#meet the minoans

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | eight

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: the one where they get caught. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, domestic bliss, gratuitous descriptions of joel reading, joni mitchell, explicit unprotected piv sex, delayed gratification, dirty talk, finger sucking, biting, academic praise kink, cream pie, who's in the pic on joel's desk??, angst, confrontation, an orpheus and eurydice metaphor uh oh, those blue panties from 3 come back to haunt us. word count: 6.9k nice series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: i need someone to make me write [or not write] the way j miller phd does in this... also sorry and i hope you like it and sorry again follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part eight of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Winter descends over Maine not with a bang, but with a whimper.  

The days and weeks fold together in a blurring mess of sleep ins and papers and coffees, until suddenly a month has passed, and you hardly noticed it slipping through your fingers.

You spend less time at home, and more tucked on one side of Joel’s couch, your feet in his lap as he lounges down the other end. You dip pale toast in runny yolks at the table, listening to him on the phone to Sarah in the other room. Hear him say I’m good, baby girl… I’m really good when she asks how he is.

You ride shotgun in the truck between his place and the university, slipping out the passenger door a little early every time. Walk the final stretch lest someone notice his glasses, your hair through the windscreen.

On campus you watch him up there on his stage, a burn in your chest, and see how he seeks you out in the after. How he props you above him and returns your gaze finally. Curls his body around yours and repents for every time he had to look away.

It's warm and it’s kind and it’s trading books with scribbled notes in the margins.

It’s rain smacking against the windows as you read, his scruffy chin nesting in the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, two sets of eyes staring at the same words.

It’s nodding off in his bed where the sheets have started to smell like your perfume, eyelids heavy as you wait for him to get home. It’s wearing only his clothes and being woken up by his face between your thighs, pupils blown and lips slick.  

It’s finding each other at the end of a long day and hearing him say, I thought about you all afternoon.

And this feeling of familiarity writhes between the slats of your ribs. A comfortable, quiet fondness that you see reflected in his eyes when he looks at you; that you hear when that tender mouth forms your name.

You gorge yourselves on it. Put lips to the crooks and thorns in each other’s bodies and suckle on that fondness, swallow, swallow, and watch the well never run dry.

The bleed is endless. Beneath the stain of time it floods and flurries, melting the two of you together until you start to feel certain it could never end.

Until, of course and at last, it does.

Sunday.

It’s late, you think. Somewhere in the mess where time blurs between sunset and midnight, Winter stealing hours that feel like minutes.

The curtains in his living room are drawn, low yellow light warming the room from a tall lamp in the corner. Blue spins in the on the record player, a gentle sway of sound that fills the room.

I like listening to Joni on Sundays, he’d confessed in the bathroom, bashful as he rubbed a towel over you, drying the wet ends of your hair and the slick skin of your shoulders.

He reads at the table now, strong chin cupped in his palm as his eyes flit across the pages of a textbook.

Something to do with conservation; a Minoan palace in Knossos, you think. He’d explained it earnestly, but his curls were soft and fluffy from the shower and his glasses were resting on the tip of his nose and so you’d found yourself zoning out, eyes going from round to heart shaped as you nodded along from the couch.

Every few minutes he grips his pen and jots down a note before glancing up to check on you. And whenever this happens you avert your eyes quickly, pretending to be enthralled by the half-finished essay on your screen. You have a feeling he catches you each time, because he keeps laughing softly, tutting under his breath as he goes back to reading, foot never stopping its tap-tap-tap in time with the music. The only time he gets up is to flip the record, and soon those little laughs and huffs start to mix with Joni’s bell-like voice, and the opening lyrics to California swell through the room as you type at a glacial pace.   

She sings, I met a redneck on a Grecian isle, and you glance up again, eyes turning wide and doe-like when you find Joel already watching you. He gave me back my smile, Joni sings. But he kept my camera to sell.

“How’s the writing going?”

“Good.” Liar. “Great, even.” Bad liar.

Joel’s eyes narrow behind his glasses, lips twitching in a clear attempt to smother a laugh, but he just nods, looking back down at his book.

He’s wearing home clothes. That’s what he called them. Home clothes.

When he’d said it, still pulling them on, you’d wanted nothing more than to grip his hands and stop him in his tracks, but you’d sequestered yourself to the other side of the room instead, sorely committed to the study evening he’d suggested. But he’s in soft grey sweatpants and an even softer looking white t-shirt, and every time he sips his coffee he hums happily against the rim of his mug, and his bare foot goes tap-tap-tap and Joni sings Oh, will you take me as I am?, and—

“Come here.”

You blink. His eyebrows raise expectantly, lips split into a broad smile now.

“Unless you’d rather stay over there and keep starin’.”

You reach him as The Last Time I saw Richard, the final track on side two, begins to spin.

Joni sings, all romantics meet the same fate, and Joel’s knees fall apart, thighs splayed so handsomely across his chair, inviting you to take a seat. You ignore the woeful lyrics and focus instead on the knowing smirk on his face, taking a step forward, and another, until you’re stood between his open legs.

He doesn’t touch you. Just smiles, all saccharine and easy, leaning back in his chair.

“Much left to do?” He points at the laptop in your hands.

“Maybe another hundred words,” you grumble and put it down on the table. “Today, at least.”

Joel hums, eyes flicking down. His gaze skirts across the bare skin of your legs, the soft sleep shorts you’re wearing; ones he puts on you himself, and knows you don’t have anything beneath.

“Come here.” He pats his thigh; stops you with a soft tut when you try to straddle him. “Naw, baby, like this.”

Soft hands tilt your hips, turn you until your back is to his chest and he’s drawing you onto his lap.

“Oh.” You smile, leaning your head back onto his shoulder.

Nose turned into the side of his face, you brush a kiss to the edge of his jaw and sigh in relief as he wraps his arms around your middle and squeezes.

The space between his chest and the table is a little tight; small enough that if you were to lean forward a few inches your ribs would knock against the wood.

As if he’s thinking the same thing, Joel leans forward. Presses you against the table, one hand coming up to hold your face. His fingers are soft on your skin, offering small amounts of pressure as he grips your jaw and encourages you to look forward.

“Gonna tell me what’s on your mind?” he asks.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up a little, skin prickling at the shift in his tone. Still soft, still quiet, yet with something… demanding, shifting just below the surface.

“You,” you say, cringing at the way your voice takes on a higher quality all of a sudden. Steeling yourself, you add, “You’re distracting me.”

“Wasn’t doing anythin’,” he responds simply. “Just sittin’ over here, minding my business while you burn holes in my head.” 

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I cooked dinner.” He squeezes you again. “Fed you. We showered, and now I’m readin’.”

“You were humming.”

Joel kisses the shell of your ear.

“And tapping.”

He flutters his fingers against your hip.

“S’that such a crime?” he murmurs.

“No, but…” You sigh when his tongue snakes out, tracing the soft curve of your earlobe. “But it…”

“But but but,” Joel mocks, and you can feel his sick smirk against your neck, teeth teasing along your carotid now. “But all you can think about is my cock, ain’t that right?”

Your stomach falls away. Everything firm inside you turns to goo as he laughs, knowing he’s right.

“So needy,” he taunts you, holding your hip tighter as his length begins to thicken against your ass. “Had all day to ask for it.”

You don’t respond, tongue tied and more uninterested in your essay than ever.

“Just lookin’ for a distraction now,” he teases lightly. “The more you put it off, the harder it’ll be to get it done, baby.”

“I know.”

“If you know.” He hooks a finger over the waistband of your shorts. “Then finish it.”

“S’not that simple,” you whine, rolling your hips over his lap. A sharp puff of air warms the back of your neck, so you do it again. His hand tightens around your jaw.

“Just a hundred words, right?” he coaxes gruffly. “Come on now, I’ll make it worth your while.”

You feel his thick cock beneath his sweats, stiff and pressing between the crease of your thighs, melting what’s left of your resolve. You want to grind down against it. To pull your soft sleep shorts to the side and let him sink inside with no more pretence. But you put your hands on the desk, eyes on the screen, and Joel slides his warm palms beneath the hem of your t-shirt. Floats them over the curve of your stomach, the soft flesh around your ribs, waking thousands of tiny hairs that cover your skin until his fingers meet your chest, and he cups your breasts.

You shiver, lids growing heavy as he squeezes and tickles at your skin. Your nipples harden to peaks against his rough palms, and he sighs at the feeling, face resting against the back of your neck as he plays.

“Fuck,” you sigh, voice a broken buzz in your throat as he pinches one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. “I thought you wanted me to write.”

“I do,” Joel murmurs unconvincingly. “A hundred words, go on.”

Hands like lead on the table, it feels like an impossible task. Even more than it did ten minutes ago. You force yourself to lift your fingers to the keyboard, vision sharpening as you look for where you left off. You try to shut him out, try to ignore the way his tongue warms the skin on your neck, the way the hairs on his thighs tickle against yours, and begin to write.

But he doesn’t make it easy.

The second you finish the first sentence one of his hands drifts down your stomach to cup your pussy over your shorts. You flinch, heart galloping in your chest when he sighs in your ear.

“Joel,” you whimper, pleading already. “I can’t if you…”

“You can,” he soothes. The warmth of his palm is suffocating, so hot against where you’re already wet and wanting. Thick fingers press against the fabric, nudging it between your slick folds until it goes damp. “Just ignore me, baby.”

“Easier said than done,” you reply. You type five more words, chest rattling with heavy breaths as he paws at you, thumbing at your clit through your shorts.

His breath is hot and heavy against your neck and his soft curls tickle your skin as you try to focus.

“Ignore me,” he repeats, and you squeak as he tilts you forward. A rush of breath spills from your mouth, chest flush to the desk, ass suspended above his lap as he shifts behind you. And when he pulls you back down, you sigh pathetically over the fact that he’s pushed his sweats down.

The full weight of his length presses against you, nestled between the rounded flesh of your ass, and you manage to mumble his name.

“Just—” You’re panting now; considering begging. “—I can do this later. I will finish it later, I swear, just—”

Joel nudges your shorts to the side and presses a finger between your folds. A ragged gasp stutters out of you, finger jammed against the keyboard. A steady stream of kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk fills a line of the document as he smears your wetness up to your clit.

“Fuck,” you mumble, hips tilting forward, trying to chase the feeling.

“None of that,” he tuts quickly, other hand slipping down and pinching the skin at the inside of your thigh. You’ve only backspaced half of the k’s when he slips two fingers inside you. “Come on, now.”

Thirty words fly as he crooks his fingers inside you. Slow and gentle, thumb rubbing messy circles against your clit as he works you open.

“That’s it,” he coos, pressing a third finger inside. Your cunt sucks desperately at his fingers, the skin of your face warming as you catch a glimpse of your reflection on the laptop screen. Jaw hanging low, a silent prayer for relief written across the open slant of your mouth. “My smart girl. Knew they didn’t give you that degree for nothin’.”

You gasp and swat at his wrist, but a satisfied little smile cracks your face for a moment when he laughs. Only for it to fall seconds later when he lays a sharp bite to the back of your shoulder. You moan, voice cracking around his name, rutting desperately against his hand.

“You can do it,” he flatters you, sickly sweet and entirely convincing as he strokes at your insides. Curling and stretching until you’re turning to a wet trembling mess in his lap, wobbling through half-assed sentences that you aren’t sure even match up with your essay outline anymore.

“Good,” Joel murmurs. “That’s good.”

“Don’t look,” you slur out, heart pounding at the idea of him reading anything you’ve written in this state. “It’s f-for your class, you can’t look.���

“Not lookin’.” He noses at the back of your ear. Presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of your jaw. “Just lookin’ at you, m’always just lookin’ at you.”

“I’ll finish it.” You switch up your tactic now. Voice low and breathy, the back of your head resting heavy on his shoulder, eyes longing to close. “Tomorrow, I’ll write it—”

“Tomorrow?” His thumb drags harder on your clit.

“Yes,” you gasp, stomach tensing. You feel a bit floaty all of a sudden. Locked out of your own mind, all thoughts spilling from between your thighs as desire grips you, consumes you. “Please, just…”

“What, baby?” he prompts. “Say it.”

“Just let me sit on your cock,” you groan. “Please, I can’t think right now, I’ll finish it, I promise.”

“You fuckin’ promise—Christ,” he grumbles, fingers drifting from your tight clutch. “Just a little more, baby, for me.”

You don’t even really know how it happens after that. Ears roaring, skin tight, everything is a blur as you write and write and write and he presses his leaking tip between your folds works you down onto his length. Hands everywhere, so warm, so rough, holding your thighs, your waist, your breasts, your shorts to the side. Slower when your gasps spin higher, you think, always knowing when to ease up, when the burn gets too much too quick.

Joel grips your thighs, prying them apart until your calves are on the outside of his, and then he’s shifting his legs open wide, giving your own no choice but to follow. You feel the full weight of him in this position. The long, thick stretch of his cock inside you as your legs dangle listlessly over his lap, toes straining and failing to reach the floor. You can do nothing but rest heavily across his thighs, those hands still everywhere all at once, and whine pitifully as your walls spasm and clench around him, coil inside pulling tighter and tighter.

Vision waning, the text on your screen warbles as Joel slips the pad of his finger against your clit and begins to play with it. Soft little rubs that have you going tense and leaning forward on the table, braced on your elbows and grinding down into his lap, desperate for release, for movement, anything. It feels like your brain is splintering into a thousand tiny pieces inside your skull.

“You’re so wet,” Joel rasps, forehead heavy against your shoulder blade as he groans. “Pretty pussy’s drippin’ all over me, honey. You really need it that bad?” 

You say something you think, mouth moving and eyes rolling as his hips shift up in a weak little thrust. Just one.

“Keep goin’.” He sounds pained, half-drunk as the words stumble out of him.

Your mind slips further from your grasp and you’re typing pure gibberish. Slurring messes of letters cloaked in perfect punctuation. Your fingers fly across the keys, painting commas and full stops and semi colons around complete and utter bullshit as your cunt flutters and your belly stirs.

His finger glides and his cock pulses and your vision darkens and you come. Shoulders hunched, table digging into your forearms, you fold forward and cry out as an agonisingly brief orgasm rips through you.

It’s over before it’s even begun, but Joel groans and offers a shallow thrust, your cry turning to a gasp as he grips your thigh for dear life.

“Oh good girl,” he murmurs, fingers slowing against your nerves, not wanting to overwhelm. “Fuckin’ squeezing me so tight, baby.”

“Joel.” There are tears in your eyes now. Liquid frustration that pools against your waterline and threatens to spill when he still doesn’t fuck you how you need him to.

“How much left?” he asks roughly, rocking his hips against yours in a steady pace now. Gentle, rolling movements that snag on the heels of your orgasm and hold it close.

“Huh?”  

“How many words?”

“I don’t…” Your eyelids flutter. “I don’t know.”

“Shit, sweetheart,” he laughs a little then, rueful but not unkind. “That’s gonna be hell to edit.”

With a furious groan you slam the laptop closed, the sharp smack of metal on metal filling your ears as he grips your hips and really starts to fuck you.

It’s not fast though, not rough. Just deep, lingering strokes that grind against the end of you and nudge you stumbling toward the edge. He pinches your clit between the tips of his middle and ring fingers, rubbing slow drags up and down against the hood like that. Moaning and sweating, you slip your hand over his. Press lower and let your fingers glide around his girth, thick and vascular between your thighs, hot skin wetter every time he pulls out of you.

“Feel that?” Joel pants, teeth nipping at the top of your spine. “You’re creamin’ for me, baby. Fuck, I—I need to taste it.”

“Shit—oh god.”

He grips your wrist and drags it up, chin harsh against your shoulder as he sucks your fingers into his mouth.

The groan he lets out is filthy as his hot tongue snakes out to lick the webbing between your fingers, and you tip your head to watch his eyes roll back. His thighs tremble beneath you, but you can’t be sure it’s not just the vibrations of your own body tricking you.

But no, it’s him. His hips stutter against yours, deep plunges stilting into shallow movements, and he stalls deep inside your cunt for a second on the end of every thrust, as if his brain is short-circuiting.

You hook your fingers in his mouth, the tips digging into the gums behind his teeth, and tug him back to reality. He nips at your fingers and moans, hand falling heavy between your thighs again. And he doesn’t stop now; keeps pushing and pinching and fucking and grinding until your pussy is pulling tight and slick around his length and your fingers are fanned loose and shaky across his face, and you can hardly breathe except to say Joel or please or oh my god.

“Can feel it,” he grunts breathlessly, skin smacking against yours in a sharp staccato beat. “Deep breath, baby, c’mon, let me have it.”

“Your teeth,” you gasp feverishly. “Bite me again.” 

“Fuck,” he snarls and then he’s grating the hard line of his incisors along your shoulder.

The sweet pinch of his canines digging into your back sets your cunt aflutter around him, mouth hung open in silent ecstasy as he fucks you full of his seed and you suck it in deep, tight with longing, still panting and high when it begins to drip from where you’re connected, spooling around his cock and smearing between your thighs and his.

His chest heaves against your back. Chest hair damp wet sweat, dripping through your thin shirt until it can’t decide whether to cling to his skin or yours. There’s an ache at the base of your spine, maybe a muscle pulled, and his thumb presses into the flesh there as if he can sense it.

Sounds come back slowly. Joni’s finished and the needle tracks around the runout groove on the record, a little crackle flaring every few seconds where the two channels join. Joel’s breathing too, rough against your shoulder, harmonising with the wet sound of his lips peeling from your skin.

You tilt your head to the side.

Wild eyed, cunt-struck, Joel knocks his nose against yours. Groans low when you flick your tongue out to graze across his bottom lip. He’s bitten it rough and ragged and red, and you want to soothe the sting. His glasses are on top of his head, smudged lenses tucked amidst wild fluffy curls.

You try to kiss him, hard and wet, but he stops you with a hand to your jaw. Cradles your face and strokes your cheekbone and wipes the spittle from your lips before kissing you lightly. Chaste and gentle, like the two of you are ten and have never kissed anyone before, have never been brave enough to use your tongues.

That invisible bleed in your chest drips heavier. You picture a thick spurt of red against your chest cavity as he kisses the corners of your mouth, the tip of your nose, your eyelids.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod, smiling when his lips catch and drag across your skin with the movement of your head.

A moment passes like this. Searching kisses dotted over your smiling face. The swell of your cheeks, the ends of your eyebrows.

“Sometimes I feel like you aren’t real,” Joel confesses. A bare bones whisper that tickles the skin between your eyebrows, where his lips rest now. “Like you might just melt away if I don’t hold on tight enough. Disappear if I look away too long, and I’ll be stuck tryna convince myself that you were ever really here.”

Twisted up in his arms, you can feel the way his heart batters against his chest, thrashing through to vibrate against your back. He might as well be plucking the admission straight from your own mouth.

“I’m real,” you murmur against his neck. “I’m here, it’s real.”

“Me too,” he says. Something wet tickles your skin, but it’s gone in a second. Rubbed over by his thumb, soothed with another kiss.

I love you, you think, but when you speak it comes out as, “No melting.”

Joel laughs softly. Kisses you again. “No melting.”

Thursday.

“It was too much.”

“It was fine.”

“I said the word grateful three times.”

“Four, actually.” You chew the inside of your cheek and shrug apologetically. “I counted.”

“Jesus,” Joel sighs, reaching up to a drag a hand over his face.

He’s pulled his desk chair all the way across the office. Tie loosened and top buttons undone, he slumps in it a little. His thick knees almost brush against yours where you sit in his armchair.

“Hey, I liked it,” you smile, bumping his knee. “It was nice - shows you care.”

“Well, you ain’t all that hard to please,” Joel smarts, lip quirking up into a sly grin.

Mouth open in a scoff, you feign offence, dragging your laptop from your satchel and making a show of ignoring him.

“How the mighty fall,” he continues, sighing dramatically and tilting his head over the back of the chair. The light coming in through the window hits his face just right, and the grey hairs in his curls shine. “Grateful to have been your professor… asshole.”

“Don’t be precious,” you laugh softly. “You’re just embarrassed because you said you were going to miss us.”

“That was a lie,” Joel tuts, brushing you off with a hand in the air, biting back that grin. “I ain’t gon’ miss any of you assholes. And when those final papers come in—” He taps a finger against the top of your laptop “—I’ll be sayin’ my prayers that any of you can string a worthwhile sentence together.”

“If you’re lucky,” you drawl, batting his hand away. “You’ll teach some of us again next year. And when that semester finishes, you’ll say all of that shit again, because you’re a sap, Joel Miller.”

Joel stares at you for a moment, face softening, and then clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Smart ass.”

“And you love it,” you quip easily, only balking a moment later when the word hangs awkwardly in the air. Hands pausing on your keyboard, you glance up, neck hot, only to find Joel watching you still. Face suspended in a small smile; eyes light as he nods.

“I do,” he says after a moment. “But you’re on thin ice, wise guy.”

He plucks a book from his desk and spreads it open on his lap, either not noticing or simply not caring as you watch on, slack jawed. I do.

After a moment, Joel taps his foot against yours again. “Write.”

So, sucking in a breath, you do. Time passes and rain starts to drizzle against the window as you write, and Joel reads. Having forgotten to put a record on like normal, he hums lightly under his breath; some tune you can’t place but still nod along to. Every few minutes he turns his page, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine.

You hate the way he holds books. Hate the way he cradles the spines, thumb hooked around the footnotes to hold his page. Hate the way his fingers trace the stanzas as he reads, tender and patient, and always afraid to miss something. Hate most the way the tendons on the backs of his hands flex when he turns the page. How the veins around them go fat and blue the longer he does this, as if all the blood in his body is sprinting towards the words. It’s a dangerous sort of eroticism, watching him read. You hate how much you love it.

In need of reprieve, you focus on your own hands. Crack tired knuckles and stretch out cramps and aches, taking a moment to peer over at his desk. The picture frame you’d once been so curious about is propped on the edge of it once again.

You can see Joel behind the glass panel, sporting a shit-eating grin with Sarah, clad in a graduation gown, tucked proudly against his chest. Taken the day she finished high school, you know now. And you’d never noticed it that first time, months ago, but Ellie’s face rests in the corner of the picture. Pink tongue stuck out and eyes pinched shut; she’d snuck her head into the frame at the last second apparently.

You gaze fondly at it, and feel that familiar warmth in your chest over the fact that he’s put it back out. No more hiding.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Joel glances over his shoulder, and then smiles.

“It’s a good photo,” you say. “You look so happy there.”

“I was. It’s one of my favourites,” he nods, adjusting his glasses on his nose. He seems to consider you for a moment, eyes flicking around your face, fingers fidgeting with the corner of his page. “Hey, I uh… Sarah actually called yesterday.”

He pauses. Takes an unusually deep breath and folds the book shut.

“Okay.” You blink, confused. “Is she alright?” 

“Yeah.” He nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah, she was uh, she was askin’ about the holidays, and if—”

The office door creaks open, and Joel’s mouth seals shut as Rachel walks hastily inside, rushed words filling the small room.  

“Joel, sorry, I need to grab—oh.”

There’s an odd pause after the words catch in her throat. A moment of uncomfortable stillness as the three of you inhale all at once, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

You and Joel aren’t touching, but your knees rest close, one of his feet in the space between yours on the carpet. Laptop propped on your knees, your final essay still lays open with a stream of edits pasted through the margins, cursor blinking at the end of the word nostos.

Joel, tie undone and sleeves rolled up, looks painfully casual in your presence.

“Sorry.” Rachel blinks, hovering awkwardly as the door clicks shut behind her. “I didn’t realise you had a… a meeting today?” The end of her sentence flares up, as if she’s confused, phrasing it like a dubious little question.

You offer a smile in her direction and hope it comes across as relaxed, a little encroaching even; as if you are the one who has interrupted; the one who should not be here.

“It’s fine,” Joel supplies easily, straightening in his chair to give her his full attention. His face gives nothing away. Stoic and calm, the way you’d imagine him to be if you weren’t here at all. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” she says, frowning like she’s affronted by the question. Looks between the two of you again, listless fingers curling at her sides. “Just came to get that Livy copy back

You look back at your screen and will yourself to type something. To appear casual, studious, as if your heart isn’t lodged in the base of your throat.

“Sure,” he nods, gesturing vaguely toward his desk. “It’s in one of the drawers on the left.”

Rachel nods, walking over to the desk, and as her back turns you spare a glance at Joel. Find him already looking at you, eyebrows pulled down a little. Pink lips mouth It’s fine, married with a soft nod of his head, and for the second time in seconds you attempt a smile. 

There’s the sound of wood sliding against wood, and then a soft, tired kind of silence. The lack of sound seems to swell, the air in the room thinning, your eyes focusing on Joel’s fingers on the armrest of his chair, tap tap tap, Rachel’s unruly curls somewhere past that, her face downturned, looking at something. Wary breaths held in unison, synced heart beats racing. It’s fine, it’s fine, no melting.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Your head snaps up. Joel turns in his chair and begins to ask what’s wrong, but all that ends up coming from him is a sort of choked noise, rough around the edges, and breathless in the middle. Chest on fire, you let yourself look past him to where she stands.

Her gaze is hard as she stares Joel down from across the room. A slip of blue; soft material visible between her fingers, held up for a stunned chorus to see.

Your hearing deafens a little as you look on, motionless, a vague memory of birthday boy and got your cute little panties all soaked thinkin’ ‘bout my cock? playing in your mind. Of a damp patch on his shirt as he tucked blue into his desk drawer.

Joel says Rachel’s name, you think. Can see the way his jaw moves, the way her dark eyes sharpen, flitting back and forth between the two of you. And then, like a volcanic eruption or the swell beneath a wave, realisation crests the hill and It’s fine cracks and crumbles and turns to dust in your grasp. You don’t know what she knows, or how she knows, you just know that she does.

“You… what is this?” Rachel’s face shifts into something uncomfortable. A warped, grotesque shot at a smile. But as her lips curl upward, eyebrows down, it’s nothing but a contorted mess that blurs endlessly between confusion, surprise, and then horror. “This… her? She’s the reason you—”

“Rachel.” Joel’s entire body is wound tight. You can see the edge of his jaw from where you sit; the way his shoulders pull back, tight he watches her.

Your body seems to hold itself together for a moment. Breath caught on an inhale, lungs expanded, eyes frozen on the hard line of his nose, the arm of his glasses—places you feel safe to hover. But then she speaks again, and everything lurches back into focus. Like a needle scratching on a record, or tires squealing as a car pulls to an abrupt stop at a red—the words make you cringe, chest deflating and face crumpling.

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” she’s saying, and her voice raises, louder to match the disbelief in her tone. “You… she’s a fucking student.”

When the fear hits it doesn’t come slowly. It strikes hard and solid; an icy sheet of dread that sucks at your fingers and numbs your extremities. Cool and abrupt, it sinks to your bones and promises that you’ll never again feel anything but this. It laughs in the face of your warm kind month, pressing its chilled ice picks to the back of your eyes until they burn.

Her words hang heavy in the air, thick weights that press down on three sets of shoulders, and you have never wanted anything the way you want to see Joel’s face right now. To look at him and believe that this isn’t as bad as you know it to be. See that mouth tell you it’s fine and remember how it tastes.

Instead, a fear-stricken Orpheus, you will yourself not to look at him. Despite that longing, the way your arms beg to stretch out, to hold and be held, you do not look. No, you don’t think you could suffer the double death of both knowing this is happening and seeing him know it too.

In his place, you let your eyes turn to Rachel, and find that she already stares at you, small mouth cracked ajar in incredulity.

Mind whirring, racing, stumbling; fumbling to pin back together the pieces of who you once were in her eyes and who you are now. This woman you admire so, whose career path you’ve dreamt of, whose wit and quirk has propelled you, invigorated you.

It’s agonising to watch—the way her face morphs into something so unfamiliar as she looks at you now. An expression that once held only admiration, kindness, marred here by an inexplicable sense of pity. Not hate, or contempt, which perhaps would be easier to handle. Easier than the way those dark orbs go round and solemn with worry as they fall upon your anguished frame. It’s a slap in the face; camaraderie washed down the drain like the dregs of a long overdue bath, as she grips your soiled underwear in her fist.

Joel says her name, you’ve lost count of how many times he’s said it now, and she spurns his attempt at placation like a snake. Fast and deadly, venom dribbling from her tongue. 

“Someone else?” she says, and her voice is like never before. Mirthless and cold, fury laced through every word. With a sharp jerk of her elbow, she tosses the underwear across the room. They land against Joel’s chest, caught silently in his fist. “You’re fucking sick.”

“This isn’t what you think it is—” Joel starts, and you think you hear his voice shake.

“It isn’t?” She laughs cruelly at that. “You haven’t been sleeping with one of our students?”

The cursor blinks on your screen. Nostos, nostos, nostos, nostos.

“Listen, can we talk about this somewhere else?” he asks. “Not like this, I—”

“Oh, is this not a convenient time for you?” she scowls. “Jesus Christ.”   

The urge to speak bubbles in your chest. You don’t even know what you’re going to say until the words are spilling from your lips, disjointed and warbled, a voice that doesn’t even sound like your own.

“I pursued him,” you say.

You can feel them looking at you. Can hear the way you must sound to her, like some kid and not a woman who’s almost thirty years old and just as much to blame. But you can’t stop it.  

“We’re both adults. He never made me do anything I didn’t—”

Joel says your name sharply. His fist, in the periphery of your downturned gaze, grips your balled up underwear so tight that the blue is entirely invisible within the thick masts of his fingers.

You suck in a breath, and it feels like the last bit of air in the room disappears into your lungs, so you hold it there. Keep it safe inside and figure that if all three of you were to suffocate then at least the truth, and all the foul consequences that come with it, would die here with you.

“Can you give us a minute?”

Silence falls in the lull after those words, and it takes a moment for you to look up, finally. To realise that the double death wasn’t in looking at Joel, but in understanding that he’d spoken these words to you, not her.

Eyes locked with his, you feel the fear move to your side. Hang low until it ebbs and flows in the space beneath your ribs—a sharp ache with no end in sight. He looks tired; resigned. Mouth thin and downturned, cheeks splashed with red.

You think you must say something. Some fumbling, awkward acknowledgement, because Rachel is giving you that look again and you can’t bear it. Can’t stand those eyes, that misplaced pity.

You collect your things, hands numb as you pile them into your bag and head for the door, skin prickling in defence against the silence that follows your movements.

Outside his office, alone in the long corridor, you know you should go. Should follow the wall down the stairs, out to your car, and not look back. Can you give us a minute? But that sharp ache leaves you cowering against the wall, limbs heavy, ear to his door. 

“Rach,” Joel says softly, and it’s so familiar that your stomach rolls, lids fluttering closed. “It isn’t what you think, just let me explain, alright? We met before the term began; before she was my student. Before.”

“And then?”

“What?”

“I said, and then?” Rachel’s voice is steely. “You met her before and, what, you saw her in class and decided it was fine to let it continue? You—”

“Everything was consensual. You know me, I would never—”

“It’s not as simple as that, and you know it. Did you not think about what would happen if you were found out? Her credibility will be destroyed, Joel.”

“I know—”

“I mean for fucksake, her first major presentation was given at a conference where you were the keynote speaker. How do you think this will look?”

“Fuck, I know. Can you keep your voice down, please.”

There’s a brief silence. You hear shuffling, feet against carpet, and a dull spike of fear flares in the back of your mind. The idea of getting caught a second time, eavesdropping from outside the door. Against better judgement, you don’t move, and Rachel speaks again.

“You’re wrong,” she says. “I don’t know you. I… you aren’t the man I thought you were.”

You don’t hear Joel’s response over the drumming in your ears. Hot blood thrashes and roars inside your body, veins pounding with terror. Hands shake damp and weary at your sides, thinking hard, hard, grasping for solution, for the chance to say I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, this is my fault.

But he must have said something because then you hear it. A low fragment of a human voice, words spoken clear as day. They slice through your ears and have you peeling away from the door, swallowed by a white-hot longing to disappear as you stumble down the hall, the stairs, until you’re sucking in cold air on the pavement outside.  

It’s raining hard now. Thin spray that comes at you sideways, lashing at your face and blinding you. You curl your back to the downpour and search thoughtlessly for your car, hands outstretched, those words of hers ricocheting off the inside of your skull.

When you find it, you press your key into the door and slump inside, and you still can’t avoid it. She might as well be standing right by the door, peering in at you. Shock in the jut of her brow, disappointment in the slant of her mouth as she whispers those words over and over through the crack in your window.

"I don’t care if you love her, Joel. I have to report you.”

refs:

joni mitchell's 1971 Blue album. [life changer]

the hollow men by t. s. elliot [fat juicy banger of a poem]

orpheus and eurydice from metamorphoses by ovid, tr. by a. d. melville

thank you for reading x

[whencyclopedia]

As the cradle of European civilization and a meeting place of diverse cultures, Crete is a magical island that stands apart in the heart of the Mediterranean sea. Its prominent place in world history dates back to the mysterious and fascinating Bronze Age civilization of the Minoans, who were building lavish labyrinth-like palaces at a time when Athens was just a village. In the Odyssey, Homer describes Crete as a rich land, filled with countless people who speak several languages. The location of this mountainous island, at a crossroad of three continents, has been a natural outpost of consecutive invaders, including the Greeks, Romans, Venetians, and Ottomans, who have left their mark on Cretan culture. Remainders of Crete's extraordinary past are scattered all over the island. Today, travellers come to explore and discover not only its five-millennium-old history but also its extraordinary natural beauty and diversity. As I journeyed through the Cretan landscape, I visited its most important ancient sites, including the famous Minoan palaces, but also veered off the beaten track to explore the lesser-known archaeological remains. In this tour of western Crete, I invite you to delve into the long and rich history of this fascinating island. The Minoan civilization emerged on the island of Crete in the Early Bronze Age at the end of the third and beginning of the second millennium BCE. It flourished from c. 2000 BCE until c. 1500 BCE with the establishment of centres, called "palaces" by modern archaeologists, that concentrated political and economic powers, as well as artistic activities. Of particular significance was the religious role played by the palaces in the cult of the Mother Goddess. These impressive edifices were built at Knossos and Malia in the northern part of the island, at Phaistos in the south, and Zakros in the east, all sites with a rich agricultural hinterland and direct access to the most important sea routes of the time. The British archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans discovered the first of these palaces in Knossos in 1900 CE and named the people who built them after the legendary King Minos. It was King Monos who, according to tradition, ordered the construction of a labyrinth in Knossos to hold the Minotaur, the mythical half-man, half-bull creature. The Minoan culture spread throughout the entire eastern Mediterranean world and its stunning art and architecture deeply influenced the Mycenaean Civilization (1600-1100 BCE) that would succeed it. After the downfall of the Mycenaeans, Crete was ruled by various ancient Greek city-states until the Romans conquered the island in 69 BCE and made Gortyn their capital. Under Roman rule, Crete re-emerged as a major cultural centre and became the joint province of Crete and Cyrenaica and a centre of early Christianity. When the Roman Empire split into two, Crete was made part of the Eastern Empire. It continued to prosper during the Byzantine era until it faced repeated Arab raids and, ultimately, full conquest in the 820s CE. Today the central and western parts of the island are blessed with archaeological treasures which include the famous sites of Knossos, Phaistos and Gortyn but also Aptera, Phalasarna and Eleutherna, all with significant architectural remains as compelling evidence of Crete's long and varied history.

[smaller-comfort]

Djoseras/Zultanekh Mildly NSFW In the aftermath of the treaty between Ogdobekh and Ithakas, there are still territorial disputes and high tensions on both sides. A wedding between houses from both dynasties will serve to resolve some of that lingering tension. Djoseras might not have chosen to attend such a wedding, ordinarily- but when the invitation comes directly from Zultanekh, how can he refuse?

Yeah like this was gonna happen without a fuckton of notes from me lol let's fuckin goooooooooo

This is my first time participating in an exchange! @ocelly bullied me into it, and I'm grateful for it. XD

I was halfway convinced I was going to default a week before the deadline but I somehow got my shit together at the last minute. December turned into an entire shitshow from start to finish.

I made a few concessions to general fanon around Djoseras here- you can blame his drink preferences on the necron discord server and his hair on various necrontyr fanart conceptions.

My personal headcanon is that Djoseras is asexual and as much of an ascetic pre-biotransference as he is afterwards; his head would've been shaved, and hot water is too spicy. (Oltyx's head is also shaved, entirely out of a desire to imitate his brother.) So this is not actually a pairing I ever thought I was going to write, except in the context of unrequited pining on Zultanekh's part.

I am very glad I did write it, though! It's funny how much this Sanguinalia has had me thinking about Djoseras, when I was originally firmly of the opinion that the books had said all that needed to be said about him.

Zultanekh looks like a Minoan statue- lots of curly hair, big curly beard. Amazing tits. Dedicated service top but willing to do anything Djoseras wants him to do, and generally Short King Djoseras tops.

Zultanekh is weird even by Ogdobekh standards- *especially* by Ogdobekh standards. He and Enashkebet were terrors as children. Zubenakr often threatened to drown them both.

"how will someone guess its your fic" well I WAS going to say probably from all the weddings, but then there were like six wedding fics in the exchange. So now I'm not really sure; I don't know how distinctive my voice actually is relative to other writers in the fandom.

At any rate, I really was very very excited to get these prompts- even before assignments went out, the wedding one was giving me ideas. I was slightly nervous about not quite meeting the prompt exactly, so I'm really glad my recipient was pleased. I had a lot of fun writing it.

I didn't manage a full reread of the books before writing this, but I did go back through most of the necrontyr flashbacks in Ruin and a lot of Zultanekh's scenes in Reign. What we see of Djoseras is largely only through Oltyx's extremely biased memories- or through Zultanekh's extremely biased memories.

Much like Oltyx, my memory of his character after reading Ruin was kind of wonky. I feel a little better about my understanding of him now, but I had to switch around some things in the story for canon compliance. I realize that canon is, at best, a suggestion, but I'm too fond of these books to try and twist too many details.

Djoseras tells Oltyx he made the decision when he went into the furnaces to never stray from the correct and loyal path again; this story is set while he is still conflicted about things, obviously. It may be that biotransference itself is the catalyst for that decision, or maybe it's something that happens between him and Unnas after this story takes place.

I'm still not fully satisfied with the way I wrote the Ogdobekh dialect; Zultanekh in the books doesn't actually use the rhetorical question framing as much as I thought he did. The intent is for third person and rhetorical questions to be markers for the formal register- addressing someone directly can be considered very rude depending on the social standing of the people involved. Zultanekh dropping into the informal/direct mode when he says "I have dreamed of this since Vorronezh" is meant to be impactful, but I'm not sure I pulled it off. He's slightly less formal with Djoseras in general after the wedding, though.

If you think Djoseras would use anything other than vague euphemisms to talk about genitalia, I dunno what to tell you. The word 'cock' has never passed this man's lips. whether or not the thing itself has is another matter entirely

I couldn't get my brain to produce anything fun for the wedding ceremony but, you have to understand, I was raised catholic and my parents got married in the orthodox church. The actual ceremony is not the fun part; the fun part comes after you spend three hours standing and chanting.

The "you have to have a partner" rule from the prompt only gets applied to actual members of the wedding party, who stand in the ritual circle. So if Zultanekh and Djoseras hadn't partnered up, they'd have both been banished to the peanut gallery.

I should've included something about astromantic equations determining the correct number of witnesses for an optimal union. Odd numbers are right out; they were lucky Djoseras and Zultanekh could be paired up without having to add or remove anyone else.

Enashkebet always kicked Zultanekh's ass when they fought as kids. Her threats were genuine.

(Sorry not sorry all my necron/tyr OCs are loud women and their tiny spouses. *facepalm*)

Zubenakr is technically a vitriform noble; her house has been serving the Ogdobekh royal family for generations. Her daughters are all responsible for raising the children of the nobility in the palace; they are also responsible for the deaths of at least a third of those children in infancy. (They all become deathmarks in the war.)

Enashkebet and Imireth have a whole West Side Story forbidden romance going on- intrigue! romance! secret encoded messages! Disapproving family members and direct intervention of the king! Love blooms on the battlefield! A huge amount of diplomacy, bribery, political assassination, regular assassination, and threats of exile went on behind the scenes to make their wedding happen. Enashkebet did a lot of it herself, but Zultanekh was covertly involved.

Meanwhile, Djoseras and Zultanekh themselves are just the romantic comedy B plot.

Zahndrekh and Obyron are also in there somewhere, having a different romantic comedy B plot. I wanted to include them in the wedding feast more explicitly, but ran out of time. (If this were snecrontyr-verse their b-plot wouldn't be romantic comedy, it would actually just be hard-core porn.)

(I haven't decided if Enashkebet and Imireth survive the War In Heaven; if they do, they manage to escape back to Ogdobekh territory after Shadrannar's rebellion, thanks to Djoseras 'accidentally' letting them escape during a battle. If they don't survive, it's probably one of their children who leads the rebellion, and Djoseras still lets them escape.)

I tried to be careful about not having anyone on the Ogdobekh side use explicitly gendered terms when talking about Anathrosis, although I realize that "phaeron" is technically male. Anathrosis was so upset about the treaty, she decides to transition about it. If I had written this in snecrontyr-verse, they'd have used null-gendered pronouns to refer to Anathrosis during the transition period. (I do think she probably fully transitioned in the furnaces, though.)

It's not uncommon for necrontyr to change their gender markers; there are forms you fill out, and you update your interstitial signature to use the correct forms, and that's usually it. But there are longer and more complicated rituals that can be observed if you want to, and generally those aren't optional for higher ranking nobility.

[kc5rings]

Based on a morning conversation, Arknights push/stroker operators assessed on handjob skill.

Shaw: The enthusiasm is there but the refusal to remove her firefighting gloves turns that enthusiasm into more of a detriment than anything and really limits dexterity

3/10

FEater: While she does have notable gloves like Shaw, she will actually use her bare hands because the giant Mech hands are probably holding you in place. As a martial artists there’s a lot of precise control of speed and strength there, but hooking up with her too soon after a mission comes with the risk of adrenaline affecting that control and she DOES have ursine grip strength

8/10 But Watch Out

Enforcer: If you had to give him a performance review after the only assessment you could give if you’re being truly honest with yourself is “meets expectations.” He’s committed to the job but he might sigh or glance at the clock during, the absolute definition of Ok.

5/10 exactly

Croissant: Yes a defender technically but still deserves consideration given how good she is at the pusher job. Here’s the thing, it’ll be fine, pretty good even. But as always with Croissant you will absolutely be getting the service you pay for, the free trial will get you there but it’s a hands off finish. If you want the Backalley Minoan Labyrinth though, that costs extra

$/10

Weedy: So just to get this out of the way, you aren’t getting this, basically no one is getting this because Weedy is going to build the strokatron 9000 before she’s touching you herself, that’s if you’re lucky enough for her to not have the nutcrackers from her Christmas outfit do it instead.

That being said, if somehow you do get the manual style sea dragon stroke it’s the most mechanically perfect handjob you’ve ever had, if she tells you you’re gonna bust in the next 3 strokes then you’d best be ready to not be able to count that high for a bit in the next few seconds.

Also like Shaw she will adamantly refuse to touch you without gloves but the gloves are latex/rubber exam gloves so if that’s a bonus or a detriment is up to personal taste

Be cursed with knowledge of heights you will never reach/10

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

Tales from the Wyrd Museum by Robin Jarvis

In a grimy alley in the East End of London stands the Wyrd Museum, cared for by the stranger Webster sisters -- and scene of even stranger events. Wandering through the museum, Neil Chapman, son of the new caretaker, discovers it is a sinister place crammed with secrets both dark and deadly. Forced to journey back to the past, he finds himself pitted against an ancient and terrifying evil, something which is growing stronger as it feeds on the destruction around it.

Cobble Street Cousins by Cynthia Voigt

Meet the Cobble Street Cousins!

Lily, who wants to be a poet Tess, who wants to be a Broadway star Rosie, who wants a little cottage with flowers by the door

Right now, though, the cousins are sharing an attic bedroom in their Aunt Lucy?s light blue house on Cobble Street, and happily making plans for the summer. A cookie company seems the perfect way to make a little money, but it turns out to be much more -- an opportunity to meet some very special neighbors!

The Tiara Club by Vivian French and Sarah Gibb

On the first day at the Princess Academy, everything goes wrong. The girls' ball gowns are ruined. What will Princess Charlotte and her friends do without their beautiful gowns?

Help I'm Trapped... by Todd Strasser

Jake Sherman used to be your average, ordinary twelve year old, until he became a completely different person. Tall, skinny, balding, nerdy. . .OH NO! Jake's turned into his weirdo teacher, Mr. Dirksen!

It's bad enough that Jake's an adult now, but a teacher? The geekiest, most made-fun-of teacher in the whole school? Jake's sister Jessica is the only person who'll believe him--and even she's a little suspicious.

Jake and Jessica better find a way to get things back to normal fast--not only because Jake's going crazy, but also because dorky Mr. Dirksen is running around in Jake's body! The nightmare is only beginning!

The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle by Bill Myers

Twelve-year-old Wally, a computer whiz who is a "walking disaster area," ends up in a competition with the bully of Camp Whacka-Whacka, and when they find themselves fighting for their lives, Wally realizes that even his worst enemy needs God.

Silly Verse for Kids by Spike Mulligan

Silly Verse for Kids - a hilarious collection of silly poems by Spike Milligan! A collection of the absurd, ridiculous, sublime and characteristically anarchic verse from the brilliant Spike Milligan. With his very own illustrations, this collection, which includes the famous On the Ning Nang Nong will make you laugh from the bottom of your belly - just like Spike did.

Minoan Wings by Wendy Orr

The little girl found under a bush has no name and cannot speak. Is she a miracle child who escaped the raiders, or is she a bad-luck child, the one who called the Bull King's ship to the island? No one sees the mama-stone around her neck, with the sign of the dragonfly. And only Luki, in training to leap the bulls, knows that she charmed the viper who would have killed him. When the girl turns twelve, she discovers her name - Aissa - and she knows that her one chance to live freely is to become a bull dancer, and be taken away to the island of the Bull King.

Candy Fairies by Helen Perelman

In Chocolate Dreams , Cocoa the Chocolate Fairy is blamed for the missing chocolate eggs—but really it’s the sour troll Mogu who stole them! Can Cocoa save the chocolate eggs and restore the balance of Sugar Valley?

Little Old Mrs. Pepperpot by Alf Proysen

Waking up one morning to find you've shrunk to the size of a tiny pepperpot isn't an ordinary, everyday event for most people - but then Mrs Pepperpot is a very extraordinary person! When she's around little things can turn into great big adventures - especially when they involve getting stuck in a draw full of macaroni. . .

The Doll Shop Downstairs by Yona Zeldis McDonough

Nine-year-old Anna and her sisters love to play with the dolls in their parents' doll repair shop. But when World War I begins, an embargo on German-made goods-including the parts Papa needs to repair the dolls-threatens to put the family's shop out of business. Fortunately, Anna has an idea that just might save the day.

[gwydpolls]

Time Travel Question 44: Medievalish History 8 and Earlier

These Questions are the result of suggestions from the previous iteration.

This category may include suggestions made too late to fall into the correct earlier time grouping. Basically, I'd already moved on to human history, but I'd periodically get a pre-homin suggestion, hence the occasional random item waaay out of it's time period, rather than reopen the category.

In some cases a culture lasted a really long time and I grouped them by whether it was likely the later or earlier grouping made the most sense with the information I had. (Invention ofs tend to fall in an earlier grouping if it's still open. Ones that imply height of or just before something tend to get grouped later, but not always. Sometimes I'll split two different things from the same culture into different polls because they involve separate research goals or the like).

Please add new suggestions below if you have them for future consideration. All cultures and time periods welcome.

[wdxghosty]

DANDADAN OC

Meet Minoan! She’s my dandadan self insert oc. Now that the anime is out I’ll actually have an audience for this kinds of stuff, so yayyy! I know allot of people have problems with self insert oc’s but she’s not bothering you so don’t bother her.

She’s a Foreign exchange student from the US, and she has a black and pink snake named Cherry vanilla coke (yes that’s what she named her snake get over it) She was possessed by Nure-Onna type of yokai, and her powers allow her to emit a poisonous gas, and make venom. She can also make illusions, to trick her enemies. She best as a supporter like Rin (class president), but she doesn’t have many offensive moves. She does have many rows of teeth that can rotate into something kinda like a chainsaw, but she can also form these teeth on other parts of her body.

Scince he’s my favorite character and I love him, I’m shipping her with Zuma. I’m gonna give them a forced proximity trope, even though we haven’t seen him scince the end of the board game arch, I don’t know if he’s gonna become a main side character but if he does, they’ll be together allot.

I think at first they would’ve care much for each other, but over time they become close friends then more, like most romances. I’m still making her but her fighting style will complement Zumas, so even they’re attacked they’ll usually be together.

I hope we get to see zuma more because in the 30 something chapters we saw him, I fell in love.<3 thx for reading. Mwa!

[specialagentartemis]

Today I:

Read archaeological reports to clear up and enter confusing/contradictory data for 2-3 hours

Went to the museum on campus to photograph archaeological pottery for 1 hour

Went to the orthodontist for 2 hours, travel time inclusive

Emailed the department head very apologetically about missing the fall TA application deadline

Emailed a colleague about setting up a zoom meeting tomorrow

Emailed back and forth with another institution to coordinate going to THEIR museum to photograph archaeological pottery in THEIR collections

Picked up my weekly groceries from the campus pantry

Went grocery shopping

Got gas for my car

Fucking crashed and napped for 1 hour

I still also have to eat dinner and practice my presentation for tomorrow’s class on the Minoans, Mycenaeans, and Hittites.

Writing this out to convince myself that yes I HAVE been busy all day and feeling worn out from running around from thing to thing is NOT unreasonable, even if no given thing is like, Hard Labor

[raisinchallah]

keep thinking about like really out there xena costume ideas picking more eclectic and interesting inspo from ancient greek and roman costumes mixed with like modern high fashion elements and modern weird fabrics regularly featured on tv like tulle and lycra and mixing in like more modern interpretations of grecoroman influenced fashion and like some totally random shit in there to meet xena where its at with its whole sword and sandal meets sword and sorcery on a cheap tv budget aesthetic so im thinking like aphrodite in a sheer sparkly material ostentatious peplos with like rhinestones glued to it so its like in silhouette looks like a greek statue but in material its pure television (sparkle bikini visible underneath) minoan inspired lewks but also ridiculous lycra etc my callisto versace costume etc etc

[dapurinthos]

taxi from spili to minoan monastiraki: 31.50€

entrance ticket: 3€

getting to take pictures of the site that even minoancrete.com doesn't have, meeting the rethymno ephorate of antiquities while she and her people are going around the site discussing how to make it better accessible for people: priceless

i'm probably going to be remembered by that taxi driver as an insane person because with the way the buses are set up there was no way for me to get there without having to stay overnight and there was nowhere coming up to stay, so i'm in agia galini, got the bus to spili, and then got the only taxi in that village to drive me to monastiraki, which confused everyone at first because the monastiraki that most people know about is in athens. it's a major tourist attraction! but crete monastiraki is just beyond amari, and it took a moment for this to get figured out.

then i followed the signs. and got lost. then i flagged down a car to ask for directions and the driver was going to the site, because he was helping the ephorate of antiquities and her assistant (??) with deciding how to lay down pathways and make the site more accessible because, let me tell you, there are about three actual pathways laid out and everything else is tramping through long grass.

one of the paths just. stops. and these? the left part is the central court, covered in grass and flowers and everything.

the modern history of the site itself is very interesting considering that john pendlebury (one of my personal heroes, move aside indiana jones) was the first one to start excavating. the nazis took over looking at the site during their occupation of crete, working off of pendlebury's notes since they executed him when he refused to answer any of their questions (he was the leader of the british part of the cretan resistance. the nazis called him 'lawrence of crete' after lawrence of arabia).

this site was also excavated by athanasia kanta (also one of my heroes! she who is in charge of the knossos-anetaki dig, my beloved), and there's a nice portion of it beneath some coverings that i needed to rest under after being very careful not to turn any of my ankles.

i have a problem and it is my addiction to the 'panorama' function on my camera. also how my tumblr is now in portuguese.

[unfoldingrose]

Thyroid::Throat ChakraKan Fairytale Visualization

Views from Hydriot, the Thyroid

CLICK ALL LINKS, HILIGHTED BLUU

Origin: the Islands of Hydra

Hydriot’s topography stretches East & West. Its borders fan themselves outward. causing a concave isthmus to form in the middle of the land. From a bird’s eye view, Hydriot appears as the glyph “H”, an Hourglass turned sideways, or as a Minoan shield.

Hydriot’s Eastern and Western borders wrap around the one of the main wind trains within the Universal Wind System; The Trachea. The Trachea is a free-flowing train for Air passengers traveling to Inhale or Exhale. Accompanying the Trachea is a junction, The Lair of Nyx (aka Larynx or Voice Box), which sits North atop the Trachea tracks, carrying the Voices. And most importantly, there is the Fire Nyx (Pharynx)- a busy, crowded, hot subway, spearheading the entire wind system. Fire Nyx bustles from below the Lair of Nyx and Trachea, loading and delivering its passengers into other systems. These Wind Trains are on and poppin 24/7, filling Hydriot with soft echoes of clicks, crescendos, decrescendos, drips…

…hums, laughter, singing, swallows…

whispers, and whistles…

They set the tone from beyond, all throughout the land.

Unbeknownst to passengers, Hydriot sets the tone for them too- responding as subtle & felt as the pitter patter of butterfly wings…

Hydriot is even tempered, humid, and windy- of course. The Fire Nyx seems to have no effect on the temperature, and any lingering heat from the Wind Trains is cooled by Hydriot’s atmosphere. The land is rich, home to grasslands and old growth forest, moistened by bordering Rivers (Vagus, Sympathetic Nerves, Thyroid Arteries, Laryngeal Nerves) that innervate the land. Throughout, one may find evidence of a time when Hydriot was once a deep underwater island, overrun with Hagfish, ruled by Darkness.

Hydriot receives light from a few sources. Its main source is a glowing, royal blue Pyramid (Pyramidal Lobe). This pyramid emerges from a narrow land strip called the Brink. The Brink stems out north from Hydriot’s isthmus, and meets mysterious ends. How the Pyramid got to the tip of the Brink puzzles spectators, but Hydriot’s People know the Pyramid is a relic from the Genesis of their world. Sometimes the inhabitants of Hydriot can see the Pyramid in the horizon. Other times, the Pyramid hides its face from all. Regardless of its ambiguity, the Pyramid’s light colors and gradiates Hydriot’s skies.

Hydriot’s sky may be unlike any other sky that you have ever seen. It is several shades of blue like our Earthly skies, yet it is cloudless, and textured. If you were to touch the sky of Hydriot, it would feel like clusters of slightly deflated balloons, or rows of bulbous, ovular grapes. Sacks filled with a clear, viscous fluid. Legend states that this textured sky is called Follicula; described as the Prima Ovara or ‘The First Ovary.’

The other light sources emanate from four thin, flat Orbs (Parathyroid glands) suspended in the Four Corners of Follicula. These Orbs generate light from within its structure, much like the Pyramid- and luminate the clear fluid held in Follicula…It’s a sky you can see right through. Translucent. Blue. Much like me. Much like you.

Outside the walls of Hydriot’s Follicular sky is the Universal Weaving (Pretracheal Fascia) that maintains both Hydriot’s anchoring in Space, and connection to the Wind Trains.

Queen Thyra & The Gods

Queen Thyra is a tall and slim lady, with a calm, sweet disposition. She is known amongst the People for Her sharp intellect, and is respected for Her unwavering commitment to Balance.

Her fingers are long, carrying a peculiar artistry in its movements. Her gait is regal, and rhythmic. She rarely uses words to speak, and prefers to communicate through the pitter patter of Her butterfly wings….

All Queen Thyra has to do to in order to speak is flutter. Everyone in Her Queendom will know exactly what She is saying.

In the event Queen Thyra has to use her speaking voice, that means something is really, really wrong (a frog in your throat)…

…or something is really *really* right (giggles, singing & moans).

Her skin, just like the rest of Hydriot’s People, is milky blue. Think of blueberry milk- creamy, glassy, and smooth. She is adorned in a floor length flowing gown, embroidered with iodine crystals. Thyra’s straight, spruce blue hair is so long, it seems to disappears after a while. She uses Kelp twine to keep it all together.

Queen Thyra’s almond, hooded eyes are large, glistening, and of a 4AM hue. Those intense, steady eyes yield power bestowed from the Gods. They grant Queen Thyra the ability to use both Silence & Sound to See. Whenever Her eyes are sparked with the Pyramid or Orb’s light, they glimmer as an abalone shell when met with Sun. Flecks of iridescence & gold flash you lightning fast. The minute you spot the gold in her eye, the dark, cool blue envelops it over again. Lore says Her gold glimmers are secret messages from & to the Sacral Region- a faraway land held oh so close if you catch Her drift.

She has no set castle, and opts to roam Her territory unrestricted. One may find Her interacting with her People to cultivate openness, and trust between them. The People on Her small land are hardworking, and She nurtures them with the iodine crystals from her dress, and the minerals that fall from her Kelp hair piece. Queen Thyra can also be seen reading ancient inscriptions carved into Orbs of the Four Corners, or communing with the River Sirens housed in the deep innervating Rivers of Hydriot.

The Gods of Hydriot are Goddess Hypothalama, and Goddess Pituita. They have tasked Queen Thyra with countless responsibilities. She is constantly under their precise timing (thyrotropin-releasing/thyroid stimulating hormone secretion), and surveillance. If she is overwhelmed or underwhelmed by their demands, the various axes (alliances) of the Universe go haywire.

In order to do what Honor requires of Her, Queen Thyra must exist in a meditative state. The Presence of meditation allows Her to make Changes (metabolism) according to the Data She receives from inside and outside the Universe. Her meditation gives Her the fuel (thyroxine (T4) and triiodothyronine (T3)) to determine the rate of Change and Temperature within the Universe. Without Change, there is no Movement. Without Movement, there is no Heat, without Heat, there is no Life, and without Life, there is only Rot.

She sets the rate of Music (heart beat), aids the Liver Kingdom, oversees the growth of the young (embryonic & child development), facilitates Calm (cognitive & mood) throughout the Universe, and so much more.

There are some Beings that are enemies to Queen Thyra and Hydriot…

Lord Stress, Queen Deceit and Her Dukes of Self-Repression- to name a few.

[See How Queen Thyra and Her People guard themselves in part 2]

[mmkin]

Underworld doodles.

I drew both of these today (about 15 min each?) without thinking. I just doodle whatever pops in my head. It's not till just now posting that I realize that Persephone and Charlie both live in the underworld. Persephone might actually be lovely friends with Charlie and help her if somehow the two of them were to meet, because why not.

Persephone from my Seeds (a retelling of H and P) books. I looked at a few pictures of Minoan/Mycenaean women and their clothing. I know this isn't 100 percent accurate but hey it's a 15 min doodle and personally I love the smug look on her face.

Charlie and Angel Dust. First time doodling these two... the anatomy of Hazbin Hotel really throws me off sometimes ;_;

[ayo-itskate]

Hello fellow wanderers,

Come along with me on this virtual odyssey to one of the most to one of the most enchanting destinations on Earth, Santorini, Greece. Santorini is a jewel located in the Aegean Sea and is well known for its iconic white-washed architecture, crystal clear waters, and sunsets that paint the sky in pink and gold hues.

☆Things to do in Santorini

Escape to Amoudi Bay

Amoudi Bay is a well-known site below the village of Oia. It is famous for the 200 steps leading from the base of the bay to the town above.

Amoudi Bay's beautiful turquoise waters invite us for a refreshing swim while the many seaside tavernas beckon with the promise of freshly caught seafood and Aegean delicacies, the bay is also said to be an excellent location for viewing the sunset.

☆Go Wine Tasting

Santorini's terroir is as unique as its landscapes. Sipping Assyrtiko wine amid vineyards shaped in the island's traditional basket style is said to be a sensory experience. The volcanic soil imparts a distinct flavor, making every sip a celebration of Santorini's viticultural heritage.

The Assyrtiko is a Greek grape that produces fresh, crisp and dry white wines

☆The Caldera's Embrace: A boat tour adventure

Caldera's Boats offers a half day tour to Santorini caldera, the hot springs along with a trip out to the island of Thirasia.

The cruise starts off at Nea Kameni, a volcanic island, where you'll have time to walk around the island and swim in the hot springs. Then you'll cruise to the island of Thirasia, where you'll be able to grab lunch and explore the island before sailing back to Santorini. The duration of this trip is said to be six (6) hours, with an average cost price of $33.19 USD and a maximum of 70 persons of all ages per group.

The hot springs:

Thirasia:

☆Visit the ancient mysteries in Akrotiri

Venturing beyond the tourist-laiden paths, we uncover the ancient mysteries of Akrotiri. Preserved in volcanic ash, this archeological site reveals the remnants of a thriving Minoan civilization.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

As we bid farewell to this Agean haven, we carry the memories of its beauties and its flavors along with the indescribable sense of wonder Santorini had inspired.

Sources for the pictures used

https://images.app.goo.gl/4tbYQCcxtvj38uXF6

https://images.app.goo.gl/rvF4qTBnBX2EnxFY6

https://pin.it/2KN8FkW

https://pin.it/5EzIvPL

https://pin.it/5L4JuMu

https://pin.it/55LkZND

Until we meet again,

Kate♡

[thedomtreader]

As a man, I'm trying to understand this disgusting trend of trashing the existence of women.  Saying a woman is ugly after 30, or saying such vile things as "a women is nothing more than a toy, an object".  Okay genius, after insulting her how do you plan to make future boys?  She has the intelligence to reject you, and women aren't weak they can karate chop the living shit out of you for being a low life asshole.  In ancient time women were worshiped, now they're seen as fucking dog toys?! Let's chat.

I don't even follow mythology but fucking...those goddesses have responsibilities!!!! The Greek goddess Athena is a damn warrior, she's known for military! If it were a mans world, that would've never happened because the responsibility would’ve been given to a man!  Ancients worshiped these deities, there were shrines and temples everywhere, offerings were left.  The Oracle was a fucking woman and famous generals like Alexander the Great refused to make a move without seeing HER.  Even the movie Gladiator shows how ancient society worked, while Maximus was off at war, his wife took care of the farm.  Taxes didn't stop for soldiers, so women were extremely smart when it came to business because if they weren't, Mr. Ruler Man would take their land.  Women ran all kinds of businesses such as making/dying linen or bread making, and there are accounts that they were as shrewd then as now.  To close up on this topic, that Minoan mural of WOMEN flipping over a bull.  There aren't any murals of men doing that.

So how is it our ancient ancestors saw the woman as a being to worship, and yet now society chooses to make asshole remarks like "you're nothing more than a dog toy"?  Also what is this obsession with fertility?  Sure ancients were obsessed with it but come the fuck on.  On the first date you're really planning on impregnating a woman, what other fucking reason would you have to be so damn obsessed with a woman's egg count after 30?  Sure I'm obsessed with sex but I like to get to know the woman, when I see a pretty face I don't think "Yeah, I hope she's fertile enough to carry my child".  That was uncomfortable to type, how the fuck does the internet feel fine spreading that shit around?  I'm just putting this out there to all the pinheads going around spreading the science about womens aging, that is also the case for men, not sure how that fact flew all the way over your fucking head.  My sperm count started dropping in my late 20s, yet here's the internet acting like that's a thing that doesn't happen.  IT DOES.  There are men who are infertile, as in they don't produce sperm.  These so called scientists never want to talk about that.  Same with women, there is a condition where they can't produce eggs.  Yet these morons are going around "you're ugly after 30 because your egg count went down".  These are the brain dead dumbasses who jack off to Elvira and have no idea she's 70.

Has society really become so fucking stupid that the mentality is "women can't do anything", I've seen enough memes about how women can't drive or play video games.  Considering I witnessed a man pass cars and run over a child crossing the street because “he was late for a meeting”?  Sure, some women are constantly on bitch karen mode, just like some guys are constantly on dumbass jackass mode - That does not mean every single woman and every single man is this way!!!!!!  How the fuck is a woman ugly after 30?  A lot of women are 45 and still look 20, you're fine with the person until you hear their age then spew off all that scientific junk, that pretty much says you’re the one that’s undateable.  Anyone that says another human is an object is scum.

[kebriones]

I love your art! Csn i ask you if you can also draw Pericles and Aspasia? They are really underrated and barely they are mentioned even though they were do important in Greek history.

Also Anyone else from the Peloponnese war too, like why does no one mention it? The story would make for an entire GOT series style 😅

Thank you! I will put it in my to-draw list for you anon, even though I have personal beef with Pericles and I am honestly sick of hearing about Aspasia because my grandmother, all the years i've known her, cannot stop gushing over her. But those silly personal reasons aside, I do want to draw them studying scrolls and tablets together like stressed-out parents trying to make ends meet.

I am honestly in a phase where all my brain wants to draw of that era is Alcibiades, because im zeroed in on him, and I never really had much interest in classical greece or the peloponnesian war (I always found the minoans and mycenaeans a lot more itneresting and in terms of art, hellenistic and roman art unfortunately owns my soul). But I have some half-finished sketches of Nicias suffering.

I know nothing about GOT but I do agree that a series on the Peloponnesian war would be sick, as long as it goes as far away from the normal epic-hero-war-aesthetics nonsense the other movies on ancient greece have going on. But I would love to see some really accurate series on it for sure. I think it won't happen because it wasn't a very linear and cool war but a rather drawn out series of "sparta and athens causing a mess and making everyone else miserable" and there's more sieges and ship battles and deals than the actual cool all-out land battles the people like to watch, so it's hard to make it into something that will keep most audience members engaged but if they choose to focus on few specific characters to keep you invested and keep the story structured maybe it could work.

[crannab]

This, though I would caution against the idea of some bygone era of vertically integrated cottage industries going from sheep to sweater and maybe selling or trading some of the extras for other goods. The romantic notion of the free housewife who spins and weaves her own fabric to clothe her own household is just that-- a romantic notion which may have existed briefly in the paleolithic era, but by the time writing was invented, slavery and exploitation were pretty well baked into the system of textile production in most places, as was the division of labor. The Minoan palace system, for example, used captive laborers and divided up the workshops so that none of them could produce a piece of cloth from start to finish. Sure, there were independent textile workers, producing clothing for their own families or for sale, but often the farmers, cleaners, spinners, weavers, and sewers were separate people, linked primarily by the merchants or central system controlling production.

Which doesn't mean that the idea that the fast fashion trend is the latest iteration of exploitative capitalism devaluing labor is wrong-- it just means that we can push the exploitation of labor back to antiquity.

As for the early attitudes towards ready to wear, I'd remind everyone that as late as the 1950s, one of the main arguments for why you should learn to sew was to save money. "You couldn't buy the fabric for that much!" was a common refrain when finding a particularly good deal on clothing when I was growing up. As a result, the goal was generally to produce a garment that looked exactly like something you could find in a store. (The major chain fabric stores seem to have gotten stuck at this era, not noticing that they can no longer win people to sewing through price, and need to start focusing on things like fit, longevity, and uniqueness instead. But that's a topic for another post.)

That said, while the final step of clothing production is still one person, sitting at a sewing machine not too different from one you can keep in your house, sewing together pieces of cloth one at a time, the previous steps did vastly increase productivity and streamline things like quality. Personally, I'm very glad that I can buy high quality yarn and fabric without having to spin or weave my own before I can start with my creative vision. Maybe now that we actually can produce enough raw textiles to meet the demand, we can start stripping the exploitation out of the system, even if we have to do it one sock at a time.

still thinking about the brainrot that fast fashion has caused in people, like i made this pair of pants that are black and white with a cool flowery design, and an acquaintance saw them and said "wow i'd pay like 20 dollars for you to make me a pair" and i could barely think with how utterly horrified i was at that; i told them that 20 dollars wouldn't even cover the materials, let alone the hours of work that went into cutting, sewing, ironing, hemming, altering, etc. they just had this look on their face when i told them that, when i said i wouldn't make them a pair for even 100 dollars because that was still way too low of an amount, a look that said "you're crazy for thinking that those cost 100 dollars" and maybe i am crazy but holy shit, 20 dollars for a pair of handmade, durable, lined pants fitted specifically to your measurements? 20 dollars for upwards of 60 hours of work? 20 dollars for several yards of high-quality fabric, thread, and buttons? 20 dollars???