#cleopatra pink

[aestheticwittycinematics]

Cleopatra Enters Rome (Part Two)

Infamous for being the costliest film ever made* and for showcasing Elizabeth Taylor at the peak of her beauty and scandalous adulterous life.

The long, breathtaking procession began. The sets were so massive that for years they were a turistic attraction in Italy.

*Cleopatra (1963) directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz - aesthetic pleasure.

#photography #colors #color photography #cleopatra #ancient rome #italy #elizabeth taylor #pink #purple #aesthetic

[iloveyoulotslikepolkadots]

Brenda Sykes in Cleopatra Jones (1973)

#brenda sykes #cleopatra jones #70s #coquette #fashion #hyperfemininity #girly girl #pink #black girl magic #black women #women in suits

[pinkglitteraliens]

#halloween #afro puff #pink girl #pink #foxy cleopatra #foxy #alien princess #70s #70s model #70s style #70s aesthetic #foryou #october #disco #thicc girls

[lifewithnunuase]

Jimmy Choo just makes a lot of sense

#hot pink #jimmychoo #pink aesthetic #pink #love it #cleopatra #stylish

[thembow]

i needa copy paste diz mug in my face liek im so serious rn...

Tamara Dobson in Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold (1975)

#mug #makeup #glam #70s #tamara dobson #cleopatra #movie #films #retro #colors #pink #shimmer #icon #beauty

[cultfaction]

Bill McKinney

Bill McKinney was an American character actor born on August 17th 1931 in Chattanooga, Tennessee. He was best known for his roles in several iconic films of the 1970s and 1980s, including Deliverance, The Great White Hope, and The Natural. McKinney began his acting career in theater, appearing in several productions in the 1960s. He made his television debut in 1968 on an episode of The…

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#2001 Maniacs #Alias Smith and Jones #Any Which Way You Can #Bill McKinney #Cleopatra Jones #Deliverance #Every Which Way but Loose #Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil #Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid #Pink Cadillac #The Gauntlet #The Great White Hope #The Green Mile #The Monkees #The Natural #The Parallax View #Thunderbolt and Lightfoot

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | five

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: you and your professor enjoy a day in new york. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, oral [m receiving], a smidge of cock worship, spoilers for antony and cleopatra by shakespeare lol, flirting, these fuckos kinda go on a date, prof joel is man of the arts idgaf, a tlou2 easter egg, oral [f receiving] and then oral [f receiving] again, sex acts in public, jealousy, sexting/nudes, unprotected piv sex, exhibitionism, dirty talk, light choking, overstimulation [f], pain kink, kinda dom!joel, describing men as pretty and beautiful because I LIKE IT, soft!joel. word count: 8.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: so this whole thing is almost entirely sucking fucking and flirting, and i hope you enjoy it before we encounter angst. all credit to willy shakes for the passage from A&C that joel reads in the opening scene. thanks king for inspiring the title of this series lol xo this is part five of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four.

Sunday.

The sound of paper rustling wakes you. Muted scrapes of page shifting against page.

Through your lashes you can see a thin reed of sun streaming in the window, flaring across the end of the bed to warm your skin.  And there’s a dull ache between your legs; a rhythmic throb that dances and twists through your core, through the muscles in the inside of your thighs. The type of pain that is warm – soft in its caress, like the trail of a lover’s fingertips down your spine. A sort of remembrance, or celebration. And you welcome it eagerly; delight in the sharp reminder of how it felt to welcome his body inside yours again. The hot sting of every third second, the meticulous pulse and ache of flesh that you hope stays with you for days.

Another page turns.

 You tilt your head to the side, eyes open a mere crack, and smile at the secrecy of it. At the private sincerity of this man who lies awake, sporting nothing but the thin veil of a sheet, gaze fierce and focused on an endless stream of text that raps his attention. It’s a type of heaven for him, you realise. This resting place, as calm and tranquil it is. The only weight that bears down is in the place where his wrist bends, hand coiled around the spine of a book, fingers poised, flicking impatiently against the corner of a page, begging to turn it, to see more.

You take in every ripple of muscle, every dip and curve and freckle and scar. The jut of his elbow. The hard line of his jaw. Watch pink lips part and purr as he whispers the words on the page to himself, and think about how perfect that mouth felt between your thighs.

His fingers pinch the corner of a page, pressing it down into a dog ear before he moves onto the next. You wonder what piqued his interest, what collection of words made him want to mark it, to leave a trail for himself to come back one day and remember.

You break the silence finally. “What are you reading?”

Joel flinches, glasses jolting to the tip of his nose.

“You’re awake.”

“I am,” you hum. When he stares at you for a moment you just smile, snaking a hand out from the sheet to tap the page of his book. “Tell me.” 

“Shakespeare,” he murmurs, a faint blotch of red rising at the base of his neck. You want to kiss that blush—taste it. Want to know if his skin smells like you. “Antony and Cleopatra.”

“I love that one,” you yawn. “Where are you up to?”

 “Act five,” he says. “Cleopatra’s big scene.”

“Will you read it to me?” you smirk.

There’s an upward shift of an eyebrow. The spark of a curious glint in his eye. 

“Really?” he drawls, unimpressed.

“Please?” your smile softens into something kind, something honest.

With a sharp sigh, and a quick adjustment of his glasses, Joel begins to read.

“Give me my robe, put on my crown,” he begins slowly, as if unsure. “I have immortal longings in me: now no more. The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist his lip: yare, yare, good Iras; quick.”

His voice is a low vibration, a honeyed sound that drifts through the air and has goosebumps raising across your skin. You watch his mouth shape the words, enamoured. Savouring every glimpse of his teeth, every slip of his tongue between them.

“Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself to praise my noble act. I hear some mock the luck of Caesar, which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come. Now to that name my courage prove my title.”

His hair is a mess. A shock of greying curls that have flattened against his scalp after a night of being pressed into his pillow, threatening to spring up again. That dull pain flares in your core again and you rub your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache. But something stirs there—low, prowling just behind the pain. Something wet and wild that whispers his name. 

“I am fire and air,” Joel continues obliviously, licking his thumb to turn the page with ease. “My other elements I give to baser life. So; have you done?”

Slowly, listening—hanging—you shift against the mattress. Allow the sheet to fall down to your stomach, exposing your breasts to the morning air. Your nipples stiffen, chest tightening as he glances at them from the corner of his eye. He pauses, mouth ajar. Swallows. Brown eyes return to the page, and he continues to read.

“Come then, and take the last warmth from my lips.”

Your hand drifts across the mattress, hidden from sight as it traverses the soft plains of the sheets, the blankets, and then the skin of his thigh. Bare, but smattered with soft hairs that tickle your palm and fingertips. Goosebumps tear across his skin and his breathing hitches; the faintest cracks in his calm façade. You surpass where you can see him hardening, fingers floating up his side to rest against his stomach. Gently, you feel across the soft slopes and curves of his tummy. Glide your finger over the dip of his belly button and smile when he clears his throat, legs shifting in a restless dance. And then your hand shifts down. Past his happy trail, past the dark curls at his base, to wrap your fingers softly around his length.  

“Farewell, kind Charmian,” Joel’s voice deepens. “Iras, long farewell.”

You lower yourself on the bed, dragging the sheets with you until they rest wayward and wrinkled around his knees. Your cheek nuzzles against his thigh as you stroke him, humming in delight as his cock stiffens in your palm.

Joel sighs. “You don’t have to—”

“Keep going,” you hush, glancing up. He watches you over the top of his glasses, gaze darkening. There’s still sleep in the corners of his eyes, and it’s so soft, so domestic, it almost hurts. You look down, simpering as you admire the sight of his cock, now fully hard and leaking in your grasp.

The head is swollen, a flushed shade so reminiscent to that of his lips that you want to kiss him. But his skin is warm and smooth, like silk as you nuzzle his length against your face. Feel his wetness streak across your skin, over the closed line of your lips, the apple of your cheek. “Joel,” you urge him quietly when he still doesn’t speak.

“Have I the aspic in my lips?” His voice is hoarse when he continues; wanton, rough with sleep and desire. “Dost fall?”

You lathe soft kisses against the tip, along the vein that pulses along the side of his shaft, against the tight swell of his balls, taking your time with him. You giggle when he sucks in a sharp inhale, the muscles in his thighs tightening beneath your cheek.

“Such a pretty cock,” you whisper, swiping your fingers over his weeping head.

“Yeah?” he exhales and drops the book against his stomach, fingers reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Gonna show me how much you like it?”

“Mhm,” you bat your eyelashes up at him.

Joel raises the book again, slowly, eyes unfocused and glassy but still watching—still devouring—the way your lips purse around his tip. His stomach tightens when your tongue leaves soft kitten licks against the slit, lapping at the salty precome that rests there.

“If thou and nature,” he murmurs. “Can so gently part.”

And it’s almost painful, the way he sounds. Exhalations of tragic Shakespeare mixed with soft gasps, with curses loosed beneath his breath. The occasional revered whisper of your name, spurring you on.

His free hand settles at the back of your head, thick fingers curling in your hair as your lips part to take him deeper inside your mouth. “Fuck,” he groans, hips shifting against the mattress. “That’s it, baby, god you’re good at that.”

You hum around the weight of him, stomach warming at the praise. Swirl your tongue generously around his girth, lathing saliva over his skin until it’s dripping down to his balls. You cup them gently in your palm, massage him as your lips drag to rest around his tip again, paying close attention to the way he gasps and sighs when the point of your tongue dances along the ridge at the underside of his head.

“Sensitive there?” you ask quietly, eyes flitting up to look at his face. His cheeks are flushed, eyebrows furrowed as he nods.

“S’good,” he confirms, fingers tightening in your hair as you rub that spot again. A fresh bead of precome oozes from his slit and you smile, fingers curling around his length to tap his tip against the flat of your tongue. “Jesus,” he mutters, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah, good girl.”

You shift down on him eagerly, letting the heavy weight of him slip against your tongue, inside the warmth of your mouth, until he’s pressing against the back of your throat and you can hear him moaning.

“Got the prettiest fuckin’ mouth, baby,” Joel whispers. “S’like a fuckin’ dream, seeing those lips on my cock again.”

You whimper and swallow around him. A tear squeezes out of the corner of your eye, trailing a shiny path down to your chin. In steady, measured movements, your head bobs up and down on his length, guided by the gentle press of his hand.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Take it all, baby, yea—yes.”

You relax your throat and take him deep enough to feel your nose brush against the rough hairs at his base.

“The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,” he reads, the cadence of his words stilted and breathy. “Which hurts, and is desired.”

Suddenly, his hips jut upward and you gag, throat constricting around him until your eyes are wet and blurry. He tugs gently on your hair, pulling you backward until you part from him with a splutter, messy strings of saliva dangling between your swollen mouth and his cock.

“God damn,” he swipes a finger across your lower lip. “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. So so good."

You think your eyes water more at that. Sweetheart.

“I want it,” you slur, lids heavy as you make eye contact with him.

“What do you want?” he pushes, cupping your jaw in his large palm. “Tell me.”

“Want you to come in my mouth,” your face warms and you lick your lips, fingers stroking him slowly. “Want all of it.” Everything.

“Okay,” Joel soothes, and then his hand drops from your hair so he can grip himself. Gently, he glides the tip along your bottom lip, trailing his salt across the skin of your chin, your cheeks, your nose, before finally pressing the head back against your tongue. “Take it, come on. It’s yours.” 

He presses between your lips, jaw tensing, and his eyes drift back to the book as you begin to move.

“Dost thou lie still?” he reads. “If thus thou vanishes, thou—Christ—thou tell’st the world.”

Your lips are tight around him, mouth sucking and moving in tandem with the strokes of your fingers, wrapped loosely around his base. Carefully, you shift to straddle his shins, forearms resting heavily against his thighs as you bring him to the brink of his orgasm. Yours.

“Fuck,” you hear him spit, and then he’s arching forward, the splay of his palm moving down the length of your spine until his fingers slip into the crevice between your ass cheeks. Gripping and squeezing the flesh there until you’re moaning too, the vibrations of your voice muddling with the wet sounds of your mouth against his cock. 

It doesn’t take much longer for coherent thought to evade him, Antony and Cleopatra flung to the wayside of the bed as his broad hands cradle your head, the tip of his cock nudging the back of your throat with every thrust. Your entire body is hot, slick with sweat, the musky scent of Joel filling your nostrils with every rushed inhale. The sounds he’s making turn rougher, deeper; raspy grunts and exhales that are almost animalistic in their intensity, and then—

“Fuckin—look at me,” he bites out, and watery eyes flutter open to meet his gaze. “Need to see those pretty eyes when I fill you up.”

And fuck you’re wet. So wet that it’s seeping onto the skin of your thighs, drooling out of you as you clench around sweet sweet nothing, cunt desperate and begging to be filled again. Tightening your fingers around his cock, you drag your mouth back to suck gently around the pulsating head, and when he comes it’s with a drawn-out, laboured groan that fades into harsh mutterings of your name and fuck and so fuckin’ good at that god damnit and that’s it, swallow it all baby, it’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours.

You pull off him with a gasp, sucking in deep desperate breaths as you fall onto your back beside him.

Soft sheets stick to the sweat on your skin, and you close your eyes, vaguely aware of how the two of you breathe in sync; a high-strung cacophony of sharp inhales and heavy exhales.

After a few quiet moments you ask, “What time is it?”

“Eighty thirty,” he answers. The mattress jostles and tilts as his large frame shifts on it.

“Probably time to start the day,” you grumble, throat raw and tired.

But you can feel hands on your waist, nudging you backward until your head is slumped amongst the soft pillows again. And when your eyes peak open Joel is getting comfortable between your legs, glasses forgotten somewhere out of sight, hands pressing your thighs into the mattress to reveal your glistening sex to him.

And he says, “No,” shaking his head slowly, near-black eyes piercing as his lips lower to meet your cunt. “Not yet.”

You were unsure, initially, whose idea it was.

Unsure of who spoke first; if you or him brought up the idea of the museum. Unsure if he mentioned the bookstore or you mentioned The Iliad. Unsure, unsure, unsure.  

But as you stand on the outskirts of Central Park—showered, dressed, sure—eyes scanning the front window of the shop, the glass overflowing with newspaper cuttings and novel covers and author profiles and ads for signings – you are certain that it was him. Certain that he asked what your plans were for the day, head resting on your thigh, lips and beard still glistening with your come. Certain that you mentioned going to the museum, and that those brown eyes lit up, mouth splitting into a smile as he revealed that he had plans close by. Certain that he introduced the idea of going together.

A bell tinkles and your gaze sharpens, watching as his broad frame slips out the door with a brown paper bag tucked under his armpit. Joel ticks his head wordlessly to the side and you fall into step next to him, two sets of shoes scuffing against the pavement in a perfect rhythm. 

“Can I see it?” you ask, eyes roaming curiously around the street.

“Sure,” Joel holds the bag out and you take it carefully, fingers peeling back paper so you can take a peak inside.

“The cover is beautiful,” you breathe, fingers tracing vibrant swaths of gold and red, the white lettering that spells The Iliad. You balance the spine in your palm, curious to flick through to the first page. To see the acknowledgements, her author photo, anything. And as your eyes skirt over the very first page your feet stutter to a stop, pulse increasing as you spot the black marker on the page. A messily scrawled signature.

“Joel.”

Joel says your name, pausing a few steps ahead before turning back to face you. “What’s wrong?” he frowns.

You hold up the page, brows lifted in awe. “She… how did you get a signed copy?”

“We’ve met a few times in passing,” he admits sheepishly, eyes glancing between the book and your face. “I’ve always admired her work, and she offered to set a copy aside for me here. She’s very impressive, the first woman to—”

“The first woman to publish an English translation of The Odyssey,” you interrupt. “Yeah, Joel, I know exactly who Emily Wilson is.”

“And now she’s published The Iliad,” he hums. You begin walking again, the museum in sight now. “I’m lookin’ forward to readin’ it. Especially now that I’ve heard all your thoughts about how women and men translate differently. I’m sure it’ll be on my mind as I go.”

The skin on your face prickles and tightens under his attention. You’re still smiling, a wide and satisfised flash of your teeth, when the two of you reach The Met. Still smiling when he pays for your tickets and leads you toward the Cloisters.

You wander together through the exhibit. Medieval, Bohemian, Byzantine. Jean Pucelle, Robert Campin, Tilman. You catch Joel staring at the Bust of the Virgin, one hand on his hip, knee jutted out as he admires her elegance, the tenderness with which her face was carved.

“You like her?” you tease.

His shoulders stiffen and then relax into a sort of indignant laugh.

“I like terracotta,” he smarts, reaching out to pinch your forearm. When he pulls his hand away you see his eyes dart over your shoulder – a quick glance around the room to see if anyone noticed.

“Oh of course,” you nod, a mock serious expression on your face. “Me too. Terracotta virgins.”

“You know,” he huffs, turning to face you head on. “You oughta start showin’ me a bit of respect. Where’s your reverence for an authority figure, huh?”

“Authority?” your eyes widen, smirking broadly as you take a step forward, the material of your jacket brushing against his. “And what authority might that be?”

“I could fail you,” he murmurs, glancing down at your lips. “Tell everyone you’re the worst student I ever had. Never does as she’s told, always talkin’ back.”

“Oh, Professor,” you whisper back, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, your snark emboldened by his. “I hate to say it, but you’re not very convincing in your distaste.”

You don’t wait around to see his reaction, turning on your heel and heading into the next room. Your cheeks are sore from smiling at the end of it, eyes tired from reading, and then you reach the courtyard gardens. See the cloisters. See the Romanesque columns with their fluting grooves that lead into arches, see the vast green garden with its flowers of yellow and pink and purple. Herbs and flora border the walking paths, filling the air with the scent of thyme and rosemary, and you can’t help but grin.

“Not bad right?” Joel’s voice comes from behind you.

“Not bad at all,” you turn to smile at him. “Would’ve been cooler if they had some dinosaur bones around here though. A museum should always have a dinosaur.”

“A dinosaur,” he repeats, quietly amused. “Of course, you like dinosaurs.”

“I thought, uh,” Joel clears his throat then. Glances away for a second. “Thought you might like it here; that it might remind you of your time in Greece.”

The words make your chest go all warm and tight. He looks so handsome, so easy in the middle of it all. Dark features and broad shoulders softened by the smell of flowers.

“It does,” you nod. “A little bit.”

“What was it like?” he asks.

“Greece was…” you trail off as you remember it. White sand beaches, turquoise waters, boreks and Doric columns, seemingly endless nights spent translating sheets and sheets and sheets of ancient texts. “It was wonderful, really. I feel so lucky to have had the opportunity, and Professor Samaras was a phenomenal instructor.”

Joel nods, fingers looped and resting across his stomach as he digests your answer.

“Good,” is the response he settles on, finally. “I’m glad. You… you deserve that. You work hard, and your presentation was solid.”

And it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but those words bring you calm now, not frustration like they did last night. So you smile, and thank him, and don’t stop yourself from asking him something in return.

“Have you really never been?” you ask, eyes squinting inquisitively as you watch his face, searching the emotions that flitter across it – near impossible to decipher, as always. “You said you weren’t interested, that first night when we spoke about it… but I would’ve thought… I don’t know, maybe a semester abroad or… or a fellowship?”

“Never,” he looks away. “Always too little time, too little money, too many responsibilities.”

You nod slowly, watch him curiously. You wish you could peel back his skin and see inside of that gorgeous brain, that heart. Understand every trouble, every missed opportunity that weighs on his shoulders.

“There’s still time,” you offer. “You’ve got so much time, Joel.”

Joel looks at you and you can see in his eyes that he’s grateful for the words. See that the earnestness with which you speak brings him some kind of solace, some kind of hope.

His fingers graze the skin of your wrist, curling around it to hold you in place beside him. Your body stills, eyes training carefully on the garden; the green of the grass, the pink of the flowers that bloom amongst it all. One of his fingers searches the skin at the inside of your wrist, swiping and rubbing over the tendons and veins there until he finds where your lifeline pulses. And then he strokes that spot, a calm, meticulous glide of his fingertip, over where blood thrums and rushes inside your body.

The tickling sensation has a painful knot of want curling in your chest, but you don’t stop him. Don’t pull your hand away, don’t take a step back. And with every stroke against skin, you feel it as if it where between your thighs—the soft curling of a finger between your folds, against your clit. It feels feverish, like a steady flame that spreads across your skin, up your chest to lick at the inside of your ribcage.  

“Soft,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “You’re so soft.” And it sounds painfully like, you’ve got so much time.

And you look at him and he knows. Your face says it all.

Says, let your hands wander wherever they like. Says, if you touched me here—now—I wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t tell a soul. Says, everything I have to offer is yours if you could only bring yourself to take it. Says, and if your hand won’t wander, won’t stray, I’ll take it in my own and show you where to touch.

So you lead him back inside. Quiet, discreet, slipping past patrons and staff and guards until you find a bathroom. Tuck him inside and smile at the snap of the lock shifting into place behind you.

Joel’s knees meet tile with a soft thud, and dark eyes hold yours as he peels your trousers down, as he drags the slick fabric of your underwear to the side, as he presses the soft cut of his mouth between your legs. He watches you, steadfast, cheeks ablaze and pupils blown as his tongue works you open, calloused fingers holding your left thigh over his shoulder. 

And after you’ve come, face pinched and hidden behind your palm, he pulls away. Skirts wet kisses down the inside of your thigh, against the shell of your kneecap, to the bruise that colours your shin.

And he whispers, “Does it hurt?” with his fingers tracing tender splotches of purple and blue.

And you whisper, “No.” with your fingers brushing the curls off his forehead.

Afterwards you walk through the park, pressing through streams of tourists and locals alike; a lively crowd that parts and flurries around the two of you as you push forward. He fields your questions about Emily Wilson, about the years he spent doing his PhD, parrying seamlessly with queries about the West coast, about your undergrad, your roommates.

The bubble doesn’t break until Joel gets the text. Cursing softly, he turns away from you, eyes focused on his screen.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, yes,” Joel says, fingers flying across the touch screen, typing out a response before he tucks his phone away. “I, uh, look I actually forgot that I have somethin’ I need to do tonight.”

“Sounds mysterious,” you smile, eyebrows raised expectantly. But your smile wavers when he doesn’t match your teasing, face relaxing as you wait.

“Rachel and I planned this dinner a few weeks ago,” he explains. “When we both agreed to attend the conference.”

“Oh,” you blink. “That’s nice.”

“It’s this thing we do,” Joel offers, shifting on his feet. “A tradition, I suppose. To celebrate another conference done.” And you remember, I’ve been to twenty of the damn things. His twenty to your one.

“That’s nice,” you repeat, and hold your smile when he checks his phone again.   

Hold it when he tells you he should go, that he needs to get ready to meet her. Hold it when he hesitates, staring at you for a moment. Hold it when he presses a chaste kiss to the side of your head, lips meeting your temple, the weakest point of your skull, before turning to walk away from you.

Only when you’re alone do you let the smile fall.

After a lonely dinner, you find yourself back in your hotel room, thinking about Rachel.

Folding your blue dress into a neat square, and then a smaller square. Tucking it into your duffel bag, thinking about the rough sound of her laugh. The soft curve of her jaw, the sparkling greys that curl through her dark hair. You fold your underwear, pack that too, and think of her fluorescent toenails and her dangling earrings. Think of how sure she is; how intelligent, how charismatic. And then you think of yesterday – of her hand on Joel’s arm, soft fingers curling around the sleeve of his blazer, carting him around the conference. Leading him. Standing by his side, making him laugh.

And it burns, this hot feeling in your chest. Something dark green and scalding, fiery enough that you feel the need to sit on the edge of the bed and press your palm against the skin above your breast to tamp it down. Feel your heartbeat there, the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, and tell yourself that this feeling is cruel and unforgiving but that it is wrong. You lay out your clothes for the airport, wrap yourself up in the coarse hotel robe and push away the images your mind creates of them at dinner together. Push away the thought of her foot nudging his beneath the table, the thought of them sitting beside each other, thighs brushing like yours had on the bench last night. Because it’s wrong. Joel isn’t like that. Joel wouldn’t do that.

When Nora calls, you pick up on the second ring.

“How did it go?” she squeals, and you feel your shoulders relax at the sound of her voice.

“It was good,” you respond. “I feel good about it. Glad it’s over though.”

“You never answered my text—" the line crackles a little, muffling the last word of her sentence. “I was worried something bad might’ve happened.”

“Fuck,” you apologise. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I—I got caught up with something, I… I wasn’t looking at my phone.”

There’s a beat of silence over the phone. Another fried, crackle over the line.

“Oh you cheeky bitch,” she gasps then. “You could’ve just said you were getting some!”

“Nora—” you try, stomach dropping.

“Who the fuck was it?” she continues eagerly. You can almost picture the way her eyes would widen if she were here with you, hands clenched excitedly at her sides as she pushes for all the gory details. “Was it someone from the conference? Oh my god, was it someone from UNE?”

“No, no,” you rush, feeling an anxious heat rise in your chest. “It was just a random guy, we… I met him at a bar afterwards, it’s no one from Maine. No one from the conference.”

Another pause.

“And?” she asks finally. “How was it?”

You consider her question for a moment. Remember the way he undressed you in the dim light of his hotel room – slow, cautious. Remember the way he looked at you. Those dark brown eyes feasting over every inch of flesh, every mark, every freckle, every scar. The feeling of his hands on your breasts, his bare chest against yours as he pressed inside of you.

Quietly, earnestly, you say, “It was amazing,” and smile when she hollers down the line.

And this feeling is so much kinder, you think. The relief and the warmth that comes with being able to tell someone. To talk about him, even if you’re not really talking about him. Even if she can’t really know the truth.

You put her on speaker, still listening and laughing as she rattles off question after question. Did he go down on you? How big was he? Wait he was older?! You bitch! How old?! That’s hot. Fuck, I need to get laid.

“You really do,” you chuckle, laying down against the pillows and typing out a text to Joel.

Are you enjoying your dinner?

He replies within minutes.

Yeah, the restaurant is nice.

What are you doing?

“Hey Nora?” you interrupt. “I actually need to go.”

“Oh,” she huffs. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re gonna go get fucked again. Good for you bitch.”

“I love you,” you laugh, already typing out a response to him. “See you tomorrow when I get home.”

Well my bags are packed, and I just tucked myself into bed

You watch the text bubble appear, disappear, and reappear over three times before it vanishes completely. Minutes go by; maybe ten, maybe fifteen, and then—

Show me.

Grinning, you loosen the tie around your robe to reveal a flash of the skin across your chest; the curve of your left breast, the peak of your nipple. Take a picture and make sure he can see your finger snagged between your lips, resting against the softness of your tongue.

For a moment you worry. Feel a spike of fear in your chest that if you send it someone else might catch a glimpse of his screen – that Rachel might see it. But then another text comes through, and you feel that fear melt into a warm pool of liquid.

I know you want to show me, sweetheart.

So you do. You click send and wait, teeth catching against the nail on your thumb.

The response is almost instant.

Jesus.

Are you wet?

You know I am

Are you touching yourself?

No

Good.

Dinner finished early. Where are you?

You send him the address of your hotel. Call the lobby and tell them to let him up. And when he arrives, you’re waiting for him on the balcony. You hear the heavy pad of his footsteps crossing the room, and then the slide of the glass door. Feel the broad span of his chest press against your back; outstretched fingers that glide around the curve of your waist to settle over your stomach.

Joel doesn’t say a word, nosing at the frizzled kinks of hair at the base of your neck. One of his hands drifts upward, fingers curling beneath the neckline of your robe, just grazing the curve of your breast. You let your eyes fall closed and think this feels like coming home.  Think, if this moment could last for hours, for days, for ever, that would be enough, and I’d never ask for another thing. Think, where have I been all of my life, and why was it not here with him?

You say, “Let’s go inside,” as he touches your nipple, and feel him shake his head.

“No,” he says. Presses his hips against your ass, rough denim brushing the backs of your knees. “Want you here.” 

You start to say Someone might see, but Joel pushes you forward again and your stomach presses against railing. Your eyes dart down toward the street, the road. To cars and pedestrians and tourists. 

“You don’t want that?” his lips brush the side of your neck as he speaks, the softest pressure. He tugs at your robe, guiding it down past your shoulders, elbows, until it pools around your feet. “Don’t want them to see us together?”

“That’s not—” you gasp as his teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder, hot tongue gliding over already bruising flesh. “Fuck, Joel.”

He groans against your skin, lathing wet kisses past your neck to the top of your spine. His hands are on your waist and your stomach and your tits and his jeans chafe against your bare ass, zipper catching every now and then. But your mind is hazy, a blur of thoughts that can only focus on the feeling of teeth and lips, on something long and firm pressing through the material of his pants, rutting slowly against you. 

“You’re hard already,” you breathe, surprised—delighted.

Joel grunts, distracted. “Been hard since you sent me that picture.”

A shaky breathes leave your lips as his hand skirts down your stomach, your hipbones, until his fingers slip past the glistening seam of your cunt – tender and swollen and aching. 

“But that’s what you wanted, hmm?” he rasps. You whimper as his fingers circle over your entrance, collecting your slick and dragging it upward. A flinch rips through you when he touches your clit, the nerves fraught after being given so much attention throughout the day. “You like knowin’ how much I want you? How badly? You like that I’d leave dinner early just to come here and fuck you?”

Face on fire, you nod; caught out. And then he takes another step forward, bending you further over the railing and pressing himself against you, hard enough that you can feel his cock between your ass cheeks, denim scraping the sensitive skin there.

“That is how much I want you. All the fuckin’ time,” he says. “Get it?” 

“Joel,” you stutter urgently, voice almost a squeak. Your thighs shake, knees close to buckling as his finger rubs slow circles against your clit. “S’too—fuck, Joel, it’s too sensitive.” It burns, too much – but his touch only serves to stoke the fire in your belly until it’s a roaring, raging thing, begging for more of too much. 

“I know, honey,” he groans, and you think you can hear the sound of his zipper coming undone. “You sore?”

When you don’t answer immediately Joel’s fingers still, body straightening as if he’s about to stop, about to pull away.

“Don’t,” you say quickly. “Just—”

“M’not goin’ anywhere,” Joel hushes. “Does it hurt?”

You hesitate, stomach tightening when his fingers start to move again. “It’s… yeah a little, but it’s…”

“But you like it? Like it when it hurts a little?” he fills the silence, and you can hear the change in his voice. Hear how it deepens, a gravelly effect that has your cunt tightening. You cringe, turn your head to the side in the hopes that he won’t see your reaction. But he doesn’t let it slide. Of course not. “Talk to me.”  

“Yeah, yes, I like it,” you admit, exhaling a relieved sigh when you hear his belt hit the ground.

“Good,” he says, and then you can feel him, hot silken skin on your own, the wet glide of his cock against your ass check.

His knuckles brush against you as he adjusts himself, and the weight of his tip at your opening is not unlike the brush of his fingers along your bruised shin. Tender, careful – the touch of someone that would never hurt you. Not unless you asked him to.

When Joel rocks his hips forward, cock splitting you open around his weight, the stretch is long and deep. A sweet, searing burn that has you balancing on the tips of your toes, mouth hanging open as you grip the railing and take it. The night air is cool against your skin, but warm hands land firm on your hips, thumbs circling and rubbing away the goosebumps there

“God,” he grunts into the hinge of your jaw, teeth nipping at the muscle there. “You’re so wet, so needy. Want this cock all the time, don’t you?”   

You can only moan in response – a choked, whimper of a noise that scratches its way out of your throat as he bottoms out. His thighs are warm and thick against yours, body practically moulding itself to you as you squirm, cunt pulsing around the thick length of him.

He gives you a moment to adjust, waits to feel you relax against him, and then he’s moving. Slow, powerful thrusts that have you feeling him in your stomach, and wishing you could see his face. Wishing you could watch his nose scrunch up, his lips curl into a snarl as he fucks you. Wishing that everything you’re feeling could be reflected back to you in his face, the way it was last night.

“Thought about you all night,” he says in your ear, a dirty little confession, whispered only for you to hear. “You know how sick that is? At dinner with my colleague, my friend, and I couldn’t get this perfect cunt out of my head. S’drivin’—me—fuckin’—crazy.”

And it’s sick, it’s awful, but you feel your lips peel back, face breaking into a toothy grin at the words. That envy, that jealousy, that dark green sticky feeling - all of it for naught because you were right. Joel Miller is yours.

“Yeah?” you pant, pushing your ass back into him and smiling even wider when he grunts, blunt fingernails digging into your waist. “What were you thinking about?” 

“’Bout how tight you always are,” he kisses the side of your neck, tongue flicking incessantly against the skin there. “How perfect you felt around me last night. How you take it so well.” He bites down, sucking until the skin throbs, another mark left in his wake. “How, if I can help it, I’ll never wear a condom when I fuck you again.”  

You curse, head lolling back against his shoulder. The confession makes you ache. “Please,” you mutter desperately. “Joel, please.”

“Thought about fillin’ you up,” he continues eagerly. “Fuckin’ you so hard, so deep with my come that you’d feel it for days. And you’d be mine.” His hips snap forward in a particularly harsh thrust and you grunt, cringing as the railing bites into your ribs. Mine mine mine.

“I’m yours,” you moan as he fucks you, a steady smack-smack-smack sound filling the air as his hips collide with the meat of your ass, over, and over, and over again. “You know I am.”

And you want to know what he thinks of that, want to know what comes next, but the sound of laughter echoes up from the street suddenly, and you tense, eyes snapping wide open. Joel doesn’t slow down.

“Look at them,” he hushes, voice quietening some.

His hand raises to point somewhere over the balcony, but you don’t see where; eyes trained on his fingers, his skin, the blue veins that swell and pulse beneath it. Your eyes try to follow it, but you’re looking the wrong way, following the hard line of his wrist, the corded veins in his forearm, his bicep, trying desperately, shamelessly, to catch a glimpse of his face.

“I said look at them,” his voice deepens, an authoritative tone taking over as his long fingers grip your jaw, angling it down until you do as he says.

You can see three of them. Squinting, you try to make out their faces from four storeys up. Stumbling down the street, laughing loudly, bumping shoulders as they walk.

Joel’s hips press forward and you gasp, eyes rolling back as his swollen tip nudges the deepest, softest place inside of you.

“Wait,” you whisper hoarsely, body jerking forward with every practised thrust of his cock. Say again, “Someone might see.”

“I hope they do,” he growls, hand falling to drape over your neck.

His fingers press gently against either side, cradling your pulse point in the palm of his hand. Your brain goes foggy with the pressure, mind buzzing and blurring. The sensation of his broad grip against your throat mixes with the drag of his cock between your thighs and it’s intoxicating; a high that you’ve never experienced before, and never want to end. You don’t realise how loud you’re gasping, moaning, keening his name, until you hear him laugh. A rough, elated sound.

“I knew it,” he chuckles, and you tighten around him, fingers fumbling backward, seeking purchase at the soft flesh of his hips as he continues rocking into you. His hand drops from your neck to your tits, and he squeezes.

“Admit it. Admit you fuckin’ love it,” Joel pants, every word punctuated by a white-hot press of his cock and a heavy exhalation against your neck. “Dirty little thing—you want them to see. Say it.” 

“Fuck,” you cry, spine arching as you push backward, meeting the movements of his hips.

“Fuckin’ say it,” he snaps, all hints of laughter gone now, his rough drawl only offset by the fond way his hands play with your tits. Careful, kind; every pinch, every squeeze, every caress a generous and tender display.

“I want it,” you blubber, sight blurring into a mess of streetlights and skyscrapers and strangers on the street. “W-want them to see how you fuck me, how you take care of me.”

“That’s it,” he groans, and you can feel the way he twitches inside of you, cock jerking against your walls in hot fast movements.

“Want them to know,” you continue, and there’s tears streaking messily down your cheeks, your lips moving faster than you can control. “Want them to see us, see how good it is, how perfect.”

And it’s too much now, you think. Finally, too much of too much. The railing is bruising against your stomach. Every stroke of his cock, every graze of your nipples – Joel’s touch akin to the end of a frayed wire, sparking and spitting embers wherever the two of you come into contact. Your cunt is on fire, every inch of sticky wet flesh throbbing and smarting.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby, you gonna show them how you come for me? Gonna let them hear it?”

“I can’t,” you choke out, shaking your head numbly. Yours lungs are on fire, mouth dry as you try fruitlessly to suck in breath after breath. “Fuck, I don’t think I can—”

“Hey,” his voice calls. A rough finger wipes across your cheek, smearing the salty tears further across your skin. “You can, you can, I can’t—I fuckin’ need this, need it.”  

“It’s too much,” you gasp frantically. But your words aren’t matched by the desperate grind of your hips. Aren’t matched by the way you twitch and shake between him and the glass, abdomen tensing tighter tighter tighter with every thrust. “Fuck, I’m—I’m close but it’s too much, Joel, it’s too much, I can’t, I can’t—”

He pulls out quickly. You gasp wetly at the loss, at how your walls clench and suck around that empty warm space in his absence. Deft hands grip your waist, tilting and turning you until your back is against the railing now, and his mouth is between your legs, wet lips and tongue so soft in comparison, so soothing against that burn.

There’s no shying away now, no stuttering or whining – you simply melt, thigh softening around the curve of his shoulder, allowing him to hold you up as his tongue teases and coaxes you to the edge of your third mind-numbing, toe-curling orgasm that day.

And you don’t notice at first how his bicep shifts and flexes beneath your thigh. Don’t notice how he groans and sighs against your messy cunt, panting and muttering your name as he strokes his cock in tight, wet jerks. And when you come, gushing into his mouth, his eyes snap open, endless spheres of deep brown gazing up at you, desperate to see. Your legs tremble with the force of it, hands grappling for purchase on his shoulders, in his hair. And with your lips parted, tears drying on your cheeks, you watch the way his face crumples—wrecked. How eyebrows furrow and eyelids flutter shut. Joel’s mouth slips away from you, teeth sinking into the flesh of your thigh, something to ground him as he grunts, a low, ragged sound, before you feel him come in warm, thick spurts against your calf.

“Fuck,” you mumble deliriously. Can hardly hear yourself over the roar of your pulse in your ears. “So good, you’re so beautiful.”

Joel’s face is flushed, skin tinged with a deep red that settles across the highest peaks of his cheekbones and disappears into his beard. And when his eyes open again, drowsiness swimming beneath those heavy lids, you can see the way they shine. Glistening with something wet, something earnest. You thumb gently at his waterline, swiping away the tears like he’s done for you. 

His lips press a chaste kiss to the pad of your thumb, tongue snaking out to lick his tear from your skin, and you think you must repeat it, So beautiful, because he smiles. Breathing heavily, eyes wet, he grins for you. A flash of white that he quickly smothers against the skin of your leg.

After catching his breath, Joel leads you inside and helps you shower. Stands outside the glass door, hand gripping your elbow to brace your shaking frame as you glide soap over your arms, down your legs. His fingers dig in firmer when you slip a hand between your thighs, whimpering as warm water streams over the sensitive skin there. He doesn’t flinch or shy away when specks of water flick out and dampen his shirt.

“You okay?” he asks as he helps you out, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.

You nod, mind still foggy, and let him rub the coarse fabric over the skin of your arms, your legs, drying you off before he tucks you back into your robe. And when he leads you back into the room, helping you carefully onto the bed, a flash of concern splits across his face. He takes a step back, a step away, until his back is brushing against the wall.

You lay down on the bed, heavy limbs splayed haphazardly across the soft blankets and pillows. Your robe is open, the tie still forgotten somewhere on the balcony, revealing the skin of your stomach, your thighs, still dotted with warm droplets of water.

And Joel's not far, not really; tucked away in the corner of the room, unsure, arms hanging listlessly by his sides as he stares. Takes in every inch of you as if it’s the first time all over again. Perhaps, as if he’s worried it will be the last.

“I should go,” he says, painfully unconvincing.

“Yeah,” you agree quietly, eyelids heavy as you stare back at him.

Your lips part in a soft yawn as you scratch languidly at the skin over your ribs, and dark eyes follow the movement of your fingers. Watch how your skin smarts and pulls beneath your fingernails until you sigh in contentment, the itch disappearing.

“You gotta be up early,” he says.

“I do.”

“And it’s late,” his eyebrows raise.

“Is it?” you smile. Raise your eyebrows in return and laugh when he sighs, hands twitching at his sides.

“Are we really doing this again?” you ask, smile slipping when you notice his frown. The twisted furrow of his brows, the curl of his upper lip. As if all of the features on his face have pinched together in the middle. Something churns in your stomach; a sick feeling that rises to lodge at the base of your throat. Waiting. “Talk to me.”

“M’tryin’,” he admits quietly. “Tryin’… tryin’ to be good. I want to be good.”

Your heart drops. And then, driven by some emotion that you can’t name, don’t want to name, it climbs its way back up, lurching forward in your chest. It claws and scrapes and tears itself out through a crack between two of your ribs, flinging itself across the room at him.

“You are good,” you whisper. Feel your bottom lip wobble, unsteady but sure. Certain of nothing but this as the words slip out. “You’re good, Joel. We are good.”

And when he smiles you think you can see it in his teeth. Little fragments of your heart; the beating core of you, dark red and macerated in the cracks of his canines, the lining of his gums.  

Joel closes his eyes and repeats the word. A softly murmured, Good, as if the word itself confounds him, and you think you must be imagining the red smeared across his chin. Your blood seeping out past his lips, dribbling down to stain the skin of his neck.

“I hope you’re right.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. One that shakes the planes of his broad chest, makes it rise to its fullest potential before he sucks another in, shoulders relaxing, and walks across the room towards the bed.

Towards you.

thank you for reading! x

#i hope you wanna know what happened at the dinner with rachel #cause i'm gonna tell you #my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #ALP #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut

[gucciwins]

Nice To Meet Ya

a/n: part two to not another rockstar I have an idea for what I want from them so I'm excited to work on this. if you have any requests for them please feel free to send them my way.

word count: 2358

warnings: smut (male receiving)

+

Harry was in a trance for the entirety of Y/N’s set. He knew there were more people on stage part of her band, but he didn’t seem to process a single one. Harry could only focus on one thing, and that was Y/N. He wanted more time with her than the few minutes he got. Paul and Adam had tried talking to him during the show asking if he wanted another drink or what he thought but he brushed them off instead stepping away from the table and walking closer (as close as he can in a sold-out crowd) toward the stage. 

Y/N fell to her knees and threw her head back. Harry felt his pants tighten and hated himself at that moment for being a typical man. How could anyone blame him? When all he could picture were those pretty red lips leaving marks on his skin.

He really needs to talk to her again. 

When the lights go out and the awful dim lights come back on, Harry turns back to his friends who are talking to Ayo, who must have joined during the show. 

“What did you think, Harry? Any good?” Ayo asks, unaware of his endless thoughts of the lead singer. 

Everyone in the friend group knows Harry as the music nerd. Name an artist and he’ll name five songs. From oldies to rap, he’s open to it all. He even formed a band of his own in his youth but now produces music, something he found he’s better suited to. He’s surprised he hadn’t heard of “Cleopatra” before, the band carrying an original sound of rock and with Y/N’s vocals, he knew why the crowd was in the palm of her hand. 

“I’m a fan,” he admits. 

Paul pats him on his shoulder. “Pretty big by your reaction to the complete set.” 

Harry’s cheeks turn pink. There is no denying it when his two friends couldn’t get his attention for a single second in 45 minutes. 

“Well, can you blame me?” Harry tries to defend. 

The group laughs, and Paul gestures for everyone to follow him. Harry wonders if they’re leaving already but knows better than to ask and simply follows in pursuit. Ayo is now leading them through a familiar walkway. Harry feels his heartbeat accelerate. He’s stuck between wanting to run out and ready to push in front of everyone to see Y/N again. 

Ayo knocks on the door reading “Cleopatra”. A petite blonde opens the door. 

The blonde shrieks and pulls Ayo into a hug. She drags Ayo in, leading everyone to follow. Harry takes that moment to look around the large dressing room where there are clothes thrown on the floor, bags of makeup sit on the bathroom counter. He knows that it must be a mess to clean up. There are three girls (blonde included) but no sign of Y/N. Introductions are being made when Y/N walks out shaking a towel through her hair and is now dressed in an oversized crew neck and sweats. She looks beautiful. 

Harry tries his best to not stare at her, but it proves to be hard when she comes to stand in front of him with the rest of her bandmates. 

“Lastly, Y/N, these are a few of my friends.” Ayo introduces going by the order. Y/N greets everyone by repeating their names and when it’s his turn Y/N smirks, accepting Harry’s outstretched hand. 

“We’ve met, right Harry,” Y/N purrs. 

Harry gulps, loving the feel of her hand trailing down his hand. “Yes, we met earlier.” 

Y/N giggled, loving the effect she had on him. “Poor Harry seemed a bit lost.”

Ayo shakes her head. “He’s notorious for getting lost.” 

“Hey now,” Harry interrupts. 

Adam wags a finger at Harry. “Boy, we’ve had to stop the music at a bar once because no one could locate you.”

Harry pouts and spares a glance at Y/N, who looks amused with the information she’s being given. “And where was he?” Y/N inquires.

“In the toilets, holding a girl’s hair back.”

“Oh a gentleman,” the blonde says while giving Y/N a small nudge. 

Harry scratches his neck nervously. “Uh, the girl’s friend asked for my help while she rallied her friends.” 

He did not want to relive that memory. Harry was healing a broken heart back then when his friends dragged him to the bars. He didn’t want to drink, but before he knew it, he was throwing back tequila shot after tequila shot. Harry had been single since then. He’s always been a relationship guy.

Harry loved courting, taking people on dates. Paying for their meals or even opening the car door. He’d do every stereotypical romantic thing you’ve heard of until he’d fallen in love. It almost always led him to heartbreak, but he was a hopeless romantic. He’d never close his heart off to love. 

“Well, I think that was very sweet.” Y/N smiles at Harry. “What did you all think of the show?” 

Harry appreciates she took the attention off of him and decides to fall behind his friends while they mingle with Y/N bandmates whose name he does not remember yet. Adam is talking with Annabelle (red hair) and Jordan (pale with blue eyes). Harry is trying to remember everyone as he eases into conversation with them. He discovered that the blonde’s name was Estrella, who was born under a meteorite shower. Then there’s Y/N, whose name he’d never forget since learning. They had been playing a game of chase as he tries his best to talk with her, but she always manages to make it to the next group for conversation. 

The night is winding down and Harry is afraid to go home without getting Y/N’s number. He feels aware of everyone in the room and it’s what has stopped him from going and stealing her for a conversation. As he is thinking about saying his goodbye’s Y/N comes to stand next to him happily joining the conversation with Paul, he was just having. Y/N is the type of person he thinks twice about approaching. Harry is confident in an environment he’s comfortable in, say the studio or a bookshop, but here in the venue where clearly Y/N runs the show, he isn’t sure how to proceed. Harry’s too stuck in his head.

“I’m going to steal Harry for a bit, Paul. I heard he’s a talented musician.” Y/N tells his friend, surprising Harry.

“By all means. Pick his brain.” Paul pushes Harry forward. 

Y/N reaches for his hand, pausing for a moment to see if he’s alright with that. Harry gives her a nod, and it’s all the encouragement she needs. 

She leads them down winding hallways until they step into a private green room with a couch and two guitars. 

“I like to come here and play on my own before the show. Everyone knows not to bother me here,” Y/N tells him.

Harry feels honored, but also doesn’t know if she’s done this for others. “And why am I here?” 

Y/N turns to look at him. A teasing smile sits on her glossed lips. “Come on, Harry. Do I really need to say it?”

Harry frowns. What can Y/N be referring to?

Y/N rolls her eyes, but he takes no offense as she walks back over to him. “The chemistry between us,” she purrs. “We’ve got to do something about it.”

“Do you want to go on a date?” Harry asks confidently, thinking this is what she’s searching for. 

“Oh sweet boy,” Y/N walks in front of him. “I’m talking about taking care of this tension.” 

Harry feels his pants tighten. He wants her more than anything. A taste of how sweet she must be, but it seems Y/N will be in charge of whatever happens in this room. 

“What do you have in mind?” 

Y/N twirls a piece of her hair. “Would you let me suck you off?” 

Harry takes a deep breath. He’s never met someone as forward as Y/N. It’s clear she goes after what she wants. It doesn’t matter how she gets it. 

“Shouldn’t I be rewarding you?” 

Y/N laughs, pushing her hair back. “Who’s saying you’re not?”

Harry smiles at Y/N. He’s trying his best to get an understanding of her, but it’s clear she’s special. 

“Now, am I okay to get on my knees and suck your cock?” 

Harry has to choke back a moan. Y/N knows what she wants, and it’s Harry. 

“Yes, please,” he whispers. 

Pleased, Y/N gets down on her knees and unbuckles Harry’s belt. She’s quick to pull down his pants. Harry is hard, of course he is. Y/N is pleased, they’re a twinkle in her eyes as she looks up at him silently asking to remove this barrier. Harry gives her a nod. Y/N wastes no time in pulling down his briefs and is pleased to see his stiff cock.

Y/N’s face lights up with excitement. He’s much bigger than she expected. Y/N’s lips hovered over the tip, taking in the sheer size of his cock. Y/N felt herself get wet with desire and knew just how badly she needed this. She’d worry about taking care of herself later. 

Harry shivered as Y/N’s warm breath trickled against the tip of his cock as her lips brushed against the head. He kept his eyes down, watching as Y/N eagerly dragged her soft, warm lips against the tip of his cock. 

Y/N was lining his cock with kisses, getting lost in feeling him. 

“Fuck, you look so pretty,” he muttered. 

A soft moan left her lips in appreciation of his words. Harry watched on as Y/N took inch by inch into her mouth, coating his cock with her saliva. 

“Ohh fuck,” Harry groaned as he stared down at the woman of his dreams. Her head moved up and down his cock as she sucked, her mouth forming a large ‘o’ shape. Her cheeks hollowed in as she sucked deeply against his dick. “Fuck, Y/N. Yes, baby!” 

Y/N moaned against him as she pushed more of his cock down her throat. Her mouth watered as every inch of his cock pressed against her tongue. She bobbed back and forth, loving the taste of him in her mouth. Harry stared at Y/N in awe as she took every inch of him in her wet mouth. Y/N hungrily worked towards the base of his shaft. He let her keep going, and soon his cock hit the back of Y/N’s throat. She slowed a bit, gagging slightly, but it did not stop her from sucking. 

After a few moments, Y/N pulled her mouth away from the base. She took a deep breath but didn’t pull away; she licked up his shaft. “You have a nice cock.” Y/N told him in a breathless tone. 

Harry couldn’t believe this girl. “You’re an angel.” 

Y/N smirked, “I wouldn’t say that.” 

Y/N stroked him with her left hand. She loved how heavy he felt in her hand. Harry’s heaving breathing was a sign he was close. His stamina was impressive. Y/N had been with guys who’ve cum as soon as her lips touched their tip, but not Harry. She had to wonder what he was hiding under his shirt. She knew she was going to have some fun with him. 

She kept her eyes locked on Harry’s as she lowered her head once again to suck his cock. The dirty sounds filled the room, Harry’s moans bouncing off the walls and going straight to her wet core. A fire burned through Y/N as she felt Harry getting close. His groans rang louder. Her name fell off his lips, effortlessly edging her on. 

“Fuck, Y/N.” He pants. “I’m going to come.” 

Harry says it as a warning for her to pull away, but Y/N is determined. She wants to swallow his come. She’s greedy for it. 

“Y/N!” He warns one last time. 

Y/N pulls away, her lips swollen and saliva dripping down her chin. “I want it down my throat, Harry.” 

She bobs her head and waits for him. She takes as much of him as she can and feels Harry tense. He sets one hand in her hair. Y/N gasps against him, not expecting the pain but enjoying. 

“Baby, Y/N I’m coming.” 

Y/N hums as she slowly pulls off his cock. She sits back against her heels. Y/N makes a show for him to see she swallowed every last drop. Harry leans against the wall for support. Y/N cleans around her mouth with her thumb. She sees it’s a small drop and instead of wiping it off; she licks her thumb clean. 

She flashes him a smile. Harry shakes his head, not believing what just happened. He’s not sure what to say. He wants to return the favor but Y/N’s phone rings. She takes a quick peek, and he knows it’s time to head back. Y/N helps him slip back on his briefs and pants. Harry offers her his hand to help her stand, and she accepts. 

“That was fun. I’ve got to go now.” Y/N leans in and presses a kiss on his cheek. “Bye now”

“Can I have your number?” He shouts as she’s walking away. Harry can’t let her slip away.

Y/N turns and gives him a wink. “Check your pocket.” 

He’s quick to put his hands in his jeans and in the front left pocket finds a piece of paper. It’s a ripped recipient and on the back in pink is a note with her phone number. 

Please don’t make me wait long for a call xx Y/N

Harry wondered if calling her when he got home would make him seem eager? Guess he’ll have to try to find out.

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles story #harry styles fic rec #harry styles one shot #harry styles series #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine

[stuccobaby]

kahlopatra headcanons? 🙏

bestieeee

these are gonna be random a f

(college au/i aged em up)

Cleopatra runs cold, Frida runs hot. It's perfect.

yes, they both have their tickets for the Barbie movie. Cleopatra has her outfit planned out (pink pink pink everything) and Frida is very excited to be Cleo's Ken.

Frida thought she had a high tolerance for spicy food but Cleopatra is in a different league. Like she could go on Hot Ones and not even flinch.

but Cleo haaaates Tajin. Frida loves it. She puts it on fruit and Cleo couldn't believe her eyes.

Cleopatra has a cat! (i was picturing a siamese) Frida is lowkey allergic, but she can handle it. But if you thought Cleo was snooty...wait till you meet this cat.

Cleopatra snores. Frida thought it would be cute and quiet but it's actually kinda loud. Frida is contemplating ways to bring this up and survive to see another day.

Frida is an Aquarius! Cleopatra is a Scorpio (not to get in my astrology bag but I think she's a scorpio sun, leo rising and gemini moon. venus in leo or taurus. what do yall think about it.)

I wrote a lot hehe woops.

(TW: weed) Cleopatra is like a 'smoke at parties' kinda girl, whereas Frida smokes often for funsies and as a creativity boost.

(TW: weed) They tried to do a 'take an edible and go to an aquarium' date but Cleopatra got too high and freaked out in the shark tunnel. They'll try again but with an arboretum next time.

Frida can play the guitar. Cleopatra goaded her into playing for her once and folded immediately when she started singing. (at one point, Frida looked up and Cleo was taking off her clothes)

Speaking of, Cleopatra told Frida she signed up to be a model for her art class. Frida did not know she was a nude model. Frida should have guessed. damn it was hard to focus on painting that day

Cleopatra is now Frida's personal fashion consultant. She's a (cheerleader, homecoming queen) part-time model, she has a very keen eye for fashion obvi

When it's cold, Frida wears socks to bed and they argue about it all the time. They also argue about what side of the bed to sleep on (they both want the right side smh).

Frida loves going along with Cleo on her many beauty shop appointments (nails, hair, spa, etc) but won't go into any waxing/threading shop because the technicians start getting twitchy just looking at her. She feels like if she fell asleep, she'd wake up tied to the chair with two eyebrows.

They watch a lot of movies. Cleopatra laments how expensive TVs used to be but loves that they're cheap now because a big screen TV still makes her feel rich and luxurious.

Frida will be the first one to say I love you and it will mess Cleo up a little bit. don't worry tho, they'll talk about it! she's just not used to being loved (saad)

Frida is teaching Cleo Spanish, but all she wants to learn is swear words and dirty talk. it's gonna take a while

Cleopatra is a bug killer, Frida tries to trap and release.

Harriet (Frida's roomie in this AU) was extremely suspicious of Cleo at first ("wasn't she like your nemesis?") but she came around eventually ("enemies to lovers is kinda sexy...")

Frida is currently showing Cleo so many Spongebob episodes, she was sick of her constant references going to waste.

yes, they listen to a LOT of new music together. Frida tries to go in chronological order (2004 music, 2005 music etc), so that Cleo could hear the progression of music sound. (i could go on and on about music but these r getting long already)

Cleopatra is a passenger princess, but mostly because everybody is too scared to get in a car with her at the wheel; she drives like she's playing fucking GTA. (Frida thought people were kidding, but after they went soaring over a downhill speed bump one time, Frida politely took the keys forever).

speaking of GTA, that's Cleo's favorite video game. she enjoys mowing people down, blowing things up, and getting cute new outfits. Frida thinks its a good way for her to indulge her sadistic streak.

Mario Kartin': Frida mains an Orange Yoshi, Cleo goes between Peach and Rosalina (she refuses to make a Mii she thinks they're too ugly to represent her).

They become a different couple when they play mario kart. Frida is really fucking good and Cleopatra can't stand that shit eating grin every time she wins. (cleo would be like that tik tok sound: right hand on the bible, god can strike me down if im lying, that motherfucker's cheating!)

-----

I could write more but i wrote way too much already. y'all would have to ask for part 2. Also... may have snuck my next fic in here teehee.

if anybody wants to use these for art or what have you, go for it (but it better be gooood 😜)

tag and credit me tho so i can see it and be overjoyed

THANKS FOR ASKIN BESTIE!

#kahlopatra #clone high frida #clone high cleopatra #thank you for this question bestie hehe #anybody watch mpgis?

[stsainz]

today, i decided to wear my hoodie once again

cr;

Today Means Amen by Sierra DeMulder // landonorris on Twitter // A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams // British GQ interview // Max Verstappen and Lando Norris 2013 // Upstream: Selected Essays by Mary Oliver // lando.jpg on Instagram // Beyong The Grid Interview with Carlos Sainz 2018 @artemispt // landonorris on Instagram // pink + white by Frank Ocean // The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us! by Sufjan Stevens // Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors // McLaren Unboxed 2020 // Be Alone by Childish Gambino // Sims tag // Le Gay Ghetto: Gay Cartoons from Christopher Street (1980), by Charles Ortleb & Richard Fiala // Hoodie Video // McLaren Instagram reel ||

#today i decided to wear my hoodie again #lando norris #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #carlando #love is all they have #f1 #formula 1 #web weaving

[etredusoir]

Books with a "tinge" of pink.

Do you ever just stare at the book you're reading because of how beautiful the cover is? I know I did with these books. Long story short, I enjoyed Bunny so much that I'm currently re-reading and annotating it right now.

— Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors, My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh, Bunny by Mona Awad, All's Well by Mona Awad

#cleopatra and frankenstein #my year of rest and relaxation #all's well #bunny #coco mellors #ottessa moshfegh #mona awad #bookblr

[surshica]

hiiii! i cant stop thinking about your idea of a tutoring session with chishiya which leads to them kissing >.< if it is not gonna be in the smau in the future, maybe you could write a one shot about it please? thats what i wanted to request :p have a nice day!!

STARBURST !

request : chishiya x fem!reader (based on one of the alternatives of chishiya kissing yn for the first time)

genre : fluffy of the fluffy fluff

warnings : chishiya ooc — swearing — kissing yeah — lwk a lot of kissing. Like A LOT.

A/N : A PART OF ME WANTED THIS TO HAPPEN BUT I THINK I LIKE HOW I DID IT IN THE SMAU. but besides that THIS MADE ME GIGGLE WRITING ITTT; i’ve had this in mind and omg this request made me smile. love you anon<3 but for context for this chishiya and reader are friends already! its kinda a mess but WORD!! i trade off using you/your and she/her a lot here 🥸

— CHISHIYA x FEM!READER

ılıl﹔ ◌ 𓂂 ˳⁺ 🎓 ꯭ ⊹ ⋆ ࣪

you had knocked on the door, the grayish white door stood ominous infront of you. there was a slight shuffle from the otherside of the door, looking around you it was quiet. a little too quiet to your liking—chills were sent down your spine.

“chishiya hurry up..!” you growled knocking on the door again and again. “stop knocking you’ll wake up fucking cleopatra..” chishiya opened the door. his hair was in a messy ponytail while his bangs had small baby hairs sticking out. his demeanor was tired yet relaxed.

“good morning sleepyhead!” you grinned at the just woken up chishiya; he had only hummed before moving out the way to let you in, “welcome..” he groggled closing the door behind you. you wondered around his living room, “you know i never knew you were the type to be very decorative..” you hummed looking at the many photos of him with his friends and cats, “you seem like the type to be very bland.”

“first ouch..second it was all kuina, she made me add photos she said it looks like an asylum.” his left hand rested in his pocket as his right covered his mouth as he yawned. his eyes wandered her every move, it was like he was fascinated.

you stared at the amount of plushies he had lined up on his couch, “you must really like plushies” you smiled picking up a white cat plushie that had a pink bow, “marie from aristocats?” you questioned him holding the plushed cat to your chest. “yeah it was a gift from usagi.” he sighed.

“cute..” you mumbled under your breath bringing it with you to his room, “i’m ready to learn come on professor chishiya.” you joked walking to his room opening the door, he had followed behind her a-suit ”you know you are basically just giving me a tour of my own place, no shame seriously.” his lips formed an a line sitting down on one of the chairs near his desk, you sat on the rolling one while he sat on the plastic one.

“you are a smart student so i don’t understand why you need tutoring.” chishiya sighed as he watched you take out a notebook that had a very cute design as the cover, “aww that’s sweet coming from you~” you smiled, “i only need tutoring because i’m not strong in this subject and i wanted to spend time with you!” you proudly stated.

chishiya’s ears turned a little red but you weren’t paying attention much to it, clearing his throat “you aren’t good at english?” his eyebrow rose as you shrugged “yeah i mean..what the fuck are vowels and why is it needed.” she scoffed opening up her notebook to a page.

“it’s needed because it helps with speech and pronunciation.” chishiya laughed slightly, “there are 5 maybe 6 vowels that you need to remember. a e i o u and sometimes but not all the time y.” chishiya held up his fingers showing 6 up. you frowned “why is it sometimes y? why not all the time?” she tucked her hair behind her ear, “honestly i don’t know but it’s just sometimes y.”

he opened his notebook ripping out a page writing down a e i o u, there was some spacing between them—sliding the paper over to yn. “tell me what words you know with those letters. doesn’t have to start with it either.” chishiya rested his head on his hand, “for every word you can say correctly with that vowel you get an award but, for every wrong is a flick on your forehead.” he smiled like a cat

“well we can start off easy with a..there is apple!” you happily said as chishiya nodded handing you a piece of starburst. you happily unwrapped it putting it in your mouth, “mmm strawberry flavored.” you mumbled. chishiya pointed at the letter e, “how about the letter e? this one should be easy.”

“daisy!” you exclaimed waiting for the next starburst only to look at chishiya who held back a laugh. “daisy doesn’t have an e in it. it was a y.” he flicked your forehead, “try again.” you held your hand over the spot he flicked, “uhm early?” you said a little wary.

chishiya handed you another starburst, you quickly took it eating that piece. “hmm lemon!” you nodded as chishiya scored a little closer to you, you had side eyed him quickly before paying your attention to the way his hand traced the paper.

“how about u?” “your. and that goes for y as well.” you cheeky snarked. chishiya looked at you raising an eyebrow. “i feel as if they was some plot not actually tutoring..” he handed you two pieces of starburst, he scooted closer but you didn’t mind. his shoulder was basically brushing yours at this point.

you had looked at him quickly, his features were very angelic—you were in awe. “lets go i..what word for i?” he looked at you. you were too busy staring at him to even hear what he was saying.

the way his lips curled whenever was enough for you, “i is for i like you.” you smiled cupping his face in your palms planting a small soft kiss on his lips, you pulled away quickly. “does that count? i mean it’s a word.” she smiled tilting her head to the side.

“i’ll count it even though it’s a universal word..” chishiya had a soft peach like blush spread on his cheeks, he grabbed her by the waist pulling her onto him kissing her back, this felt like a hungry kiss—it was most definitely not like the soft feather like kiss you gave.

his arm wrapped around her waist as if he was protecting her. that kiss was lost in translation, the way his lips glided over yours and the way held you in his grip made you melt like butter.

your hands had wrapped around his neck as a smile was brought to his lips. he nibbled on your bottom lip causing a soft moan to escape from your lips. you broke off the kiss to catch a breath of air mistakenly leaving a room for one of chishiya’s remarks.

“you know i thought you needed help with your english..quite a twist.” he chuckled. “i didn’t need help with english i just wanted to have an excuse to be with you.” you admitted pulling chishiya closer to yourself.

there was a small silence where you and chishiya were just looking at eachother, “by the way you have so marks right here..let me help” you slyed smiled smashing your lips against his wasting no time at all.

ılıl﹔ ◌ 𓂂 ˳⁺ 🎓 ꯭ ⊹ ⋆ ࣪

tags — let me know if you want to be added

@nanamora @parkersmyth @trinmadol @noxceleste @eissaaaa @dr3amscap3 @arizzu @bwnniidump @kerenz @minyoungieee @saiewithakatana

#🎐 ։ ONESHOTS · ᘞ #★ : REQUESTS . . ! #- surshica ♥︎ #chishiya x reader #aib chishiya #alice in boderland x reader #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya headcanons #chishiya fluff #chishiya imagine

[apollos-olives]

Allegedly, Gal Gadot is still going to play Cleopatra. The movie will be produced by Patty Jenkins, the director of the Wonder Woman movies. Patty Jenkins has a Twitter that you can search up, she likes a lot of Zionist posts and anti Arab propaganda and pink washing.

So yeah, the Egyptians are not gonna like this one. It’ll be funny to see them get draggeddddd. The Egyptians better come for Genocide Gal harder than they came for Jada Pinkett Smith.

me rounding up all the egyptians in the world to lead them to beat gadot's ass so hard. she has no goddamn right. i hope both her and the director suffer in hell

[paraesol]

More Monster High redesigns!!

Part 1 | Ko-Fi | Commissions

Details under the cut:

Lagoona definitely ended up being the furthest removed from any canon design of hers

I went in knowing I wanted to keep g1’s curly hair and kinda sporty style, but besides that I didn’t have much of a plan

I gave her a swimsuit under the hoodie and shorts, mainly to add some layering and to fit in the scale pattern somewhere

I also kept g3’s octopus sandals because I thought they were really cute, but not much else came from gen 3

I shortened her hair and went back and forth between making her hair blond or a different color, and eventually settled on the purple because it felt less human and tied the color palette together better

I really like where her design ended up, though it took a while to make it feel cohesive

I like to think my version would keep the Australian accent, but as far as her background goes I’m really not sure what she’d be, so it’s open to interpretation

Cleo’s design took a LOT of different drafts before I was happy with it

Cleo’s gen 3 design is one of my favorites and I really wanted to emulate it while keeping the Queen Bee vibe of gen 1, but it was hard to make her look like a believable teenager while also making her regal and glamorous

I tried giving her a skirt but didn’t like it, so I settled on pants kinda similar to g1

I shortened her hair on a whim and then kept it, I kept trying to give her g1’s bangs but it wasn’t working with her makeup and face shape so I gave it up

I wanted the top part of her shirt to be semi-transparent and the bandages to be asymmetrical without being distracting

I gave her as many accessories as I possibly could without cluttering the design too much

I also gave her as many triangles in her design as possible

I tried to lean into Hollywood depictions of Cleopatra rather than go for historical accuracy, since that seems to be more what canon Cleo is based off of

Ghoulia is one of my favorite Monster High characters and I had a lot of fun putting my design for her together

I leaned pretty hard into the emo/scene inspirations and ended up losing much of the rockabilly vibes from g1, which is a bit of a shame, but I enjoyed where the design landed so much that it was a sacrifice I was willing to make

I gave her tousled scene hair, and tried to make her look a little disheveled/roughed up so she’d read more like a zombie

The only thing I really ended up borrowing from gen 3 was the pink in her color palette and some brain/goop imagery, but I don’t really like g3 Ghoulia so I largely stuck with g1

I don’t think I changed much in the end, just gave her some extra flair and made her look a little nerdier

My Ghoulia would still speak in the same manner as g1, though I like the idea of her being non-verbal rather than her speaking in Zombie so I’m going with that

#paraesol art #fan art #monster high #monster high redesign #lagoona blue #cleo de nile #ghoulia yelps

[underworld-park-offical]

GREGORY: HELLOOOOO MY BONITA FABULOSO QUEENIES!

GREGORY: It’s me, Gregory_Cutie_Pie_3rd, queer. Today, my little munchkirooroos, It's show and tell!!!!!!

GREGORY: Unfortunately, I am the only active participant :(. You see, Estella is busy, the other two are out, and Tommyboy is feeling a bit under the weather (he is muy muy dead).

GERGORY: But that won’t take away my sparkle. ✨️✨️✨️✨️💖💖💖💖💖💖💋💋💋💋💋😘😘😘😘😘😚😚😚😚😚😽😽😽😽💏💏💏💏💏🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈👬👬👬👬👬💃💃💃💃💃💃💃💃🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺

GREGORY: Here, I have some amazing pictures that were taken on my polaroid 🤩😍😘

GREGORY: FYI, i was QUITE the photographer in my day. I took pictures of THE Mona Lisa, Marie Antoniette AND Napoleon Bonaparte!!!!!!! You know that one meme? I took the picture for it. (Not to mention the others I’ve taken photos of [Albert Einstein, Joan of Arc, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King Jr, Sigmund Freud, The Virgin Mary, Abraham Lincoln, Emmanuel Macron, Aaron Powell, The Girl With a Pearl Earring, Shakespeare, Uncle Sam, Maya Angelo, Joseph Stalin, Count Saint Germain, Friedrich Nietzsche, Socrates, King Edward II, Bugs Bunny, Alexander Hamiliton, Karl Marx, JFK, Cleopatra, Nikola Tesla, and Babe Ruth. <3])

GREGORY: This first group here shows a militia of degenerates. They all equally smell like tar, except for the one with the… excrement on his hands. 

GREGORY: I’m still a bit peeved with Stanley because of his blatant homophobia.

GREGORY: It’s insane to think that someone WOULDN’T want to kiss ME.

GREGORY: And now here, as you can see, is my lovely friend group. OHHMYGOSH we’re like a big happy family!!!!!!

GREGORY: Mm, I think we can all tell who the responsible adults and the idiot children are…

GREGORY: Madam Estella will take good care of everyone, even though they’re not all made equally.

GREGORY: But, after witnessing such accurate lifelike portyals (because I took them on my pink polaroid) ((and they’re very real)) I believe we can conclude this update.

GREGORY: Do go follow my other socials for updates on my mukbang stream! I’m eating everything I can find in Craig’s pantry! <3

(Writen and edited mostly by @pissblanket, I [@imlivinginyourtrashcan] helped with a bit of writing and drew both the pictures and edited them, enjoyyy!)

#underworld park gregory #craig tucker #craigfluencer #south park #south park edits #southpark #hellpark #sp #underworld park #underworld park pip #underworld park clyde #underworld park tolkien #underworld park estella #underworld park thomas #team gregory cutie pie 3rd #gregory cutie pie vrs craig the real tucker

[decepti-geek]

I have a theory that there's like, an intrinsic cosmic principle related to the aesthetics of any given Miss Cackle and Miss Hardbroom pair, and it's like that 'Antony must be 25% sluttier than Cleopatra' thing only more like, 'HB must be at least 75% edgier than Miss Cackle'

my evidence is that 2017 Miss Cackle is full pink cottagecore grandma aesthetic, which is why HB only has to go as far as looking like a Victorian governess in mourning - meanwhile, 90s Cackle is a fully Committed goth librarian, and that's how you end up with a Miss Hardbroom who's stalking around in a pleather turtleneck maxidress.

#the worst witch #tww #tww 1998 #miss cackle #miss hardbroom