You and him were at the beach, a quiet, peaceful place—un.

He sat there, looking like a pirate in an oversized lounge chair, his diamond eyepatch gleaming in the sun. He was trying to get some “peaceful” tanning time.

You couldn’t resist. You sprinted to the water, feeling like the ocean was calling to you, and—without warning—splash! A full-on tidal wave of salty water right in his face.

The second the water hit, he went rigid. His good eye twitched, and then—

“AH, MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK, YOU—”

But it wasn’t just any scream. No. He clutched his diamond eyepatch like it was some sacred relic. Turns out, a little bit of ocean water wasn't great for his ruined eye. he squinted as he fought to keep the irritation from tearing through him.

“YOU—”

And there it was. The slow burn. The rage bubbling up as he stood up, looking deadly mad.

You shrugged and grinned. “It's just water—”

But he didn’t hear you. His eyes narrowed. He completely ignored you, choosing instead to wriggle out of his chair and attempt to get his tan back. As if he hadn't just been drenched. You couldn't help but notice—he was wearing CROCS.

His feet had these odd dots all over them, like some cruel, unfinished tan pattern.

It looked like his feet were made of Swiss cheese.

He kicked his feet into the sand, desperately trying to get some tan on the parts of his feet that weren’t dotted with white from his luxury footwear.

You couldn’t help but snicker.

“Oh my God, are you really tanning your Crocs feet? You look like a walking safety hazard.”

"I DON'T want to talk about it."

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to the person anonymously requesting these. STOP IT PLEASE