#but the directions are in English

[nimblermortal]

@petermorwood - by virtue of being able to say Irskt Þjó∂lög I have been nominated to introduce this piece when we play it.

How do I say the other things?

[vriskan8or]

let her go

[cupid-styles]

daisy 2 (english profrry x quiet TA!yn)

she's alive and I hope you like it 🩷 I think there will be a short epilogue wrapping everything up after this :)

part one

word count: 7.9k

content warnings: a bit of angst (nothing too crazy), smut (f receiving oral, penetration, size kink/belly bulge, dirty talk, a tiny bit of cum play), and — as stated in the first part — massive, big fat warning for an inappropriate power imbalance.

main masterlist | talk to me

. . .

Y/N had tried to talk herself out of it. Several times, actually. For hours. 

But at a certain point, she realized all she was doing was driving herself insane with a nonstop, hamster wheel of thinking. She couldn’t stop replaying the conversation with Professor Styles — or Harry, rather, as he’d said earlier — over and over, nitpicking at every tiny detail. She wished she had someone to go to — an unbiased, neutral third party who wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear, but she doubted that even if she did have that, they’d think her analysis of their discussion would be appropriate.

Because she had a huge, obvious, stupid crush on her professor. 

Well, he wasn’t technically her professor. She was just the professor she was… assisting, and that technicality is the only thing that gave her enough courage to bundle up beneath layers of thermal wear and her forest green puffer jacket, hiking through the chilly winter evening to see if, by some miracle, Harry was still in his office. 

On the way there, she spoke to herself sternly. She needed to have a goal in mind — an intention, really, of what exactly she was going there for. It wasn’t a normal thing to go see a professor in his office on a Monday at 6:40 pm.

It wasn’t normal to think about his grumpy face and even crankier demeanor; the way his lips pursed thoughtfully around wordy responses about a student’s answer to an essay question, or his long, calloused fingers that wrapped around the same gel ink pens he always used for grading.

It wasn’t normal for her to fall asleep imagining herself pressing her own plush lips to the same ones that nearly begged for an apology just a few hours ago.

And it certainly wasn’t normal for her professor to admit that he’d spent the weekend thinking of her, either.

The English building stays unlocked until around 9 pm on weekdays, just in case professors end up hauling their grading into late nights or students have group projects. She hurries through the wooden doors as soon as she arrives, hurriedly yanking her mittens off and stuffing them in her coat pockets as she walks the familiar journey down to Harry’s office. She’s unsurprised that most of the offices and classrooms have already gone dim, but the closer she gets to Harry’s, the sooner she realizes that his is the exception. With the bleak, yellowed light from the lamp she’d picked out a few weeks back, she sees a faint luminance from his office’s frosted window. Swallowing, she decides against her better judgment before waltzing in like she owns the place, and instead opts for a hesitant knock, punctuating it with a call of his name. 

“Profess— Harry? Are you in there?” she nibbles on her lip before tacking on a, "It's Y/N."

She hopes he recognizes her voice as she wrings her fingers together in front of her. She thinks she hears muffled movement on the other side of the door, but she’s not entirely sure. It never occurred to her that perhaps he wouldn’t want to see her — maybe he’d peek through the crack of the door, see her face, and widen his own eyes in shock and embarrassment, maintaining silence until she eventually gave up and walked away. Her throat bobs nervously at the imagery. 

She’s ready to give up when the door swings open, revealing a rather flushed looking version of the typically neat, well-kept professor she’s used to seeing. His cheeks don a splotchy pink hue that speckles down to his neck, where his usual button down is currently undone. Underneath, he wears a plain white tee-shirt. She blinks at the small display of intimacy before snapping her eyes back up to his face. He’s running his finger through his messy curls, tugging lightly at the base of the locks.

“Is everything alright?” he asks through a slightly nervous voice. With furrowed eyebrows, she nods her head slowly.

“Yes— well, no, I guess. I feel bad about earlier.”

She chokes the words out in hopes that she can keep her humiliation at bay. She’s unsure if her eyes deceive her, but it seems as though his face relaxes some before he quickly nods, stepping aside to let her in. 

“Um, you have nothing to feel bad about,” he says, shutting the door quietly behind her. She shrugs her shoulders as she stands in the middle of his small office, avoiding his gaze. “I was out of line, Y/N.”

“What did you mean by it?” she rushes out, facing him with a leery expression. “That you spent the weekend thinking of me. And feeling awful about how you’ve treated me.”

His mouth opens and closes, and she can’t help the way she glances down at his raspberry-hued lips. She swallows tightly, biting on her own bottom lip.

“This isn’t something we can do,” he mumbles out breathily with a shake of his head. “You know that, right?”

They’re dancing around the obvious. Her stomach lurches at the low, groveled volume of his voice, and her fingers twitch at her sides as she resists the urge to step closer to him. She’s never been forward with a romantic interest before — she’s never had a reason to be, to uphold a certain level of confidence. 

But she can’t help herself. 

“Tell me, then. Tell me what you thought of this weekend.”

Harry’s nostrils flare. 

“If it’s not something we can do,” Y/N says softly, licking over her lips, “Then whatever you thought about should be nothing, right?”

He’s torn. He’s so utterly torn that it feels like his brain is being split in half. He knows what he should do — he should tell her she’s wrong and that she should leave. He should leave this entire situation behind him, chalk it up to him being a touch-deprived idiot, and move on with his life. Join a few dating apps and find someone decent to settle down with. 

But why would he do what he’s supposed to do?

“I thought about how fucking shitty I felt for ignoring you for weeks after you told me you just wanted my praise,” Harry blurts, heart hammering in his chest as he slowly starts to close the gap between their bodies. “I thought about how much I like having you around — how smart and talented you are, how beautiful and creative your brain is.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not finished,” he replies curtly, making Y/N’s eyebrows shoot up to her forehead. “I thought about how pretty you are. I thought about how I’m thankful to have you as my assistant, because no one has ever been able to meet me on the same level. I thought about… how I’d be taking advantage of you if I told you any of those things, so I promised that I’d keep them to myself.”

He’s standing directly before her now. He’s so close that she can smell the warm musk of his cologne and see the freckles dotted over his nose. It makes her stomach churn in the best way. 

“Why didn’t you?” she finally breathes out. 

A smirk forms at the edges of his lips. He looks down at her as if he wants to swallow her whole, and she’s not sure that she doesn’t want him to. 

“You asked me to tell you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. He reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and her skin zips with electricity. “‘S not much of my fault now, is it?”

Quickly, she shakes her head. She swallows nervously and hopes he doesn’t notice her picking at her nails as she waits for him to surge forward and press a messy kiss to her lips. 

But instead, he stops. 

A look of clarity ghosts over his face and his throat bobs. It doesn’t stop him from thumbing over her chin with sorrowed eyes. 

“We’ll wait until the end of the semester,” he murmurs out. The look of disappointment on Y/N’s face must be obvious because his eyebrows furrow in dejection. “It’s the safest way, okay? After that… after that, I’m yours.”

I’m yours. It echoes through her brain, making her heart thump rapidly in her chest. She feels it everywhere, but the hesitancy remains. 

“Promise me,” she whispers, pressing a wary hand to the expanse of his chest. “Promise me I’m not wasting my time. Promise me that you mean this.”

He can’t help it — before he can even contemplate the consequences, he ducks down to connect their lips. It takes her by surprise but she immediately kisses him back, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

Despite the reluctant context, the physical bond is anything but. Harry kisses her unhurriedly, like he has years to worship every bit of her lips. He dips his tongue into her mouth the second she grants him the opportunity, and her chest feels like it’s ready to explode when he squeezes her hip. His large palm easily finds its way to her ass and she whimpers breathily into the seal of his mouth. It’s the only thing that brings him back down to earth — a reminder that he’s no longer daydreaming but experiencing the real thing. He forces himself to break the kiss but leans his forehead against hers, keeping his eyes shuttered closed.

“I promise you,” he exhales, and he feels her nod. “I’m yours.”

. . .

Attempting to act normal around Harry is harder than Y/N had anticipated. 

In hindsight, the evening consisted of a half-assed confession and a rather… intimate kiss that nearly knocked her off her feet. If it had been with anyone else — someone her age, a fellow student or peer, maybe — she, of course, would be anxious over it. But the fact that she had to see him a day later in class was… well, somehow embarrassing. 

She contemplates her outfit for hours, wanting to seem cute and put-together without overly desperate. She was scared it would be written all over her face the second she walked in and sat at her seat beside his podium — "I made out with Professor Styles in his office a day and a half ago and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for more than two seconds since it happened" may as well have been written across her forehead. 

When she finally does show up to class, Harry looks… well, he looks like his usual self. He’s wearing those wide-legged trousers that she thinks he must have in at least a dozen colors, matched with a button down and a sweater vest overtop. He’s standing at the podium with his back to the entrance as he waits for students to filter in, squeezing his bottom lip between his fingers. He’s reading something, Y/N’s unsure what it is, but when he hears the less than graceful clatter of her setting her things down at the table, he glances over to her and flashes her a smile. 

A smile.

“Hey,” he greets. His voice is low and gruff and if she hadn’t been looking for it, she surely would’ve missed it. But she doesn’t, and it instead sends a zap of lovesick energy thrumming through her body. 

“Hi.” she mumbles back, waving as she leans over to pull her laptop from her bag. 

That’s the extent of the interaction, but it’s far more than she’s ever received from him. Normally, when she arrives at class, he fully ignores her. She only began to take issue with it when she figured out she was growing feelings for him, but somehow the quiet utterance of hey feels like a public acknowledgement of what occurred just a day prior. In some crazy way, it seems like it’s just as open as grabbing her and smacking a hard kiss to her lips. She finds herself wishing he would as he begins today’s lecture on male writers in feminist discourse.

As written on the schedule, Harry’s taking the time to discuss authors like George Herbert, John Berryman, and Leo Tolstoy. Y/N doesn’t feel particularly drawn to any of those figures, though a few weeks back when she and Harry were discussing this unit, they did find a mutual appreciation for Jacques Lacan. He wasn’t originally in the lesson plan — Y/N remembers it vividly, because she can recall saying that he would be a great fit. Her heart had expanded in her chest with praise when Harry agreed. 

And yet… Harry’s standing up there in front of the lecture hall, waxing poetic in the dreamiest way possible, about Jacques Lacan.

“Lacan was incredibly controversial, so I don’t expect all of us to feel comfortable with translating his viewpoints to modern day psychology,” Harry explains as he hovers over the old, wooden podium, “But what I do want to dig into is his basic idea of the symbolic register. Does anyone know what that is?”

Yes, Y/N wants to say. It’s the concept that our existence as humans includes language, culture, and rituals. 

“Lacan came up with this idea that he thought was waiting for us the second we were born. He felt that the symbolic register encompassed maybe more artsy, culture-based facets, and that was one of the most important parts of the human existence. We won’t get too far into it because this isn’t a psychology course, and frankly, I could give a shit if you truly understand this or not.” The class, including Y/N, laughs quietly. Harry rolls his lips into a thin line to avoid a smirk from appearing.

When the huffed merriment tapers off, he continues. “What I want you to take away as writers is this: Lacan’s symbolic register essentially implies that our lives, from the very start, are swamped with uncertainty. There’s no path for us. As you write your characters, consider that. Lacan thought that life experiences, specifically lack and desire, were what impacted the course we go on.”

As expected, the class is silent. Y/N’s found that students are typically too nervous or intimidated to contribute to conversations during Harry’s lectures, and she’s been on the receiving end of many, many emails asking things that could have been resolved in class.

“Think about what your characters lack. What are they missing? What are they unable to receive access to? Is it a resistance to pleasure, to giving in?”

Y/N swallows harshly at that. She pretends like she doesn’t hear it, instead focusing in on typing a response to an email in her inbox. 

“And then, consider their desires. Their deepest, darkest wants. No one has to know them — in real life, no one truly knows our truest desires, anyway,” she swears her eyes squeeze closed at that, but she quickly snaps them open, “But use it as an exercise for this weekend. Don’t forget, second drafts are due on Monday. Class is dismissed.”

Y/N swear she feels a second heartbeat in her core as the lecture hall begins to trickle out with students.

. . . 

“I thought we were waiting until the semester is over.” Y/N blurts it out when she can’t focus on grading Ren Wei's draft. 

Slowly, Harry glances up from the stack of papers he’s currently grading. With confused eyebrows, he sets his pen down. 

“We are,” he says softly. 

“Then what were you talking about in class today?” She hisses lowly. She keeps her voice quiet even though the door to Harry’s office is shut closed. 

“What do you mean?”

Y/N sighs frustratedly and sits back in her seat. She avoids Harry’s confused gaze as she crosses her arms over her chest. He ignores the way it pushes her breasts up through the soft fabric of her sweater. 

“The whole lack and desire thing. You know you weren’t planning on talking about Lacan until I brought him up a few weeks ago.”

Harry’s throat bobs and she licks over her lips, quickly glancing back up to his face. She’s right — they both know she’s right, but Harry’s reluctant to admit it. He’s stubborn — he’s always been this way in relationships, and it tends to be one of his greater downfalls as a partner. Deep in the pit of his heart, he knows Y/N deserves better. She wouldn’t be worth putting his job or her status as a student in danger if she wasn’t.

“You’re right,” he finally admits as he nibbles on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry. It was out of line and I won’t do that anymore.”

She pauses for a beat. And then, “I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

His shoulders deflate and she suddenly feels embarrassed. It was a stupid thing to reveal, she decides, and she picks at the skin surrounding her fingernails as she mentally beats herself up for it. 

And for a moment, Harry contemplates it. He knows it hasn’t been that long since he told her they have to wait, but he’d be a ridiculous liar if he didn’t admit that she’s all he’s been thinking about ever since they kissed in his office. Nervously, he reaches across the length of his wooden desk and takes her hand into his. He intertwines their fingers together and gives her hand a small, reassuring squeeze, and she looks up at him through her eyelashes. It makes his heart warm.

“You know this is incredibly difficult for me, right?” he asks. Y/N shakes her head and he scoffs in response. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Y/N.”

She blushes. “I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. She nods. “When we kissed, it… it was so good, y’know? It just… it felt good.”

“I know,” she breathes. She squeezes his fingers lightly before retracting her own hand and placing it in her lap. She may look naive, but she's already decided that she won't let him have the upper hand – not when it comes to something she can actually have control over, like teasing.

The movement surprises him but he chooses not to acknowledge it. “But this is what we decided on, right? It’s better this way. It’s kind of like edging, hm?” 

His eyes nearly bulge out of his skull as she glances down at her phone to look at the time. 

“Anyway, I have to head out to class. Text me if you need anything, Professor Styles.”

She waltzes out of his office with a snarky, knowing grin on her lips, and Harry has to do a series of deep breathing to stop his cock from exploding in his trousers. 

. . .

Y/N Y/L/N is a complete and utter minx. 

Harry has no choice but to come to this conclusion because in the weeks that follow their agreement, he swears she does everything she can to try and make him break. The worst part is, he doesn’t even know if she’s doing it intentionally. But every time they’re in the same room, all he can think about is hauling her over his shoulder, locking her in his office, and stretching her body over the length of his desk so he can fuck her until she can’t even think straight.

And there’s still three months left of the semester.

Admittedly, nothing ever really happens between them. Despite the apparent and blatant flirting that occurs on both sides, they keep things surprisingly professional, even behind closed doors. For the first time in his teaching career, Harry is actually ahead of grading. For some reason, he feels as though it’s a testament to how well he and Y/N actually work together.

But then there’s the matter of her teasing, which drives him up a fucking wall — the cute little mini skirts she almost always wears, the batting of her eyelashes at students in his class, followed by the wide-eyed smile she flashes Harry as soon as she knows he’s seen it. She even out-smarted him on Ursula LeGuin the other day and, as dorky as it seems, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life.

It’s a series of back-and-forth. When Y/N has to leave his office for class, he’ll thumb at her chin or her cheeks so she gets all flustered before she heads out. Later that night, she’ll text him an innocent question with some sort of “typo”:

can’t stop thinking about your lips

oops! list* not lips! your list of grades — it’s due next friday, right??

It’s a stupid, risky game that neither of them can stop playing.

Even when they’re sitting in Harry’s office that Wednesday afternoon, buried beneath piles of final drafts for the midterm paper, he can’t help but gnaw on his bottom lip as she sits across from him. She’s focused — the cute furrow between her brows is the primary tell — but every now and then she’ll bring her pen up to her mouth to bite on it or poke her tongue out to lick over her lips.

Despite the chill of the day, she’s wearing a wool mini skirt atop sheer black tights, and he hasn’t been able to stop glancing down at the soft skin of her thighs since she showed up to campus hours ago. He wants nothing more than to rip a hole in the fabric, pull her into his lap, and kiss her until she’s a whimpering, breathless mess. 

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice the clock is steadily ticking towards 5 pm and, technically, Y/N should’ve left an hour ago. With wide eyes, he drops his pen on the pile of papers in front of him. 

“Shit,” he curses, “You should go. Your hours ended at 4.”

She taps her phone screen beside her, “Oh. I didn’t realize it was so late. I guess I got in the groove with grading.” 

“It happens.” He says understandingly as he leans back against his chair, stretching his achy back out some. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

She peers up at him through her lashes. “It’s 5 pm on a Friday, Harry. You should leave, too.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. She’s right, especially since he’s been attempting to distract himself from his crush on Y/N by doing late grading sessions in his office. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he mumbles as he grabs his large tote bag. “I’ll walk you out, if that’s okay.”

They both know that it’s perhaps a cross of the boundary they’ve been trying to firmly maintain, but how harmful could a walk be? 

Y/N flashes him a small smile. Silently, they each pack their things up, and she follows him out of this office as he locks his door. They walk side-by-side, Y/N nibbling on her bottom lip as Harry tries to resist the urge to grab the hand that he keeps accidentally brushing with his own knuckles. 

“Do you have any weekend plans?” She suddenly asks softly, glancing up at the taller male. 

He hums, “Nothing too exciting. Probably just gonna catch up on TV and reading. You?”

“The secret life of an English professor, hm?” Y/N teases and he chuckles. “I have to start prepping for midterms. Laundry, too. I guess nothing more fun than your plans.” 

He laughs and her stomach erupts into flutters as he holds the front door for her. She smiles in gratitude, but her steps come to a stop when she witnesses the state of the weather. 

It’s nearly a white out. A snowstorm must have barreled through while they were busy grading, because now it’s dark, flurries of snow instantly landing on Y/N’s eyelashes and jacket. 

“Y/N,” Harry appears at her side, “You’re not planning on walking through this, are you?”

“I-I don’t have a car.” She mumbles, stuffing her already freezing cold hands into her pockets. “I’ll be fine, it’s not far.”

“No, but I wouldn’t feel okay with sending you home in this,” he replies. She blinks when she feels his hand reach out to her shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. “Would you let me drive you home, please? Just so I know you get home safely.”

Her stomach turns. This would officially cross the student/teacher boundary, but he’s right — it’s frigid out, and she always hates walking home in the dark anyway. Swallowing tightly, she nods. 

“Yeah, please. I’ll take a ride.”

“Good,” he exhales with a nod, “My car’s just over in the faculty lot.” 

With the both of them slowly shuffling through the snowy ground, they eventually make it to Harry’s car. As expected, it’s covered in snow, but he turns it on and blasts the heat so she can sit inside while he uses a brush to clear it off. She picks at her fingernails as she watches him through the foggy front window, her chest continuing to grow with nerves. She knows that this is all she’s wanted for weeks — to be alone with Harry, outside of the confines of his office — so why is she so scared? 

Luckily, he gets in the car before she has more time to contemplate it. Blowing warm air into his cupped hands, he shivers dramatically. 

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he whines, making her giggle. “Something funny about that, passenger princess?” 

“No!” She exclaims with a laugh, “I’m sorry I didn’t help clear your car off. I’m sure that was awful.”

His eyes crinkle teasingly as he chuckles along with her. As he backs up out of the parking spot with ease, he presses the palm of his hand to the back of Y/N’s headrest, checking to make sure he’s clear. She wonders if he’s used to driving in the snow, but lets the question die in her throat instead of pushing the conversation. 

“Sorry, I didn’t ask where you live,” he says when he turns onto the main road. “I think you mentioned once that you’re not too far from campus?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’m on Maple. It’s a single-person house, I’ll tell you where to turn.”

“You live alone?”

She doesn’t think the question is meant to be inherently suggestive, but there’s something about his immediate response that has her teetering on feeling that way. Swallowing, she nods again.

“Mhm. Most of my friends graduated or moved away when we finished undergrad, so it’s just me.”

“No pets or anything? You seem like the type to own one of those bald cats.”

Y/N balks at his reply, a peel of laughter bubbling from her chest. “What?”

Harry’s cheeks warm as he slowly drives down the snow-covered street. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he thinks about what kind of person she is when she’s not around — he knows it probably sounds creepy, but it’s how he’s been entertaining himself in the meantime. 

“I just… feel like you’d like those things,” he treads lightly, shrugging his shoulders, “Is my assumption wrong?”

“Very much so. I’ve only had dogs,” she giggles, “Are there any other assumptions I should know about?”

His throat bobs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she quirks a brow. “Turn at the light.”

He flicks his right signal on, “I may have tried to figure you out a bit in my… spare time.”

He cringes, but the sound of her laughter quickly pulls him from his embarrassment. 

“Well now I have to know.”

“Fine,” he decides, finding himself drawn to her little game, “I think you prefer matcha or hot chocolate over coffee.”

“True, but that’s only because you watch me cringe every time you drink your stupid black coffee.”

Harry snorts, “Okay, fair. I think you’re a homebody.”

“Mhmm,” Y/N nods. “True. Go on.”

“You prefer chocolate to vanilla.”

“Strawberry, actually.”

He hums. “You read period piece smut for fun.”

Y/N lets out a loud cackle. “What about my personality makes you think that?”

“You just seem like the type to go to the romance section at the bookstore, but only buy dirty books that are set in the 1800s,” he replies easily, a smirk edging at his lips, “Am I wrong?”

She ignores the way her cheeks flair with warmth. “I’m not opposed to it, but it’s not the only thing I read.”

“Sure,” he laughs. She rolls her eyes before pointing to a house down at the end of the road. 

“I’m right over there.” 

Harry nods and pulls up in front of it. The snow is only worse on the residential streets, likely because there haven’t been many cars going through to clear the roads. She nibbles on her lip as she unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to look at him. 

“Thank you for the ride.” she says softly. 

“Of course.”

They stare at each other for a beat before Y/N tears her gaze away from him. She glances out through the front window, watching momentarily as snowflakes continue to beat down on the exterior of his car. 

“It’s not safe,” she mumbles breathily, facing him again. “You shouldn’t drive in this.”

He swallows. He knows what he should say: No, it’s okay. I should go home. We said we’d wait, remember?

But he doesn’t want to. Not when she’s dangling alone time, off campus, right in front of his face. He can’t resist her — he doesn’t want to resist her.

“Can I come inside, then?”

. . .

Y/N’s house is everything Harry would have expected it to be. 

She has two huge bookshelves that are overflowing with worn novels, Post-It’s and folded-down pages sticking out of nearly every page. She has plants and candles, cuddly blankets thrown askew over her couch, and a sink filled with half-consumed cups of tea. There are framed pictures and Polaroids tacked up on her fridge of people Harry assumes are her friends and family. He smiles gently as he passes by an image of her wedged between two older people who have some of her same features. It’s all very her, which means it’s all entirely too comforting.

“Do you want something to drink?” Y/N asks, nibbling on her bottom lip as she glances up at the man before her. It’s an unusual sight; one that makes her feel like she has to blink a few times to ensure she isn’t dreaming. 

“Not unless you’re willing me to make my ‘stupid black coffee’, as you affectionately referred to it in the car.”

Y/N blushes, “I don’t have any coffee here, but I can make you tea. Or hot chocolate.”

“Tea is good, sweetheart.”

The flush only deepens at the pet name. He’s not sure where it comes from — maybe easing into a relationship-type dynamic is easier than he thought, especially considering he’s been pushing it down since their kiss. He watches as she turns to face the kitchen counter, occupying herself with turning the kettle on and retrieving two tea bags and mugs. He wants nothing more than to hug her from behind, pressing his fingertips into her hips to squeeze them teasingly. To dip his head to the crook of her neck and press kisses along her delicate skin. He swallows and adjusts his trousers, willing the thickening erection tucked underneath to go away.

“How do you want it?” she asks, glancing behind her to look at him.

He coughs. “Sorry? How do I want what?”

“Your tea,” Y/N replies slowly, a small smile on her lips, “How do you want your tea, Harry?”

“Oh— um, however you take it is fine.”

She nods and busies herself with filling the mugs up with the boiling water. Once she’s finished, she slowly hands him the steaming cup. He smiles in gratitude, allowing their fingers to brush against one another in the pass-off.

“By the way,” she says lowly, blinking at him, “You’re doing a shit job of hiding your boner.” 

Her eyes crinkle in a smirk as she lifts the mug to take a sip of the warm liquid. Harry’s cheeks instantly warm and he stutters over his words, attempting to force out an apology. She lets him scramble for a moment before reaching out to curl her fingers over his wrist with a smile. 

“I’m just teasing you. I hope you know I don’t care.”

He huffs, setting his cup down on the dining room table, “Yeah, but I’m the one who told you we have to wait. And now I’m standing in your kitchen, getting hard over you making me tea.”

She giggles. “I consider that a compliment, to be honest.”

“I’m sure you do,” he grumbles, “You make me feel like a doped up, lovesick teenager.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he scoffs, “Everything you do does something to me. Even if you don’t mean it. It’s ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?”

He sends her a knowing look and she grins. 

“You know what I mean, Y/N.”

“You know I’m not good at reading between the lines, Harry.”

He sighs. “You turn me on. Even by doing the stupidest shit— knowing more about me in certain subjects, wearing those cute little skirts… it all drives me insane. I’ve been trying to keep it together, but I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” she replies almost instantly, placing her mug on the table next to his, “I don’t want to wait, Harry. I feel… I feel so stupidly desperate for you. And I want this— I want you.”

“I know, but—”

“But in any other context, if we didn’t meet this way, there wouldn’t be an issue,” she points out stubbornly, “If we had come back to mine after a date, we’d already be upstairs with our clothes off.”

He can’t help the way his cock jumps at her words and he mentally groans. He wants to yell into one of those cute throw pillows on her couch, or maybe lay face down on the fluffy carpet in her hallway. 

“Listen, I’m sorry if I’m crossing boundaries, we can just watch TV or something—”

“Stop,” he cuts her off with a shake of his head. “Can we just… Can I just kiss you again? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Y/N blinks owlishly. Surprise is clear on her face, but it doesn’t stop her from nodding her head. As corny as it sounds — and Y/N knows it’s corny — it feels like magnets being pulled together. It’s not a moment longer before Harry’s palm is pressed gently against her cheek, his lips brushing up against hers. She’s nearly salivating at the thought of closing the gap between them and yet, at the same time, her brain is melting with lust. 

This kiss, unlike their first, is riddled with want. It’s hurried and sloppy, teeth clashing and tongues dipping into each other’s mouth. Harry’s hand slips from her cheek and down to the back of her neck, giving it a small, testing squeeze. She presses her chest impossibly closer to his, eyelashes flittering at the warmth radiating from the button-down he wears. She’s desperate to feel him, to eliminate any boundaries or distances between them — for the first time, she’s sick of playing games. 

“Upstairs,” she pants out through swollen lips. He takes her bottom lip between his teeth and pulls playfully, allowing it to snap back in place, “Take me upstairs, please.”

He swallows and her eyes find his Adam’s apple, nervousness settling in her chest. He gives her neck another squeeze. 

“Are you sure?” he breathes. She leans up to wrap her arms around his neck and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. 

“If you’ll have me, I’m yours, Harry.”

“You’ve always been mine,” he mutters with his forehead against hers, “Show me the way, sweetheart.”

She grabs his hand in hers and lightly tugs him out of the kitchen. If she’s being honest, she’s fantasized of this moment for months now. She was never sure of how it would happen (the logistics never mattered in her daydreams), but having him here, standing in her bedroom, feels like some kind of joke her mind conjured up. 

But when he lays her back against the mattress, elbows digging into the soft tufts of her bedding, it feels a little like a hazy fantasy. 

When he parts her thighs and kneels down between them, pressing a smattering of kisses along her neck as his hands push the fabric of her thick sweater up, her labored breathing is the only anchor she has in reality.

And when he finds himself between her thighs, tugging her black tights down to reveal a sodden pair of underwear, a hiss sounding out from her mouth when he bares her center to the cool air of her bedroom, things begin to feel very, very serious.

“Is this okay?” he asks huskily. He’s since moved down to kneeling on the carpet of her room, his large palms parting the insides of her thighs. Every single move he makes drives her insane. 

“Yes,” she breathes, fingers gripping the blanket beneath her. 

He’s less calculated now that he’s received her consent. She instantly mewls the second he puts his mouth over her, licking through the wet fabric of her underwear. Her eyes roll back just from the muffled sensation, especially when he allows a low moan to vibrate from his chest. 

“Need more,” he mutters against the soft skin of his thigh as he pulls the material to the side. He inhales sharply at the sight of how wet she is, his fingertip gently tracing over the tip of her swollen clit. “You were hiding all this from me for months.” 

He states it as if it’s a fact — like she’d been doing it intentionally, when all she’s been doing is dreaming of the day he’d finally be the one to break. Through a shaky swallow, she parts her lips. 

“Didn’t mean it,” she murmurs, sitting up slightly to look down at him. It’s a heavenly vision — the image of the professor she’s been crushing on, on his knees for her in her bedroom. He sends a smirk her way as if he can read her thoughts (and maybe he can, she’s truly not sure anymore), and surges forward to dip his tongue through her folds, licking up the heady arousal dripping from her hole. It makes her gasp and reach down to grab his hair, a tight fistful of locks in her hand.

“Doubt it,” he says into her core. His fingertip continues tracing tight circles into her clit as he begins to flex his tongue inside of her, and Y/N’s back is arching against the expanse of her mattress from the wet, intoxicating sensations of it all. It’s nearly too overwhelming for her, especially given the sensitivity of her clit — but Harry can feel her tensing beneath his grasp, a delicious telltale sign that her peak is quickly rising. 

“Harry— oh my god—”

“I know,” he coos, replacing his tongue with two of his fingers. He presses against her g-spot and she gasps, grinding her hips down against his hands, “There you go, angel girl, cum on my fingers. That’s it, good girl.”

If his hands weren’t currently occupied, one would undoubtedly be wrapped around his length right now, twisting and pumping until he emptied himself to the sight of Y/N’s coming, pulsating pussy. It's better than any daydream he ever could have thought of — her moans are beautiful and whimpery, her body warm and pliant beneath his touch as she comes down. Sensitivity immediately takes over and she gently bats his hands away, panting out loudly from above. 

“Alright?” He asks softly, placing a light kiss to her thigh. He hears her swallow loudly. 

“Jelly,” she mumbles, “Limbs are jelly.”

That makes him chuckle as he sits back up on his knees. He hovers over the length of her body and smiles at her fucked out expression. 

“You’re pretty when you come.” He says before leaning down to peck her lips. 

“Yeah?” She asks teasingly, “Show me what you look like?”

Harry stills but she nips at his bottom lip playfully, “You didn’t cum in your pants just from eating me out, did you?” 

“Got pretty close to it.” He confesses, eyes falling shut as she continues pressing kisses to his jawline and down to his neck. 

She hums at the admittance as her hands rake down his chest, “Do you wanna fuck me?” 

“Whatever you want,” he swallows, the answer sounding far more submissive out loud than he’d intentioned, “Fine with… I’m fine with whatever.” 

“I want you to fuck me.” She says, looking up at him. “Is that okay?”

“That’s perfectly okay.” 

Y/N grins and begins to make quick work of shedding his layers of clothes. His button-down is the first to go, followed by his trousers and belt. Once he’s down to his briefs, she gently hints at wanting to climb on top. He has no reservations with that so he helps her straddle his thighs, watching as her eyes peer down at his covered length. 

“You look big.” She admits. 

He’s not sure if it’s meant to be a compliment or a nervous comment, so he silently issues a small squeeze to her hip. 

“Seriously,” she continues with a frown. “Other girls have taken you no problem?” 

This makes him laugh. “Generally, yeah.” 

“I don’t think it’s gonna fit.” 

Harry smirks. “This isn’t your way of telling me you’re a virgin, right?”

“No!” She exclaims theatrically, and that only amplifies his laughter. “I’m just… I’m nervous! You look really big Harry, seriously.” 

“Take me out then,” he instructs lowly and the tone of his voice zips straight to Y/N’s center, “I promise, you’re freaking yourself out over nothing.” 

She grumbles as he pulls his underwear down his legs. Harry kicks them off his ankles and she sighs as she takes him into her hand. He has to make an effort not to hiss at the feeling of it. 

“Still huge,” she mutters, “My hand barely fits around you, Harry.” 

“You’re making my ego insane, angel.”

She peers up at him, where his arm is tucked behind his head like he’s lounging the day away. She gives the head of his cock a small squeeze. 

“Do you really think it’ll fit?”

“Yes,” he chuckles, “If not, I’ll just go down on you for an hour and by then you’ll be open and wet enough.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, the thought of him spending an hour of his time between her thighs almost being too much to fathom. “‘M gonna try to put you in.”

“It’ll be fine, sweetheart. Just breathe and take your time. We can do a different position—“

“No,” she quickly shakes her head. “Wanna ride you. This is how I envisioned it.”

Harry’s eyebrow quirks at that but his curiosity is quickly replaced by pleasure when she hovers her hips over his length. The warmth from her previous orgasm is radiating off of her and he breathes out sharply when she pushes the tip in, her fingertips covering the sight. Harry reaches out to move them. “Need to see,” he grunts. 

Her jaw drops open as she slowly lowers onto him. Neither of them speak — it’s all entirely too consuming; her getting filled to the brim and him being surrounded by the tightest heat he’s ever felt. When she finally sinks down to his pelvic bone, her eyelashes flutter. 

“Can you move?” He asks through a slightly clenched jaw, “Or— do you need me to—“ 

“I can do it.” She replies as she steadily attempts to move her hips up. “Oh, that’s a lot.”

“Too much?”

She shakes her head, “It’s good. Is it good?”

“It’s amazing.” He breaths out, gritting his teeth as she moves up and down. 

With his reassurance under her belt, it’s easier for her to find a bit of rhythm, even if she has to place her hands down on his chest for stability. He happily places his own palms on top of them, curling his fingers around her wrists to help her. 

“There you go,” he encourages, leaning his head back against the pillow as he watches her. “You look so beautiful, holy shit.”

She moans when she finally figures out a pace that hits that soft spot inside of her, eyelashes fluttering from the constant pressure. Harry moves his hands down to her hips to assist in the maneuvers, but mainly because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get sick of seeing his touch on her skin. She swallows harshly when she lifts a hand to coax at her swollen clit, a wet gasp sounding from her lips. Harry’s gaze lifts from where they’re connected to see widened eyes. 

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” He asks in immediate panic. 

She nods quickly and reaches out to grab his hand and place it over his stomach. 

He thinks he may pass out. 

Beneath the soft, dimpled skin of her stomach, he can feel his length bulging in her tummy. If he looks close enough, he can see the faint outline. It takes everything in him not to snap. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters as she resumes her pace of bouncing on his cock. 

“Told you you were— oh— big,” she says stubbornly, and if he wasn’t so overwhelmed with the current state of her body, he probably would have had a comeback. But right now, all he can focus on is not blowing his load inside her. 

“Need you to come,” he grunts. She nods eagerly like a puppy and he smirks when her fingers return to her clit, rubbing tight circles. “Need you to come so I can paint that pretty pussy, yeah?” 

“Yes,” she mewls desperately. Her movements get jerkier and sloppier, but Harry has no problem meeting her hips. He thrusts up inside of her to hopefully reach the same spot, though his worry is quickly wiped away when he feels her muscles contract, her face twisting beautifully. 

He can barely help her through her orgasm before he’s pushing her into her side. He’s no longer inside and his hand has switched to keeping her thigh up as he pumps himself, groaning at the sticky mess between them. 

“Wanna feel it,” she whimpers almost pathetically, “Please Professor Styles, cum all over my pussy.” 

That’s all he needs before he’s bursting at the seams, ropes of thick, white cum covering her. He’s a groaning mess and he doesn’t even notice that she’s running her hand through his hair, playing with it gently, until he has nothing left to give. With a final whimper, he lays back against her bed, completely spent. 

When they’ve both caught their breath, Harry turns back onto his side to face her. 

“You alright?” he asks softly. He’s nervous to reach out and thumb at her cheek or press a kiss to her hand. For some reason, he feels like the situation is too delicate right now and he’s at risk of fucking it all up.

Y/N hums, “Mhm. Are you?”

“I am.” he answers with a thick swallow. “Is it okay if I hold you?”

“Please.”

His heart jumps and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, tugging her into his chest. He leans down and kisses her hair. 

They sit in the silence for a bit, Y/N finding comfort in Harry’s constant breathing, the sound of his heartbeat. 

And then: “So you envisioned this?”

She bites at the smile on her lips before she bats at his pecs, “Shut up. I know you did too.”

Harry has no problem admitting that she’s right.

[nerdpoe]

Just A Small Morsel, Please Sir AU AKA Constantine Would Like to Disappear Please

Batman is about to go toe to toe with another god, and he needs armor that will prevent another "lost in the time stream" incident.

So he consults JLD.

The decide that if he has a piece of a really, really powerful entity, then that entity's powers should think that they're protecting the entity and in turn, protect Bruce.

So Constantine draws a summoning circle, and is bullied into making an actual good offering to the being the circle is supposed to summon. They include a note; it's written in an old, ancient language, but with JLD working together they figure out roughly what it says; something about requesting a piece of the most powerful being's belongings to grant them protection.

Thus, the ritual begins! The lights dim; cold green fog emanates from the summoning circle, the feeling of dread almost overwhelms the lessor experienced.

And then in the middle of John's chant, the ritual is forcibly stopped from the other side.

The offerings remain.

A single note floats down on top of the pile.

'I'm uh...flattered? But like, it's kinda weird to ask for someone's hair. Gonna have to turn this one down, sorry. No kinkshaming, though! I also won't tell anyone else what that kink is, Constantine, don't worry; I got ur back. Anyways stop the creepy hitting on me.

Danny'

Apparently, JLD had not correctly translated the language.

It's direct Translation, once they had that key provided to them by Danny, which once they got that they were able to figure out that one key letter was not what they thought, was more along the lines of;

'Oh Great High King, We Request A Small Parcel, A Small Snippet, Of Your Luxurious Hair. Just For A Little Bit. We Need To Use It For Personal Reasons. Just A Small Morsel. Thank You For Being Pretty. And Amazing. We Just Want A Small Piece. That Is All We Need. It Does Not Take Much. We Are Very Eager. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.'

Needless to say, multiple heroes have to stop Constantine from trying to throw himself out of an airlock.

@simplestoryteller

[sysig]

I think the world is so wonderful... (Patreon)

[p9fttt]

all time favourite movies:

portrait of a lady on fire (2019), dir. céline sciamma

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[identityquest]

allysion... girl i havent drawn u in 3 years

[fictionadventurer]

I have a germ of a theory that good Christian fiction has stories that are less about shaving down your personality to meet some specific mold of what a good Christian looks like, and more about "how gloriously different are all the saints."

Not that the Christian life doesn't involve fighting against our own sinful nature and conforming ourselves to Christ-like behavior, but I think it makes for better, more realistic, and more universal stories when you also recognize that people have different gifts and flaws and they're going to be called to use their unique personalities to serve the kingdom of God in their own unique way, instead of assuming everyone has to conform themselves to a very specific (often secular-culturally based) image of good behavior. It makes for a much more vibrant story.

[theyarewrestling]

Dan and Phil, The Blair Witch Project, and taking back agency.

In their latest video, «DanAndPhilCRAFTS - Slime» Dan and Phil have made a very clear homage to the 1999 found footage film «The Blair Witch Project» directed by Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez. The movie tells a story about a group of students, who travel to a small town in order to film a documentary about a local legend. In the process of filming, however, they get lost in the woods and never make it out of there, being haunted and then presumably killed by the witch. In this essay I am going to analyze how the visual narrative is structured in both films in relation to one another, the way «Slime» differs from «Blair Witch» and how that difference conveys the shift in Dan and Phil’s public presence.

Let's start with imagery associated with the paranormal in both films. In Blair Witch one of the signs of the witch's presence become the "dolls" made out of sticks. They are filmed by the characters, who are naturally freaked out by the dolls appearing seemingly out of thin air, signaling the presence of the dangerous and inhuman Other.

Dolls are also used in Dan and Phil's video, the main difference being that the pair are not haunted by the paranormal and unexplainable Other, no, they willingly put the dolls there, they are taking active steps in bringing about their own doom.

While in «Blair Witch» the dolls are placed ominously in between tree branches, filmed from below to make them look like they’re floating above the camera, being forces of a power that the characters ought to be afraid of, in «Slime» the dolls are nailed to a steady surface at camera-level, and while they do provide an unnerving atmosphere, they are not a danger to the characters, at least not a danger they’re not aware of.

The same can be said for other "occult" imagery and artifacts. While in «Blair Witch» the characters finding strange symbols and even bloody remains in the forest strengthens the tension and suspense, signaling the close presence of the witch, in «Slime» all of the unnerving, "occult" and "satanic" exists under the characters' control. Dan draws the symbol on the wall himself, the animal skulls are presumably also brought in by the characters. Instead of being signs of danger, uncontrollable, they are merely tools in the hands of the pair.

The interior of the shack where the students meet their end in the 1999 film is filthy and decaying, which only strengthens the fear within the characters and us as the audience. It is filmed using close up shots which show the shack in it's decrepit and unnerving state. The shack that Dan and Phil's video is filmed in also seems abandoned from the interior, it is broken down, dark and dusty. However, instead of being mortified, like the characters of «Blair Witch», they occupy the space quite comfortably. Instead of being haunted by the building, they become the ones who haunt it, once again taking back control of their own demise. The interior is filmed at strange angles, almost reminiscent of German Expressionist films, in which the odd angles conveyed the detachment from reality and perpetual insanity, which in Dan and Phil's case could be used to depict the pair's descent into madness which leads them to their ritual.

Nature plays a crucial role in «Blair Witch» as the witch herself is never shown. The characters are "surrounded" by the unnerving dark trees, which presumably hide the horror that is never allowed to be seen directly.

Dan and Phil make an obvious homage to that with their shots of the trees, however there is a major difference. While the shot is still desaturated and somewhat unnerving, the flowers on the tree are in bloom, symbolizing a new beginning and the hope that comes with it. The new "life" that is going to happen after the pair summons Baphomet.

In «Blair Witch» Heather's final message is a long shot filled with pure fear and desperation. Dan and Phil's shot mimicking it is almost unnecessary as it lasts only a few seconds, however in those few moments it manages to showcase the pair as a unit, they are calm and in the process of their ritual, determined to bring it to fruition. While Heather is left alone in the dark forest in which she will die, Dan and Phil are not alone: they are in this together, they are a team. If they die, it's because they chose to do so. "Creativity is nothing without friendship".

Now for the infamous "Blair Witching it in the corner". In this memorable scene from the 1999 film one of the students is stood in the corner facing the wall. Heather and the audience both know that, according to the Blair witch mythology, this position is a prelude to being killed, as that is how the murderer, who was persuaded by the witch, used to place his victims, for he couldn't bear to look them in the eyes. This face-to-the-wall position conveys pure helplessness at the hands of the persecutor. In «Slime» there is a scene that makes an obvious homage to the «Blair Witch» scene: Phil is stood in a dark corner of a room, the shot is in black and white. There is, however, a stark difference: Phil is facing the camera. With just this one change the scene no longer feels like a display of helplessness. Phil is looking straight at us, he is not a victim at the hands of unknown horrors, he is in control.

The way the "monster" is presented in both films differs significantly. A big part of the horror in «Blair Witch» is our inability to ever see the witch herself. The "monster" not being shown to the camera is a trope as old as low-budget horror: it helps build suspense and also hides the lack of budget. In «Blair Witch» the rapid movement of the camera also makes it feel like the horror is too great for a human mind to comprehend, too great to be caught on camera, Lovecraftian in nature.

The 1999 movie starts with the characters interviewing Blair locals, who tell the characters and us, the audience, the legend of the Blair witch. The witch was sentenced to death for practicing witchcraft, so she haunts those who try to disturb her peace. Here we can make the connection between those persecuted for "practicing witchcraft" aka being Other with being queer and being othered and, historically, persecuted for it.

This interpretation correlates well with the fact that the "monster", in this case the devil Baphomet, is present in «Slime». More than that, Dan and Phil actively seek him out. In the final scene of the short film, Baphomet has his arms around the pair, claiming them. The characters are willingly allying themselves with the Other. Dan and Phil see the "monster" and yet they do not run away, instead, they worship him. In the theme of reclaiming your agency, this could symbolize coming out, proudly and purposefully becoming part of the Other.

They are doomed from the start, but they are not helpless victims of the Other, scary and unknown, they are the ones bringing about their own doom. This is taking your agency back, and I feel like this narrative rhymes really well with Dan and Phil's current presence on the internet. While the early years of their careers were filled with public speculation and being stripped of their agency, something that "was just theirs" being scrutinized by the public, which definitely affected the way they had to behave, their current self-described "chaos era" is very different. They no longer make the effort to pretend to be anything they're not. They are the ones in control of the narrative, keeping their private life private, while also sharing way more openly and freely, knowing that we know and not really caring about the public's perception, as post coming out they have taken the power and agency back into their own hands.

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

From the song "night changes " by band "one direction "

[feelingthedisaster]

can we just appreciate for a moment the directing of dead boy detectives? like, the photography is so thought-so and pretty and meticusly arranged, the amazing usage of colours, and the angles, the 3x3 or whatever is called in english and i just, god. i love it

[clownsuu]

Man I wonder how Octavio felt when he saw that Cuttlefish is now a living strip of squid jerky

Ain’t gunna stop him from bein pissed smhhhhhh

[cupid-styles]

daisy (english profrry x TA!yn)

part one of english profrry is here!!!!!

word count: 6.3k

BIG content warnings: massive, glaring warning for an inappropriate relationship. y/n is a graduate student in this and of legal consenting age, but there's an age gap of four years between her and harry. she is his TA, which means there's a big power imbalance between them. bc this is fic we'll pretend it's romantic and all very consensual but if this is triggering to you in any way, DO NOT READ IT. it's not worth hurting your mental health. also, if anything remotely like this happens in your personal life, IT IS NOT OKAY.

other CWs: small smut scene at the end (m masturbation with descriptions of m receiving oral, slight cum play), y/n alludes to having seasonal depression but it's never outwardly said (just be aware since the descriptions of it could be triggering to some!), a bit of angst but nothing crazy

with all that out of the way, if you still choose to read, I hope you enjoy :) love you all lots!!

masterlist | talk to me

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. . .

Professor Styles is a dick. 

That’s what the entire English department said when it was announced that Y/N would be his newest teaching assistant for the spring semester.

They all sneered at her, throwing what they pretended to be caring warnings her way, claiming that he was impossible to work with and he didn’t even actually need a TA, he just liked picking students to embarrass. With their noses upturned at Y/N but not actually offering any kind of advice, she left the small English building shortly after the Dean unveiled the new schedule for TAs, anxiety bubbling in her stomach and thick, salty tears in her waterline. 

She knows Professor Styles doesn’t have the greatest reputation on campus. She actually actively avoided taking any classes with him throughout the duration of her bachelor’s degree, and even as she chose to stay on to enter her first year of graduate school, she picked any other available professors over him.

He was known for his less-than-personable demeanor and the way he picked apart students’ essays, leaving them questioning their entire life path. Y/N has never felt much insecurity about her career — she’s always wanted to go into English, maybe opting for a small but impactful job in publishing or editing — but having a professional ruin her writing sounded… well, awful. 

In reality, Y/N didn’t have much of a choice when it came to her teaching assistant preferences. She needed a job that wouldn’t take up too much of her time. Her first semester of grad school was difficult and stressful. All of her friends graduated and went on to cool jobs all over the country, while Y/N just stayed in the same apartment. She was homesick for her family and walked through a campus every day that reminded her of a better version of herself — one who had a flourishing social life and excellent grades. Just a few months of working on her masters degree had worn her down. 

Despite the slight dip in her grades from university to graduate school (an expected change, her advisor had explained), she was still recommended as a TA for the English department in the spring. She’d really been gunning after Professor Rooney, a kind, middle-aged woman who had spent years working glamorous jobs in the publishing world. She had connections everywhere and was incredibly sweet, and Y/N knew she would feel comfortable working in her sections for the semester. All winter break, she imagined how wonderful it could be; that maybe it was the huge win she needed after such a shitty fall. 

But Professor Rooney didn’t choose her. Professor Styles did.

Even with a promise of a reasonable stipend contingent on the completion of her TA position, Y/N’s world felt like it came crashing down just a little bit — but she knew better than to complain or blubber on about not getting her way. Instead, she chose to just get through it.

In the final days of winter break, Professor Styles emailed her to meet in his office the day before classes began. He didn’t ask if she was back on campus or if she had a good break. Y/N wanted to resent that, but chose to swallow it down. 

When she got to his small office in the department, she gently knocked on the open door, signaling her arrival. He peered up from whatever book he was hunched over on his deck, straightened his posture, and checked his watch. 

“You’re late.” he said flatly, shutting the paperback with a force she didn’t even know was possible. With furrowed brows, she glanced at the lockscreen on the phone she held. 

“You said 10:30, right? It’s 10:30 now.”

“On time is late,” he muttered, folding his hands on his desk, “Early is on time.”

She swallowed, her lips parting like a guppy. He rolled his eyes and motioned to the seat on the other side of her desk. Quickly, she took it, placing her tote bag at her feet and making a mental reminder to arrive at his classes five minutes early from this point on.

“Right, so you’re my TA, then?”

She nodded, “Yes, for the spring semester.”

He hummed, though she couldn’t tell if it was a sound of approval or discontent. He moved his computer mouse over the surface of the university provided mouse pad, making his computer buzz to life. With an awkward silence settling between them, the sound of the mouse clicking was the only thing that filled the dim office. 

“You just graduated from the English department last spring,” he said, eyes scanning over what she now assumed was her student file, “3.8 GPA. That’s fine.”

She blinked at that, resisting the urge to balk at him. 3.8 was .2 away from a perfect GPA. It was more than fine.

“You didn’t take any classes with me during your time as an undergrad.”

“Um, your sections were always full—”

“I don’t really care what your reasoning is,” he cut her off, continuing to scroll down the screen. A lump formed in her throat but she tried to swallow it down. Nothing sounded more embarrassing than crying in front of Professor Styles. “And now you’re getting your masters in English with a concentration in Feminist Literature. That’s an unusual one. Why?”

She’s surprised he’s bothered to ask her a question, so it takes her a moment to form a cohesive answer on her tongue. She’s flailing a bit and she knows he can tell, based on the unamused expression on his face. 

“I’ve read a lot of literature where there’s a female main character and she’s just used to state a point or some sort of backwards lesson that was considered modernized for the time,” Y/N speaks softly, picking at her nails in her lap, “I’m interested in studying that more.”

“What kind of literature?” Professor Styles instantly fires back. 

“Well, I wrote my undergraduate thesis on The Scarlet Letter, but I’ve also been thinking about basing my graduate capstone on Ophelia from Hamlet.”

He makes that annoying humming noise again, and she’s still unsure if he’s pleased or thinks she’s an idiot. She wasn’t unused to the latter — a lot of snobs in the English department thought it was stupid of her to care for critiquing older pieces of writing from an argumentative, feminist perspective, even if they acted like The Odyssey was an “absolute must-read” for everyone.

(It’s not. Y/N thinks The Odyssey is dumb and boring, but she’ll never say that, especially not to Professor Styles.)

“Right, well,” he lifts a white ceramic coffee cup to his mouth and swallows briefly. She glances down to see he’s drinking hot black coffee, and her lips furl into a quick, involuntary wince. “You’ll be with me three days a week. You are to attend the daily lectures — Mondays and Wednesdays are the shorter section and Friday is the long, three-hour one. Helping out with grading and holding office hours will be your primary tasks. If you fall ill or need to take a day off, I need at least 24 hours notice. If I receive any complaints from students, you’re out. Otherwise, it should be a fine semester. Any questions?”

She shakes her head, hoping he’ll show some inkling of delight at her quick ability to understand and process. Instead, his lips remain in a flat line and he nods, taking another sip of his coffee. 

“You can go now. See you tomorrow.”

She scrambles to leave his office as quickly as possible.

. . .

Professor Styles barely speaks to Y/N for the first few weeks. 

It’s unsettling in a way, especially because she doesn’t know if she’s doing a good job. She thrives off of reassurance, but every time she hands him a neat stack of newly graded papers or drafts, he simply waves her off with an, “alright, thanks.”

If she’s being honest, it makes her want to try even harder, though she’s not entirely sure why. She has the urge to claw her way to the very top of Professor Styles’ repertoire of students and assistants — a need for perfectionism that can only be quelled by the person least likely to give it to her. 

And it’s driving her absolutely insane.

She wants to ask, straight out, “am I doing an alright job? Do you need anything more from me?”, but she’s positive that will only make her glow with insecurity. He’d probably laugh in her face and call her a baby for needing his acceptance.

It eats her alive as she sits at the front of the lecture hall, watching his female students stare at him with hearts in their eyes as he discusses the politics of Ursula Le Guin. It bugs her only more than he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen, always impeccably dressed with long, ring-clad fingers.

Grumbling, she realizes that she probably looks just as pathetic, so she quickly straightens her posture and runs her fingertips over the mousepad of her laptop so it glows back to life. She’s supposed to be going over the grades of the students’ first essays — her and Professor Styles were meeting after class to discuss them in the event that anyone needed additional assistance for the upcoming paper.

She busies herself with that until he ends class, creating a list of a few names that would potentially need to be met with one-on-one. He doesn’t say anything as he gathers his own materials from the lecture, and she follows him out of the hall and to his office just as silently, carrying her laptop in one hand and her tote bag on her shoulder. 

Professor Styles’ office is always cold and dark, never failing to send a shiver down her spine when he unlocks the door. Today, her shoulders shudder involuntarily and she pushes her sweater sleeves down to cover her hands. With a rumple in his eyebrows, he sits down. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks. 

Y/N snaps her head up in surprise. She doesn’t mean to look shocked, so she quickly revises her facial features in an attempt to look collected. 

“Oh, it’s just cold,” she says, waving him off nonchalantly, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. I think this winter has been especially brutal.” 

His reply especially dazes her — she’s unsure if that’s an attempt at making small talk, something Professor Styles has never done with her before, but she instantly nods her head, as if she’s speaking with a toddler who’s expressing their emotions for the first time. 

“Yeah, I think so,” she says softly, “The snow is awful to walk through.”

“Do you live far from campus?”

She shakes her head and sets her laptop and planner on her side of the desk, across from Professor Styles and his things. 

“No, just a 10 minute walk or so, but I don’t have a car.”

He hums at that — that stupid, unassuming hum that contributes absolutely nothing to the conversation. She wonders if she’s in her head about it, but she feels his eyes linger just a beat longer on her face before tearing them away. He licks over his teeth as he taps on his laptop to wake it back up. 

“Right, then. Did you go over their grades?”

As she pulls her things out from her bag, she tries to ignore the small pit of disappointment in her tummy from Professor Styles shifting their conversation back over to class. 

. . .

That weekend, Y/N thinks she’s hallucinating as she meanders up and down the aisles at Target. 

She’s not really looking for anything in particular. Sometimes she just comes here for something to do. Her bank account isn't exactly flowing in a way that permits her to buy all the cute home decor she gazes at, which is why her basket currently consists of the following: pads, a new pack of her favorite gel pens, cookie dough, and a lip balm that she’ll probably put back before she checks out. 

It’s another harsh, cold day out, the freezing temperatures refusing to let up as the days of the month flit by. This is Y/N’s least favorite time of year — when winter sticks around despite the holidays being long gone. All that’s left between now and spring is pesky snow and fake Hallmark holidays, and she yearns for the days where she can walk to campus and admire the tulips peeking out from the damp soil. By then, she’ll be closer to returning to her hometown for the summer, where she’ll likely get a job for a few months working in the local library or bookstore.

It’ll be good — she’ll get to see her friends and spend time with family and save up some money, and maybe the hopefulness of life warming up in a few months will be enough to get her through this semester.

And as she’s daydreaming of brighter days, that’s when it happens — when she thinks she must be fully hallucinating, because as she strolls down one aisle in particular, Professor Styles is standing there, his bottom lip pinched between his fingers as he stares at space heaters. 

She’s never seen him off campus. Sometimes that happens since a lot of professors live close by, so it’s not unheard of to pass by an advisor or faculty member at the supermarket or through the park. But seeing Professor Styles here feels… illegal, somehow, especially given his casual, dressed down attire. He’s wearing what looks to be a cozy sweatshirt and a pair of athletic shorts, despite the temperature nearing the 20s today. (Y/N is bundled up in three sweaters, a jacket, a scarf, gloves, and leggings beneath her jeans.) White socks go just above his ankles, and the running shoes on his feet make her wonder if he’s insane enough to actually be working out in this weather. 

She must be analyzing his form for a beat too long — maybe it’s the shock from it that still hasn’t worn off — because he feels her gaze, eyes veering to his peripheral, realizing that his teaching assistant is standing there as if she’s waiting for permission to enter the aisle. 

“Hey,” she blurts out when she realizes she’s been caught. 

Confused by her frank, laidback greeting, he lifts his head to face her. “Hey.” he echoes awkwardly.

“Um, sorry.”

He quirks an eyebrow and Y/N’s body heats with embarrassment. “Sorry?”

“Sorry… I-I should’ve just walked away when I saw you,” Y/N quickly attempts to revise, but she realizes it’s just making her sound stupider, “I was just surprised to see you here.”

“In a public store?”

“Right,” she nods curtly, turning on her heel, “Have a good rest of your weekend—”

“Wait, did you need something down here?” he rushes out, almost as if he’s fearful she’ll leave. She pushes the thought down but parts her lips nervously, eyes scanning over the contents on the shelves. She doesn’t need anything, she was just putting off having to brave the cold weather on her walk home.

“Yes,” she says slowly because, once again, she’s suddenly stupefied and enamored by the prospect of small talk with Professor Styles, “I needed… lighters. For my candles.”

He nods, a quiet “ah,” sounding from his lips, and they stand there like they’re doing some sort of parallel play; Y/N pretending to look at the long, safety lighters while Professor Styles continues to look at space heaters. She wonders if he for some reason is pretending, too, but then he’ll squat down to look at the features on one box, making a tsk-ing noise with his mouth, and straighten back up to analyze a different model.

When he finally decides on an option that’s best fit, he grabs the box and places it in his cart. Quickly, Y/N plucks a random display of lighters and throws them in her basket.

“Hope you found a good one,” she mutters out dumbly, feeling the need to interject one last sentence into their silence. He glances down at his cart, then at her basket, and then, finally, at her. 

“It’s for the office,” he says. “You said it was cold.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“This should help with that.”

“Sure, yeah. I have one at home, it helps a lot with the draftiness.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

“Maybe you can get an extra lamp in there, too. Spruce it up a bit.”

A wrinkle forms between his brows, “What do you mean?”

Y/N wishes the ground would swallow her up whole.

“Nothing! I just meant— like, sometimes it’s a bit cold, and with the weather, it can get dark, too. The winter’s tough, don’t you think? That’s all I meant, I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re right,” he says with a decisive nod. “You’re the only other person that really spends time there besides students. Do you want to help pick one out?”

“Sure, okay.”

They walk in silence to the lighting display, which is filled with a myriad of different options. Professor Styles looks semi-overwhelmed by it all and Y/N has to bite her lip so she doesn’t smile too widely at his confused expression. She points to a simple, inexpensive standing lamp.

“I think something like this would be good, in the corner or something. Just for some extra brightness.”

“Is that the one you like?”

Y/N doesn’t have strong lamp preferences, especially when it comes to a space that she’s not even living in, but for some reason, it seems important that she says yes. So she nods her head, flashing him a small smile. He returns it, and she realizes that’s the first time he’s ever smiled at her. 

“Okay. I’ll have this stuff set up for when you come in on Monday.”

She swallows, feeling the mountain of adoration in her stomach grow. She shoves it down. 

“Thank you, that’s really kind of you,” she says.

“Sure. I’ll see you then. Have a good rest of your weekend.”

She hides in the lamp aisle for another 15 minutes, until she’s positive he’s left the store. 

. . .

Professor Styles and Y/N are working in their typical silence when he says something that makes her jaw nearly drop to the floor.

She thought that after their short but personable interaction at the store, things would change a bit. Maybe he would feel more comfortable talking to her outside of monotone grunts or the occasional “are they failing my class?”, but things remained the same. When she came in that Monday, the space heater and lamp were both on and running as he promised, but it was as if nothing happened. 

It irks Y/N to no end.

She assumes that he sincerely doesn’t care for her, which she supposes is fine considering kindness or approval aren’t part of the job description. That’s why she’s shocked when he says it a few weeks after the weekend they saw one another in public. 

“I think you should ask to change your advisor to me.”

Y/N chokes on her spit, hurriedly coughing into her hand so she doesn’t spray saliva all over his desk. Once she recovers, he’s staring at her expectedly, as if what he said was completely and utterly sane. 

“Sorry?” she asks, “Why would I do that?”

She doesn’t mean it to sound rude, but it’s a genuine question. Typically, there’s some type of rapport between a grad student and their advisor, and she and Professor Styles have absolutely none of that. 

Professor Styles clears his throat and folds his hands on his desk. “Because I got my masters degree in the same thing, so I spent four years studying exactly what you’re studying. I think you’ve been doing very well as my TA and I would like to advise you.”

“Why would you ask me why I was studying that, then?” she blurts out, confusion apparent on her face. “The first day we met, you told me it was unusual.”

“It is.”

“But you studied it.”

“I did.”

“So why would you say that?”

Professor Styles sighs as if this is the most boring and obvious conversation he’s had all day. 

“I wanted to hear you defend it. See why you’re interested and make sure it’s not all bullshit.”

Y/N shakes her head, “So you were playing some kind of mind game with me? For fun?”

“It wasn’t a mind game, Y/N. I just wanted to know why you’re interested in it.”

She bites her lip and looks down at her laptop screen, which has since gone dim since they began talking. If she’s being truthful, she’s grown tired of Professor Styles. Up until now, she was positive she was doing things wrong and he just didn’t care enough to correct her — only to find out that he wanted to work with her even more. It made zero sense.

“Are you going to do it, then?” he asks, tearing her from her thoughts. Her expression pinches as she rolls her lips into a thin line. 

“I don’t know.” she answers in a watery voice. “I like my advisor, and I assumed you didn’t like me very much.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”

“You barely utter three words to me on a daily basis and never tell me if you’re happy with my work.”

Professor Styles scoffs, leaning back against his leather computer chair. 

“You need regular approval from me to know whether or not I like you?”

“Yes,” she admits, anger building in her chest until she can’t help but blurt out what she’s thinking, “It’s how I work. If you were a good professor, you would’ve asked how I best function at the beginning of the semester. Instead, you ignore me for fun.”

“You don’t think I’m a good professor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean that. I think you are. I just don’t think you’re the best at managing teaching assistants.”

He shrugs, but she notices a slight wince in his features. “We can’t all be good at everything, can we?”

“Right,” she mumbles, drumming her fingers on the edge of his desk. When he doesn’t reply, she shuts her laptop and stuffs it in her bag. “I’m gonna go then. I’ll see you next week.”

He’s silent as she gets her things together and pulls her jacket on, wrapping her scarf around her neck and zipping it on top of her sweater for extra warmth. As her boots carry her across the length of his office and to the door, he stands from his seat. 

“Y/N,” he says, and she turns to look at him. “The deadline to change your advisor is next Friday. I hope you’ll still consider it.”

. . .

That evening, all Harry can think about is his sweet, quiet TA. The one who he undoubtedly offended earlier today — he cringes at the thought of it, replaying their conversation over and over in his head. He can’t stop thinking about the upset look on her face. When she asked if he was playing mind games with her, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness. He never meant to hurt her, not one bit. 

He sighs as he runs his hand through his hair. He’s had reruns of some shitty sitcom on since he got home from work a few hours ago. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, but even a laugh track and ‘90s era merriment couldn’t distract him from thinking about her. 

He considers the things she said about wanting his approval. He’s never been well-liked in the English department, likely because of his rough exterior. He’s not immune to the things he hears from students and faculty, about how he’s grumpy and someone to be feared, even if he didn’t even intend to come off that way. In all honesty, he never wanted to be perceived in that matter — but once his reputation began to precede him a year or two ago, he figured there was no use in trying to convince people otherwise. 

That's how it had always gone, anyway — in high school, when he started experimenting with different styles of clothing, everyone assumed he was gay. He'd desperately tried to refute those claims, even if he wasn't completely sure of his sexuality himself. But no one cared — they'd already made up their minds, and it seemed useless to attempt to change their ways of thinking.

And when people spoke here, mumbling about how mean and terrible he was... well, what was the point?

Y/N was the only person he cared to win over, and it was eating him alive.

So much so that he made the blind decision to maybe, possibly cross a very clear boundary between professor and TA. Despite Y/N being of legal, consenting age (after looking at her student file, he found that he’s only four years older), he still attempted to prioritize maintaining a professional relationship with every one of his students and TAs. 

He couldn’t help himself with her, though. He knew it was bad — he could feel his heart thumping quickly in his chest, the logical part of his brain telling him to stop while he’s ahead, but he couldn’t. Not as he grabbed his laptop, logged into his work email, and composed a message to her student address. Not when his fingers danced over the keyboard and resisted the urge to implore her to start fresh with him. Not when he clicked ‘send’ without even proofreading to make sure it sounded appropriate, not creepy or weird.

He pushed his laptop away and got up to pour himself some wine, attempting to rid himself of any lingering guilt.

. . .

From: hstyles@university.edu

To: ynyln@university.edu

Subject: Today

Time: 9:57 p.m.

Hi Y/N, 

I wanted to apologize for how I acted today. It wasn’t kind of me and you deserve far better than that. I understand if you have no interest in changing your advisor. Please know that whatever you decide, your TA position will not be in danger, should you choose to continue working with me.

Thank you for all of your hard work. You’ve been doing an excellent job and I’ve very much enjoyed having you this semester. Have a good weekend.

x Harry Styles

. . .

On Monday, Y/N’s mind is whirring. 

It’s not because the semester is nearing midterm season, although that’s part of it. It’s because Professor Styles emailed her an apology at almost 10 pm on Friday evening, and she’s repeatedly read it over at least 50 times since receiving it. 

She didn’t reply because she wasn’t sure what to say — and, most shockingly, he didn’t sign it as Professor Styles. Instead, he ended the message with a kiss, for crying out loud, followed by his name. His name! 

It’s all she’s been able to focus on for days, to the point where she contemplates not showing up to his lecture on Monday. But she’s better than that — she’s stronger, and she’s smarter, and she doesn’t want to hide. 

She avoids Professor Styles’ gaze all throughout his lecture, instead focusing on grading first drafts for the class’ midterm paper. She knows she’ll have to sit with him in his office afterwards, and her stomach churns at the thought. In some way, she feels ashamed that she said anything to begin with. Her comments about him not managing TAs properly have made her shrivel into a mortified version of herself, and she’s shocked he didn’t fire her on the spot. 

Worst of all, she hates the way her heart jumped into her throat when his name popped up on her screen on Friday night. She craved the feeling, hoping he would, for some reason, do it again, even though she never responded. She wasn’t playing hard to get by any means, but the fact that her brain even veered in that direction proved one thing to be true: she has a big, fat crush on Professor Styles.

The knowledge sits like a rock in her stomach, especially as they walk in silence to his office after class. The air between them feels awkward, but she’s not sure that there’s ever been a time where it hasn’t felt odd between them. When he unlocks the door, she quietly steps inside, her heart skipping a beat at the space heater and lamp already turned on. 

Usually, he keeps the door open while they work. Today, he shuts it, the soft click of the lock making her jump. 

“Can we talk?”

Y/N’s throat dries but she nods, gripping the strap of her tote bag close to her arm. She turns to face him, and for the first time ever, she notices that he looks… nervous.

“About last week. I’m sorry, but I’m even more sorry for emailing you that on Friday,” he rushes the words out like he wrote a script out and was waiting to perform them, “It was completely inappropriate, and I got the hint when you didn’t reply.”

“The hint?” she peeps out, her voice squeaky and embarrassing. 

“Yeah,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “About not wanting me to advise you and… you probably found my email to be weird, right?”

Quickly, she shakes her head. “No, no. I.. I actually haven’t given much thought to the advisor thing, but I didn’t think it was weird. I just didn’t know how to respond.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Why’s that?”

“Because I felt guilty about what I said to begin with! A-and you could’ve fired me if you wanted to, but instead you apologized and said that I’m doing a good job—”

“You are.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims frustratedly. “I didn’t know how to respond to that.”

“To me being… kind?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at her, the crinkle between his brows deepening. 

“I’m just not used to it, Professor Styles.” she says with a sigh.

“Harry,” he corrects.

“What?”

“My name is Harry. I don’t want you to call me Professor Styles.”

Y/N ignores the quickening of her heartbeat and shifts her stance from foot to foot. 

“Why are you doing this?” she eventually blurts as she crosses her arms over her sweater-clad form. She’s not sure if she detects an inkling of pity in his face, but if she does, she wants nothing more than to run for the hills and never return. For some reason, the thought of Professor— Harry feeling bad for her makes her shoulders shudder, a prickly sensation tip-toeing down her spine, as if shame is completely and utterly eating her alive. 

His lips part in a quiet sigh. “I just… I spent the weekend thinking of you and feeling awful for the way I’ve treated you.”

Thinking of you.

I spent the weekend thinking of you.

Her stomach turns as his words echo throughout the chambers of her brain. But then there’s a click — like the second part of the sentence just ekes its way through, planting a seed of self-doubt and insecurity. And she backs away like he may explode at any moment. 

“You shouldn’t— no, that’s alright,” she shakes her head, gaze set low on the carpeted floors of his tiny office. 

“Y/N—”

Again, she cuts him off with a shake of her head, raising her eyes to look at him. His expression is pained and she wonders if hers is any better, though she assumes for different reasons: He doesn’t want to get fired for torturing another grad student. She has an inappropriate crush on the professor she works for.

“It’s all good. Call it even?” she rushes out, leaning over to grab her things from her chair, “Fresh start on Wednesday. Don’t mention it again, alright?”

She’s gone before he can stop her. 

. . .

Harry accidentally falls asleep in his office that evening. 

It’s half because he’s absolutely swamped with work, too fearful to email Y/N and add things to her grading pile after the way she all but ran away earlier today. He’s terrified he made her uncomfortable. 

He doesn’t want to return to the quiet loneliness of his apartment, where he’s constantly faced to force the reality of his life: A man in his early 30s with a job that he likes, but no one actually likes him at it. His entire family resides in London and with the exception of a few friends from his schooling years, he’s alone. Especially in the romance department.

His heart aches for Y/N. He realizes it’s a bit dramatic, even slightly taboo given the nature of their professional relationship, but he likes her. He likes her so much that he doesn’t want to go home and think about how badly he messed things up, so he falls asleep face-down on his desk, his cranium wedged between piles of pens and a Post-It list of to-do’s. 

When he wakes up, he doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for. The soft, golden light from the lamp is still just barely bathing the circumference of the room, but as he blinks his eyes open, he realizes that it’s silent. He can see through the small frosted window that the hallways are dim, which means it’s most definitely sometime in the evening. 

He feels… somewhat guilty but charged as he wakes from the fog of his sleep, eyebrows furrowing as he stretches his arms out. His neck already aches from the discomfort of his sleeping position and he groans, lifting a palm to sort the knot out. 

And that’s when he realizes it — why he feels as if his body is buzzing, his hands sweaty and his throat dry. He’d woken up in the middle of a sex dream and, like a pathetic teenager, the star of it had been his crush. Y/N. 

He scoffs to himself as he glances down at his crotch where, sure enough, his length is painfully hard beneath the constriction of his trousers and underwear. He swallows, eyes flickering closed. He can remember the exact details of his dream, even if they send a bead of guilt dripping down his chest — they’d been in his office, just like this. She was between his legs, knees pressing into the carpet of the floor, her eyes rounded and expectant as he toyed with her, pretending to guide his cock between her lips only to take it away at the last minute. She pouted every time, a plushy lipped-frown punctuating the words he hadn’t even realized he’d been dying to hear: “Please Professor Styles, stop teasing me.”

At the realization, he’s sent into a frenzy. He doesn’t even think to check whether the door is locked (or maybe if he’s locked in the building, no less), before he’s clawing at his belt and zipper, yanking the fabrics down to reveal a pair of swollen balls. His length stands hard, his eyes nearly rolling back just from the feeling of looping his fingers around the base. He can’t remember the last time he was this pent up just from his own imagination, but it’s not a difficult place to return — not as his head leans back against his office chair, allowing his dream to pick up and take form in full consciousness. 

So much pre-cum is bubbling at the tip that he doesn’t need much of his own spit to lubricate himself. He bites his lip hard to prevent himself from groaning out too loudly, envisioning the way she’d finally suckle around the tip of his cock, looking up at him with proud eyes. He’d gradually help her go deeper, but she’d be excited, willing to bruise her throat for him. She was so good — in his dreams, in real life, she was always so, so good.

“So good, Professor,” she’d pant out, popping off to lick a stripe up the side of his cock. With spit-swollen lips, she’d venture down to his balls, rolling them in the palm of her hands before taking each one into her mouth. In reality, he gasps at that, tugging them in his own hand. 

But what really gets him there is an impossible thought — one that has nothing to do with the silly wet dream his brain conjured while he slept. Her in her own bedroom, her naked form wrapped up in her sheets while he gazed over lovingly, pressing soft kisses along her shoulder and down her arm. She’d giggle breathily before flipping onto her side to face him. And she’d say it — I love you — and it’d feel like heaven. 

That’s what pushes him to finish all over his hand, cum dribbling over his fist as he pants and gasps like he’s just discovered masturbation. His orgasm encompasses his entire body, a few beautiful, peaceful moments of complete pleasure that causes all of his muscles to tighten deliciously. Of course, he envisions her taking all of his cum, licking it up eagerly over his digits, making a show of it — she’d open her mouth, pretty pink tongue out, and he’d watch as she swallows. He shudders at the thought of it, quickly snapping his eyes open and grabbing a tissue from the box on his desk to clean himself up. He’s immediately back to his grumbly state as he does, irritated that he allowed himself to lose control in such a finite way.

He tosses the dirty tissue in the garbage can and stands up to tug his briefs and pants back up. The clink of his belt buckle is the only sound throughout the small room, so he jumps when a knock sounds on the other side of his closed door. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, someone knows, I must have said her name, I’m such a fucking freak—

His eyes widen when the person speaks: “Profess— Harry? Are you in there? It’s Y/N.”

[lilliankillthisman]

Spent dinner thinking about what Ianthe's mindscape activities mean - again, this is all pretty surface level, but it's good to get it written down!

Ianthe begins the game lying on a chaise longue, drinking wine while Palamedes sits on a coffin. They may be intellectual equals, but he's on death's door, while she's projecting louche confidence.

For question 2, we have a court scene, with Palamedes as the prosecutor. He's on the offensive, broaching the topic of her original sin - the murder of Naberius Tern. This ends as soon as she answers the question; the court is cleared away with a clap of her hands. He can question her as much as he likes; she's not guilty. (I'm not sure what the Ace Attorney reference symbolises; it could be there for fun.)

For the third question, Ianthe starts fencing with a serious of useless opponents, dispatching each with ease. Obviously, the subject matter is relevant; she's dismissing Gideon, as a fencer and as a thinker. She's also starting to get active, rather than sitting passively; the mental duel is heating up, but she still sees herself as holding a dominant position. It's also a reminder of how she ran through Cam just a moment before, meant to throw Palamedes off guard.

For the final question - the one that hits home and seals the game - Ianthe and Palamedes play cards. More importantly, she's reduced to sitting on a coffin; she no longer gets to lounge. This is now a contest of equals, and unlike the first question, seems to have stakes.

I'm assuming through all of this that what's taking place isn't a conscious choice by Ianthe; that seems pretty clear given the loss of her couch and her unsteady card play, as well as the whole ending of the story.

[notfreetoday]

MPW Ep 4 Subtitle Correction

Masterlist: EP 1 || EP 2 || EP 3

We have another change in director this episode, to Yasumura Emi, though the script is still being written by Funabiki Shinju (the director for Ep 3). This week's twitter space didn't have much info, so I won't be including it.

M: いや～瀬ケ崎さん強かったわ～ M: あの物腰で*マウンティングされて M: いっそ快感を覚えてしまった M: No but, Segasaki-san('s presence) was really strong M: The way he *asserted (his relationship with Yoh) like that M: (rather than being upset), I felt even more delighted! *This is a (rather unfortunate) loan word from English - "mount" or "mounting" 😅, in this case, pretty much means to "one-up" someone else, or to brag about something to another. If you do not wish to have a weird mental image in your head, please skip the next paragraph. This word appears to have morphed from the observation that monkeys, when trying to move up a rank in the chain of command, tend to jump on the back of another to assert their dominance (not scientist just translator also low-quality source don't keel me plz). - In other words, if I watch the Jp RAW MPW a full 8 hours before everyone else and spazz about it knowing full well no one else understands what was said then I'd totally be moun--- AHEM (sorry 😂)

What I mean to say is, in this episode, Segasaki all but screams "MINE" in the most thinly veiled, polite manner possible, so let's see how he does that. If you read nothing at all, the last scene with them cuddling has an important correction you should skip to. Same translation disclaimer applies, Ep 4, let's go~!

(I see a lot of people saying some of their thoughts/suspicions were confirmed in the tags of the previous posts, so feel free to chip in with what you think! MPW deserves more discussion!)

Sorry I am incapable of summarizing, the post is crazy long and I've hit the 30 image max. As such, not every scene will be screen capped and I won't be transcribing the original subs anymore...

Y: あ、いや、友達の漫画を手伝いに行ってきます (-masu form) Y: Ah, no. I am going to help a friend with their manga.

Yoh shifts up a speech level here, (he started the episode out speaking casually) using the -masu form to make an announcement -he's trying to emphasize his determination to go because he’s nervous about saying it.

S: はあ？ どういうつもりで S: Huh? For what intention?

The "haa?" here has a more "excuse me?" feel, and the next line is interrogative - so all in all it has the same energy as: "Excuse me? What is going through your head?"

S: つぅか友達って誰だよ Y: よく通話してる…あの S: やっぱりあの女か S: Actually, when you say "friend", who do you mean? Y: The one who… I speak to a lot on the phone… S: So, it’s that woman after all huh?

S: だめ Y: え？なんで？(plain form) S: 俺が家にいんだから家にいろ (word contraction)* Y: でも約束したし (plain form) S: あの女には行けなくなったって言え* S: No. Y: Huh? Why? S: I'm staying at home so you stay at home* Y: But, I already made a promise S: Tell that woman that you can’t go any more** *This line, together with the starred line below, is extremely direct, (said in the same style as his not-proposal actually) and is clearly an order. **This line is literally "to that woman, say 'I am no longer able to make it'" (Though the speaker may not actually mean to use those exact words)

Segasaki has dropped a speech level here not so much by using "rude" forms but by being extremely blunt and direct. What he's saying implies he's being possessive of Yoh, but the way he says it also stresses his power in their relationship. But again, note that Yoh's replies are all in plain form - he hasn't shifted up a level in response, as he usually does when addressed so directly. In fact, the way he words his protest carries some indignation - using "し(shi)" at the end like this indicates that this "promise" is but one of the reasons he has for going - which is why Segasaki cuts him off. Yoh might sulk and pout about being ordered, he's still comfortably seated in his usual informal speech level, which means at this point he's still feeling secure about where he stands and definitely isn't intimidated.

S: お前さ*、何で自分がこの家にいるかわかってんの？ S: You*… do you even know why you’re in this house? *Here Segasaki uses the sentence-end particle "さ(sa)" after the word "you", which in this case has the same feel as "now look here". He also ends off his question with "の(no)", which can have many meanings, but here functions again as an assertive particle, implying that this is a rhetorical question, because he thinks Yoh should know the answer. Unfortunately, Yoh has the wrong answer 😅 (which Segasaki will realize and attempt to address in Ep 5)

Y: この人のやばさ*を一瞬でも忘れていた俺がバカだった Y: I was an idiot - to forget, even for a second, how insane* this person is *やばさ (yabasa) - this word comes from "yabai" and is a slang word that has evolved much like the words "crazy/insane" and "shit" have evolved in English - it can be used both positively and negatively to describe someone who's extreme, for eg "that guy is yabai (so cool!!)" vs "that guy is yabai (stay away)". Here, Yoh's referring to Segasaki as yabai for even thinking up this so called "slave contract" - which is what he assumes Segasaki is referring to.

Y: ごめん、いろいろあって Y: あ、いや、まあ、なんていうか、家にいろって言われ Y: あ、いや、なんでもない。とにかく本当にごめん Y: 今度なんかでお返しするから Y: Sorry, a lot happened Y: Ah, no, well, how do I say this... I was told "stay at home" Y: Ah, no, it's nothing. Anyway, I'm really sorry Y: I'll make it up to you next time, okay?

S: よくできました S: Well done. This is the same phrase we talked about in Ep 3, the stamp of approval. Again, Segasaki is emphasizing his role in relation to Yoh here.

Y: あの満足そうな後ろ姿 Y: 本当腹立つわ Y: That silhouette of his, so full of satisfaction as he leaves, Y: Really makes me irritated!* *Yoh ends off with the particle "わ (wa)", which mostly just emphasizes his emotion, but is a softer assertive particle than the ones Segasaki uses.

S: 夕飯、作ってくれてもいいんだぞ Y: はい Y: 俺はいつでも稼働する家事ロボットじゃねぇんだよ S: Dinner - it's fine for you to make it for me, you know Y: Yes Y: I'm not some housework robot that you can just activate at any time you know! The original subs made it sound like Segasaki was asking Yoh if he could make dinner, but that's not the case - he's literally telling Yoh to make it, and on top of that, he says it like he's doing Yoh a favour (by allowing him to make dinner) 🤣🤣 This time though, whether it's just cause Yoh's been caught by surprise or not, he answers properly with "Yes (Hai)".

Y: いっそロボットになってこの感情を無にしたい Y: (If it was going to be like this), I rather just become a robot, and turn these feelings into nothingness.

The focus of this line is mostly on Yoh preferring to become a robot in order to mute his feelings, but the sentence structure suggests that there is something to be inferred preceding this sentence, hence the bracketed bit. (It becomes clearer later on, especially in light of his monologue)

"Dayo-chan" is a pretty familiar nickname, something you'd expect a child to be called rather than an adult, unless it is a nickname between childhood friends. It implies a closeness/intimacy between the speaker/listener, hence the the look of horror on Yoh’s face (because he knows that is going to kick Segasaki into high gear) and the surprised disbelief (that someone would dare make a grab for Yoh) on Segasaki’s face. Kills me everytime 🤣

S: もしかして例の女か S: 家まで押し掛けるとはいい度胸してんな S: Don't tell me it's that woman from earlier? S: She's got some nerve, turning up at the house like this

Y: それはだめ　それだけは絶対だめ Y: No, not that, anything but that!

S: うれしいな　葉がいつもあなたの話をするので S: 一度お会いしてみたいと思っていたんです S: はじめまして、瀬ケ崎瑞貴といいます S: 葉がいつも　お世話になってます S: What a delight, Yoh speaks of you often so S: I've always thought it would be nice to be able to meet you. S: I'm Segasaki Mizuki, pleased to make your acquaintance. S: Thank you for always taking care of Yoh.

This is like, textbook formalities🤣 Practically every statement is a "standard" greeting and is very polite (hence the weirdly stiff english translation) except Segasaki says it in a way that makes it clear he speaks for Yoh, that Yoh is part of his in-group. (Legit, might as well plant a flag in the soil that says "Yoh is mine".) He sounds exactly like how parents sound when they meet their child's teachers, or how a spouse/older family member might sound when meeting their loved ones' co-workers. This is how it comes across: What a delight, Yoh speaks of you often so I've always thought it would be nice to be able to meet you - Sounds distinctly familial. Implies Segasaki is close enough to Yoh that Yoh shares his thoughts with him often. Also shows that Yoh tells Segasaki about Man-san, rather than the other way round. I'm Segasaki Mizuki, pleased to make your acquaintance. - standard, formal greeting Thank you for always taking care of Yoh. - standard greeting, literally "Yoh is always in your care" - You usually say this (for yourself) when you thank your teacher/senior/boss/important client. So, when you say this for someone else, you are claiming this person as your family, or someone in your in-group (a close friend, or at work, a junior).

S: すみません　今朝　葉が体調をくずしてしまって S: 家でゆっくり休んだ方がいいんじゃないかって S: 僕が言い聞かせたん*です S: ご迷惑をおかけしてしまってしまって すみませんでした S: I apologize, this morning, Yoh wasn't feeling well so S: I convinced* him (not to go) saying, S: "wouldn't it be better to stay at home and rest properly?" S: I sincerely apologize for the trouble this has caused you. * 言い聞かせる (translated as convinced here) this word is usually used when someone of higher standing tells/explains something to a person of a lower standing, and carries the nuance that they've managed to get the latter to accept/agree with what they say. It can also be translated as "told/persuaded/instructed/warned/admonished", and used in sentences like "I warned the kids not to run" or "The teacher told the students lying was wrong" - so that might give you a better idea of what Segasaki is implying here. I've used "convinced" here rather than "instruct" because Segasaki is, in general, speaking very tactfully to Man-san - but his meaning is still clear to anyone paying attention - Segasaki has a big enough role in Yoh's life that he not only can apologize on behalf of Yoh for not being able to fulfill the promise to Man-san, he also has a big enough say that Yoh will listen to his decisions.

M: いや、あんたがダヨの体調不良を詫びるんか M: むっちゃ身内面*するやん M: Wait, you are apologizing for Yoh being unwell (and unable to come help)? M: Isn't that a super intimate* (gesture)? *身内面する is literally "to show one's inner-circle face/side", ie the side of you that you show to your inner-circle/in-group ie your family. Hence this line reads more like "Wait, you're apologizing for Yoh?? Who are you, his family??"

Because of the emphasis on group identity in Japan, it's very common to apologize/take responsibility for the actions of another group-member, even if you had nothing to do with it. So here, Man-san has picked up on what Segasaki has been implying since the beginning - that Yoh is part of his in-group, and a very close one at that.

S: お茶目な方なんですね S: You've got such a sweet and funny personality, don't you? The word Segasaki uses here describes a person who tends to be naturally sweet and lovable, maybe a little silly but without any ulterior motive. It's a compliment in most situations - which is why Man-san gets all embarrassed - but can sometimes come across as slightly patronizing, like how calling someone "naive" can. Note that Segasaki is still being very polite here and effectively holding Man-san at arm's length, despite the seemingly friendly/open dialogue.

S: だから　そう言っていただけると　うれしいです S: So, to hear such nice words from you, makes me really glad.

S: ところで　可奈美さんはどこで　葉と　お知り合いに？ S: By the way, how did Kanami-san come to be friends with Yoh?

The whole dialogue where Segasaki responds to Man-san's fangirling basically sounds like how an idol would speak to their fans - it's very polite and uses deferential/humble verb forms to further indicate gratitude for the support, because Segasaki is answering Man-san in the context of his work. When he asks about Yoh, he switches back down to a normal speech level, but also uses her first name - Kanami-san, which whilst very charming, is totally NOT normal (with the sparkle effect and the wine, I can't help but get host club vibes from this lmao) because you only do that with people you are close to. Man-san is obviously flustered by this, and Yoh is understandably unhappy about the sudden familiarity Segasaki displays with Man-san (I personally think he's still trying to be disarmingly charming whilst he evaluates just how big a threat Man-san is🤣🤣)

S: ずいぶん飲んでると思ったら S: I thought he'd been drinking quite a bit

Again, this implies that Segasaki knows Yoh well enough to know his alcohol tolerance.

S: 寝るなら部屋いきな* S: If you're going to sleep, then go to the room alright? *いきな (ikina) - the "na" here is different from the sentence-final particle "na" we saw in Ep 3. This is short for "nasai", as in, "ikinasai", which is a polite but sharp way to say "please go (somewhere)". This sort of wording is most commonly used by parents towards young children when giving instructions like "please sit properly" or "please eat your food quietly". It's used between teachers/students, seniors/juniors etc, and sometimes amongst friends too. You absolutely should not use it with someone above you in the social hierarchy. The short version used here though, softens the tone a lot, and adds a very tender, homely feel to the sentence. Segasaki is literally coaxing Yoh to bed as a parent would a very young, sleepy but reluctant child.

M: 本当に恋人なんだなって感じです M: ようやく現実味が M: "(You two) are really a couple!" - that's the kind of feeling I get M: It's like it finally feels real

The way Segasaki literally puffs up with pride and hugs Yoh closer... (ಥ◡ಥ)

M: ダヨちゃんって彼氏の前だと　こんな甘えた*になるんですね M: なんかちょっと意外かも S: いやお酒様様ですね S: ふだんはそっけないですよ M: So Dayo-chan actually becomes so cute and affectionate* in front of his boyfriend M: I kind of didn't expect that, I think S: No, it's really all thanks to the sake S: Normally he's pretty indifferent *甘えた (amaeta) is the kansai dialect version of 甘える (amaeru), referring to the concept of amae.

Amae is a rather complex thing to explain in English and really deserves its own post. For simplicity's sake, what Man-san means here is that she's surprised that Yoh is actually able to express his desire to be treated affectionately and indulged in - something that requires a lot of trust in Segasaki and a willingness to be vulnerable in front of him.

M: おぉ、確かに。ダヨちゃん素直*じゃないからな M: あまのじゃく**っていうか　まあそういうとこあると　困っちゃいますよね M: Ohh, that's true. Cause Dayo-chan isn't able to be honest* with his feelings M: "Contrary"** is not really (the word to use) but... he does have a bit of that in him so.... (dealing with that) can be a bit of a handful don't you think? The way Man-san phrases her last line implies that she also has to deal with this side of Yoh, and by ending off with the particle "~ne", she is seeking Segasaki's agreement that they are both sort of in the same boat when it comes to that (she doesn't do this consciously though, which is why she freaks and apologizes later) *素直 (sunao - translated as honest here) is another term you'll often see when talking about feelings/relationships, and is also somewhat of a complex topic with many different possible translations, depending on context. It is closely related to amae, because in order to express your desire to be indulged or to receive affection, you first need to be able to admit to yourself that you want that.

**あまのじゃく (amanojaku - translated as contrary here) - this is a small demon from Japanese folklore, who was of an extremely contrary nature and would often mimic both humans and gods. It had the ability to see into one's heart and would then do the exact opposite of what one desired. Thus, this term is now used to describe people who intentionally go against the wishes of others, who are stubborn/unable to admit when they are wrong, or who twist themselves into a pickle/cannot be truthful about how they feel. It's not used in a complimentary way, which is why Man-san says Yoh's not quite like that, but there are some parts of him that do sort of fit the description.

S: やだな*　葉の素直になれないその不器用さが　余計にかわいいんじゃないですか S: ね？ S: That's not nice*... Yoh's inability to be truthful about his feelings - it's precisely that awkwardness that makes him even more adorable, isn't it? S: Wouldn't you say so? *Segasaki's first line "やだな (yada na - literally "this is unpleasant/I don't like that")" is not directed at Man-san, it's a form of soliloquy (which is common in Japanese), aka he's talking to himself here. We know this because it's informal and ends with the emphatic particle "~na". He then switches back to polite speech for the rest of his sentence, which is directed at Man-san. So, "that's not nice" is actually him remarking on the unpleasantness he feels after hearing Man-san describe Yoh as contrary, just as you might walk past a pile of rubbish on the street and remark, "well that's unsightly". Of course, the fact that he's actually saying this at a volume that Man-san can definitely hear and the way he sort of drawls it out, makes it clear that he definitely meant for her to know his disapproval behind the politeness of his following sentence (See what I mean by "thinly veiled politeness"?). On top of this, ending it off with a "ne?" (the same ending particle she used to seek his agreement) as he looks up right at her makes it clear - this whole sentence is a (mild) rebuke.

M: 分かったような口を利いてすんませんっした S: どうされました？ M: では私そろそろおいとまします M: I'm incredibly sorry! I spoke as if I knew everything (when in fact I knew nothing) S: What's the matter? M: Then, it is about time for me to take my leave. In response, Man-san ratches up the formal speech in both these sentences, though (as befitting her character) she pronounces it in a rather comical way (she sounds and acts like a samurai would in the movies 🤣). Also, don't mistake Segasaki's "what's the matter" as true confusion - his indirect rebuke was met with a direct (albeit over the top) apology - so here he is helping Man-san to save face, or recover the face she lost (by sounding presumptuous and by apologizing), by not calling attention to the actual apology. It is enough that she has recognized his superiority over her when it comes to understanding Yoh. This is also why later, when Man-san voluntarily offers up the information that she has a husband (and thus is not a threat to Segasaki's claim over Yoh), that Segasaki gives sort of an embarrassed but happy smile as he says "I'm sorry". That's not just "I'm sorry I can't send you to the station" (which is basic manners) but also has a little "I'm sorry for the unnecessary posturing over Yoh".

S: なんださっきから　やだ　ばっか言って S: お前はイヤイヤ期*か S: What's gotten into you? All you've been saying since just now is "no" S: Are you in your "no phase"*? *イヤイヤ期 - yes, the term he uses here specifically refers to the "no phase" of toddlers in their terrible twos. This isn't condescending though - Yoh's repeated "やだ (yada - "no" or "I don't want it")" is distinctly childlike, but this behaviour is precisely a form of amae that we talked about earlier. Yoh is asking to be indulged here, and Segasaki is responding both in word and in physical comfort.

Y: もうやだ S: だから何が Y: 俺　万さんのことすきなのに S: は？てめぇ* Y: あんたなんか嫌いだ Y: へらへらしてんじゃねぇよ Y: 何　ちゃっかり横に座ってんだよ Y: 名前で呼ぶ必要はねぇだろう Y: ふざけんな Y: 俺のこと好きなくせに Y: I don't want (this) anymore! S: So again I ask, (don't want) what? Y: I... even whilst... liking Man-san S: Ha? You little...* Y: I hate the likes of you Y: Don't freaking sit there laughing so carelessly Y: What were you doing taking the chance to sit next to her like that Y: There was no damn need to call her by her first name, right? Y: The hell are you doing! Y: When the person you like is me. When You talks about liking Man-san, he ends off with "なのに (nanoni)" which is used to show contrast the preceeding/following topic and to express frustration - except he hasn't mentioned the preceeding topic, so it isn't immediately clear what he means until he starts complaining about Segasaki's behaviour. That's why Segasaki is caught by surprise and follows up with an angry "haa?" and an emphatic *てめぇ(temee) - A very very rude way to say "you" which he first used in Ep 2 when Yoh said he was going to leave. It's not until later in Yoh's monologue, that we learn that he's upset that he feels jealousy/bad feelings towards Man-san because he's supposed to like Man-san (as a friend).

S: お前　お前それやだったんか S: お前の方が*　そう思ってたんかよ S: あ　もう最っ高 S: You... so that was what you didn't want? S: So, (all this time) it was actually you instead, who's been thinking like that? S: Oh, this is the. best.

S: よしよし S: 取られちゃって　やだったな S: There, there S: You didn't want me to be stolen away, did you?

Monologue time: Y: こんなふうに感じ��こと自体が嫌だったんだ 万さん相手に　友達なのに 女々しすぎるって 幼稚だろう　ダメだろうって　分かってるのに 気付いたら頭ん中　ぐちゃぐちゃで どうしようもなくなってた あんたのせいだ こんなふうに 囁いた��� 微笑んだり 優しく触れたりするから いつもあんな偉そうに ああだ　こうだ命令してくるくせに 突然まるで恋人*みたいに 勘違いするだろこんなの もしかして 好きって こんなみっともない気持ちのことなのか Y: The fact that I was feeling this way was specifically what I didn't like. (Feeling this way) towards Man-san, even though she's my friend... It was too petty (of me). Even though I knew, that it was childish, that I shouldn't (feel that way), Before I knew it, everything in my head was all messed up. And then I couldn't do anything about it. It's all your fault, Because you do things like this, Whispering softly to me, Smiling at me, And touching me so gently. Always so arrogantly ordering me around, Saying do this do that, and yet, You suddenly (start treating me) like a lover* Of course, I'd get the wrong idea with all of that! Could it be that, "Liking someone", Really is a feeling as unseemly and disgraceful as this? *恋人 (koibito - lover) - Lover in English can sometimes imply a more sexual than romantic relationship, but in Japanese "koibito" usually refers to "boyfriend/girlfriend" and may not imply a sexual component at all.

S: お前から抱きつくとかできんだな S: ずっと酔ってりゃいいのに S: So you actually can initiate hugs and stuff huh? S: If only you could stay drunk forever...

And we're done!! Ep 4 marks the turning point where Yoh begins the journey towards accepting and acknowledging his feelings - the concept of "sunao". It also clearly shows the preferred way these two reinforce their relationship - through "amae". Remember how in Ep 3, Yoh talked about how he felt that an "unspoken understanding" of each other's feelings was important in a relationship? Well, this is it - Yoh saying "no" and "don't want", or leaving the room to be by himself - these are all examples of amae. He doesn't want to ask for affection directly, because he can't. So he does it through amae instead, and as we can see, Segasaki really enjoys indulging in Yoh's unspoken requests for affection and gains fulfillment from that.