some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, âwhatâs the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?â and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is âunofficialâ, and we know thatâs not the right word, but itâs the only word we can come up withâŠuntil finally itâs like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is âartificialâ.
A party of human adventurers come across a guardian that only allows non-humans to pass. They were preparing for battle when the guardian happily announces that it detected no humans in the party and steps aside to let them through.
Dance Movie - a motion picture in which dance is central to the storyline or execution.
Brief History of Dance Movies
The history of dance movies coincides with the history of the motion picture itself, beginning at the dawn of the 20th century:
Origins: Inventor Thomas A. Edison made one of the first dance movies in 1894 when he filmed real-life dancer Ruth St. Denis performing her âSkirt Danceâ in a scenic location. Dance scenes appear in numerous silent films, ranging from D.W. Griffithâs epic Intolerance in 1916, to Sergei Eisensteinâs October: Ten Days that Shook the World, which dramatized the 1917 Russian revolution.
First features: The dawn of âtalking picturesâ also ushered in feature-length dance revue films, which elevated the dance sequence from an interlude to a key component of the storyline. Filmmaker Busby Berkeley took the concept to new visual heights by wedding elaborate choreography with complex and dazzling cinematography.
First stars: Dancers Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers became one of the first popular dance teams with their âCariocaâ routines in 1933âs Flying Down to Rio. They teamed up for nine more features, including Top Hat and Swing Time, before parting in 1938. Astaire remained a top star in dance movies and musicals until the late 1960s.
Heyday: Gene Kelly challenged Astaireâs dominance as the king of dance movies in the 1940s and 1950s. Kelly offered an athletic and dynamic alternative to Astaireâs graceful cool; he also directed and choreographed some of the most popular dance movies of the postwar period, including Singinâ in the Rain and the ambitious An American in Paris.
Decline: Dance movies remained popular in the 1950s and early 1960s thanks to filmed versions of Broadway productions like West Side Story. But the decline of the movie musical in the late â60s and early â70s also slowed the production of dance movies. There were notable exceptions, like choreographer Bob Fosseâs electrifying take on Cabaret in 1972.
Revival: Actor John Travolta helped revive interest in dance movies with two blockbuster films in the 1970s: Saturday Night Fever, a drama about the New York City disco scene, and the 1978 film adaptation of the popular nostalgia musical Grease. Dance on film also received a new and vibrant showcase in the 1980s through music videos, many of which drew on Hollywood musicals and Broadway for choreography.
â80s hits: Three of the biggest films of the 1980s were dance movies without musical numbers: Flashdance (1983) starred Jennifer Beals as a young dancer hoping to become a ballerina, while Footloose (1984) featured Kevin Bacon as a city teen who spreads the gospel of dance to a repressed small town. Dirty Dancing (1987) folded a love story, a family drama, and class issues into a crowd-pleasing story about a dance instructor (Patrick Swayze) who falls for a sheltered teen (Jennifer Grey) at a Catskills resort in the 1950s.
Street: Hip-hop informed many of the modern dance movies of the 1990s and 2000s. Many focused on the fusion of performing arts high schoolâstyle dance and street dance: 2001âs Save the Last Dance teamed ballet dancer Julia Stiles with street dancer Sean Patrick Thomas, while Jessica Alba forgoes ballet to choreograph hip-hop dance in 2003âs Honey. Others anchored their dance sequences around dance battles, like You Got Served, Stomp the Yard, and Step Up, while Center Stage and Work It focused on the challenges aspiring dancers faced at a dance academy or on the dance competition circuit.
Hybrid: Not all great dance movies followed the trends in the 2000s and beyond. Darren Aronofskyâs Black Swan examined the psychological downfall of a professional dancer, Nina (played by Oscar winner Natalie Portman), who believes that a double (Mila Kunis) is replacing her. Billy Elliot followed a young Irish boy (played by Jamie Bell) who discovers a love for ballet, while the 2004 American remake of the 1996 Japanese film Shall We Dance? followed an unhappy businessman (Richard Gere) who found freedom through ballroom classes with dance teacher Jennifer Lopez.
Notable Dance Movie Performers
Fred Astaire: Arguably one of the most acclaimed dancers in films, Fred Astaireâs collaborations with Ginger Rogers remain among the high points of the Golden Age of Hollywood. He choreographed all of their films, as well as his solo efforts in the 1950s; Astaireâs style, which drew on tap dance, classical, and other forms, won praise from dancers ranging from ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov to pop star Michael Jackson.
Gene Kelly: Dancer and filmmaker Gene Kelly starred in some of the most critically praised dance movies of the 1940s and 1950s. A powerful physical presence with abundant charm and skill in many forms of dance (including ballet and tap dance), Kelly was also an innovative filmmaker, untethering the camera to move with the choreography. He also experimented with editing and incorporating different styles of film, including animation, into his work.
Notable Dance Movies
Some of the most memorable dance movies in the history of motion pictures:
The Red Shoes (1948): Based on the fairytale by Hans Christian Andersen, this 1948 dance movie by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger blended exceptional ballet dance sequences with elements of dark fantasy and surrealism for its story of a dancer (Moira Shearer) who must choose between a prestigious ballet company and her romance with a composer. Visually sumptuous and frequently moving, The Red Shoes won two Oscars (out of five nominations) and a Golden Globe.
Singinâ in the Rain (1952): Though widely regarded now as a classic, Singinâ in the Rain was only a modest success upon its release in 1952. However, its sunny score and terrific performances by Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Golden Globe winner Donald OâConnor have since earned it worldwide admiration. Kellyâs performance of the title track is one of the indelible dance movie moments in screen history.
Strictly Ballroom (1992): Director Baz Luhrmann drew on his own experience as a ballroom dance student for this brassy comedy that spoofs the excesses of dance competition while also celebrating originality and determination. He followed the box office success of Ballroom with a trio of ambitious and visually stunning features, including Romeo + Juliet (1996), the musical Moulin Rouge (2001), and the epic drama Australia (2008).
Chicago (2002): Rob Marshallâs 2002 adaptation of Bob Fosseâs 1975 Broadway production was the first musical to win a Best Picture Oscar in nearly four decades. The filmâa darkly comic exploration of fame and crimeâearned Catherine Zeta-Jones a Best Supporting Actress Oscar and provided many filmgoers with their first glimpse of the musical talents of costars Renee Zellweger, John C. Reilly, and Richard Gere.
Dance movies have been a fixture of Hollywood and international moviemaking since the dawn of the film industry, and they remain popular with modern audiences around the world.
Dance movies may also be musical films, though many of the best dance movies, like Saturday Night Fever and Dirty Dancing, do not feature musical numbers.
Dance movies also differ from dance films; while both feature dance sequences, a dance film is a record of existing dance works or choreography and rarely features a plotline, acting, or dialogue.
Summary: You secretly make Joel a profile on Hinge. Then he shows you exactly why he doesnât need one.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Foodplay (i.e., Joel fucks you with a fruit popsicle). Girthy, unspecified age gap. Mentions of blood.
Note: Loosely inspired by âEscape (The Piña Colada Song)â by Rupert HolmesâŠminus the part about mutual infidelity LOL
Word count: 8.0k
Joel Miller had been on his own for too long.
The least you could get him was a date. Or even just laid.
Likes: Long walks on the beach
ActuallyâŠhe hadnât seen a coastline in ten years, at least. You backspaced slowly and then lowered Joelâs phone.
What did that old grump like to do, anyway?
In all the years youâd been living next door to Mr. Miller, you hadnât seen him take pleasure in much of anything besides mowing his lawn, rolling his eyes, and screaming like a fiend alongside your dad at whatever game was on.
Likes: College football. Quality time with friends :-)
Nope. Corny as fuck. Backbackbackback.
You wiggled your thumbs over the keyboard in muted concentration. You knew you didnât have much longer. Joel was currently engrossed in one of the three things he loved mostâmowing long, careful rows through his backyardâand you were supposed to be watching the season finale of the Mandalorian while he did. That had been the pretext of your visit, anyway. Itâd been a little over an hour since heâd stepped outside and a little under thirty since youâd let your curiosity get the better of you and seized his phone, so you figured heâd be back soon.
You had to think of something witty, and do it quick.
Feeling inspiration strike a second later, you typed:
Likes: Piña Coladas. Getting caught in the rain. Making love at midnight in the dunes on the cape.
Perfect. Easy. Everybody loved that song in the â70s.
Having thus put the finishing touch on Joelâs profile, you leaned back and let out a contented sigh. You scrolled. Flicked through photo after photo of your very own hand-picked selection and smiled, feeling proud.
Youâd started him off strong and suave with a picture from Tommyâs wedding, wearing a tux that fit him well. Then a cool, casual snap of him at a brewery. A photo taken out on the lake, life jacket snug and showing off a sliver of his broad, bare chest. Then a picture of him at your graduationâyou made sure to crop yourself outâfollowed by a candid shot of him playing dress-up with his niece. There wasnât a doubt in your mind that all the yet-unknown, lovely folks of Hinge would eat this shit up.
You set the radius to 100 miles. Beefed up the age range and gender preferences to include virtually every living soul over 30, tweaked a few more prompts to be cooler, then scrolled through his newly-minted profile. Again.
Oh, andâ shit, wait.
Quickly, you toggled to the phoneâs settings and disabled all notifications for Hinge. Then you grabbed the app and wrestled it somewhere deep within all the utilities ones that no one ever used. This had to stay hidden for now.
And, just as you stretched your thumb to make a couple last changes to his page, the back door thundered open.
Joel stumbled in, half-hunched. Rubbing his face with a towel and treading slow, heavy steps through the living room. With your heart about to burst from your throat and your impulses blown to shit, you panicked and crammed his phone in your shortsâlike, in them.
Joelâs phone was just then settling above the groove of your ass when the man collapsed on the loveseat across the room. Instinctively, you drew your legs to your chest as Joel groaned and pulled the towel away from his face.
âThe beast is at it again,â he declared, expression grim.
Before you could ask who âbeastâ might be, he clarified:
âMarleneâs shit-for-brains labradoodle wonât quit digginâ holes under my fence. Whole thingâs gonna fall if heââ
You didnât mean to be rude, but you had to tune out the rest of what he said; your butt squirmed against the sofa as your neighborâs phone traveled perilously down and took partial lodging between your cheeks. Then stuck.
There was no way you were getting caught like this. One stray phone call or text and you would have the worldâs most jarring ringtone buzzing straight up your ass. And a very uncomfortable conversation with Joel, to be sure.
So, while he droned on about the chaos being wrought by the paws of old Sparky, you nodded to the window.
âAw shit, Mr. MillerâŠdid he justâŠdig up another?â You feigned surprise as you stared over Joelâs shoulder at a hole that didnât even exist. Then, when heâd jumped to his feet and growled âNo fuuuuuckinâ shotâ as he made his way over to the window, you acted fast and pulled the phone out of your ass and stuck the old, cracked thing on top of the coffee table where itâd been last and stood.
Before he could seeâor sayâanything else, you seized your own phone and made a swift beeline for the door.
Shouting over your shoulder, probably sounding like a fucking lunatic but not particularly caring either way:
âDADâSCALLINGMEGOTTAGOMISTERMILLERBYE.â
And you left. You had no desire to explain your baseless, bullshit observation or why his phone was currently covered in a thin sheen of sweat from your butt.
Youâd never seen so many roses in your life.
Joel Miller could legitimately give the whole Bachelor franchise a run for its money with all the goddamn virtual flowers heâd been getting from his Hinge admirers.
Itâd been a week before youâd finally gotten the chance to abduct his phone again and check his âlikesâ for yourself. Honestly, you hadnât been expecting muchâJoel was hot, but more so in a niche-ish sort of DILF-sexy way. You figured heâd be more of an acquired taste, really.
Once youâd scrolled through just over a hundred different messages, you realized at once how wrong you were.
âGNAWING at the bars of my enclosure.â
âDaddy? Sorry. Daddy? Sorry, I mean, Daddy?â
âNeed you in a way that is concerning to feminism.â
And that was truly just the tip of the iceberg when it came to all the wild, chaotic, and horny messages Joel had received over the last week. You couldnât believe it.
You got to firing off responses as fast as you could. Sitting cross-legged on the back porch while your dad, Joel, Tommy, and a dozen other neighbors were busy grilling burgers and soaking up as much sun as possible.
The only other person who hadnât joined them was Tess.
She peered over your shoulder and fought back a laugh.
âThat man is a fuckinâ menace to society, I swear.â
âNo, weâre a menace to society. All about team effort,â you corrected her as you typed up a lightning-quick âHey ;-)â to each message, fingers moving fast.
âHe doesnât even know youâre doing this!â
âHe will soon enough,â you mumbled. Grinning. Then, âMissionâs not over until that old man gets his dick wet.â
Youâd probably made it through seventy or so replies and got to go back-and-forth with a couple hot prospects by the time you heard footsteps trailing up the stepsâheavy ones that you instantly recognized as Joelâs. Without another word, you exited the app, turned the phone off, and chucked it to Tess, who placed it discreetly onto the porch railing where Joel had left it.
That phone really should have had a passcode on it.
Two weeks later, it did.
You saw it as soon as youâd slid your thumb up the screen in the comfort of Joelâs living roomâover at his place pretending to be watching your Star Wars spin-off againâand you felt your heart jump up in your throat.
Your passcode is required to enable Face ID.
Since when the fuck did your neighbor have a passcode? Or even know how to make Face ID a thing? Or use it?
These questions and a dozen more were thrumming through your skull when you heard the screech of the back door once again. This time, instead of taking his sweet time on his yard work, Joel had only been gone five minutes. You swallowed a scream and did that dumb, reflexive thing you had before: shoved his phone in your shorts and thrust yourself back into the couch.
Practically shaking when Joel stepped into the room.
Of course, he wasnât sweaty. His shirt wasnât smudged with flecks of dirt or swaths of green from the grass outdoors, nor were his Wranglers the slightest bit muddied. He was perfectly clean in a plain white tee, jeans, and boots. You couldnât help but notice how tight the short sleeves of his shirt hugged his biceps, and then you realized it was because his arms were crossed.
Joel regarded you with a look as long and as careful as the rows he was supposed to be mowing out in the middle of his backyard right now, and he let out a breath.
âGuess what,â he said.
âWhat?â you squeaked.
Your eyes widened without meaning to, and when Joel plopped down on the sofa beside you, you felt a shiver pulse through your body. Joel stretched his big, wide, denim-clad legs out as he leaned back, and you had to force yourself not to jump when his knee struck yours.
âIâve gotta brush up on my Gen Z lingo,â he announced.
Whâ okay? What the fuck?
Just as you opened your mouth to speak, and feeling the slightest twinge of relief at this declaration, Joel started to tug something out of his pocket. It took you several seconds to see it, then a couple more just to work out what it was, then Joel was squeezing it. Flipping it open.
An old Motorola Razr? When did he get that?
âSee, I, uhâ met a girl last week,â Joel resumed, plainly careless in the way he fingered the thing in his grip.
Your chest tightened. Had he really?
âSheâs a little on theâŠyounger side. You might know her.â
Oh shit. Was Joel banging one of your friends?
You swallowed hard and nodded for him to continue. You pretended not to notice when he flipped the phone open and left it that wayâstarting to thumb through the keys to do something on it. You fought the urge to take a look.
To distract yourself, you watched his face instead. It was lax.
âShe said somethinâ kinda funny last night, and Iââ Joel paused to let out a breath of a laugh, and you nearly broke down to steal a glance at what he was looking at.
Narrowly, you resisted. And it was a lucky thing, tooâthe next thing you knew, Joelâs gaze was fixed right on you.
âYâknow what she said to me?â he asked.
âWhat?â
Joel blinked. You probably shouldâve heard the click of a little button on the phone he was holding, but you didnât.
You did feel the vibration of another phone under your ass a second later, though. That one was unmistakable.
That one was Joelâs.
Out of one more stupid, senseless instinct, you coughed. Loud. Like the momentary scratch in your throat might reasonably mask the sound and sensation of a small hunk of metal buzzing between your butt and the couch.
It didnât, of course. You sat and stared at Joel as it rang.
Slowly, he brought the Razr to his ear. At one corner of his mouth, you could discern the first inklings of a smirk.
âWanna answer that?â he hummed, nodding to your rear.
Fuuuuuuuuuck.
You werenât sure how you even had the strength to do it, but you reached back and plucked his phone out of your shorts. With your gaze still stuck to his, you answered it. Put it to your own ear out of habitâand a little bit of fear.
âHello?â you said, stupidly.
âHey.â
The second you heard Joelâs voice rumble out beside you on the couch and across the line, your heart dropped. Ironclad confirmation of all you didnât want to believe.
You squeezed his phone even tighter and sincerely hoped the man couldnât hear the wild, erratic beat of your heart as it throbbed and thudded in your chest. The noise was almost too loud for you to hear anything else, too fast-paced and frantic to discern another word until:
âCan you tell me what a âHinge DILFâ is, darlinâ?â
You rose to your feet, scarcely even realizing it.
You had to get off of that couch, had to get away from him and come clean, as calmly as you possibly could. The phone fell out of your grasp just as he ended the call.
âShitâ Mr. Millerâ I-I-I-I can explain.â
Swiftly, suddenly, Joel recovered his phone from the floor. He set the other device aside and propped his feet on the coffee table, lounging a little more comfortably now that he could scroll the phone at his leisure. Before he did, though, he made a point to wipe the screen.
âNothinâ I love more than ass sweat on my phone.â
Your cheeks heated to a thousand degrees.
You wished the ground below your feet would open up and swallow you whole. It was like you were floating somewhere over your own body, unable to move or speak. From this vantage point, and still paralyzed with fear, you could see Joel opening Hinge on his phone.
âCrazy how long the stuff sticks,â he mused aloud, starting to peruse his likes, âWhen you got up and high-tailed it outta my place that first day, I thought I mustâve been seeinâ thingsâwhat with how wet my phone was.â
You wouldâve closed your eyes in utter resignation if youâd had the strength. Joel had known this entire time.
The old man continued to scroll, cavalier as ever.
âI figured ya mightâve been havinâ someâŠpersonal time of your own on my phoneâmaybe your old man blocked PornHub on the home WiFi or somethinââbut then I kept digginâ aroundâŠâ As Joel spoke, his actions seemed to mirror his words, and he was really scoping out the app. Combing through profiles and roses and streams of old messages that you had sent, then shrugged to himself.
ââŠand all I found added up to jackshit,â he concluded.
This time, you managed to meet his gaze when he looked back up, but really, you hardly saw him at all.
Joel was smiling.
âI did see a text, though.â
He waved his phone, where a few messages were visible, though not legible, to you. You didnât try to read them.
ââWelcome to Hinge! Reply âCâ to confirm your phone number and get started,ââ Joel rattled the first one off.
Of course youâd forgotten to delete the fucking text.
âAnd I know my memoryâs all but gone to shit, but I didnât remember ever replying âCâ myself, so thenââ
âIt was a joke,â you choked out, cutting him off.
Joel cocked a brow. He leaned even further back in his seat and crossed his feet. You were already vomiting words before he could attempt to get one out himself.
âN-Not a funny joke,â you clarified, voice shaking, âFuckinâ stupid as shit, I just wanted to seeâ yâknowâ me and Tess were talkinâ âbout how hard it must beâŠin yourâŠin your fiftiesâ itâs just hard finding somebody.â
Joel didnât know what you were trying to say, and his face showed it. You didnât know what you were saying.
âSo you think my sex life is a joke?â Mr. Miller quipped.
âNO!â
You hadnât meant to say it so loudly. You quieted down:
âNo. I didnâtâŠno. I just wanted to see who wouldâŠâ
ââŠwanna fuck me?â he finished, blunt as ever.
If your face had been hot before, surely it was about to burst into flames right now. You didnât get like thisânot around Joel Miller, not around anybodyâbut here you were, chest constricting with humiliation and shame, wishing you were anywhere in the world but the place you were, and Mr. Miller was smiling, he was still smiling, and it was all you could do to just stand there andâŠstare.
And wince when tears started to prick at your waterline.
As if this day couldnât get any more mortifying, you were actually crying in front of your neighbor, nose stinging and beginning to leak. Stupid, stuttered gasps leaving your lungs like youâd just learned to breathe yesterday, vision blurring the man in front of you and then dimming, momentarily, as you brought your hands up to your eyes and tried to shield this wretched display from his view.
You paced a couple hasty, blind steps away. You pressed the heels of your palms so hard into your sockets that stars started to dance behind your lids and a pain began to stab your brain. You continued to sob. It was just then dawning on you that youâd have to make a run for it now and never set foot near this manâs property again. Youâd have to lock yourself away, never get to go to a barbecue again, probably face a restraining order from Joel andâ
âFUCK!â you shrieked.
With all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates, you tumbled over Joelâs end table and took a nosedive into the floor. Your hands had no choice but to fly out in front of you in an effort to break your fall, and of course, they had to land on a lone, stray beer bottle on the ground.
One lovely little container of Corona Extra went splintering under the weight of your whole body, and briefly, before the thing exploded beneath your palm, you swore you couldâve heard a tiny, self-righteous voice:
âÂĄLa Vida MĂĄs Fina!â
Fuck you, Corona.
Youâd never been more embarrassed in your life. Even if the bottle had managed to roll far enough to nick just the edge of your hand, slicing a minuscule strip of skin beneath your thumb, you still wanted to cry even harder. You looked pathetic, crumpled up beside this manâs couch with your wrist pinched between your fingers and your tears paving two steady streams down your cheeks. Hedged in by a field of shattered glass, you cast a look around yourself and whimpered. Then cursed. And cried.
You heard the shards around you crackle and snap even more when a pair of boots stepped in and crushed them.
Joel made easy work of your deadweight frameâyour body hanging limply in his grip as he hoisted you up to your feet. Your vision was still as bleary as it had ever been, nose running and stinging and still struggling to take in breaths, but Mr. Millerâs hold was steady. He guided you into the kitchen and straight over to the sink.
Water ran. Wounds stung. A couple more sobs clawed out of your throat while Joel held your hand under the faucet, dabbed a paper towel across your hand to dry it off, then disappeared, momentarily, to retrieve what you assumed would be a first aid kit from the other room.
Instead, Mr. Miller returned with a fifth of Makerâs Mark. You eyed the bottle of whiskey in his hand and grimaced.
âN-Nuh-uh,â you blubbered, emphatic, âNo way, man.â
âUh, yes way, man,â Joel mimicked your voice, nose scrunching for dramatic effect as he elevated the pitch, âLike, you totally need this antiseptic so you donât die.â
âI donât s-sound like that!â
âI donât so-o-und like that!â
Of course your neighbor couldnât be assed to show an ounce of compassion to another person for more than two minutes. He drew closer with the whiskey. When he grabbed your wrist, you huffed and shook your head.
âThatâs gonna hurt. I donât want it.â
âOh, cry me a fuckinâ river.â
Though as soon as heâd said it, the man winced a little. Maybe that had been a bit too harsh. You sniffled hard.
âFuck you, Millerâ I-I was doinâ you a favor!â you spat.
Tears and snot becoming the fuel for part of your newfound indignation, you shot Joel a look and scowled. You wrenched your hand out of his grip and made a point to rebuff the bottle of liquor as you moved back, shaking your head again. Mr. Miller stood there and watched you.
âOnly time you ever leave this fuckinâ house is when youâre hanginâ out with my dad or your brother, you havenât got shit else to do around here but mow that fuckass lawn and jerk offâ I was tryinâ to help you out! Get you laid like any normal guy would like, but no, noâ youâve gotta go and be the worldâs biggest ASSHOLE about it, just like you are with everything else. Iâm sorry.â
Deep down, you were and werenât remorseful at all.
You were sorry youâd gotten caught, ate shit over a side table and got your palm fucked up by a bottle of beer.
You werenât as sorry that Joel seemed to be regarding you as a joke nowâsomething to tease and poke fun at. Trying to pour his makeshift disinfectant over your cut and force you to obey his orders because you were just too dumb to figure it out yourself, then mock your voice.
Then watch you with tightly knit brows, eyes scanning your face with a skepticism that was almost palpable.
Condescending old fuck.
âWhat? Ainât got nothinâ to say to that?â you seethed. Emotions running highâand humiliation momentarily usurped by angerâyou stared him down and dared him to speak. You didnât care what he thought of you now.
If it had been in your interest to care, you probably wouldâve looked a little harder at what the manâs body language was communicating to you in the meantime. What his mouth was evidently loath to say, his hands and feet hardly displayed the same reticence: he set the bottle aside and stepped closer to you. He stared back.
It wasnât until heâd approached near enough, had closed the space between your body and his with barely more than an inch or two to spare, and glowered down at you, face frozen with a frown, that your brain got the hint that he might not be the type to chicken out. Or back down.
He reached behind you and opened a cabinet.
âA favor,â Joel echoed, and you could tell he was trying his hardest not to replicate your intonation as he said it.
Heâd just marginally checked his douchebag predilection, was closing the cabinet door beside your head and was starting to rock back on his heels, when a little cylindrical glass swung low in your line of vision. Joel held the tumbler loosely, then lifted it and pointed with his pinky.
âYou,â he said, accusing, âfuckinâ suck at thoseâfavors.â
Your stomach clenched at the sight of a slight, impish smile just then starting to frame the sides of his mouth. The featherlight grip he kept fastened on the glass, the ease of his stance, even the jab of that stupid, rough finger, still pointing at you, all bordered on nauseating. You fixed him with a pitiless look as he leaned in again.
And when his knuckles brushed your side, you tried not to flinch. You arrested his gaze without a word and let the smug, sun-tanned, sweet-as-shit-pie son of a bitch have his fill ogling you back and closing in on the bottle.
âWhat? Having half the tri-county population on Hinge ready to suck you off isnât really your style?â you jeered.
Joel popped the cap and poured his drink. He shrugged.
âThey ainât you.â
As casual as if heâd just told you the weather forecast for the week ahead, his favorite place to eat, or the mundane specs on a construction project heâd been saddled with for months. Nothing of note. Nothing unknown. Just a routine admission of truth that sent your head reeling.
âYou whâ wâ well thatâsââ you stammered, equal parts astonishment and exasperation as he continued to feed you steady, unrelenting doses of that look: âGROSS!â
You were standing stock-still, forced to watch that blip of a grin morph into a full smirk, slowly. He had to be joking.
âYou areâŠfucked in the head, Miller. Thatâs not funny.â
Now you were the one pointing. Joel was drinking.
ââand Iâd never in a million years even thinkââ
The side of your palm began to throb. It bled.
Blood was trickling down your wrist, roaring like thunder in your skull as your heart thudded away, impatient.
Your libido a filthy, rotten traitor to all the rest of your better sense, you continued to stand there and suffocate on words like something akin to acid reflux in the throat. Your thighs snapped together, your back collapsed with equal force against the rigid set of cabinets behind it, and slowly, almost excruciating this time, you felt the pulse between your legs give way to a bout of warmth.
That cockhungry slut governing your bodily functions was actually getting wet for this asshole, and you were powerless to the effects of her wily, DILF-lusting ways.
âGross,â you uttered out loud, again, reflexivelyâface overlaid with a look of horror as the heat began to pool.
And, as though the man had been endowed with the gift of infrared vision, or else just an external thermostat to gauge how hot youâd gotten between your two sweating legs, Joel brightened. His gaze flirted down to that soft, unseasonably tepid spot with a knowing look and thenâ
âGross,â he parroted back. The smile behind his eyes said he wasnât disgusted at all, just teasing some more.
When he pinched your wrist to get back to the business of blotting out blood with a paper towel, he kept that smug look painted across his creased, ancient face.
ââSâthat why ya made a Hinge for me? âCause Iâm gross?â Mr. Miller applied pressure to the still-bleeding cut, then directed your other hand to hold the paper towel in place.
You shook your head.
âNo,â you started, trying not to wince before he turned. Again, the man ambled out of the kitchen, only to come back momentarilyâfinallyâwith a long-awaited bandaid.
âI meanâŠyeah, youâre a perv, but thatâs beside the point.â
Joel exhaled a little harder through his nose. He pressed the underside of your palm again, ensuring the bloodflow had stopped, then swapped the napkin for the bandage. The adhesive mightâve been in place for two seconds before he was retreating again; this time, to the fridge.
âThen what was the point?â
Joel yanked one door open. You glanced over your shoulder to the one that led out to the back porch.
The longer you stayed, the harder it would be to go.
Go.
GO!
âI donât know,â you answered honestly.
From where you were standing, you werenât sure why youâd decided to make Joel the profile in the first place. Your curiosity, for one thing, had been one hell of a persuasive motivator to getting you scrolling on Joelâs behalf, but why did you care one way or another if your neighbor was drowning in pussy or enduring Sahara desert-levels of dick deprivation at his big age? It sure as fuck wasnât your business to care, and nothing about Joel Miller had ever intrigued you consistently enough to venture an inquiry about his personal life before, soâŠ
âWhy?â
Joel was looming overhead again, the force of his presence like a fist through your chest. In an effort to steady your breaths, you turned your gaze away from his.
âI should go.â You couldnât have dodged his last question more clumsily, or pathetically, if youâd tried, âItâsâŠlate.â
Outside, the midday sun was still high in the sky, and there was nowhere in the world you had to be, Joel knew.
âOkay,â he said at length.
Then he leaned in closer and held something out.
âAt least take one for the road, alright?â
And he was smiling, almost kind.
You looked down andâshit.
There it was, clear as day: a creamy piña colada popsicle.
The sneaky, conceited motherfucker had remembered what youâd written in his dating profile. You winced.
You accepted the cocktail popsicle without a word.
âThanksâ or âYouâre a fucking pig, Millerâ likely wouldâve sufficed for a farewell on any account, but by then, you were far too shell-shockedâand frankly, incredulousâof everything that had just transpired over the course of the last thirty minutes. You didnât thank Mr. Miller, nor insult him by likening him to swine or any other thing; you left.
Your feet carried you fast out of his house.
Down the steps of his back porch, across pristine, power-washed concrete, past seemingly endless beds of hibiscus blossoms, marigolds, cape plumbago, and those god-awful periwinkle plantsâwho the fuck enjoyed gardening in a heatwave, anyway?âyou practically sprinted away in a fugue state until the toes of your shoes hit the edge of your lawn, then you stopped.
âFUCK!â
Youâd forgotten your phone.
It felt as though your body were turning in slow motion, and for a second, you seriously considered abandoning the device altogether and begging your dad for another. Then you set your sights on the wide, uninviting exterior of the back of your neighborâs house, the place youâd just been hauling ass to escape, and almost rolled your eyes.
Joel was leaning back against the frame of his open back door, arms crossed, expression smug as he watched you.
It was extraordinarily difficult to throw a half-decent punch at a man while wielding a popsicle in your hand.
âGive it back!â you barked.
âGive what back?â Joel grinned, easily side-stepping what struck him as neither a punch nor a slapâin fact, the hit never struck him at all. He laughed as it missed.
âYou know what.â
Of course, youâd gone back. Of course, Joel had tried to play dumb and pretend like youâd never left your phone behind at all. And of course, he hadnât budged until youâd threatened to shove your left foot so far up his ass his dentist would be picking toes out of his teeth for weeks.
âViolent little thing, ainât ya?â Joel had replied, chuckling.
Then, when heâd attempted to brush you aside with a patronizing wave of his hand and an admonition to run on back to daddy and quit bugginâ me, all bets were off. Youâd aimed right for center mass and nearly dropped your frozen treat with how hard youâd shoved his chest.
That was how the conversation had started.
That was how the so-called âaltercationâ had come to beâJoel easily swatting you off and indulging you no further than to chuckle and laugh and taunt you like an older brother who was faced with a sibling half his sizeâand all the while, your injured hand was throbbing again. White, sticky rivers of melted popsicle now trickled down your wrist instead of blood, and you were just as pissed.
âListenââ Joel began, catching a fist meant for his face.
âGimme my fuckinâ phone, Miller!â
ââyouââ
âCan go to hell.â
ââowe me.â
âOwe you?!â
You stopped. Your weak, one-handed assault was halted just long enough to peer into Joelâs eyes, and the gaze that met yours was solid. Sincere as youâd ever seen it and blinking slow as the chocolate browns of his irises moved lower over you. Whether they were drinking you in, sizing you up, or merely plotting your demise by calculated turns, you could have been no more certain, or prepared to hear, what came out of his mouth next:
âWanted to do me a favor, didnât ya? Câmere.â
And the next thing you knewâor feltâwas one thick finger hooking into your belt loops. One swift tug in his direction, another light push toward the old wood railing to your side, and then more fingers crowding in, crawling over, seizing the coarse denim material and pulling hard like the thing was the single most annoying impediment.
âTake these off,â Joel grunted.
You were too stunned to move. Even breathing felt like a chore, every last sense elevated to impossible heights, it wasnât surprising at all when Joel just went and did it all himself. In a blink, your shorts were yanked down and then dropped to your ankles, your legs guided backward in shuffled steps, and then, nearly tripping in the fabric at your feet, you fell back, ass smacking the flat railing. You winced at the warm, knotty texture of the cedar beneath you and, out of habit, shot the old man a look.
Joel cocked a brow in response, likely already knowing what that glare from you was intended to convey, and instead of giving voice to any words himself, just sank.
Lower and lower and lower, until his knees were the only things holding him upright on the floor before you and his hands were pressingâmeltingâinto your thighs.
Audibly, his kneecaps cracked.
You couldnât help but giggle.
While Mr. Millerâs mouth moved dangerously close to a place you shouldâve been appalled to see him go, all you felt capable of doing in that absurd moment, it seemed, was laugh. You gripped the thick white column beside you, scooted back slightly until you were in a comfier seated position, then snagged your lower lip between your teeth to contain the sound, but it was of no use.
Joel was both drooling and scowling between your legs.
âThat funny, huh?â he managed in a low, ragged breath, âSoundâa some crackinâ joints on a man as old as me?â
âYeah,â you said. Smug, for once.
Admittedly, any other normal person in your position wouldâve been concerned with about a million different, more pressing issuesânamely, your neighbor and dadâs best friend sticking his face between your legsâbut really, after all the frivolity, commotion, and fucking insane behavior the two of you that day, it was like your brain had logged off and left the body to its own devices.
You didnât mind that for right now.
When Joelâs tongue grazed the space between the cusp of your panties and inner thigh, you really didnât mind.
Fuck it. If this was the favor heâd wanted after all, so be it.
As if reconsidering the foray of his mouth for the time being, Joel tilted back a little: just far enough to get his hands on your underwear and start tearing those down your hips too. One short, hot puff of air from his lips was a bliss unto itself, and your knees instinctively kicked up. With the thin white fabric barely halfway down one calf, you hooked your ankle over Joelâs shoulder and cursed.
âMy daddyâs gonna kill you for this, Mr. Miller.â
And, for what felt like the thousandth time, Joel smiled.
Bigger this time, as if to show he didnât really care at all what the man next door was liable to say or do about his present endeavor as long as he got to stay. You let him.
He pressed a kiss to your slick, puffy lips and hummed.
âFine by me.â
Without another word the tip of the manâs tongue glided up the length of your slit and curled in, drawing your arousal between his lips in a hungry sort of kiss, and then sank even deeper. Going nose-deep in just one go, the old man looked positively obscene burying his face so far inside; his features alone a cruel, unseemly sort of fixture between legs as smooth and supple and warm as yoursâhow did a man so many years your senior get to be so lucky?âand somewhere further, in the darkest recesses of your mind, the sight sparked desire. A hunger, really.
Seeing that silver, stubbled chin getting drenched in your wetness, the weathered lines of his face growing even deeper with each new movement of his tongue, the strain in his neck with muscles that were firm and taut and so visibly aged with decades and decades of lifeâ
You adored it.
A man Joelâs age never looked more out of place and still somehow perfectly fit for the space between your thighs.
You lowered the hand that was cradling your popsicle, braced your weight against the railing with the other, and then pressed on either side of his skull with your legs, quiet moans tumbling one after the next off your tongue.
ââSâall for me?â Joel breathed, licking and suckling kisses along your clit, âThis sweet, needy pussyâs all mine?â
âAll yours.â
You scarcely recognized the sound of your own voice. Your legs were shaking. Though you loved to see him make you come undone, piece-by-piece, you also couldnât bring yourself to stare a second longer, stimulation too great and his tongue too good.
If he kept going at a rate like this, youâd have no choice but to cum, and you didnât want to be done just yet. Or ever. You refocused your gaze to look down and tell him as much, when your mouth fell open around a gasp, rather than words, and the weight in your hand fell away.
Swiftly, Joel took the popsicle in his own grasp and slid it down to the vicinity of his lips and tongue, now grinning.
The thing was half-melted by now, having sufficiently soaked half your forearm and leaving a vague, sugary aroma in its wake, but it was still intact. Still unlickedâunlike youâand still perfectly cool and light and long. The off-white hue was almost taunting in the way it winked and caught rays of the sunlight shining behind you, and as the man slid it even lower, you jumped back.
âJoel,â you hissed.
âWhat?â he hummed.
âThatâs notââ You blinked, swallowing a moan.
âNot what?â
One warm, callused hand pressed the tip of the frozen thing to your bundle of nervesâthe first contact it had had since Joelâs tongueâand you let out a low whine.
Even after all that time in the sun, the popsicle seared your soft, wet, aching parts with a biting cold youâd never thought possible. It sent waves of a strange, trembling pleasure coursing through your lower half and left your head with no choice but to moan. And fist Joelâs hair in a vice-like grip when he angled the wooden stick lower.
Suddenly, the white, sticky head slipped from your clit to the rim of your yet-untouched entrance, and that made your muscles leap to attention once again. You cursed.
âNot what, honey?â Joel pressed, with affectionâand as he did, sank the tip of the popsicle deeper inside you.
âThâ thatâs notââ You were shaking your head, racking your brain for any trace of the English language and failing miserably, âNotâŠdoesnâtâŠg-go there, fuck.â
Joel sank the pretty, dribbling popsicle another inch inside your pussy and sucked a whistle through his teeth. If your senses werenât as raw and utterly shot as they were, you likely wouldâve seen the expression on his face transform from one of pleasure and amusement to awe, eyes darkening at the sight of your hole opening wider.
âThatâs it, baby, take it,â he cooed, voice low.
Another couple soft utterances of âJoel,â and your legs only parted wider. Free to grip his hair, the railing, the column beside you, or just the insides of your own palm as the icy sensation sank inwards and into your body, you whimpered. Your hips, instinctively, bucked toward the source, and you heard Joelâs groan join your sounds.
He withdrew his new toy just far enough to make you mewl for him again, then drove it deeper. With the friction of that, a stream of white went trickling out.
Joel couldnât help himself; he flattened his tongue against the stream and licked you clean from the spot where heâd split you open to the cusp of your clit. He circled that place over and over, worked the object in his hand even further inside and back out again, then, getting a taste of your arousal with the white, wet, sticky-sweet juices starting to mix together, he moaned.
It was a guttural sound, something just shy of the âferalâ demarcation but at least ten steps ahead of desperate. You relished the gruff, throaty sound reverberating from his lips to your cunt, the way your walls fluttered around it and for him, and were just about to throw your head back and grind your hips even harder when it stopped.
Joel stopped. He started to get up.
Quickly for him, but slow as molasses from your point of view, the man straightened from his place on the hard wooden floor and expelled a breath. His chest heaved, and his torso twisted to one side, momentarily, to get the strain out of his back as best he could. From where you sat, the spattering of grey in his beard seemed to glisten even brighter with the sheen of your arousal now sticking in it. He wiped his chin and reached in between your legs.
âGot any favors left in ya, sweet pea?â he smirked.
Fortunately for you, it didnât sound like a question at all, and didnât appear to be intended that way, as the next second had Joel pulling the largely-spent popsicle out of your slick and straight into your mouth. He didnât inquire whether he could push it down on your tongue and make you taste your own cunt on the thin wooden stick, but the smile on your lips assured him that was fine by you.
Nor did he ask for your permission to flip you around, bend you over his porch railing, and take your hips in his hands. You were still sucking down the last traces of sugar and citrus and a vaguely tangy taste when you felt the head of something else prod your soft, wet folds.
Much biggerâand warmerâthan the thing that had breached you before, Joel nudged at your hole with the tip of his cock, coated the head of it in light, gentle circles, and sucked in a breath. He didnât have to ask, and you didnât need to answer; he just parted your walls with the force of one steadying thrust, and the pulse of that sharp, dizzying pleasure was back in an instant.
Shared this time, and manifesting in sounds from you and Joel alike: you gritting the stick between your teeth and managing muffled cries of his name and whatever expletives you could scream, Joel with ragged breaths.
For a man who ostensibly hadnât fucked since the Clinton administration, he was off to a pretty good start.
Joel gripped your hip even tighter and started to saw his cock in and out of your dripping, pliant hole, his other fist finding purchase in your hair for more leverage. His thrusts were shallow enough at first to get you used to the new stretch, and you could feel him making space in a way no manâs girth ever had before. You couldnât see his face, but you imagined it had come to settle into a mix of guilt, rigid composure, and pussydrunk pleasure.
âGood girl,â Joel murmured behind you. Then, groaning, âGood fuckinâ girl, keep squeezinâ my cock just like that.â
You felt a slap on the ass and the speed of his thrusts pick up in turn. Your mouth fell open in a moan, and the stick on your tongue almost slipped out of place when, shortly, Joel leaned over your body and pulled you back. He snagged the popsicle stick between his teeth just in time to get your back flush with his frontâin perfect position to get fucked against the nearest column.
Breaths coming out in short, ragged grunts in your ear, Joel teased the side of your face with the stick, then nudged it back in your mouth. You sucked it softly.
âOne more favor, baby?â he panted against your cheek.
You nodded, not knowing what it was but that you wanted to be the one giving it. Joel pulsed inside you.
With every stab of his cock, every string of your wet, messy, combined arousals making the most profane noises imaginable between your body and his, you were squeezing him tighter and teetering on release. Joelâs hand snaked down between your legs, and just as the head of his cock nudged against that spot, you keened.
âAny favor?â Joel groaned and nipped at your earlobe.
The heft of his stomach and chest made for a warm, sturdy place to start rocking your hips, greying peach fuzz at the base of his belly a small comfort as you writhed against his body and whined that youâd do anything, anything he wanted, as long as he let you cum.
Joelâs middle finger found your clit, and you nearly screamed at the welt of pleasure coming to a head. Again, the popsicle stick tumbled out, but neither one of you could be bothered to try and keep it in this time.
âAnything?â
âAnything.â
The man behind you didnât even attempt to conceal his grin as he leaned closer, hugging your body to his while he circled your clit and fucked you harder, lips straying every now and then to press a kiss on your shoulder. He plunged his cock deeper and was met with a squeezing, leaking mess trickling down his length and onto his balls, growing louder with each new wet slap against your ass. The old man was a tease, but he couldnât hold on forever.
âWanna fill you up,â Joel groaned.
âCum inside?â you murmured.
You were barely able to tilt your chin to him, but when you did, he held itâmade you look him in the eyes and, for once, give your unequivocal permission to do it then.
And you did.
You were startled to find Joelâs lips crashing against yours in the next second, mouth overwhelmed with the remains of your own taste, his tongue, and a series of relentless, hammering thrusts. It was only a matter of moments, then, before your resolve gave way and his followed suit, and the waves of pleasure between you both manifested in ropes of sticky, hot cum painting your walls. Joel held you closer, as though needing to feel his seed as he fucked you through it, groaning when he felt it start to move with each sharp, stuttered thrust.
You panted in his mouth coming down. You kissed him back. You almost couldnât believe the sensation between your legs, soon to come dripping out and undoubtedly bound to make a mess all over the floor of Joelâs porch.
Equally unbelievable was the fact that youâd just fucked your neighbor in broad daylight, outside, with Marleneâs house directly to your left and your own on the right.
You stared out at the sprawling expanse in front of youâJoelâs impeccably kempt yard, one of the reasons why you were standing where you were just thenâand, as youâd found yourself before, you felt the urge to laugh.
Not on account of Joelâs old, ailing knees, this time.
Clearly, the man still trying to catch his breath behind you suspected that that mightâve been the case, though, because you felt him shift his weight and grunt, lightly.
âWhatâs so funny? My knees crack when I cum, too?â
You could feel the smallest of scowls start to take shape, muted momentarily with kisses that he pressed on your cheek, and others, still more teasing, down your neck.
You let him, unfazed and still giggling. Then pointing.
It seemed Joel was loath to detach his lips from your neckâor his cock from the place heâd just stuffed fullâbut when you lifted your finger to indicate a direction toward the side of his backyard, his senses perked up.
There, along the white picket fence between his yard and Marleneâs, was the furry, merciless, lawn-destroying labradoodle that had been plaguing Joelâs life for years.
The man was out of you in an instant. He yanked his jeans up even quicker, tucking his dick back, clumsily, into its place in a fit of rage, then cupping his hands:
âThe enchantmentâs broken,â the villain said, pointing a dagger at the heroâs neck. âThereâs no one alive who loves you. Youâre not immortal anymore.â
The hero laughed, even as the sharp blade pressed into their skin. âGo ahead, try to kill me. But I think we both now the truth. Thereâs still someone left who loves me.â
The villain tried to stop their hand from shaking. They failed. âDonât.â
âAs long as you live, I canât die,â the hero said, sly as a fox. âMy dear, you have to decide how much revenge is worth to you. Are you willing to pay the ultimate price?â
hii could you do a Bucky Barnes reader where heâs dressed all nice and she canât stop looking at him and then they go home and she rides his thigh over the suit??
SO I got a little carried away with this one, but damn I have no regrets because sitting at work writing this was hot as fuck. Thank you nonny for the request!!Â
(Also: Two in one day! Itâs a miracle!)
â
When it came to fashion, Bucky really didnât give a fuck. His day-to-day wardrobe consisted of the plainest clothes, sweats and jeans. Not that he didnât look good. On the contrary, he was actually something of a style icon. âThatâ Henley Shirt for example. Maybe it was just the way he wore it?
*struggles while writing* i suck and writing is hard
*remembers some ppl use ai* i am a creative force. i am uncorrupted by theft and indolence. i am on a journey to excellence. it is my duty to keep taking joy in creating.
I had a tattoo client ask if I ever used AI to design tattoos for me. Man I spent the better part of a decade doing shitty bit work as a graphic designer and now that I have the space to do whatever I want, I'm gonna let the computer generate random garbage for me? What next should I have a computer that eats my dinner and fucks my wife?
I feel like people get so hung up on the results of a thing that they don't appreciate that the process of making it is, actually, enjoyable.
It's like if you have a friend who likes to bake, asking if they'd like to just buy cupcakes from the store instead of making them. The end result of the cupcake is secondary to the joy you get from having made cupcakes.
Art isn't a slog or a chore or something I want to avoid. Art is fun. It's rewarding. It feels good to do it. You may as well be asking me if I want the AI to watch television for me, it doesn't make any sense, I'm not participating and would gain nothing from it.
in which reader has her first experience with munch!spencer
margotober masterlist
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: smut (18+ mdni)
content warnings: oral (fem receiving), munch!spencer, a little bit of overstim, d/s dynamics if you spin in circles and then squint, pwp, cumming untouched, fingering, dirty talk, a little praise
word count: 2.16k
a/n: this one goes out to everyone who's ever gotten shitty head from shitty guys. also to people who like their men a little pathetic.
âWhat are you doing?â Your voice comes out higher than you anticipated. The slight panic in your tone sets your boyfriend on high alert, his eyebrows rising in curiosity as he hovers over you.
Spencer pulls himself up until you meet his eyes, concern and lust fusing together to create nothing short of confusion. He studies your expression, investigating your interruption with the kind of delicacy that he always has when approaching intimacy, âBaby,â he starts, âHave you ever received oral sex before?â
Your lips part in surprise, wondering why thatâs the conclusion he comes to, âI have,â you respond hesitantly. âI justââ you falter, âYou donât have to.â
His confusion deepens, âI donât have to what?â
âYou donât have to give me head,â you answer timidly, âBecause itâs notâ you just donât have to.â
Languidly, Spencer drags his fingertips up and down your inner thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. âItâs not what? Now you have to tell me.â
You groan in frustration, looking up at the ceiling fan while you search for words that wonât set your cheeks ablaze, âI donât like it, and I know guys donât like it. So, you just⊠we can skip that part.â
âJust out of curiosity, what about it donât you like?â Spencer asks, sitting up fully between your legs, one hand resting on your knee, keeping your legs parted.
Looking down at him, you chew on the inside of your lip, knowing you have his undivided attention when you speak up, âI just donât get any pleasure out of a guy trying to French with my vagina while I fake moan.â
âAh,â Spencer breathes, âSo, youâve never received good oral sex before,â he amends his previous question.
Propping yourself up on your hands, you raise your eyebrows doubtfully, âIâm not entirely convinced there is such a thing, and will you please stop calling it oral sex? It sounds so clinical.â
He crawls over to you, putting his face right in front of yours, âDo you trust me?â
You frown, âOf course I do, what does that have to do with any of this?â
âWould you be willing to let me go down on you?â The earnestness in his tone catches you by surprise. If you didnât know any better, youâd think he wants to eat you out.
Humming affectionately, you tilt your head at him, âDo you really want to? I always thought guys hated doing it.â
Spencer raises his eyebrows, âThen I guess that demographic doesnât apply to me.â
âOh,â you breathe, âYou can⊠We can try,â you offer. Nerves twist in your lower belly as his eyes widen ever so slightly, your eyes fall shut as he leans his head forward, pressing his lips to yours while his hand starts to pull at the waistband of your panties.
Your boyfriendâs lips are almost unfairly soft against your own as his hands continue to undress you, pushing your t-shirt up around your waist and pulling down your underwear to the middle of your thighs. Pressing his forehead against yours, Spencer pulls away ever so slightly, âYou can always tell me if you want me to stop, alright?â
Nodding, you canât help but be curious about his plan. You find yourself questioning every partner youâve had in the past, or maybe Spencer just has a special talent with his mouthâhe certainly was good at running it. âYes,â you say, kissing him again before he moves his head down.
âThank you,â he mutters, bringing his head back down to where it was before youâd stopped him. Spencer lazily drags your panties down your legs, flinging them across the room to be found later before dropping his head between your knees, littering small, slow kisses along the insides of your thighs. âPretty girl,â he hums, inspecting your glistening sex with peaked interest.
Your cunt clenches around nothing at his words, earning a chuckle from Spencer as he set on top of your mound, pulling the skin taut before blowing cool air on you. You jump in response, looking down at where heâs smirking from between your legs. Admittedly, youâd never felt so dizzy at the prospect of having a man go down on you, he just looks so pretty.
He hums absentmindedly, âJust making sure youâre paying attention,â he teases.
There could be an air raid siren going off and youâd still be too focused on him to take cover. His movements are calculated as he exposes your clit to the air, leaning his head down and pressing his tongue flat against your folds, licking a stripe before readjusting himself on the bed.
A constellation of feather-light kisses is left everywhere, your inner thighs, up toward your hip boneâeverywhere except where you really need him. Your clit aches with need as he continues to tease you, the pad of his thumb skimming ever so slightly over the sensitive bud, relieving only a fraction of the pressure thatâs building up. âSpence,â you breathe.
âAre you enjoying this?â He asks, lifting his head up and looking at you curiously.
You nod once, âAre you?â You challenge.
His head drops again, and your breath hitches when he answers, âImmensely.â
Spencer continues but doesnât move on, studying your anatomy so intently that it only serves to turn you on even more. His hand ghosts over your folds, running a finger over your slit and chuckling when your hips buck up in response to the stimulation.
He couldâve gotten you to beg, had that been his goal, you wouldâve babbled please so incessantly that the word no longer held any meaning, but that wasnât what Spencer wanted. He wanted you to enjoy receiving pleasure in a way that no man had ever wanted before.
âYouâre just so fucking perfect,â he murmurs, watching you intently.
Before you had a chance to reply, his mouth was on you again, his tongue deftly slipping between your folds and poking at your entrance. Other than working you up, you didnât feel any different than you had previously. You give a gentle hum of encouragementâat least he tried, and at least youâd be wet enough for sex.
Spencer curls his tongue, dragging your slick up to your clit, and thatâs where he finally got you. His tongue pressed firmly against the bundle of nerves as you squirm beneath him, your body moving faster than your brain as your hips move away from his mouth, âShh,â Spencer coos, âItâs okay, baby. I know itâs a lot. Iâve got you.â
Taking a deep shuddering breath, you nod. You open your mouth to form a reply, but the only thing that comes out is a breathy sigh.
Carefully, Spencer moves your legs, placing your thighs on top of his shoulders, giving you one more glance before diving back in, kitten-licking your clit while you try to catch your breath.
âSpence,â you cry, feeling an orgasm that you previously hadnât thought was possible building in your lower belly. A swarm of nerves and aches of pleasure thrumming through your body like electricity.
He readjusts, lifting his head more so that his lips can wrap around the sensitive nub, his mouth gently suckling on it.
At a loss for what to do with your hand, they find their way down to his head, weaving your fingers through his hair as his ministrations drive you closer and closer to an orgasm. Tugging at the soft curls earns a groan from him, the vibrations on your clit causing you to cry out, âOh my god.â
He drops one of your legs, moving his hand up to grab one of yours before you cum, squeezing his hand as he gently nips at your clit, further encouraging your orgasm.
âIâmâ ah, please,â you babble nervously, inhaling sharply as your orgasm washes over you, cunt clenching around nothing as Spencerâs mouth continues working at you, licking softly as your back arches off of the bed, sweat causing the sheets to stick to your skin.
Your thighs are trembling by the time Spencer comes back up, his mouth shining with your arousal as he breathes as heavily as you. His hand cups your sensitive sex when he leans forward, leaning in to kiss your lips.
The taste of yourself on his lips doesnât even cross your mind as you cup the back of his head and pull his mouth to yours. The tang of your own cunt on your tongue draws a moan from the back of your throat, and you jump when one of Spencerâs fingers gently teases your interest, the sensitivity from your previous orgasm making your head spin.
âCan I go back?â Spencer asks, looking down at his hand briefly before returning to your eyes for permission.
Your mouth gapes, âYou want more?â
He groans in response, âAngel, Iâd spend all day between your thighs if youâd let me.â
Your stomach flips, mourning the fact that you had plans in the afternoon, âI might just take you up on that someday.â
Lifting your body from the pillows, Spencer tugs your t-shirt the rest of the way off your body, leaving you fully nude in front of him, âFuck,â he groans, gently guiding your back to the mattress as he attaches his lips to your neck, leaving your fingers clawing at his back.
His head moves lower, nipping and sucking at your collarbones, leaving light marks as he makes his way down to your chest. His lips scatter kisses all along your breasts as he moves down, down, down. Right until heâs right where you want him, and right where he wants to be. âOh,â you whimper, taking in a shaky breath while he tentatively presses his index finger into your wet hole.
âPoor baby,â Spencer coos at your sensitivity, âYouâre doing so well, letting me fuck you with my mouth. All you needed was someone to suck your clit.â
You sigh dazedly in response, every thought in your mind evacuating as his mouth drops to your pussy again, languidly lapping at your cunt while his finger eases into you, âYouâre so good at this.â
He hums against you in response, the vibrations causing your body to shudder and your hands to return to their home in his hair. The feeling of his mouth gently sucking on that little bundle of nerves and his finger starting to thrust makes your walls clench.
A strangled moan escapes your mouth when he adds a second finger, his second and third fingers driving into you with a steady rhythm as his tongue flicks your clit in calculated movements. The recognition of your impending orgasm hits you, ââm close,â you breathe, gasping as his movements donât relent, tears prick at your eyes as you chase that high.
Spencer pushes your legs further apart with his spare hand, keeping your thighs from closing around his head as he moans against your cunt. You pull on his hair, eliciting another groan from him that sends you hurtling into your second orgasm, crying out his name like a prayer as he tapers off his ministrations.
His hand slows first, gently working you through your orgasm as his tongue laps at your clit, gentle movements soothing the hypersensitive spot as you catch your breath, tears trickling down your cheeks as you smooth out the hair on his head. He pulls away from you, releasing your trembling thighs and letting them fall around him as he tiredly rests his head on your abdomen. âSpence,â you whisper, combing your fingers through his hair, causing him to rest his chin on you, meeting your eyes as he wipes your slick from his mouth.
He hums a response, âMy love,â he murmurs, eyes closing as he enjoys the feeling of you playing with his hair.
You chew on the inside of your lip nervously, âDo⊠do you need me?â Your question was tentative, unsure if he wants you to reciprocate.
âUh,â he says, equally as unsure, âThatâs not necessary.â
You raise your eyebrows, âItâs not like I feel inclined to, but Iâd like to⊠to return the favor.â
Spencer shakes his head, âNo, I mean Iâm taken care of. I alreadyâŠâ his voice trails off, leaving you to fill in the blanks.
âOh,â you breathe, âOh.â Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, hiding your smile, âWell Iâm glad you enjoyed yourself.â Desperately. You were trying desperately not to laugh at the prospect of your boyfriend cumming in his briefs.
He rolls his eyes in response, clearly unbothered. He seems almost proud, and you suppose itâs not often that a man finishes from giving head. âSo,â he starts, moving his hand and using his fingertips to draw stars across your bare skin, âDid you enjoy it?â
You huff in response, the answer is obvious, but he just wants the victory of knowing heâs changed your mind. Who are you to refuse him of that? âImmensely,â you answer.
10 Non-Lethal Injuries to Add Pain to Your Writing
New Part: 10 Lethal Injury Ideas
If you need a simple way to make your characters feel pain, here are some ideas:Â
1. Sprained Ankle
A common injury that can severely limit mobility. This is useful because your characters will have to experience a mild struggle and adapt their plans to their new lack of mobiliy. Perfect to add tension to a chase scene.
2. Rib Contusion
A painful bruise on the ribs can make breathing difficult, helping you sneak in those ragged wheezes during a fight scene. Could also be used for something sport-related! It's impactful enough to leave a lingering pain but not enough to hinder their overall movement.
3. Concussions
This common brain injury can lead to confusion, dizziness, and mood swings, affecting a characterâs judgment heavily. It can also cause mild amnesia.
I enjoy using concussions when you need another character to subtly take over the fight/scene, it's an easy way to switch POVs. You could also use it if you need a 'cute' recovery moment with A and B.
4. Fractured Finger
A broken finger can complicate tasks that require fine motor skills. This would be perfect for characters like artists, writers, etc. Or, a fighter who brushes it off as nothing till they try to throw a punch and are hit with pain.
5. Road Rash
Road rash is an abrasion caused by friction. Aka scraping skin. The raw, painful sting resulting from a fall can be a quick but effective way to add pain to your writing. Tip: it's great if you need a mild injury for a child.
6. Shoulder Dislocation
This injury can be excruciating and often leads to an inability to use one arm, forcing characters to confront their limitations while adding urgency to their situation. Good for torture scenes.
7. Deep Laceration
A deep laceration is a cut that requires stitches. As someone who got stitches as a kid, they really aren't that bad! A 2-3 inch wound (in length) provides just enough pain and blood to add that dramatic flair to your writing while not severely deterring your character.
This is also a great wound to look back on since it often scars. Note: the deeper and wider the cut the worse your character's condition. Don't give them a 5 inch deep gash and call that mild.
8. Burns
Whether from fire, chemicals, or hot surfaces, burns can cause intense suffering and lingering trauma. Like the previous injury, the lasting physical and emotional trauma of a burn is a great wound for characters to look back on.
If you want to explore writing burns, read here.
9. Pulled Muscle
This can create ongoing pain and restrict movement, offering a window to force your character to lean on another. Note: I personally use muscle related injuries when I want to focus more on the pain and sprains to focus on a lack of mobility.
10. Tendonitis
Inflammation of a tendon can cause chronic pain and limit a character's ability to perform tasks they usually take for granted. When exploring tendonitis make sure you research well as this can easily turn into a more severe injury.
This is a quick, brief list of ideas to provide writers inspiration. Since it is a shorter blog, I have not covered the injuries in detail. This is inspiration, not a thorough guide. Happy writing! :)
Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?Â
Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!
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