days. It would run him dry. His stomach tightens and twists. Before he can formulate a response, you chime in. 

“Is there any way we can knock that price down?” 

Paul crosses his arms across his chest and gives you a sympathetic shrug, “Way it stands, ‘fraid I can’t.” 

You nod as you consider this, furrowing your brow at the floor, then look up at him, “What if we make a trade?” 

“A trade?” Paul frowns. 

“Yeah, or, you know. Some kind of a deal. We scratch your back, you scratch ours.” 

Paul’s blue eyes flick between you and Din, “Wha’d you have in mind, sweetheart?”

Din’s first instinct is to shut down the conversation. But when you glance at him as if searching for approval, he doesn’t protest. You turn back to Paul and nod over your shoulder, “I noticed your sign out front is pretty faded. I could paint it if you knock a couple hundred off?” 

Paul shifts his weight to one leg and wrinkles his nose. Not sold. You don’t let it deter you. 

“I’ve done murals before, so this would be a piece of cake. It looks pretty shabby now, but I can make it,” you smack your lips, “pop. Maybe it’d bring in some more business for you.” 

Shaking his head, he smirks at Din, “She’s persistent, ain’t she?”

“She is.” 

“I am,” you confirm with a wide, toothy grin, “Whaddaya say? I do the sign, take off $500?“

Paul works his jaw from side to side, then slackens and sticks out his hand, “Five hundred.” 

“Plus the cost of supplies,” you add. 

“Plus the—” he cuts himself off with an amused chuckle, “You’re somethin’ else. Fine. Five hundred plus costs.” 

When you shake his hand, a victorious, blinding smile spreads across your face. The corner of Din’s mouth turns up at the sight. He fails to correct his expression as you take a step back and glance at him. His heart skips in that brief moment where his eyes meet yours, before you drop your gaze to your feet and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Blush rises to your cheeks and neck, rosy splotches that bloom soft and full in his chest. 

“Whaddaya think, should $100 do it?” Paul asks. 

“I think we can make that work,” you nod, “Do you have paint brushes or rollers? Sandpaper?” 

“Reckon I do. Hang tight, I’ll get y’all some cash, ok?” 

Once he’s out of earshot, Din studies you, wondering out loud, “Why are you helping me?” 

“Rule number ten: Be a stand up tramp,” you shrug, crouching down to scratch Grogu between his ears, “Plus, I don’t know, it just seems like… the right thing to do.” 

Your answer perplexes him. He can’t come up with a response other than, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” you grin up at him, then rise to your feet and change the subject, “I’m hungry. We should get lunch. And maybe get some groceries, too, so we—er, you don’t have to spend as much on eating out.” 

The authority with which you suggest this causes him to chafe. He wants to push back for no reason other than to reclaim the upper hand. Your reasoning is sound, though. It’s not a bad idea. 

“We can do that.” 

“Yeah?” 

He nods. 

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment, lips curving into a delicate smile. Something flutters in his stomach, frantic and timid, urging him to put up a wall between you. But he keeps his eyes anchored to yours despite his internal warning bells. 

The tight wire of tension slackens as Paul returns, counting a stack of wrinkled bills, “Here you go.” 

You step forward to accept the cash, “Perfect. Thank you, Paul.” 

“Are y’all gonna be able to carry everything back here, or do you wanna borrow my truck? Might be a little easier that way.” 

“Really?” you grin and knit your brows together into a gracious expression, “We were thinking of grabbing lunch and getting some groceries, too. Would that be ok?” 

“Fine by me, just bring it back in one piece,” Paul answers, fishing a set of keys from his jumpsuit pocket and handing them to you, “Ford F-150 out front.”

“Thank you, Paul. I—we really appreciate it,” you tell him, then look at Din and raise your eyebrows expectantly. 

“Yes, thank you,” Din nods in agreement. 

“Don’t mention it,” Paul says, then ambles back to the old rusted-out Dodge, whistling along to some old country song. 

Keeping pace at his side as he starts towards the exit, you jangle the keys and ask, “Do you want me to drive?”

“Dream on, kid,” he scoffs, holding his hand out. 

“Worth a shot,” you grin and place them in his palm. 

“Would it be too predictable to put a horse on the sign?” you ask, frowning at your rough outline, “I feel like there are a lot of places out here that lean into the western motif, so it might be overdone. But the place is literally called Giddyup Auto, so…” 

When Din doesn’t respond, you glance up and can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or something in your general direction. 

Stupid goddamn aviators. 

“You know, it’s considered polite to take off your hat and sunglasses when you go indoors.” 

Again, nothing. 

‘Off in lala-land’ if you’ve ever seen it. 

You blink at him a few times to no reaction, then raise your voice, “Did you hear me?” 

This seems to do the trick. 

It’s difficult to explain how you know his eyes are on you when they are. Maybe the microscopic tilt of his head or the twitch of his eyebrows. Mostly though, you would say that his attention carries a force. One minute you’re sitting there wondering if he’s looking at you and then—bam! It hits you. Absolute certainty.  

Anyway, he looks at you and asks, “What?” 

“Why do you insist on wearing your Unabomber costume all the time?” 

He frowns and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. 

“You know, because—Oh for cripes’ sake, nevermind,” you scoff and sit up in your seat, turning your notebook to face him, “Here. Tell me what you think.” 

He looks down at your notebook and pulls it closer. As he quietly studies the sketches, discomfort twists your skin raw. Imagining all the criticisms lingering at the tip of his tongue, you can’t stop yourself from speaking preemptively. 

“The first one is pretty boring, but I think the font adds a little flair. I’d blend shades of orange for the background to make it stand out and white for the text.” You prop your chin up on the heel of your palm and lean forward, pointing to the second option, “I like the covered wagon as a concept, but it would take me a long time and I’m not sure if it fits the vibe since wagons are kinda slow. The horse is fast, obviously,” you tap the third sketch and shrug, “But, like I said when you so rudely ignored me, the western motif is sort of tired in this neck of the woods.” 

Nodding, he comments, “They look… nice.” 

Such a way with words. 

You stare at him for a moment, waiting for additional input to no avail. Raising your eyebrows, you release a big sigh and fold your legs up into the booth, “‘Nice.’ Ok, sure. Well, let me ask you this: Which one is your favorite?” 

After a few seconds of contemplation, he taps the bucking bronco silhouetted over a mountain range, then pushes the notebook back across the table. 

“Why that one?” 

He shrugs, “It’s called Giddyup Auto.” 

Instead of pointing out that you said the same thing earlier, you mutter, “Sure is, big guy,” and flip your notebook to a blank page, then start jotting down a shopping list, “We should get something for the pup while we’re out. I feel bad for leaving him behind.” 

You wrinkle your nose at his silence, looking up to confirm that once again, he has drifted away. 

Curiosity gets the best of you. You follow his line of sight, craning your neck over your shoulder to see the waitress approaching with a serving tray. Din straightens when she sets a plate in front of him. 

“Ok, we have a breakfast platter number two,” she sets another plate in front of you, “And french toast with fruit.” Tucking the tray under her arm, she smiles between you and him, “Anything else I can get for you guys?” 

“We’re fine, thank you,” Din tells her, a small smile gracing his lips. 

She nods before turning to go, dragging his attention along with her. You watch him watch her, studying his wandering gaze. A grin spreads across your face. When he notices you staring, he immediately becomes defensive.

“What?” 

Dead giveaway. 

Suppressing a smile, you grab a butter knife and shake your head at your plate, “Nothing.” 

“What?” he asks again, this time more pointed.  

“I didn’t say anything!” 

He scoffs and hunches over the plate to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth. 

After smearing whipped butter on your french toast, you pour syrup over your plate, glancing up at him when you ask, “Do you have a crush on the waitress?” 

“No.” 

Denial sours the word in the most obvious way. 

Raising an eyebrow, you cut your food into bite-sized pieces as you tease, “I didn’t take you for a liar, Din. But I also didn’t take you for the kind of guy who has a soft spot for pretty service workers, so what do I know?” 

Of course, he doesn’t say anything. And of course, you decide to push the conversation further. 

“I just mean… If you do—you know, like her or whatever—you should ask her for her number. Take her on a date. See if you can’t live a little while you’re holed up in this town.” 

“And what am I supposed to do with you in that scenario?” 

Twirling a chunk of french toast around on your fork, you shrug, “Maybe she wouldn’t mind your prisoner third wheeling. That’s probably not a red flag, right?” 

“Not at all.” 

You snort at him and he lets a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. It seems to soften the atmosphere, both of you relaxing back in your seats. While chipping away at your food, you ponder a little to yourself, then out loud. 

“Suppose your line of work, you don’t go on many dates, do you?” 

Frowning at the strip of bacon pinched between his fingers, he tells you, “Not in the traditional sense.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Instead of answering the question, he pops the bacon into his mouth. When he swallows and you’re still staring at him, he shakes his head, “Forget I said anything.” 

“Come on, Din,” you meet his flattened expression with a grin, “You so know I won’t let this go. Might as well just spill the beans.” 

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares at you like a challenge. You narrow your eyes at him, tilting your head with equal determination. 

“‘Not in the traditional sense.’ So you do have romantic or sexual experiences, but society wouldn’t typically deem those experiences ‘dates,’ right?” 

He says nothing. 

“Hmmm… interesting,” you lean your elbows on the table, studying him, “You seem reluctant to talk about it, which indicates… Maybe you’re ashamed of it? Although, you’re pretty reluctant to talk about everything, so I don’t know how much weight to place on that. But you’re a trucker. Transient. Don’t seem like much of a ‘family man’ to me. So, what… you’ve gotta be a hookup guy or a sex worker guy, right?” 

The way he squirms at the question makes your chest tingle. 

“It could be both, too. I feel like you would be more of an opportunist than a strategist when it comes to fucking. Am I right?” 

His jaw shifts from side-to-side. He glances around before leaning in, “And you’re much different?” 

“No, not really.”

Most people would ask follow-up questions or awkwardly segue into a different subject, but not Din. He seems as content with your answer as you are with his. But where he goes back to eating, you feel a loose end rattling at the tip of your tongue and speak it into existence. 

“I think… I think people like us don’t lay down roots for anything less than the spectacular,” you search his face, “Right?” 

With his fork lifted halfway to his mouth, he pauses to look at you and nod, “This is the way.”

Din brings the shopping cart to halt in the middle of the aisle when you stop to examine jars of preserved nut and fruit spreads lining the shelves. 

You pull a big plastic container of generic peanut butter from the lineup and toss it into the cart, “Four dollars, twenty-nine cents.”

He jots down the price in your notebook and adds it to the running total while you wrinkle your nose at the ingredient list of strawberry preserves, then set it next to the peanut butter, “Three sixty-nine. Gotta love that food desert markup. What’re we at?” 

“Twenty seven, give or take,” he answers, crossing two items off the list. 

“What else we got here?” Sidling up to him, you peek at the paper, “Snacks. Wow, ok past me, very specific.” 

When you start walking again, he does too, and he wonders how you can possibly smell so good without the aid of perfumes. While not a definitive scent, it inspires a sensation much like when he’s parched and sets his sights on a glass of ice water. It’s enticing, like your very foundation radiates temptation. 

He cannot have this. This thing in his chest, gnawing at his bones, trying to escape. It snaps at the walls when you’re nearby, which is always. 

Maybe if he could relieve some of the pressure buckling under his skin it would quiet. But he can’t, so it doesn’t. 

It begs and pleads and promises to absolve him of consequence as long as he promises to move a little bit closer, hold his hand to your back a little bit longer—just one more second and I’ll be content. Maybe another. What if you slid your hand around her waist and pulled her body to yours? How would she react? I bet she would like it. I bet if you kissed her she would finally be speechless. Just a taste, please? 

He comes to a stop beside you and follows your gaze to the wall of chips. Hundreds of bags in all different sizes and colors, all of them glossy in the fluorescent light. 

“Well, big guy. What’s your chip of choice?” you ask without looking at him. 

Grinding his teeth together, he shakes his head. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, either. Too many of the same goddamn choices,” you step forward to narrow your eyes at a price tag, “Am I crazy or does that say five dollars?” 

“It says five dollars.” 

“What the fuck, that is obscene. Do we really need chips?” 

“Does anyone?” 

“I guess not technically,” you sigh and start wandering further down the aisle, so he follows you. “But we don’t have to be so utilitarian about it. Junk food is for the soul, not sustenance. And sometimes the soul needs something salty and crunchy, you know?”

Nodding, he comes to a stop and points to the display of microwave popcorn, “We could get this instead.”

“Six bags for four dollars,” you raise your eyebrows, “Salty, crunchy, and cost efficient. Hell yeah, I’m sold.”

He grabs the box of generic popcorn in question and walks it back to the cart while you meander towards the sweets. When he meets you in front of the cookies, you glance at him, “Original or chewy?” 

“Original.” 

“Ten four, good buddy.” You grab the blue package of chocolate chip cookies and toss it in the basket, “Do you ever get to say that on your radio? Have a real trucker moment?” 

“Yes.”

“Adorable,” you chuckle, catching his gaze for a moment before you look down and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Are you gonna help me with the sign today, or do you have other plans?” 

“What do you need help with?” 

You exhale through slack lips, then shrug, “Well, today is just prep. I have to scrape off the old paint, sand it down, and prime. It has to dry overnight, but I think I’ll be able to finish the rest tomorrow or the next day if we get up early…” Pausing to chuckle, you shake your head, “Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. What I mean is, you could help me with scraping and sanding. It’s a real bitch and would be easier with your muscle. If—well, you know, only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything…”

“I can do that.” 

Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face, “Yeah?” 

He nods, “It’s the least I can do.” 

As the two of you near the checkout line, a frail woman with closely-cropped white curls shuffles from a back office to the one and only cash register.

“How are we doing this? Splitting it?” you swing the backpack off your shoulder and start rummaging through it, “I should have some money in my wallet. It’s not much, but it should—”

He holds up a hand, “I’ve got it.” 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” 

That thing in his chest whimpers when you smile at him, big and bright and gap-toothed, sparing him a polite, “Thank you,” before you start unloading the groceries onto the conveyor belt. 

Balancing the tips of your toes on the highest ladder rung, you stretch your roller towards the unprimed stripe of sign, but can’t quite reach it. 

“Goddamnit,” you mutter, returning all fours to the ladder with a huff, then look back at Din, “Hey, can I borrow your tall?”

Your question bounces off him with no reaction. 

Between the visor of his cap and the tablet glued to his face, you can’t quite tell if he’s ignoring you or if he just plain old can’t hear you. All that’s visible is his furrowed brow. So you shimmy down the ladder and set the paint roller in the tray, brushing your hands on your jeans as you approach his lawn chair, waiting for him to notice you. 

When the brisk October air nips at your dirt-caked, sweat-soaked skin, you skip closer, tapping your foot against his calf, “Hey.” 

He jumps as if broken out of a trance, then raises his eyebrows at you, “What?” 

“Can you help me with something?”

His mouth flattens into a straight line. He looks down at the tablet, then turns off the screen and sets it aside to look up at you. 

“See the top of the sign, how it’s all shitty still?” you point at the evidence, “Can you get it for me? I can’t reach.” 

“Use the big ladder.” 

“I didn’t think to grab it before Paul locked up for the night.” 

He releases a big dramatic sigh, glancing down at the tablet before rising to his feet. As he passes you the handle of the dog leash, you grin and plop down in the warmed-up lawn chair, “My hero!” 

“Uh-huh,” he shakes his head and starts towards the drop cloth. 

Beneath the lawn chair, the dog wakes from his nap and tries to follow Din, huffing and puffing when the leash goes taut, then walks back to your feet and sits on your shoelaces. His big satellite ears stand at attention while his person shimmies up the ladder with a roller brush in hand. 

The two of you sit there and watch Din with the same level of ardent attention, both perched on the edge of your respective seats, unable to tear your eyes away for a second. 

At first you try to tell yourself that you’re not even looking at him, just mapping out the illustration you’ll start tomorrow. But the truth is, it’s hard not to be drawn in by the view. By his panoramic shoulders and muscle-bound arms stretching out the fabric of his flannel as he rolls the brush up and down, back and forth, spreading thick white primer across the freshly smoothed wood… 

Despite the waning sunlight and icy gusts spilling off the mountains, heat bubbles up to the surface of your skin. 

You know that once he’s finished, you’ll go back to the motel for the rest of the night. Given the thick layer of grime you each accumulated throughout the day, showers will likely be in order. Which, of course, means stripping down to nothing while he’s in the bathroom with you. And vice versa, probably. 

Your imagination wanders to his naked body and how it would feel against yours. What if you argued in favor of water conservation, asking him to join you in the shower? What if he agreed? How would he look at you without those sunglasses covering his eyes? How would he touch you if morals weren’t involved? 

Din climbs down off the ladder and walks over, taking off his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead, “Is that it for today?”

He replaces the hat and takes off his aviators, cleaning the lenses with his shirt as he meets your gaze. The full force of his big brown eyes turns your saliva tacky and makes your heart stutter. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. 

Fuck, did he ask you something? 

“Is that—? Oh, um,” you clear your throat, then nod, “Yep, that should do it. Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

Flicking his eyes around your face, he nods, then turns back to the drop cloth, where he starts consolidating all the painting supplies. 

With his legs stretched out across the perimeter of the bathroom’s tile flooring, back resting against the tub, Din types ‘Tom Boucheron’ into the search bar of a Portland-based web forum. 

The search yields 83 matches. He starts sifting through the results, scrolling past subject lines that indicate general complaints about property management like rising rent and evictions and gentrification. Every once and a while he comes across subject lines that take on a more conspiratorial tone, though, mentioning the weight of his influence or his ties to police presence throughout the city. When he finds these posts, he clicks on the thread, copying and pasting the urls into a separate document. 

He can delve deeper into these later, once he’s able to better focus. But right now, with the roaring cascade of the shower behind him and your enthusiastic rendition of Tiny Dancer by Elton John, this mechanical sorting is the maximum concentration he can muster. 

Squinting at the screen, he wipes away the fog forming on his tablet. Moisture reclaims the area just as soon as it clears. He sighs and turns off the device when your vocals start ramping up to a volume he can’t ignore. 

“—But oh how it feels so real, lying here with no one near. Only you, and you can hear meeee, when I say softlyyyy, slooowly—”

“Are you almost done?” 

“You ruined the best part.” 

“We’re going to get a noise complaint.” 

You scoff, then he hears the thunk of you turning off the water. In his peripheries, your arm stretches out from behind the shower curtain to snatch the folded white towel off the toilet lid. 

A few seconds later, the curtain pulls back and you announce, “I’m decent.” 

He climbs to his feet while you step out of the tub, one hand securing the bath towel around your body, the other grabbing his arm for balance. Once sure-footed on the pink tiles, you let go and murmur, "Sorry,” before opening the door and padding off into the motel room. 

Grogu runs into the bathroom to investigate as Din slips out and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. He tries to anchor his vision to the floor, but finds his gaze drifting towards your movements out the corner of his eye. Humming to yourself, you comb your fingers through dripping wet hair and pull a few articles of clothing from your backpack. 

“Are you gonna hop in too?” 

His eyes tick to yours as you turn around, clutching a pile of clothing to your chest. 

“Because, you know… if you need me to be in there with you or whatever, that’s fine,” you cast your gaze to the floor with a shrug.

He studies your bashful demeanor for a moment before responding, “I’ll have you sit in there with me once you get dressed.” 

Without looking up, you give him a nod and walk over to the bathroom. As you put on clothing, Din uses all his will power to stare at the ground. 

“What do you wanna do after that? We could watch a movie.” 

His eyes cheat to the mirror on the wall, where he watches your reflection wrestle with a t-shirt. He catches a glimpse of your bare back before returning to the floor and clearing his throat. 

“I thought you weren’t much of a movie person.” 

“Well,” your footsteps soften onto the carpet, then your voice is closer, “If you have a better idea of how to pass the time in a seedy roadside motel, I’m open to suggestions.” 

He meets your heated gaze long enough for something to spark deep within his belly. The air between your body and his thickens with a palpable magnetism. His lips part to respond, but only one suggestion plays over and over again in his head. The mad yapping of that thing in his chest. 

Before he can say or do something stupid, though, you look away and start fidgeting, “So, I’m dressed. Are you ready?” 

Swallowing his tight throat, he pushes himself to his feet and locks eyes with you, “Go sit where I just was and put your head between your knees.” 

“Wow, you’re taking this very seriously.”  

“Let’s just get it over with, ok?”

You roll your eyes a little, but acquiesce. 

Din trails behind you into the bathroom, shooing the dog from the room before closing the door. When he turns around, he finds you curled up on the floor, back pressed to the tub basin with your face buried in your knees. 

“Like this?” 

“Perfect. Stay like that, I won’t take long.” 

For some reason he expected you would stay quiet while he disrobed, but you just continue talking as if you were accompanying him on any other menial task. 

“I think it’s funny how you have me do this whole thing so I don’t see your dick, but when I need privacy, the most you give me is a turned back.” 

Din glances at the top of your head while unbuckling his utility belt, then turns to spread it out across the bathroom counter, “That’s not the only reason I’m having you do this.” 

“Then why?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of involuntary captivity?” 

While you scoff and most likely try to come up with a rebuttal, he shucks off his flannel overshirt, then unfastens his shoulder holster and lines it up on the counter below the outspread belt. His hands work without much thought as he systematically unloads all three of his pistols. Eject the magazine, count the rounds, check the chamber.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Ignoring the question, he moves the unloaded guns and utility belt to a high shelf over the toilet, then pulls off his undershirt. 

“Can you at least confirm you’re not gearing up to murder me right now?” 

If he wanted to tear your frayed edges, he could mention that you were begging him to do exactly that less than 48 hours ago. But since you’re somehow more irritating when in a foul mood, he doesn’t. 

“If I was going to kill you I would have already.” He turns on the shower and takes a step back to make sure you’re still covering your eyes, then takes off his pants. 

“Would you do it if you had to?” 

The question gives him pause as he pulls back the shower curtain. 

“Why would I have to?” 

“I don’t know, because they asked you to do it.” 

He frowns, “I wouldn’t do it just because someone asked me to.” 

“You wouldn’t?” 

The hopeful air in your voice eats at his stomach lining. Instead of answering or clarifying what he meant, he steps into the shower. 

“Ok, but let’s say they gave you a good reason, and you were going to do it… kill me, I mean. How would you do it?” 

“I’m not going to tell you that.” 

“Why not?” 

He shakes his head and grabs a bar of soap off the shower ledge and starts to lather it against his skin. 

“Are you ignoring me or thinking?” 

“Ignoring you.” 

“You know, I appreciate the honesty.“ Then, after a few seconds: “I promise not to leak your trade secrets, big guy. Come on, how would you do it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

With this, you go quiet. 

Silence fills the bathroom for the remainder of his time in the shower, but Din’s thoughts are as loud and intrusive as your questions. 

His mind becomes populated with scenarios in which you would end up in the sights of his pistol. Under what circumstances would he pull the trigger? 

He imagines you stealing from him. He imagines trying to escape. He imagines it coming down to you or the money. He even goes so far as to imagine it coming down to you or him. 

But each time the imaginary him goes to take aim, he falters. 

While Din tosses a bag of popcorn in the microwave, you survey the Room 10’s VHS collection. 

“Ok let’s see,” you tilt your head sideways and read the titles, “Aladdin, Batman Returns, Twister—”

“You choose.” 

Beeps sound from the microwave, then it hums to life. 

You pull Aladdin from the shelf and admire the familiar cover art. Little flakes of deteriorated plastic break off the exterior and stick to your fingertips when you trace the title. You wince and mumble an apology to the inanimate object before prying it open to pull out the tape. 

After feeding it to the VCR, you press rewind and hold up the cover to Din, “Ever seen this?”

When he takes a step closer to examine it, you note the details you’re not normally privy to. His damp curls and the heat of his pulse. Mostly, though, you become fixated on his eyes. Those devastatingly dark and warm eyes. His heavy brow and hooded lids, all the lines of age creeping out from the corners. 

He meets your gaze and you swear you hear the snap of his full attention locking onto you when he frowns, “Can’t say I have.” 

Somewhere far away, the popcorn starts popping. You feel yourself succumbing to his gravitational pull, subconsciously drifting towards him, and can’t really remember if you had a point in mind when you asked. 

“It’s-it’s good,” you nod, letting your eyes drift to his mouth for a moment before you shrug, “I mean, from what I remember at least. I was obsessed with it when I was a kid. It drove my grandma crazy cuz I’d make her watch it on repeat…” 

It doesn’t really register how much information you’re disclosing until his eyes get all wide and doughy, at which point you take a step away from him and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Sorry, um, anyway. I liked it.” 

He chuckles, causing you to grin, “What?”

“Nothing.” 

His face tells you it’s definitely not nothing. It’s something if you’ve ever seen it. Something so gooey and hot it makes you ache. Dangerous, that’s what it is. 

The VCR clicks and shifts gears, then the TV lights up with disclaimers. Taking it as a sign from above, you start back towards the bed and tease, “I totally get why you wear the sunglasses, by the way. Your eyes give everything away.” 

Rather than admit you’re right, Din raises an eyebrow at you, then turns around to pull the microwave open before the timer reaches zero. While you slide under the covers and prop the flimsy pillows up behind your back, he pries open the steaming hot bag of popcorn and brings it to you. 

“Thanks.”

He grunts in response and disappears into the bathroom for a few seconds, returning with the shiny metal handcuffs, “Lights on or off?”

“Off.”

When the lights go out, the dog jumps onto the bed, spinning around a few times before curling up into an adorable white ball. Din tosses the cuffs to your side as he crawls into bed beside you. Once you think he’s settled in, you offer him some popcorn, which he accepts. 

“Do I have to put them on right now?” you ask, in reference to the cuffs. 

He frowns and shakes his head, “I can wait until you’re ready.” 

Nodding, you study his profile in the dim illumination from the TV. You don’t even realize you’re staring at him like a full-on creep until he says, “Stop giving me goo-goo eyes and watch the movie.” 

Embarrassment flares up your neck and cheeks. You scoff, “I am not giving you goo-goo eyes,” and wriggle deeper under the covers, diverting your gaze to the TV. 

I will not look at him for the rest of the night, you vow. Even if he asks me to, or talks to me, I won’t look at his stupid face until the sun comes up tomorrow. 

You almost fulfill the vow, too. 

Well… almost might be an exaggeration, but you make it to the end credits and that’s further than you really believed you could make it. 

With the motel room all dark save for the faintest glow from the credits rolling onscreen, he asks, “Are you awake?”

You remind yourself of your promise and try to ignore him. If you say something, you’ll look at him. And if you look at him, you lose. 

“Charlie?” he nudges you. 

Fuck. 

“Yeah,” you glance over, and of course you catch his eyes, “Is it handcuff time now?” 

He nods, almost apologetically. 

“Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Go ahead.” 

When you exit the bathroom and turn off the light, you find the room cloaked in darkness. The only reference point you have is the red glow of 9:12 on the alarm clock. You stretch your arms in front of you and start taking cautious steps towards it.  

“Oh my god, I can’t see shit.” 

“Want me to turn the lamp on?” 

“No, I’ve got it.” 

Your fingertips brush up against the bedspread, then you follow the alarm clock beacon to the side table. 

“Here.” 

His hand finds yours in the darkness. You grab ahold of it, trying your very hardest not to dwell on the warmth of his palm against yours as he gently guides you. When you finally settle between the sheets, he releases your hand. You almost wish he didn’t. 

“Ready?” 

“Sure.” 

He closes the cold heavy steel around your wrist, then his. For a while, neither of you move. Anxious energy buzzes beneath your skin. You close your eyes in an attempt to trick yourself into being tired, but it only makes you notice how fucking quiet it is. 

Resigning from your motionless state, you start wriggling around in an attempt to get comfortable. Din is accommodating while you do this, letting his wrist ragdoll wherever you drag it. You lie facing the wall for a while, fondling the knife you have tucked under the pillow. It doesn’t feel right. You flip onto your back and stare at the ceiling. Same problem. 

Then, when you can’t stand it anymore—the dark, the quiet, the nerves—you roll on your side facing him. 

“Din.” 

“What?” 

“I can’t fall asleep.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“Din.” 

“What?”

“I said I can’t fall asleep.” 

“I heard you the first time. What do you expect me to do about it?” 

You open your mouth to ask him to fuck you, but nerves rob your tongue. 

“Just talk to me for a while.” 

“About what?”

“I dunno, whatever you want.” You tuck your cuffed hand beneath your cheek and scoot a little closer.

His silence holds the weight of contemplation, so you prompt him, “What would your genie wishes be?” 

“Hang on, let me think.” 

A few quiet seconds go by before he clears his throat and rolls on his side to face you. The back of his cuffed hand rests against yours, which brings you a shred of comfort. 

“Financial security. Property rights to some land and a house, something out in the country.” 

“Like a farm?” 

“Something like that. Self-sustainable and off the grid. Maybe get a few animals and so I could live off the land.” 

“That’s the dream, right? Fuck off to the middle of nowhere and not have to rely on anyone?” 

“Yeah, that’s the dream.” 

You hum, then ask, “What’s wish number three?” 

“I… I’d rather not say.” 

Your gut instinct is to push back, but you resist the urge and instead tell him, “That’s fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

There’s enough sincerity in his voice that a tinge of guilt twists in your belly, and you feel obligated to bring up an earlier conversation. 

“I’m sorry, by the way. For pushing you to answer me when you were in the shower. Sometimes I don’t know when it’s time to shut the fuck up and let it be.” 

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” 

“Ok,” you wiggle around a bit and manage to find the perfect position, then close your eyes and release a content sigh. 

“What are yours?” he asks. 

“Mmmm… you know, I’ve thought a lot about this question—” A yawn swells in your chest, cutting you off. When it passes, your limbs feel heavy and warm. You continue, “I’d wish for the genie to be free.”

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, “And what else, world peace? An end to climate change?” 

“I hear your snark, sir, and I don’t appreciate it. No, I wouldn’t wish for world peace or the end of climate change. I wouldn’t wish for anything. Tricky bastard can keep his wishes, I make my own luck.” 

“Tricky bastard, huh?” 

Another yawn takes over. Lethargy seeps through your body, making your worlds come out slow and murmured. 

“Yeah, y’know… all the, umm… the fine print. Too many strings attached, I don’t trust ‘em.” 

“You sound tired.” 

You hum, snuggling deeper into your pillow, “You sound tired.” 

“Get some sleep, kid. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” 

“Mmmkay,” you mumble, “Sweet dreams, Din.” 

[faghubby]

Camp Happy part 2

Must read part 1

I watched as Ms Stephanie got on the bus and pulled away. My heart sank alittle watching her go. I looked at the time damn I was late for cooling class. I got there 5 minutes late and knew I would receive some type of punishment for it.

"Paulie, are you having some issues" Ms Sara the cooking councilor asked.

"No, Ms Sara." I replied. She looked down at the wet spot in my pants.

"OH, um I was saying goodbye to my wife" I tried to explain. She took me by the hand and led me outside.

"You can ask for protection if it's thst time of your cycle" she told me. Ms Sara led me into the bathroom. She pulled down my pants and panties in one yank. She reached into a basket on the back of the toilet and pulled out a pantyliner.

"You just remove the paper and lay it in your panties like this" she told me. This all made me leak even worse. My dick and balls aching not being able to grow in the cage.

"Now about being late for class." Ms Sara opened a cabinet and pulled out a pink box. "Have you ever" she took a pink silicone butt plug out of the box. She put on a latex glove and bent me over and applied lube to my ass. slipping a finger into my ass. Then removed it and slid in the plug.

"OH my" I gasped. I pulled up my pants and she took me back to class. I was walking funny.

"5 minutes equals 5 hours" Ms Sara smiled.

Mr Terry met me after class. Ms Sara told him about my punishment.

"Well Paulie has a review with the staff" he smiled. As he led me to the office I was walking slow. He reached behind and cupped my ass. Pushing on the plug. I jumped grabbing hold of his arm. I stared up at him our eyes met. I thought about him and how much him grabbing my ass excited me.

I was led to a room 5 senior staff where there and Mr Terry joined them. I was given a little stool to sit on.

"Paulie, this is a review of not only of how you are doing but how you fell we are preforming" A man with a white beard stated. He had a nameplate in front of him.

"I understand Mr Victor" I replied.

"We met with Ms Stephanie and got her imput as well" Ms Janice stated she taught my woman's pleasure course.

"We have no reports of you tampering or even asking to have your cage removed" Ms Kelly the nurse added.

"Very unusual, do you like being caged?" Mr Victor asked

"It can pinch at times, and today" I fell silent suddenly embarrassed.

"Paulie had some leaking issues today" Mr Terry told them. Ms Sara taught him how to use a pad. This made every one giggle a little.

they talked about me for a few minutes rather then to me.

"Paulie is very submissive, has hardly resistance to anything we told him to do."

"Has he been offered to dress fully?"

"Homosexual tendencies"

"Interactions with other guest?"

They went back and forth with questions and responses. I was surprised by some especially how Mr Terry had stated homosexual behavior he witnessed. He referred to reports but didn't say what was in them.

"Ms Stephanie stated she would be very interested in cuckolding her husband on a permanent basis." Ms Diane stated " as well as keeping him/her as a soft boi"

"Paulie, how do you feel about being cuckold?" Mr Victor asked.

"Well I... I did suggest thst Stephanie" I couldn't finish.

"Paulie have you ever tasted a man's sperm" Ms Diane asked. I just nodded.

"Are you aware thst cuckolds usually lick thier wife's after a man has used her?" Ms Diane stated, I just stared at my feet.

"It's okay Paulie. Mr Terry will help you with this" Mr Victor said handing a binder to Mr Terry.

Mr Terry led me out of the building as we got outside he grabbed my ass again making me jump. He laughed and then so did I knowing he did it tell me it was alright. I thought we where going to the library but instead he took me to the massage cabin.

"Strip" Mr Terry said plainly. I did as told I stood nakedjust my cage which was still leaking. Mr Terry picked me up and placed me on the table. He rubbed oil on my shoulders. I tried to relax. His strong hands worked my muscles. As he worked closer to my ass. His hands groping my ass he poured lube between my ass cheeks. He rolled me onto my back. He pusher on the plug.

"Do you want me to stop" he asked.

"No,but no" i moaned. As he moved the plug appling pressure as he rubbed it against my prostate. I hadlearned about milking. He used some kind of cup to catch my cum as it flowed outof me. My eyes had been closed so when I felt a cup touch my lips I was surprised. Then I tasted salty slime.

"Swallow "Mr Terry ordered me. I did as I was told.

"Feel better" he asked. I did the pressure in my balls was gone. He made sure I ate all of my cum which wasn't bad but a wierd texture. the plug which seemed smaller now. I slid off the table He reached out to grab me. I fell against him. I reached into his shorts and stroked his cock.

"That isn't for you" he smiled and removed my hand. I got dressed embarrassed. Not only about me thinking he wanted me to please him but also that I had just had my ass fucked and swallowed my own cum. We went to the library and Mr Terry helped me go through the binder. He asked me about every sexual experience I had ever had, I had only been with two woman a girlfriend in high school we slept together once. And Stephanie. I had only ever recieved one blow job from Stephanie the night i proposed. Mr terry finished the report with him using the toy on my ass.

He asked about being a girl.

"Do you feel you are a man?" He asked. To drive the point home he pinched my nipple.

"No, I guess not" I admitted .

"Would you like to experience being a woman?" He continued

"No, I know I kinda" I said almost in tears.

"Shh, you are not a man or a woman. We call you a soft boi. It's not quite a sissy. It's more like a young man with femine traits. This is what Stephanie wants. She would like it if you agreed to continue this when you go back home" Mr Terry explained.

"Stephanie would also like to make your chastity permanent" Mr Terry explained. You could recieve relief like I did for you"

"but family, friends, the factory " I said

"Well Stephanie would want you to become her house husband. After all you work for her right, you would just do that from home by cooking and cleaning." Mr Terry explained. I was feeling very vulnerable and found myself cuddling with Mr Terry.

"One last thing" Mr Terry pulled out a form.

"Name change" he stated.

"What I don't understand" I replied he handed me the form. It read Paul Drover name to be Paulie Murphy. That was Stephanie's last name.

"Stephanie would love it if you agreed to remarry her. Take new vows more fitting your new role" Mr Terry explained.

I signed the form. Terry walked me back to my room. I fell asleep immediately feeling completely emotionally drained.

The next day me and Stephanie had a long Skype. She explained her feelings. She also confessed to having slept with Roger an old friend of mine as soon as she got home from seeing me. I confessed that Mr Terry had fucked me with a dildo. She had already been told.

"Did you like it?" She asked. I was forced to admit I did.

The next week was more directed at Stephanie's wishes. I spent alot ofe time in cooking, organization, cleaning courses. Along with how to pamper a woman. I was also given free time to sunbath I choose a bikini so I got tan lines on my chest as well. I also explored the library reading alot about sexual needs, desires. I even met that wierd guy that had pink hair. Her name is Dana. He is a total sissy who's wife sent him to camp whenever she went on vacation with one of her lovers. He had not even seen his wide naked ever. He was there to please her lovers if they wished. We hung out alot. The day before I was set to leave Stephanie was coming to escort me home I got pink strip in my blonde hair, I was hoping Stephanie liked it.

"I love it" Stephanie told me kissing me. She immediately took me to her cabin. Where I licked and sucked her everywhere. When I was done she just laid on the bed smiling.

"That was amazing" she told me.

"Sweety I got you a kind of graduation present" she sat me down and handed me a jewelry box it was a set of diamond earrings. She didn't wait for an answer she pieced my ears with a needle right then and there.

"I also bought you all kinds of new clothes, but I like you to wear this for me now" she told me and pulled out a pink satin nightie and panties that said Stephanie's bitch on the ass. I got dressed as I did she had put on a dildo harness. She bent me over and fucked me. It was only a few minutes before she got tired. So she had me straddle her and ride her cock. As we laid there in bliss of the greatest sex ever. We fell asleep. When we woke it was dark.

"let's go for a walk" she said. My curfew didn't apply if I was with her so I got dressed. Ms Stephanie watched as I slid on a tiny pink thong. I added a pantyliner. Then a pair of black boots shorts. And a pink camp spaghetti strap tee shirt. And open toed sandels.

"It's chilly you might get cold" she told me I grabbed my camp pink oversized hoody that came down like it was a short dress. Ms Stephanie slid on plain white panties jeans and a flannel shirt. Didn't even bother with a bra and boots. I held her hand as we walked out into the dark. The trail was lit. But I heard rustling in the bushes and held her hand tighter.

"It's okay sweety, no reason to be scared" she reassured me with a smile. We walked on.

"You look amazing by the way" she told me. "They tell me you lost almost 15 pounds" Ms Stephanie said. I had not even realized it until I had to ask for smaller clothes. My strick diet and exercise program was sternly in forced.

"Thank you Ms Stephanie" I replied blushing a bit. Her hand grabbed my ass.

"So tell me about what happened after Mr Terry helped you after I left last week?" She said slowing and making me look at her.

"You gropped him?" She asked with a strange look. I wasn't sure if she was mad or surprised.

"I thought" I fell silent

"You will never try and initiate anything intimate with anyone ever again" she told me. "If he had wanted you to suck his cock he would of told you to" she told me.

"I am sorry Ms Stephanie. You are right" I said my voice shaking.

"Would you like to have a man take you, it is a very amazing experience to have a man inside of you" Ms Stephanie explained

"I just, it was kinda just caught up in the moment" stumbling over my words.

"You really liked my strapon" Ms Stephanie pointed out. I blushed deep red and nodded. We where headed towards the music. As we entered the cabin looked like staff was just unwinding from the day.

We where welcomed in Ms Stephanie was offered a drink. She allowed me some apple juice. She danced with several staff members while I stood and watched.

"Why don't you go back to my cabin and wait for me in bed little one. You must be exhausted" Ms Stephanie told me as she went back to dancing with Mr Frank the lifeguard. Mr Terry offered to escort me back after she laughed that I was afraid of the chipmunks.

Mr Terry walked me back I held his hand the whole way.

"Mr Terry I like to thank you. You looking after me in my time here" I said.

"Paulie it has been a treat" he smiled. I stretched up and kissed his cheek. Only after did I think it strange. Should I of offered a hand shake.

"I hope you come back to visit us soon" he told me as I rushed inside and turned on the light.

Ms Stephanie woke me when she came in.

"You are officially a cuckold.ihad noidea how much i needed a real man " she said kissing me. She already was naked as she straddled my face. I sucked a man's cum out of her swollen pussy. "That's your friend Terry you're tasting. Are you jealous that he didn't fuck you?" She giggled. And told me she gave Frank a blow job as well. "I gobbled up every drop. I never ever let you cum in my mouth have i" she was obviously tipsy. She collapsed when I finished I tucked her in and cuddled up with her as she slept.

We left in the morning. We had a 3 hour wait time at the train station. Ms Stephanie decided we would explore the town. It wasn't very big moreover a tourist way station to the mountains. Stephanie puller me into a tattoo parlor. She talked to the artist briefly showing him something on her phone. Then called me over. I was confused neither of us had ever even mentioned a tattoo.

"Paulie"ms Stephanie called me overthe artist had me lay on my back he had Stephanie approve the design when he stenciled it and for the next hour I laid there as I got a tattoo. I was worried since she had him make it on my lower back like it was a tramp stamp. When he was finished I saw the three rings of a chastity cuckold, hot wife, and a bull. I cried as we got on the train, this was my life now, this is who I would be. Ms Stephanie held me.

"It's just the last of that fake male ego leaving your body sweety" she told me. "Just think what mom will think when we get home" .

This made me think of our friends. My parents and brother. What would they all think. I had pink hair and purple sculped finger nails. This made me cry even more.

To be continued

[octuscle]

I've always been a well put together scrawny guy. Never really got along with other guys who were more masculine. I'm eager to see what's on the other end of life. A bear, hairy, with a big belly and a deep belly button. Can fart among other men openly, freely, and, most of all, proudly. The kind of guy who can fix a car with one hand while the other hand is scratching my belly button or drifting the stench of my farts up to my nose. I want to be as filthy of a man as can be, and I want to be proud of it!

As they say in an old Hollywood movie, life is like a box of chocolates… Do you like chocolates? Here's a box.

The chocolates are made of very dark chocolate. They smell of wood, leather and tobacco. Masculine. The first one has rings as a symbol and melts in your mouth. It tastes of whiskey. Very tasty. As the saying goes. A moment on your lips, a lifetime on your hips. You can feel your belly growing a little. And the piercings in your nipples feel great.

You can't really tell what's on the next chocolate… An eggplant? Maybe. It tastes… Musky? Your boner is growing in your pants as your belly swells over the waistband. Your foreskin grows back. You run your hand down your pants. Yes, that's good. You smear the precum. With your other hand, you take another chocolate.

It's a bear or something… Also filled with alcohol. But something different, tastes like beer. You have to burp. Your shirt stretches across your stomach and chest. You're growing fur. Everywhere. That was really tasty, you need another one of those. Hehehe, the burp was even better. Phew, how it stinks. Male! You have to take your shirt off before you tear it to pieces. You pull your hand out of your pants, the waistband is getting too tight. You smell your hand. Sweat and musk, sticky from the precum. You rub it clean on your hairy chest and then unbutton your pants. Your cock pops out like a jack-in-the-box.

There's another animal head on the next praline. Could be a bull. Your belly doesn't just swell, it bloats…. Brffffffffft! Phew, you can still put up with your own farts. And here comes another one. You take a deep breath. Yes, that's what a really good fart must smell like. You rub the bulge in your leather pants… It feels great. And the leather can tame a bit of your farts if necessary. If you want…

You haven't tried any of those yet. They have a geometric pattern on them. Your pecs have become man boobs. Big, powerful but soft. And decorated with tattoos that look like you've had them for decades. You get another one with an eggplant on it. Your balls and cock swell up. Your cock is rock hard. Shit, you have to cum. Your cum flies all the way into your beard. A deep puddle forms in your belly button. You rub it all into your fur with your calloused hands.

You've never had one with a wheel like this before. It tastes of oil. Kind of disgusting. And somehow hot. You put your heavy motorcycle boots down on the coffee table and adjust your muir cap. Shit, chocolate pralines don't really fit in your motorcycle workshop. But they do taste good. You have to fart again. And burp immediately afterwards. You hope no customers come in now.

The appetite comes with eating. You take two with a bear on them at once. The leather sofa groans under your weight. The muir cap feels great on your bare skull. The remains of your tobacco still cling to your mighty beard. Yes, you actually feel more like a good portion of Copenhagen or a cigar than a chocolate. But there are only two left anyway. One with a ring on it and one with a bull.

Shit, you can feel a hurricane brewing in your guts. You rub your belly and your tits. Your huge piercings in your nipples and glans are impressive. The leather strap stretches across your upper arm. One of your boys comes into your office and wants to ask you about the Fatboy that's due to be finished this afternoon. This is the moment you've been waiting for. Brbrbrbrbrffffffft! Shit, a bison would be proud. You take a deep breath. Your coworker turns pale. "Get used to it, boy!" you growl.

To apologize, you have given your employee an extra-large box of chocolates. He is to share it with the other boys. His questions are all answered. Now you need a midday nap. Your boys know that. For the next half hour, all they'll hear is snoring and farting coming from your office.

Pic found @musclefetish77

[zoesblogsposts]

o 625 words to know in your target language o

There is a really interesting blog called "Fluent Forever" that aids foreign language learners in tricks, tips and techniques to guide them to achieving fluency "quickly" and efficiently. One of the tricks is to learn these 625 vocab words in your target language, that way you have a basis to start delving into grammar with ease as you can understand a lot of vocab right off the bat. Plus this list of words are common across the world and will aid you in whatever language you are learning. Here is the list in thematic order

• Animal: dog, cat, fish, bird, cow, pig, mouse, horse, wing, animal

• Transportation: train, plane, car, truck, bicycle, bus, boat, ship, tire, gasoline, engine, (train) ticket, transportation

• Location: city, house, apartment, street/road, airport, train station, bridge hotel, restaurant, farm, court, school, office, room, town, university, club, bar, park, camp, store/shop, theater, library, hospital, church, market, country (USA,

France, etc.), building, ground, space (outer space), bank, location

• Clothing: hat, dress, suit, skirt, shirt, T-shirt, pants, shoes, pocket, coat, stain, clothing

• Color: red, green, blue (light/dark), yellow, brown, pink, orange, black, white, gray, color

• People: son, daughter, mother, father, parent (= mother/father), baby, man, woman, brother, sister, family, grandfather, grandmother, husband, wife, king, queen, president, neighbor, boy, girl, child (= boy/girl), adult (= man/woman), human (# animal), friend (Add a friend's name), victim, player, fan, crowd, person

• Job: Teacher, student, lawyer, doctor, patient, waiter, secretary, priest, police, army, soldier, artist, author, manager, reporter, actor, job

• Society: religion, heaven, hell, death, medicine, money, dollar, bill, marriage, wedding, team, race (ethnicity), sex (the act), sex (gender), murder, prison, technology, energy, war, peace, attack, election, magazine, newspaper, poison, gun, sport, race (sport), exercise, ball, game, price, contract, drug, sign, science, God

• Art. band, song, instrument (musical), music, movie, art

• Beverages: coffee, tea, wine, beer, juice, water, milk, beverage

• Food: egg, cheese, bread, soup, cake, chicken, pork, beef, apple, banana orange, lemon, corn, rice, oil, seed, knife, spoon, fork, plate, cup, breakfast, lunch, dinner, sugar, salt, bottle, food

• Home: table, chair, bed, dream, window, door, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, pencil, pen, photograph, soap, book, page, key, paint, letter, note, wall, paper, floor, ceiling, roof, pool, lock, telephone, garden, yard, needle, bag, box, gift, card, ring, tool

• Electronics: clock, lamp, fan, cell phone, network, computer, program (computer), laptop, screen, camera, television, radio

• Body: head, neck, face, beard, hair, eye, mouth, lip, nose, tooth, ear, tear (drop), tongue, back, toe, finger, foot, hand, leg, arm, shoulder, heart, blood, brain, knee, sweat, disease, bone, voice, skin, body

• Nature: sea, ocean, river, mountain, rain, snow, tree, sun, moon, world, Earth, forest, sky, plant, wind, soil/earth, flower, valley, root, lake, star, grass, leaf, air, sand, beach, wave, fire, ice, island, hill, heat, nature

• Materials: glass, metal, plastic, wood, stone, diamond, clay, dust, gold, copper, silver, material

• Math/Measurements: meter, centimeter, kilogram, inch, foot, pound, half, circle, square, temperature, date, weight, edge, corner

• Misc Nouns: map, dot, consonant, vowel, light, sound, yes, no, piece, pain, injury, hole, image, pattern, noun, verb, adjective

• Directions: top, bottom, side, front, back, outside, inside, up, down, left, right, straight, north, south, east, west, direction

• Seasons: Summer, Spring, Winter, Fall, season

• Numbers: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 30, 31, 32, 40, 41, 42, 50, 51, 52, 60, 61, 62, 70, 71, 72, 80, 81, 82, 90, 91, 92, 100, 101, 102, 110, 111, 1000, 1001, 10000, 100000, million, billion, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, number

• Months: January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December

• Days of the week: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday

• Time: year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, morning, afternoon, evening, night, time

• Verbs: work, play, walk, run, drive, fly, swim, go, stop, follow, think, speak/say, eat, drink, kill, die, smile, laugh, cry, buy, pay, sell, shoot(a gun), learn, jump, smell, hear (a sound), listen (music), taste, touch, see (a bird), watch (TV), kiss, burn, melt, dig, explode, sit, stand, love, pass by, cut, fight, lie down, dance, sleep, wake up, sing, count, marry, pray, win, lose, mix/stir, bend, wash, cook, open, close, write, call, turn, build, teach, grow, draw, feed, catch, throw, clean, find, fall, push, pull, carry, break, wear, hang, shake, sign, beat, lift

• Adjectives: long, short (long), tall, short (vs tall), wide, narrow, big/large, small/little, slow, fast, hot, cold, warm, cool, new, old (new), young, old (young), weak, dead, alive, heavy, light (heavy), dark, light (dark), nuclear, famous

[custompackagingboxes]

Customized Boxes Make a Lasting Impression for Memory

In the packaging industry, boxes have become essential for companies looking to improve their identity and fulfill specific packaging requirements. Custom-made to meet the specific needs of every product, boxes are more than just holding spaces. They represent their identity, core values, and the promise of what is within. Many options are available to businesses regarding corrugated cardboard and elegant, custom-printed designs. This allows them to show their creativity and create a memorable impression on customers. Customized Boxes are pretty advantageous because of their capacity to communicate a message. By incorporating deliberate design components like images, colors, and logos, boxes take on the role of a physical representation of a brand.

Customized Boxes to Unleash Your Creativity and Spirit

A key component in improving the unboxing experience is boxes. In digital age has made packaging an essential component of the product experience, as seen by the millions of views unpacking videos receive on social media sites. Companies take advantage of this trend by investing in Customized Boxes. They safeguard the goods while they are in transit and give customers a sense of excitement and anticipation. Every element, from elaborate patterns to customized words, is thoughtfully chosen to make recipients smile. They create a moment they will not soon forget. Every element of the box, from a minimalist design for a high-end skincare product to a whimsical pattern for a toy, can be customized to appeal to the target market and strengthen brand identification.

Customized Boxes to Enhance Your Brand Image

Boxes provide beneficial advantages that boost supply chain overall effectiveness beyond branding and design. Businesses can minimize extra material and delivery expenses by creating boxes specific to their size. Furthermore, components like dividers and inserts might lessen the chance of damage. They guarantee client delight by securely holding delicate things en route. Customized Boxes offer a chance to adopt Eco-friendly materials and maximize packaging design to minimize waste, promoting sustainable practices. Several solutions are available for firms wishing to match their packaging tactics with environmental conservation initiatives. Therefore, they range from recyclable cardboard to biodegradable alternatives.

Customized Boxes to Deliver Your Products in Style

Businesses may show their dedication to corporate social responsibility and win over Eco-aware customers by making wise decisions and investing in sustainable packaging solutions. So, businesses and consumers are increasingly concerned about how packaging affects the environment. Customized Boxes have been used in advertising campaigns, e-commerce, subscription services, and conventional retail packaging. The popularity of Internet shopping has increased demand for packaging solutions that safeguard goods in transit and give consumers an enjoyable unboxing experience. In particular, subscription box businesses use personalized packaging to differentiate themselves from the competition and increase subscriber brand loyalty.

Leave a Memorable Mark with Beard Oil Boxes

Within the constantly changing realm of grooming products, beard oil has become a go-to product for many people trying to keep their beards healthy and well-groomed. The necessity for creative packaging solutions that preserve the product. They capture their essence, and appeal to the target market is growing along with the demand for beard oil. Beard Oil Boxes are a fusion of form and function in this situation. Thus, they improve their user experience as a whole. The security of the fragile glass and plastic bottles holding the priceless beard oil is one of their primary purposes. Boxes are made to endure the rigors of handling and shipping. So, they guarantee that the product arrives to the buyer in perfect shape.

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Boxes are helpful not just for protection but also as an effective branding tool. In the cutthroat business world of today, branding is essential to drawing in new business and keeping existing clients. Beard oil companies frequently devote much time and money to creating a distinctive brand identity. Thus, it is essential to convey that identity to customers. Beard Oil Boxes provide a platform for brands to convey their individuality and set themselves apart from rivals, from striking colors and images to elegant typography and embossed logos. For instance, a company aiming to appeal to consumers concerned about the environment can use Eco-friendly materials and simple designs demonstrating their dedication to sustainability.

Make Unboxing Experience Special with Beard Oil Boxes

A company catering to affluent consumers can select high-end components like velvet finishes and textured paper to project an air of exclusivity and elegance. Because of its adaptability, firms can customize Beard Oil Boxes to appeal to their target market and complement their brand strategy. Apart from their protective and branding roles, they also improve their entire experience with the product. In addition to adding to the products perceived worth, their design can generate excitement and anticipation for when it is opened. Packaging design can enhance and create a lasting impression on consumers through an insert that secures the bottle, a sleek magnetic closure, and an inventive dispenser mechanism.

[razorfst]

tagged by: @hexsreality

tagging: you! everyone who sees this and wants to do it

[robotslenderman]

It really just bugs me that gender, nowadays, is often just repackaged conservatism.

A tomboy or a butch aren't any less female because they don't believe in gender roles. It's just another way of expressing femininity. Same with cis dudes who like to shave their legs or paint their nails or wear dresses. You can wear a beard and a dress and still be as much of a man as that dude in the Yank Tank with testosterone poisoning and a shitton of misogynistic tattoos.

I get misgendered as nonbinary all the time. I have no idea how - the gender stereotype of enbies is androgyny, which I know is not true, but many people do and yet despite my lowkey and sometimes highkey femme appearance many people use "they" as my pronouns despite being told otherwise. The majority of my friends are trans not because they're my people, but because my cis+ ass is more comfortable around people who play with gender than those who don't. I am a gender expat; I am a guest in their space, but I will never be a native, and yet I'm more comfortable around them than the cis because the cis are so fucking obsessed with the binary and gender roles.

It doesn't help that when I changed my name I changed it to a gender neutral one. One of my friends pointedly made a remark that they were happy that I "get to experience gender euphoria in that way." When I told my psychiatrist about my name change he immediately jumped on the "closeted enby in denial" train that has been following me ever since; he made a long speech about gender fluidity and how I shouldn't take it personally that my family may struggle to adapt to the change. When I told him I was cis, he just smiled. My therapist still uses they/them pronouns for me despite being explicitly told not to. Never mind that I've been questioning my gender for well over a decade; it's hard not to when you're a gender expat and surrounded by people who question their gender all the time. never mind that the answer always is, and always shall remain, "still cis."

I'm not saying my poor widdle cis ass suffers the same oppression as trans folk. If that's what you take away from this you're not paying attention.

The truth is that my femininity is understated. Anonymous. It's never been a loud and in-your-face hot pink and barbie flavoured experience. Just because cis female is a single category doesn't mean that cis female is so rigidly defined. It's loud and in-your-face hot pink. It's Barbie. It's also oil and grime and cars, and loud and opinionated and argumentative, as much as soft and delicate and compliant. It's pink and frilly, but it's also blue and dirty. It's cis men in drag and cis women who have never worn a skirt in their life, and everything in between. It seems like I run into a lot of people for whom gender isn't an experience or lens or point of view, it's interest and fashion sense. Or someone's name. I'm seen as less of a woman for my chosen name and people tell me that's okay, not everyone is female! I just say, it's not okay because of that, it's okay because it's okay not to be your idea of what a woman is.

I met a man called Harriet* once. He wasn't any less a man. His wit was acerbic, and he always fronted comments on his name with sarcasm and "yeah, laugh now, get it out of your system." And yet he never changed it. He wasn't less a man for having a traditionally female name. I'm not any less a woman for having a nonbinary one. Just because male and female are opposites doesn't mean they should never touch for the cis.

I don't fit into the '50s box of "you're female, therefore you should wear a dress." Neither do I fit into the '20s box of "you wear a dress, so you must be female." The truth is that gender roles and expectations are just as baffling for people who are nonconforming as for people who are, and that we'll never be truly free of the gender binary as long as we adhere to it. And the truth is that even if you think you don't adhere to that binary, it's so ingrained in your subconscious and our society you almost certainly do. My friends who not-so-secretly think I'm a closeted enby in denial are as much adhering to it as some idiot who thinks my vagina means I should wear a dress and poo out babies.

Being nonbinary is a spectrum. But so is being male or female. You'll never break out of a black or white binary until you realise that it doesn't exist - not even for cis people. We can't truly break out of the binary until we realise that it doesn't exist for ANYONE.

You either believe in the gender binary or you don't. And if you believe that cis people have certain experiences or present in certain ways, if you believe that binary trans people adhere to those same standards, you believe in the gender binary. No matter what you say. You can claim until you're blue in the face that you don't believe in the binary, but if you're shoving other people in the box of what binary means, you are lying.

(* Not his real name - he's a patient and I'm adhering to patient privacy laws. But he definitely had a "female" name that isn't even ambiguously gender neutral. I'm not even talking Meredith or Tracy, names which used to be gender neutral but are female. I've never once in my life met another male "Harriet" despite meeting dozens of strangers every day.)

[ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit]

“You know, they didn’t always have mage crystals.”

The place they are in looks vaguely like the cottage outside the mine, cleaned though. The wood was oiled and shined on the table and floors; the chairs tucked in neatly underneath. The carvings were beautiful, shining on the arches of the door, the railings of the stairs, and even just the walls. Vines and trees, flowers, mushrooms and all bits of nature creeping inside until you might have questioned why there was a door at all.

The windows, while still stain glass, shined only with a vast emptiness, the colors washed out and dull without sunlight. Maybe Walker could try and recreate the patterns somehow?

They take a closer look at the man in front of him, hunched and small but not weak. He’s watery blue eyes are tired but steady, his jaw strong and hanging with a long white beard, and surprisingly enough a strong set of laugh lines on either sides of his cheeks. He was once happy it seemed.

“What did they use before mage crystals?”

Dopey, that’s his name, though Walker doesn’t know how he knows that, only smiles, and pats the cushion beside him on the fireplace.

“Still gems and minerals, sure, but mage crystals are versatile, taking in and giving out in equal measure. The more particular a stone, the more concentrated a force, but if it isn’t used for its intended purpose, it’ll blow back on you. Doc-” he chokes on the name, clearing his throat, “Doc was better at these things, but I can teach you.”

Walker takes a seat, cocking his head to the side. His hands still hurt from the shards of glass that Deuce helped him pick out. The ink stains may come out with time? They haven’t faded yet though.

“Why would you want to? Seems like everything has a price here”

The old man laughs softly, shaking his head.

“Maybe among the higher races, but us helper races, as others would call us, only ask for respect and decency. You gifted mine back to me when you shattered that ink.” He drags a box over, inside small shards of all kinds of gems, minerals, crystals and stones with stripes and spots and different clarities. “Now listen close, you’ll know all of these and their purposes soon. When you can harvest the magic around you, you’ll be able to use the same spells they do.”

Walker’s head whips around.

“You won’t be able to use as many silly spells as they do.” Dopey scoffs. “But you’ll be able to lay charms and protectors to snap into place when you need them, especially because they use their magic so…freely.”

He mutters again about respect and honor, and starts laying out the stones.

Outside the windows sits only darkness and cold, barely held away by the flicking of the flames inside, a presence watches from the windows. Dopey loops an arm around their shoulders, shielding them as long as he can.

[strid3rofthen0rth]

I just attended a meeting of the local snowmobile club to deliver the directional signs they'd commissioned from me.

Hosted in a pole building by an old dairy farmer they call Slippery. Big belly, suspenders, those old craggy farmer mitts that look they're carved from bridle leather and ironwood.

The shop looked like a standard farm building from the outside, well used but taken care of. Upon entering, I was greeted with in-floor heat and a clean, bright space. A full potluck spread, vintage underlit oil and tractor tin signs, tasteful deer mounts, and a bar. Black and gray interior steel siding with faux stone wainscoting. A very well-appointed man cave. Old dairy farmers will surprise you like that.

Without having previously met anyone in person, a bowl of venison chili and a can of Miller Lite were immediately foisted upon me, forcing me to set down the box of signs.

I'm not a mingler, but in a shop like that, among men and women encased almost entirely in work hardened Carhartt, I was pretty comfy. The people of my childhood.

There was some flirting with a mildly inebriated 80 year old grandma who liked touching my beard. After the reading of the minutes and previous business, when I was called upon to present the signs they'd ordered, some guy from the euchre game happening at a card table in the back yelled, "You're not a fucking Bears fan, are you?"

"I'd rather be dead." Chuckles all around. Thanks, guy I don't know, for breaking the ice on my little presentation.

Grandma beard toucher ooo'ed and aww'ed over the signs, as most of the women did. The dudes grudgingly afforded that my work was acceptable, asked questions about the machines I used to make them, as farm dudes do.

To sum it up, I was away from this area and these people for a long time, but damn of it doesn't still feel like home in the back of the brain