#hamish the second

[companion-of-the-dragonmark]

Are the Hamishes Based on Book Characters? (HTTYD)

(Special shout-out to @yv-sketches and the link to this particular fanart here. I'll never stop looking at their book drawings, they're so good!)

Well met, my fellow Dragonmarkers! Here's another article for Character Comparison series, where I try to find a plausible, even possible, comparison between show and book characters of HTTYD.

Today, we'll be diving into the Hamishes. Very well-timed, considering what I had found recently.

Shout-out to @noctusfury and his article on the Hamishes and the Mystery of the Missing Portrait(s). Very good read.

Now, for those of you who haven't watched DreamWorks Dragons, or have forgotten who these two are, they are two of several Chieftains of Berk that is seen in the Riders of Berk episode "Portrait of Hiccup as a Buff Man".

The portrait below is supposed to be that of the two Hamishes.

It must be said, of course, that there is some debate about that due to an apparent error that was made during production and that the portrait of the 1st chieftain and his son (the top left in beginning picture) was the real Hamishes, design-wise.

You'll have to read the post in the link above, since that gets into greater detail.

However, we're not here for that. We're here for who the Hamishes are and who are their closest comparison, in MY opinion.

Hamish the First was Berk's most successful and wealthiest chieftain, having been a raider and pirate and accumulated for himself a massive hoard of treasure. We can assume that his rule was a successful one based on the only description we have of this historic figure.

His son, Hamish the Second, was a Hiccup, in reality, and, after his father's death, and, presumedly after he was coronated as the new chief, he built a labyrinth of traps and riddles to protect his father's treasure, hoping that his successor, a future Hiccup, would be able to find it.

It must be noted that this young man was a rather masterful riddler and engineer — to the point that NOBODY was able to even FIND the labyrinth, much less REACH the treasure. He was also assumed to have been a friend of dragons, since it would've been impossible to build it without their help. Plus, he also knew dragon characteristics and intentionally built the labyrinth to be impossible to navigate without a dragon (you most certainly wouldn't have survived the fall without one).

Now, it is my belief that the two Hamishes — and this is rather obvious given their backstories — are based on Grimbeard the Ghastly and his son, Hiccup the Second.

Like Father, Like Son

When you think of it, everything fits — albeit, with SOME differences.

For instance, they were kings (Hiccup a prince), while the Hamishes were just chieftains — that we know of, anyway, from their VERY SPARCE backstory (come on, DreamWorks, get it together!). Hamish the First died before his son, while Grimbeard lived sometime after Hiccup (for certain - ahem! - reasons). Hamish the First had a successful reign as Chief while Grimbeard's rule as King ended literally in flames due to his crappy parenting. Hamish the Second was the one who hid his father's treasure, when in the books, Grimbeard hid his own treasure for his future Heir to find. Hamish the Second was also a genius engineer/architect, while Hiccup the Second was not, though both were excellent riddlers and writers.

And, while not proven, it is assumed that Hamish the Second wasn't your typical Viking, while Hiccup the Second, despite being a Runt, was your Viking's Viking, but with brains, beauty, and brawn (if yv-sketches' sketches are to be believed lol 😂).

That being said, there were several similarities.

1) Both Hamish the First and Grimbeard had successful reigns for the most part and were best known for their pirating and attaining massive wealth.

2) Both fathers had Runts for sons, but loved them dearly (probably at the expense of their thrones).

3) Both leaders had treasures that Vikings, greedy to acquire the hoard for themselves, tried to find but failed and even lost their lives over it. In fact, in both instances, the true locations of the hoards were hard to find in hard-to-reach places, were booby-trapped, and had dragon guardians watching over it.

4) Both Hamish the Second and Grimbeard had a LOVE for booby traps and hard riddles.

5) In both the show and in the books, it's shown how both Stoicks were greedy for the treasure, but later realize that their greatest treasure was their sons (Hiccup the Third).

6) Both pairs were Berkians and Hooligans.

7) Both Grimbeard and Hamish the First felt confined on Berk and preferred going to other places.

8) Both sons had a great love and loyalty for their fathers, and both, respectively, have shown that through their actions.

9) Both sons have had an ambiguous imprint on history that can't immediately be seen at first glance.

10) Both sons loved dragons very much.

11) Both likely met fatal ends due to schemes for the throne and the treasure. (There is no portrait of Hamish the Second and his son, so it's possible that, like Hiccup the Second, Hamish the Second could've either lost his life or was exiled because of the dragons he was friends with or simply due to the schemes of those who wanted the treasure and throne of Berk.)

12) While the TV show would've never had this in their content for viewer reasons, it would be interesting if both Hamish II and Hiccup II shared similar childhoods of being abandoned and then taken care of by dragons, only to be reunited by their fathers later.

13) Both pairs were likely succeeded after their deaths-cum-disappearances by their respective Chuckleheads as Chieftains of Berk, respectively.

The Viking portrait on the right kinda looks like Chucklehead, doesn't it? 👀

Okey-dokey, I think that's everything. Interesting how I had a point for every Wilderwest King in the books. There are 13 points for 13 kings.

Anywho, that's all for this article.

What do you guys think? Let me know if you have anything to add that I missed or needs correction.

Thank you so much for reading and for your support. It's been VERY fun writing these posts for you guys! 😁

Have a wonderful week!

Long Live the Wilderwest!

— Companion of the Dragonmark

[noctusfury]

The Story Behind the Portraits (A HTTYD/Riders of Berk Theory)

Hello, my fellow Furians! And welcome to another HTTYD article!

Today, we’ll be diving into the background and mystery behind the Portraits of the Chieftains and their Heirs!

This is a continuation, sequel, and expansion of my original post here.

We know very little about Berkian history aside from the fact that Berk has been around for 7 generations (8 if you include the Gang... maybe?) and that Berk celebrated their 400th Anniversary (more on that in my previous article here).

Other events and people in Berkian history that were mentioned were the Dragon Wars (for 300 years), the Berserker Wars (during Stoick’s father’s and grandfather’s time), the skirmishes with the Outcasts, the Rise of Alvin the Treacherous, even about the fame of Hamish the First. There are mentions of other noteworthy people that were part of Berk’s history (at least, I assume they’re part of Berkian history since Fishlegs mentions them), but to regale you of them when I haven’t watched the series in a while isn’t worth it.

However, there is one glaring absence among the row of portraits on the wall: there is no portrait of Hamish the Second and his son. Why?

Let us go through the events of the Riders of Berk episode “Portrait of Hiccup as a Buff Man” to find out, since that is where we will receive the story of Hiccup the Second.

We know that Hamish the First was a famous chieftain in Berkian history, said by Fishlegs to have been: “the most successful and wealthiest chieftain in Berk’s history, who amassed a fabulous and massive treasury.” 

However, there may be some conflict over who was actually Hamish the First, since according to the Wiki, the blonde Viking is NOT Hamish the First, but actually the first portrait on the wall, the dark-haired Viking, and that Hamish the Second was named after him.

Of course, I’m not sure if the animation error is true or not. If Hamish the First, according to the Wiki, truly was the first chieftain to take his portrait in this, then it doesn’t make sense that Hamish the Second would put the treasury spanning from the First Chieftain into a secret place several generations later. But could it be that his (the first chieftain’s) son is really Hamish the Second?

I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell. I’ll leave that to you guys, and I’ll think about it a little more. I might even write another article about this apparent discrepancy.

While it may be a stretch, it's possible that Hamish the Second switched the portraits and that the first chieftain’s portrait was actually the portrait posing as the two Hamishes (the blonds) while the true portrait of the Hamishes was put into the First Chieftain’s portrait spot.

Anyway, back to Hamish the Second’s background.

After leaving behind a literal golden and colorful legacy, Hamish the First stepped down (or died), leaving Hamish the Second to succeed him as the 5th-Generation Chieftain of Berk. After that, he hid the majority of his father’s treasure hoards and created the labyrinth and riddles for the next “hiccup” to find in the future. We don’t know the later events or accomplishments of his reign — or anything else about him, for that matter — before the succession of either Stoick’s grandfather or father.

But here’s where it’s gets even more hazy.

The Case of the Missing Portraits

If you count all of the portraits in total, there are only SIX of them, including Hiccup’s portrait! We’re missing Hamish the Second’s portrait with his son.

Where is it? What happened to it? Why is it missing?!

In the intro to the HTTYD 1 film, Hiccup stated that they have lived on Berk for “seven generations,” so whether you include his own generation as the 7th generation, or if the 7th generation is Stoick’s generation while Hiccup’s generation is the 8th is its own topic altogether.

Though you could argue that only Hamish the Second's portrait is missing, since if you HAD included that, it would've been 7 generations of portraits, including Hiccup's portrait with Stoick, and, even IF Hiccup was the 8th generation instead of the 7th, there wouldn't be an 8th portrait until the coming-of-age of Hiccup's OWN children.

We get an interesting hint by Fishlegs as they observe the line of portraits:

So according to him, Hiccup is one of the “few” who wasn’t killed by their successors  — which usually implies that regicide was somewhat commonplace. Of course, “few” could just imply more than 3-4 individuals, and it’s possible that only a few in their history were actually killed by their successor.

Another theory is that Fishlegs is talking about successors and predecessors in general throughout the Archipelago in all of Viking history.

It’s not really stated what “the elite few” is referencing, whether it’s concerning the Berkian chieftain bloodline, or is including the chieftain bloodlines of other Tribes as well.

What do you guys think?

At any rate, let’s start with Hamish the Second.

Hamish the Second

Hamish the Second is definitely a curious individual in Berkian history, shown to be a nod to Grimbeard the Ghastly's son, Hiccup the Second, in the Books. Both are friends to dragons, both were Runts, both loved their fathers despite their grievances, and both their fathers were successful pirates who collecting a massive hoard of treasures.

Since after his father's death, Hamish the Second, being a brilliant engineer and nasty trapper and riddler, used his (presumedly) secret relationship with dragons to build a massive complex to hide his father's treasure (most likely due to the infighting over the said treasure, as was seen in HTTYD Book 2) and protect it from thieves and raiders.

That was his first job and project as the 5th(?) Chieftain of Berk.

So, if Hamish II became the next Chief, what happened to him and why isn't there a portrait of himself with his own son?

Well, we simply don't know, unfortunately. There are some theories and plausibilities that could explain its disappearance.

1. Hamish, much like his Book counterpart, perished at a young age — most likely as the victim of what Fishlegs mentioned as "being one of those killed by their successor."

2. Hamish could've died as a result of an accident, disease, injuries, battle, or even a shipwreck or a storm.

3. Hamish's secret of befriending dragons could've been discovered and was either killed or exiled for "betraying Berk". (Of course, this is assuming that Berk hadn't tamed dragons back then since Hamish the First obviously had time to raid and pillage to get this massive hoard of treasure without much problems with dragon raids. And the flashback with Stoick and Hiccup in HTTYD 2 and HTTYD 3 seem to support that.)

4. Hamish could've been killed or forced to leave due to people seeking his father's treasure.

5. Hamish could've had a son but, like Thugheart from the Books, decided to overthrow Hamish II and got rid of him.

6. Hamish, not wanting to endanger his dragon friends, pulled a Valka-move and either made it look like dragons killed him, or, like what Hiccup tried to do in HTTYD 1, decided to quietly leave Berk without telling anyone.

There might be more, but those are the main ones.

Heck, perhaps even one of these two portraits IS Hamish the Second and his son, presumedly Stoick's grandfather. Who knows? 🤷‍♂️

At any rate, for any or a combination of these reasons, this resulted in a tragic early death before having an heir, or he did have an heir but died before his son came of-age, thus the portrait couldn't be made.

Considering Hamish the Second is based off of Hiccup the Second from the Books, let's just assume the chieftainship was left vacant after his disappearance, for whatever reason it may be.

Of course, if this is true, does this simply mean that the portraits got switched? If so, then we can continue with the theory that a relative of Hamish the Second, Stoick's grandfather or father, became the new Chief of Berk — assuming there wasn't an upstart before that who tried to take advantage and take the throne for himself.

This would effectively make Stoick's family a new dynasty, even if they're part of the same family. Assuming that they're not just a family of Vikings that the residents voted in and that the official line of Berk ended with Hamish the Second.

If it's TRUE that the Hamishes WERE, in fact, the FIRST and SECOND Chiefs of Berk, then that would change things a bit.

For instance, if we were to be loyal to the Books, after the deaths of Grimbeard and Hiccup the Second, and the disownment and exile of Thugheart, Chucklehead would become the new Chieftain of Berk.

Meaning that after Hamish the First's death, and Hamish the Second's early death/disappearance, Chucklehead would be the next Chieftain of Berk.

And if you look at the portraits, the one on the right looks like what Chucklehead would look like, doesn't he? 👀

Conclusion

To conclude with this rather long article, regardless of Hamish the Second's fate, or what timeline he truly hails from, he left a seat vacant, and the absence of his theoretical portrait of himself and his heir is likely due to his early death or disappearance, or, if he HAD an heir, or contenders, they might've dealt with him and got rid of the portrait.

The only reason why I didn't mention the possibility of his secret — that of his friendship with dragons — being found out, and that's what caused his downfall, is that if that had been the case, then why didn't they destroy the portrait of Hamish the First and Hamish the Second as well?

If the Hamishes were the First- and Second-Generation Chieftains, then the next chieftain would've been [insert Viking] (I'm going with "Chucklehead").

If not, and it was during Stoick's grandfather's or father's time, then it's possible that Stoick's grandfather and father were part of the continuation of the dynasty left vacant by Hamish the Second. Assuming they're not a new dynasty altogether, which is unlikely.

<><><><><>

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this article. If you have any thoughts about this mystery, or about Berkian history, please feel free to give your thoughts.

Thank you for reading. I hope you have a good weekend.

Long Live the Night!

— Noctus Fury

[autumndragon]

no because i think about that so much you don't understand

also the fact that that treasure room contained life-sized statues of game pieces??? hiccup/hamish the second literally has life-sized maces & talons pieces made of solid gold. viggo would go crazy.

viggo: you have no more gold, so surrender

hiccup, richer than ever: oh, haven't you heard?

imagine tho if one of viggo's ancestors got one upped by hamish the second in maces & talons, that would be hilarious

Did Berk ever unearth all that treasure from the Portrait of Hiccup as a Buff Man? Viggo tries to extort Berk by stealing all its gold and they're like "oh wait hold on lol"

[dirtbagdefender]

[n0isy-gh0st]

🩸ITS BLOODY BLASPHEMOUS🩸

(Sort of another take on a previous piece)

[nilla-bear]

*gulp*

[papasmistakeria]

MATTHEW IS A REGISTERED ONLINE PRIEST??? I’M GOING INSANE???

MIDNIGHT MASS FORESHADOWING??!!!11

[nymphofication]

i have to edit out the commercial breaks before i share the episode here but please have this bumper from the end of it !!

[greyhoundone]

Hartnell in fact had a longer run than Pertwee in terms of run time of all his episodes, and Troughton was shy by only four hours.

Source: Doctor Who: Whographica, Simon Guerrier, Steve O'Brien, & Ben Morris, Harper Design (2016). (Excuse the crap picture.)

sure, tom baker was dr. who for seven series straight, but in amongst his ridiculously long tenure it goes forgotten that william hartnell, patrick troughton and jon pertwee all had a significantly longer runtime than the average dr. who - pertwee because he played the part for five series, hartnell and troughton because series were a good bit longer than they were from the 70s onwards

[allthornsnopetals]

You are a Fool E.Bridergton

Description: "I'd rather lose an eye than kiss you." Oh, how the times have changed since, Y/n last exchanged words with Eloise. Perhaps, now Eloise wished to kiss the young lady as Suitors sweep the beauty off her feet.

Warning: 18+ content

Y/n rolls her eyes at the sight of her family home, wishing to be back in Paris, sipping wine and indulging in their fruity society. But she had been summoned home after years receiving education in the city of love, and flamboyance. The season is soon to begin and she were to be wed, and soon, God help the man to court Lady Delacour, and her spicy tastes may.

She grimaced, entering the familiar abode, shouldering off her cloak, and handing it to the servant.

"Y/n, how it is good to finally see you again. I see a young Lady had blossomed, let me get a better look at you." Said Edger, Y/n's eldest brother and heir to the Delacour dynasty, his arms stretched out, waiting for them to be filled.

Y/n grinned, gliding with haste to fill her brother's arms. "It is good to finally have you home!" Another familiar voice, male, called, joining the embrace.

"Hello to you, too, Evon." She chuckles, fighting for air as another and another joins the already crowded hug.

"Hamish, you're poking me." Harwin growls, jabbing his twin brother in the rib.

Due to their fighting, the elder siblings broke a part, all but one watching with amusement. "Stop it! Or I'll knock the sense out of you both, no questions asked!" Edger scolds, pointing his finger in their faces, hunched over like he were their mother.

The boys were two years younger compared to Y/n, but they had grown into young men, taller, too. But still, they beaker, unable to control themselves, even now, seconds after she had returned home. Some things just do not change.

Y/n is the second youngest with two elder brothers and two younger ones, all without a sister for almost eleven years, until now as the season of the debutantes begins, calling for the remaining Lady to be courted. She were not the only woman, for a while, that is. Her mother had kept their family in company for most of Y/n's youth, that was until her passing: childbirth, a scary and terrifying way to die, but it took her final breaths and the opportunity for another sister.

Her passing had driven her family into the dark days, she called it. The days of morning, that drew into months and almost a year before her father had sent her away, unable to bear the face that held his late-wife. Sent away for ten years, until she were eligible for marriage. Any remaining rough edges, had been smoothed over, replaced with rounder, softer and smoother ones, instead.

She were a wild one, even before the passing of her mother. Being sent away surely did her some good, if it also didn't make her miss the french and their stunning cities. Men and women were open about their desires, and encouraged others to indulge in the simplest lust or flame, man or woman, thin or thick, white or black. France is the place of love in different fonts and shapes, Y/n took it a little too literally, with her eyes wandering over from men to women, from women to men.

White, black, she ate. Heavy or light, she ate. Men or women, she ate! French men had a talent of mouth and hands, they preferred head or a work of a gentle hand, oh and how they were talented, or obsessed with ass. The men Y/n spread her wings for, always went for head, fingers, or anal, which she finds divine. The women... Oh Y/n doesn't know where to begin, they were skilled with finding the pleasure of their sexual partner, and always aroused some unknown kink.

But now, she were home and a dinner party is to be held in her return, all close to her family is to attend, and Y/n is to get ready.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Not, too tight, is it?" Asked Daisy, your hand maiden, tightening Y/n's corset. She made a small attempt to smile.

"Is my waist, not slim enough?" She asks instead of replying to her question. Daisy simply nods, loosening the reins of the fabric.

A shaky breath of short relief slips past her lips, her eyes closing with a hand smoothing over her stomach, glad the presser had subsided. Y/n had never been one for corsets, always finding them ridiculous, like a certain someone, whom her cheeks still burn for: Eloise Bridergtion, the first person to ever reject a simple peck to the cheek.

"I'd rather lose an eye than kiss you."

She grinned at the last and final memory she shared with her, so young and sure both girls and boys had cooties. Eloise allowed no one, not even her own papa to kiss her cheek or hold her hand. She was so paranoid, she wore gloves to prevent some sort of plague, she were sure it was real.

"Emerald green or sapphire blue." Daisy said, allowing Y/n to peer inside the two containers.

She wondered for some time, biting her lip as she thought. "I have jewels that would look fabulous with the blue gown," She says, gliding her fingers over the fabric. "Sapphire blue, please."

After a few moments, she was ready. Her hair flowed freely, decorated with blue flowers as a half crown. A wide diamond necklace, rounder her neck with pearl sized sapphires clipped to her ears. Daisy worked at staining her lips a shade of cherry wine before tinting her cheeks with peach blush. Lastly her slippers slipped on her feet with a dab of floral perfume on her neck, wrists and jaw.

"Your thoughts, ma'am." Said Daisy, allowing Y/n to admire her work in the vanity mirror.

"Wonderful as always. Come for me when the party begins."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Stop fiddling, you look like a fool." Violet hissed, forcing Eloise to stand up straight and still, for the most part.

"She is nervous, mama. She hasn't seen Y/n for many years, afraid she might not recognize her." Said Daphne, sipping her sparkly liquid, sure to be alcohol.

Eloise stuck her tongue out, not even trying to hide her immature behavior. "Am not. I am perfectly well, just a bit sweaty that is." She jeered, chugging a glass of liquid courage.

Of course she were nervous, jumping on the balls of her feet with anxiety. She has not seen her dear friend, Y/n for ten years, and still she wished to have allowed her to peck her cheek, goodbye. Perhaps, then she would have had a fond memory and not one filled with tears, and anger. Eloise was more than angry to see her leave, and even depressed at not snagging herself a kiss, even if it were an innocent peck on the cheek. She would have cherished it, like her books. She thought of her everyday, staring out the window, hoping to see Y/n walk to steps to her door, but that hope was just that: hope. She thought herself foolish for some time, that was until the invention to the Delacour Mansion arrived, speaking of a welcome home ball for the only daughter, Y/n Eliza Delacour.

Eloise near fainted. She were to see her friend again! To hear her voice again! To finally fill the duo to a trio, once more: her, Pen and Y/n. The golden girls back together again.

But even with such electricity, it were hard on Eloise to not pick up her skirts and run for the hills, and dunk her head in a bucket of cold ice water. For her thoughts have always been far from platonic for Lady Y/n, a girl she wished to have shared a kiss with before her departure, regretting her poorly chosen words.

"I'd rather lose an eye than kiss you."

Eloise still remembered the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, as if it were yesterday, the guilt still so fresh. She was sure she had lost a friend.

"Well, she's right there. If you are so clear minded, go say hello to her." Daphne stepped aside, allowing Eloise to a route to Y/n.

"Righty then, I will." She huffed, sticking up her nose, and marching off.

Oh what the fuck! She thought gliding her way towards Y/n, dodging bodies and frantic house guests, all bubbling with the return of the sapphire of House Delacour.

As she drew closer, the more frightened Eloise became, terror eating at her. Completely ignore Hyacinth, thundering towards her with Gregory hot on her toes. It was far too late, she was already pooling forward, her arms outstretched, lips releasing a gasp.

But the impact to the hard cool floor did not come, she lay comfortably in a set of arms, holding her steadily, combing back runaway hair. "El?" Her stomach churned, the voice so familiar her stomach had a wakened.

Eloise's throat ran dry and tight, her eyes meeting the gaze of her old friend, her cheeks burning with an embarrassed grin, curving her lips. Y/n steered a sound of surprise and excitement, pulling her into her arms.

"It is you! Thank goodness! I almost didn't recognize you. I missed you and Pen. Talking about Pen, where is she?" Y/n mutters, her breath fanning Eloise's ear.

Eloise swallows hard.

I almost didn't recognize you.

Perhaps, she did fear that Y/n would be unable to identify her, thinking she had forgotten the way she looked. But that fear slowly faded as she sank into her arms, taking in her scent with a sharp breath: Oranges, lemons and pomegranates. Oh, how she missed her. She held onto for a moment longer, until the thought of Penelope whisked her mind.

Pulling a part, Eloise avoided Y/n's gaze. As if she knew something were wrong Y/n guided both her and Eloise to the library, where no one was allowed in, making sure to shut the door behind them.

"Ellie, what happened when I was away? Why is Pen not by your side?" Once the words were out, she felt a fool for asking such things.

"There was a falling out." Said Y/n, now knowing why the two peas were not together.

Eloise bit back a tear, nodding in clarification. Y/n sighed, taking her place in her arms, stroking her hair, pulling out built up tears that welled up inside her. No golden girls, after all.

She wept, holding her so tightly, it could break Y/n ribs.

"Tell me what happened." Y/n sat them both down at the cushioned love seat near the back, hidden from anyone who were to burst in.

Eloise sniffled, her hand held into hers, a smile gracing her lips. "You were always the nurse, always caring about us before yourself. Always patching us up with gentle hands and warm arms, never taking a moment peace for yourself." She laughs wetly, wiping her tears with the back of her gloved hand.

Y/n tsk's, swatting her hand from her face, wanting her not to ruin her make up, wiping her salty river away with her finger tips, their gaze finding one another. "Don't, you'll ruin your gloves." She pulls the fabric from Eloise's hands, placing them on the small coffee table, rolling her thumb over her open palm, an old habit, too good for her to ridden.

Eloise shook her head. "No, just tell me everything about Paris and your travels. I want to know. You must have had the best time." She forced a smile, squeezing Y/n's hands, wanting to change the subject.

"Only if you inform me of what happened." Her tone was cool, almost demanding, Eloise didn't recognize the woman in front of her. Couldn't decipher who she was, yes she looked the same—almost, if it weren't for the sudden bloom of her breasts—and even acted the same, with habits she still lingered with and nature she has long but permanently made one with herself. But she were all grown up now, mature and knowing, bold and daring with her tone, her chin held high, eyes leveled and commanding.

Her heart gave a giddy squeeze, if she were to stare at her any longer, Eloise would spill all her secrets. But not tonight, only for tonight she were to explain the happenings between her and Penelope.

She began with her interest in the unmasking of Lady Whistledown, from there everything progressively got worse and impossibly worse, that Y/n had rang for tea, biscuits and all sorts of sweets, sucked away from her own ball, too invested of what she were hearing. Eloise paused, gulping as if she were nervous for the following words.

"If I don't unmask this anonymous author, everyone in town would know... They'll know that I'm," She chokes, head buried in Y/n's lap, soothed by her elegant lull, her fingers combing through her hair. "Say, no more. Pen thinks it unwise to identify, Lady Whistledown. And she won't help it's sim-

"No! I know she is Lady Whistledown— I feel it in my bones and she will ruin me if everyone knew," She lashes out of her lap, tears streaming down her face. "Knew what?" Y/n coaxes her back into her, wiping her tears away, staring down at her.

Eloise sniffles, choking, blowing her nose in a handkerchief. "If everyone knew I were lesbian. Y/n it will ruin my family, greatly."

Silence followed, Y/n frozen, staring down with her eyes agape. Eloise swallowed harshly, fear running through her. Before she could say anything, Y/n was already moving, standing, and beginning to pace, warming herself near the fire.

"Times have really never changed, here?" Y/n gaped, panic rising in her like a forest fire. "Anyone identified as queer would be ruined, even their families... I should have never returned, I should have stayed in Paris, be free to be who I wished. Eloise, would Lady Whistledown, target anyone with queer traits."

"It's Lady Whistledown, what do you think?"

"Noooo, I need to pack and leave. Run back to Paris. Fake my death?" Y/n was beginning to sound crazy to Eloise.

Why is she panicking? Unless... "You're queer..." It sounded more like a question than a statement. Y/n stomps over to her hastily, cupping her hand over her lips, hovering over her, pressing her into the cushions.

"Must you speak so loudly. And if you must know, I'm bisexual. I have been aware of my fruity tastes for a long while, even far before my trip to Paris, only there did I explode myself, if you understand what I mean." She was so close, Eloise could smell her, her scent so intoxicating.

She slowly, slid her palm away, rolling her thumb over her lips, almost relishing in the feeling. "Tell no one." Her voice, smooth and oddly sweet, in her ears.

"Tell, no one got it." Eloise nods, cheeks burning a vibrant pink. "You're blushing. El, do I make you blush?" Y/n grins, leaning closer, her breath tickling her lips.

Her breathing rose, strangling Eloise, realizing if she to move, even in the slightest her lips would meet Y/n's.

Kiss me, god just kiss me. Release me of this burden.

With no answer, Y/n lent into her shoulder, snatching the exposed skin between her lips, bodies pressed together.

"Would, you rather lose an eye than kiss me." Said Y/n, her words passing through Eloise's skin.

Eloise sucked air into her lungs, tilting Y/n's chin, her eyes meeting hers. "I did not mean what I said then. I wanted you to kiss me, take me with you, be with you. Y/n I have hungered for you, for so long," She paused, gaze taking in every detail of the beauty in her view.

"I feared you'll never return, and I'll starve without you. You're my water and my meal, I'll go parch and go hungry without you. No, I'd rather not lose an eye than kiss you." Her words hung in the gap, so true, it made Y/n's heart dance.

Without another word, she dragged her chin, her lips meeting Y/n's. Eloise moaned, fire bubbling in her stomach, a whizzing boom going off in her ears. Fireworks, booming in the distance, sparks flying. She has been waiting for this, waiting for the right kiss, and this was it. In its gentleness something exciting happened, life.

She couldn't stop the smile, glad she had chosen to keep both her eyes and kiss the girl she has been starving for, for so long. "What are you smiling about?" Asked Y/n, breaking the kiss and grinning down at her.

"Nothing, truly." Eloise giggled, thumb grazing Y/n's lips. "Kiss me again." She orders, pulling Y/n back down, slamming her lips against hers.

Hers hands wander down her back, groping Y/n's ass, rewarding her a gasp, allowing a way past her lips.

Y/n straightens herself up, gasping for air, Eloise's hands gripping her hips. "Have you had sex with a woman before?" Eloise's eyes widened, her lips plump and red. "No... Not at all."

"Have you touched yourself." Y/n removed her gloves, tossing them aside, undoing her dress. "Yes, I have." She grinned, pulling her dress over her head.

"Do you wish to have sex?" She asked, stiffing a laugh at Eloise's reaction to her almost bare body.

She didn't say a word, but nodded frantically, working on her own dress, sitting up to allow Y/n to pull it off her. Once removed, their lips met again, a bit sloppily but Eloise wasn't really taking her time, to high on the moment.

Eloise desperately worked at Y/n's corset, wanting it off as Y/n took her time, knowing the thread of corset with her eyes closed. "Slow down, El. I'm going nowhere." She pants against her lips, noting her lids were already lust shot.

"Calm yourself." She tosses her corset before doing the same to Eloise's. Chest bare for only a minute, before Eloise latches her lips to her left nipple, sucking and licking with her right accompanied by her hand, kneading the flesh.

Rolling her eyes back, her head slowly fell back, moans spilling from her lips. Her hand lingered past her panties, fingers passing her folds, working at her pussy, fucking herself. Biting on her lip, she focuses on pleasing herself, rolling her hips in her own hand, mouth agape. Eloise detaches herself from her breasts, allowing her to fall back, watching her fuck herself, legs spread, gaze locked on hers.

"Come here."

She listens and crawls over to her, watching Y/n remove her digest from her cunt, wet and glossy. "Open," She orders, satisfied as Eloise takes her fingers into her mouth, moaning and sucking on them. "Drink me." She coos, pulling Eloise closer, pulling both their panties off, lining their cunts together before dragging her fingers out of her mouth.

"Grind your pretty little cunt on mine, it will make you feel good." She did not have to do much convincing, for it only took Eloise but a moment to adjust herself, starting to rock her hips.

"Like that?" She asks, moving slowly. "Just a bit to the le-"

She threw her head back, Eloise resting her head on her shoulder, moaning as she gripped her ass, speeding up her pace. Y/n held her close, rocking her hips against hers, rubbing their sex together, in a tangle of limbs. Humping harder and harder, Eloise was cutting it close to the edge but Y/n was just getting started, if the two were to both wish to orgasm tonight, it will be a long night indeed.

[fanthropology]

I love how Matthew falls for Diana approximately seconds after meeting her. Literally, he catches the book and starts flirting with her immediately.

He follows her to a coffee shop and justifies it by telling himself he has to warn her about how interested everyone’s going to be in how she got 482, and when she’s like “are you threatening me?” he’s genuinely confused and distressed, because he doesn’t understand why he is so pressed about being helpful to her.

Then he shows up in the library sitting directly opposite her spot, having persuaded himself she needs to be protected from the other creatures, but actually, he’s there for another opportunity to flirt with her. He’s not silently watching over her, he is sitting as close as he can to her favorite spot, specifically so she has to make eye contact with him and he can talk to her

He breaks into her apartment to look for the book (doing a fairly lazy job), then stalks her to the boathouse and his first question is about her safety. Then he remembers what he’s there for and asks about the book. The picking up and sniffing of her jacket? You don’t sniff people’s clothes unless you’re already interested in them.

Then he runs away to Hamish the second he realizes he’s into her, specifically so Hamish can tell him to leave her alone, so then he can persuade Hamish he has to see Diana because she’ll only be safe if he gets the book from her so no one comes after her. This is classic persuade someone else to justify it to yourself.

And the second he gets back, he sees that Diana is looking for him, and he is 100% a goner from that moment. Logic has come to matter to him less and less over the course of the first two episodes.

When she goes looking for him, he completely loses his grip on reality. He starts saying nonsensical things and making irrational decisions at that point, in order to justify himself. He shows up the next day having cased the library to be sure it’s full of creatures so that he can pretend he’s not asking her out on a day trip to his historic mansion to try to impress her, no she has to go with him for her safety. He decides she has to leave Oxford, with him, and go meet his mother, a vampire who famously hates witches, on an extended trip in a historic castle (gotta up the ante from mansion).

Literally no one could have been after them and Matthew would have still made ridiculous irrational decisions in order to be with Diana. I love that for him. He loses his mind very early on, and he does not ever get it back. Sanity? He doesn’t know her.

[elodieunderglass]

Re: your tags on the fungus and petrochemicals:

Excuse me, bramble wine? That sounds absolutely divine, how lucky you are! I hope you enjoyed it (and that I get to make/taste this one day)

(In reference to this post: https://www.tumblr.com/elodieunderglass/757191605386084352/oh-heavens-im-sorry-i-dont-remember-this-at I had to apologise for not being especially coherent in my response to an extraordinarily kind and friendly person as I was several days into a group camping, and had touched too much grass to be coherent, setting aside the bramble wine.)

The camping expedition consisted of seven+ families with children who all know each other extremely well and are growing up in a feral pack together that averages about 30 members. The pack forms at the conjunction of any five children, and therefore often exists in multiple places at once; a mini version can be assembled from as few as two of the core families, but when you have seven of the core, the pack becomes its own entity. For example, exhibiting a fascinating reflection of the hunting behavior of ancestral humans, ten of them together once managed to stalk, hunt and bring down a dragon costume performer at a local festival and sit on it in a few seconds when the adults weren’t looking. They had the light of the hunt in their eyes and they were GOING to have that dragon. Anyway this is not conducive to clear and accurate science communication at the best of times, especially since the usual reason that the pack manages to slip the leash is because the grownups are ordering pints.

For this camping expedition there was one family I didn’t know, but they live on a boat and we could vibe. They were the ones who brought the bramble wine. They were the people who sometimes evolve into Whiskey Hamishes. The bramble wine was made from foraged blackberries, and had been stored in a box on the roof of the boat (so essentially: outside) since 2019. The bottles were covered in rotten leaves and spiderwebs. This is not how you usually treat wine. Even home-brew. Even hedgerow. This is a recipe for converting free materials into as much alcohol as possible without interference.

The wine itself was similar to dark port, very heavy and thick, headachy around the edges. The alcohol percentage was estimated in the double digits. It is hard to explain but the dark black-purple color had no red in it. It was like ink.

Then, after coming into your campsite and kicking most of the party around lightly, it kissed you on the mouth one last time with a mouthful of blackberries and wandered off.

I’ve never had a hangover (hobbit liver) but I didn’t spend much time in dalliance with it. a lot of dads were pretty flat the next morning, but, to be completely fair to them, they DID rouse themselves to take the kids swimming in the river, where they (the dads) laid around recovering like beautiful crocodiles. Thus, all they had to do was lie in the cool mud while children rolled over them like puppies.

Bramble wine!

[whambamthankyouham1]

I JUST SCREAMED

This is the guy they sent to replace Monsignor?!

[contact-guy]

(from Study in Scarlet, before Watson meets Holmes) JOHN HAMISH WATSON YOU ARE SUCH A LIAR YOU ARE ABOUT TO SPEND THE NEXT THREE DECADES FOLLOWING A MADMAN INTO DANGEROUS SITUATIONS WITHOUT ASKING QUESTIONS AND YOU’LL LOVE EVERY SECOND

[sandcobangevent]

The touch of your hand (says you'll catch me)

By @abstractfrog and CeruleanJen

John’s heart leaves a visible, viscous trail upon everything he comes into contact with.

It oozes love.

Sherlock had never understood the saying of someone “wearing their heart on their sleeve” until he’d met Doctor John Hamish Watson and the constant, sticky stain of affection that he wore day in, day out. John’s heart oozes with his feelings for the world around him and the people who live in it.

It had been unsettling when they’d first met, just how messy John had been with it all – mess wasn’t something that Sherlock had been accustomed to.

Now, he couldn’t picture a life without it.

Sherlock’s childhood had been almost clinically clean. His parents, when they had been there, barely left a smudge. They’d never really planned on a second child, not when their first was already due to start attending boarding school and their careers were taking off so well. They’d loved him in their own way, but it had been a sterile love to match their sterile lives.

His brother had been a little messier than their parents - flecks of affection in the encouraging noises made when Sherlock would enthuse about his latest interests, fingerprint stains on the letters he’d write home, the lightest impression of hands when he awkwardly hugged him because Sherlock’s blanket wasn’t working well enough.

But Mycroft was usually away at boarding school and then university, and he’d always been touch-averse even without learning their parents’ hands-off form of love. He didn’t know how to leave a mark that would last.

John, by contrast, doesn’t seem able to stop leaving marks.

Even the lightest touch – a brush of fingers against Sherlock’s shoulder as he passes behind, a gentle shoulder bump as they both try to make use of their tiny, messy kitchen – leaves visible signs, ones that take forever to wash away.

Nowadays, it’s rare for Sherlock to look in the mirror and find himself unblemished. He’s unsure when exactly his attitude towards it altered from resigned acceptance to relieved fondness, but alter it did, and a day where he doesn’t bear some mark of John’s affection for him leaves him more unsettled than he ever felt with the marks before.

-

School had been an often-overwhelming experience for Sherlock. The other children had been messy - and it had been a type of mess that was too much for him to cope with. It was loud, and sharp, as they yelled and shoved and teased . It had hurt, dark marks seeming like mud and bruises, and had been so much that he’d recoiled from it, appalled. He’d pulled away, avoided any contact and blocked out the harsh words about how he didn’t fit in with their chaos.

Better for him to remain spotless than for him to suffer the oil spill of everyone else’s emotions.

That avoidance of others had carried on into his adult years – he’d kept his own company, a barrier between himself and the rest of the world that either erupted with emotion or avoided him in turn.

So when he’d met John Watson, taken in the emotion that had oozed from his chest like Sherlock’s own stab wound oozed blood, he’d been certain that Stamford’s introduction had been pointless. Why would he want to spend time in the same place as a person so messy? When being sullied by the other’s feelings would be both unavoidable and likely to burn?

Except, to his shock, the smudge John had left across the surgical thread as he stitched up his wound… hadn’t hurt. It was warm, and smooth, little of it that there was. It had been strangely comforting, like a patch of sunlight dappling across his skin, warming him. It almost felt as though the pain had been lessened by this substance, had been soothed as though it were aloe vera over a sunburn.

Very fitting, for a doctor.

-

The Holmes’ house - never quite a home - was minimalist in decor, and was spotless thanks to the dedicated efforts of the cleaning services his parents employed. The marble floors sparkled, the hardwood furniture gleamed. It gave the impression of a showroom, more than the household of a family with two boys.

The fridge in their kitchen – top of the range, like all the other appliances – had shown only Sherlock’s reflection staring back at him when he looked at it. It’s metallic surface bare of any signs about the family who used it. A sign in and of itself.

It was bright, and cold, and clean.

The fridge at 221B is barely visible underneath the myriad magnets and photographs scattered across it, each item glistening with John’s affection.

The small “I <3 Scotland” magnet John bought from the one souvenir shop on Fjara is sticky across the cartoon heart, and sat at an odd angle to fit one corner of the takeaway menu it held up.

Towards the centre of the fridge, the photograph of Sherlock and John taken by Mariana during a trip to the Science Museum bears countless fingerprints from where John held its corners, fussing over the best placement for it amongst the others.

The letters and artwork from listeners, each one cherished as if it were a priceless artefact, all drip with the stain of John’s love, but remain somehow intact despite it. Looking at the mess brings a glow of warmth to Sherlock’s chest.

-

John’s affection spreads outward from his chest in a non-stop flow. It’s truly unsurprising how he ends up leaving trails on everything.

It seeps across his abdomen and over his arms when he offers Sherlock a grounding hug, making them even better. The impression of John’s hold on him remains long after the man has let go, a phantom weight that continues to provide comfort even hours after the event.

On particularly hard days, Sherlock will stare at his reflection afterwards, studying the definition in the damp silhouette of John’s care over his chest, across his shoulders, and accept the empirical evidence that he is loved.

It gathers over his palms, leaving warm impressions of his hands over everything he picks up. When Mariana is sick, John spends hours in their kitchen, making her bowls of soup. As he does, he leaves his fingerprints across the wooden spoon and the pot handle, decorates the sides of the bowl as he holds it steady and carries it downstairs.

They appear - and remain - on the various gifts he provides. The prints across Sherlock’s ear defenders are a permanent stain, a wonderful contrast to his engraved initials and an extra layer of noise protection.

The same can be said for his birthday presents a year later - the violin case has John’s thumbprint across a corner of the silver plaque, and Sherlock has a full set of his prints from the birthday card that accompanied it, kept safe in a drawer in his room.

Whenever he holds Sherlock’s hands between his own, tackling the chill in the air and the detective’s horrific blood circulation, Sherlock can’t tell whether they are warmed more by John’s body heat or the ooze that is left behind when he eventually lets go. An insulating warmth, protecting him as much as John himself does.

It even soaks into his voice as he talks to the listeners during cases and mailbags, chatting away as though they’re his friends. He has read the comments from the Discord, sees that - despite their teasing - the fans love John just as fiercely as he loves them, and they know that he does, too.

That same warmth appears in John’s tone as he chatters about everything and nothing when Sherlock desperately needs the comfort of a calm, steady voice to cling to, an anchor in the storm. On days where touch is too painful for Sherlock to accept, John is still able to stain him in a quiet love, a balm that’s both weightless and all-encompassing.

The fact that he’s able to do so, even despite his own nature, still takes Sherlock’s breath away.

He is naturally tactile person, especially with those he’s close to. He leans into their space, dripping, without conscious thought. Makes eye contact, reaches out, touches.

And yet he never pushes Sherlock. Never assumes he has the right to contact, never forces it. If anything, he seems to war between his deep-seated need for contact versus an unwillingness to cause unwanted stains.

And the wants of others triumph, every time.

He’d sooner drip in solitude, or fight back the seeping fluid that stems from his too-large heart, than leave a single spot on a person if there’s a chance it could harm them.

It’s that complete control, almost self-destructive at times, that removes the same pain other people’s emotions generally cause. That allows Sherlock the certainty that John’s love would never harm, only heal.

John Watson’s heart oozes love, and Sherlock Holmes wishes to be drowned in it for the rest of his life.

[muiitoloko]

Lessons in Control

Summary: Harry Hart thought he had everything under control: his career, his reputation, his carefully curated life. Then she walked away, and suddenly, control meant nothing.

Pairing: Professor! Harry Hart × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content.

Author's Notes: I was still in doubt about whether I would create a new chapter for this story. But inspiration struck, and I wrote it. I hope you like it.

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

The pizza place was lively, the kind with checkered tablecloths and walls covered in football memorabilia. The scent of fresh dough, bubbling cheese, and oregano filled the air as you sat across from Eggsy and Roxy, trying your best to focus on their conversation.

Eggsy was going on about his football team, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he spoke.

“So, yeah, our coach—Hamish—but everyone calls ‘im Merlin, right?” Eggsy said between bites of pizza, waving a hand for emphasis. “Man’s an absolute madman. Thinks screamin’ at us for ninety minutes straight is the best way to motivate us. Nearly took my bloody head off last week when I missed a goal in practice.”

Roxy snorted. “Maybe don’t miss, then.”

Eggsy scowled, flicking a piece of crust at her.

You laughed—at least, you tried to—but your mind was still tangled in what had happened earlier. In him.

Harry fucking Hart.

A bastard. A bastard who knew exactly how to play the part of a gentleman when it suited him, who dressed himself up in silk ties and tailored suits and wielded his precise diction like a weapon, fooling everyone into believing he was untouchable, unshakable.

But you knew better.

You knew the filth that dripped from his mouth when he had you pinned against his desk, knew the way his composure cracked when he had your thighs wrapped around his waist, when he was whispering sin against your skin.

You had been so in love with him when this started. So fucking in love. And now? Now you didn’t even know how you’d managed to seduce him in the first place. Why you? Why did you, of all women, get to be his dirty little secret?

Why did you stay in the dark, in locked classrooms and empty hallways, while he paraded around with Eleanor fucking Hughes—the math teacher with her tight pencil skirts and her perfect hair, the one everyone seemed to adore?

Your stomach twisted at the thought, a sharp, bitter pang settling in your chest. Could you blame him? He had always made it clear that this—whatever this was—was casual. No promises. No expectations.

But he could have a girlfriend, and you couldn’t even go out for pizza with friends without him getting possessive?

Bastard.

You stabbed your fork into your slice with a little too much force.

“You alright there?” Roxy asked, arching a brow.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Eggsy smirked, leaning in slightly. “Sure about that, love? ‘Cause you’ve been real quiet since we got here.”

You forced a smile, shoving the irritation deep down. “Just tired.”

Eggsy didn’t look convinced, but thankfully, he let it go, launching back into another story about how Merlin had nearly given one of his teammates a heart attack with his motivational speeches.

You tried to focus.

Tried to listen.

But your mind kept replaying the way Harry had looked at you earlier—like he owned you, like the thought of you even considering someone else was unacceptable.

Like he could fuck the math teacher in the light of day, but the idea of you being seen with Eggsy was his breaking point.

And God help you, the worst part?

You liked it.

You liked the way his grip had tightened on your wrists, the way his voice had turned sharp, dangerous, filled with quiet, seething possession.

You exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through your hair.

You needed to get out of your own head.

Needed to stop thinking about him.

The low hum of the car engine was the only sound between them as Harry pulled up in front of Eleanor’s house. The evening was crisp, the streetlamps casting a dim glow over the quiet neighborhood. Eleanor turned to him, a small, expectant smile on her lips.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “It’s been a long day. I could make us some tea.”

Harry returned her smile, polite but distant, his fingers flexing slightly on the steering wheel. “I appreciate the offer, Eleanor,” he murmured smoothly, “but I have some lesson plans to go over for the morning.”

Eleanor chuckled, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss against his lips. It was sweet—too sweet. Nothing like the hungry, bruising kisses he had stolen behind locked doors, fingers tangled in hair, teeth sinking into flushed skin.

She pulled back, eyes searching his. “Alright,” she relented with a sigh, accepting his answer without suspicion. “Don’t work too hard.”

Harry gave a faint chuckle. “It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

She smiled again, oblivious, and stepped out of the car, her heels clicking against the pavement as she made her way up the short walkway. He watched as she unlocked the door, stepping inside without hesitation. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Harry exhaled, long and slow, the weight of the evening settling over him like a thick fog.

There were no lesson plans.

Harry had always been meticulous in his work, planning days in advance, ensuring everything was in order before the week had even begun. He wasn’t the type to leave things for the last minute, and Eleanor knew that. But she didn’t question it. She never questioned anything.

Because, in the grand scheme of things, Eleanor was safe. She was polished, respectable, someone he could be seen with without scandal. If they were caught together, no one would bat an eye. No one would whisper behind their hands or murmur about impropriety in the halls.

But you?

You were a fucking risk.

A risk he shouldn’t have taken, a temptation he should have ignored. And yet, here he was, gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make his knuckles ache, jaw locked as his mind wandered—unbidden, unwilling—to you.

What are you doing right now? Were you still out with Eggsy? Still laughing at his stupid jokes, letting him inch closer, letting him touch you?

Or worse—had you gone home with him? Were you rolling around in his sheets, letting that boy—that unworthy, insufferable little boy—put his hands on you? Harry clenched his teeth, his grip tightening further.

He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care.

You were a good fuck and that was it. A bright, insatiable little thing who bit the end of her pen when she was concentrating too hard, who looked up at him with wide, curious eyes, like a fucking doe—innocent, eager, utterly intoxicating.

You weren't the first student to be infatuated with him, but you were the first he broke the rules for.

The first he had bent over his desk, his hand fisted in your hair as he fucked you raw, telling you through gritted teeth that you belonged to him, that you would never get this—him—from anyone else.

It was supposed to be a fling, something to sink his frustrations into. No attachments, no expectations.

Eleanor was for that; she was stability, someone he could keep without scrutiny or judgment, someone who would not tarnish his image if they were caught together.

But you?

You were a goddamn disaster waiting to happen.

And still, still, he wanted you.

The car was silent save for the sound of his own breathing, slow and measured, as he tried to force you from his mind, tried to picture Eleanor instead, tried to convince himself that he preferred the softness of her lips over the way your mouth felt around his cock.

Tried to convince himself that he enjoyed her sweet little kisses more than the way you moaned his name when he had you pinned against the chalkboard, when he had his fingers buried deep inside you, when he was making you come so hard you couldn’t even remember your own damn name.

Harry inhaled sharply, his self-control hanging by a thread.

Fucking hell.

With a frustrated groan, he ran a hand over his face before shifting the car into drive, tearing away from Eleanor’s house without a second glance.

This was getting dangerous because, for the first time since this started, he wasn't entirely sure if he could stop.

The drive home was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the engine and the occasional flick of the turn signal. The streets of London were winding down for the night, the city settling into the lull between evening and midnight. Harry barely noticed any of it. His mind was elsewhere—on you, on your defiant little smirk, on the way your lips had parted in stunned silence when he’d pressed you against that door.

God, he should have fucked you right then and there.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his jaw clenching as the thought burned through him. He should have taken you apart, should have made sure you were dripping with him before he sent you off with Unwin. 

Let you squirm through dinner, let the boy sit across from you none the wiser while you felt Harry’s cum trickling down your thighs, soaking through your knickers.

His fingers tapped against the leather of the steering wheel as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

The bastard would have thought he had a chance.

You would have let him.

And that was what gnawed at Harry the most—the idea that you could sit across from Unwin, pretending to entertain his insipid little jokes, while the taste of Harry was still on your tongue.

He turned down his street, his movements precise, controlled. The garage door lifted as he pulled in, the space swallowing him whole as he killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening.

Harry sighed, pressing his fingers against his temples before reaching into his pocket for his phone. He scrolled absently through his contacts until he found your name, his thumb hovering over it.

There wasn't much to read—there never was. You weren't allowed to text him first. That was a rule. He dictated the terms, and you obeyed.

Each message was an order, sharp and to the point, laced with authority that made your breath hitch and your thighs clench.

Wear the blue skirt tomorrow. No knickers.

Front row. Legs open.

Come to my office after class. Lock the door.

Be a good girl, and I might let you come this time.

And you always listened.

Harry rested his head against the leather seat, exhaling slowly as memories unfurled in his mind, thick and intoxicating.

Like that time you sat in the front row, your legs parted just enough for him to catch a teasing glimpse of bare, glistening skin between your thighs. You had done exactly as he told you—no knickers, no hesitation. Just your pretty little cunt on full display, hidden only by the angle of the desks, the positioning of your legs, and your own nerve.

He had nearly lost his composure that day.

He had stood before the class, lecturing with the same meticulous control he always wielded, while you shifted slightly in your seat, just enough for him to see the slick shine of arousal gathering between your folds.

You were a menace. A wicked little thing who had learned far too well how to play his game.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, jaw clenched as he remembered what happened after.

The moment the lecture ended, he had you in his office, pressed against his desk before the door had even fully shut. His fingers had been rough, his grip bruising as he shoved your skirt up, exposing you completely.

“You really are a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he had murmured, dragging a single finger through your slick folds, his touch featherlight, teasing. “Coming to class like this… sitting there, pretending to take notes while you’re dripping for me.”

You had whimpered, your hips twitching toward his hand, desperate for more. But Harry was nothing if not cruel when he wanted to be.

“Tell me, darling,” he had continued, leaning down, lips ghosting over your jaw. “Was it hard to focus? Knowing I was watching? Did you like knowing you had my attention while I lectured about Victorian literature, hmm? Knowing I was thinking about this—” He slid two fingers into you without warning, swallowing your strangled gasp with a satisfied hum. “—instead of the class?”

You had nodded frantically, gripping his sleeves, your breath coming in sharp, stuttered gasps as he pumped his fingers inside you, curling them just right.

Harry had smiled then, dark and pleased. “Good girl,” he had praised, thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. “Such an eager little thing. Do you know how hard it was for me to keep talking? To keep my hands off you?” His voice had lowered, thick with promise. “I should punish you for being such a distraction.”

You had barely been able to form words, your body too strung out, too lost in the pleasure he was coaxing from you.

But time had been cruel.

There had been another class waiting, another group of students expecting their polished, dignified professor to conduct himself with the same decorum he always did. So he was forced to pull away, straighten his tie, adjust his glasses, and leave you there, panting and trembling, so fucking close to the edge that it had almost been cruel. Almost.

Harry exhaled sharply, forcing the memory back into the recesses of his mind, back into the place where he kept all the things he shouldn’t want, shouldn’t crave. He glanced down at his phone again, thumb hovering over your name.

Do it, a voice in his head whispered. Call her. Text her. Tell her to leave that idiot boy and come to you instead.

His jaw tightened.

No.

You needed to learn, to understand that your choices had consequences.

Still, he let himself read through the messages one last time, let himself revel in the power he had over you.

Tomorrow, he decided, you would pay for tonight. He didn't know how yet, but by the time he was done with you, you would remember exactly who you belonged to.

The next morning, you walked into Professor Hart’s literature class with a deliberate, calculated decision—you weren’t going to acknowledge him.

You were tired of his double standards, of the way he expected you to follow his every whim while he paraded around with Eleanor fucking Hughes like he was some untouchable gentleman. You had spent last night seething, replaying his words over and over, the way he had pinned you against that door, the way he had nearly dared you to prove him wrong.

And you had made a choice.

If he wanted to play indifferent, so would you.

So instead of taking your usual seat near the front, where he could watch you, where you could feel the weight of his gaze burning into you, you slid into the back row beside Eggsy and Roxy, dropping your bag onto the desk with a little more force than necessary.

The classroom slowly filled, the usual murmurs of students settling in, the scrape of chairs against the old wooden floor, the rustle of pages turning in thick, worn books. And then—him.

Harry entered the room with his usual unshakeable composure, his suit crisp, his glasses perfectly in place, and a book tucked under his arm. He didn't look at you, didn't pause; he merely walked to the desk at the front of the class, set his things down, and picked up the chalk.

“Good morning,” he said smoothly, his voice effortlessly commanding. “Open your books to page 214. Today, we will continue our discussion of the works of Thomas Hardy.” His voice was steady, as composed as ever, but you saw a flicker of hesitation when his gaze swept over the classroom and landed on the empty seat at the front, and then on you.

In the back, with Eggsy.

You turned your attention to your book, pretending not to notice.

Harry didn’t react, at least not outwardly. He merely picked up his copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, flipping it open with one hand while adjusting his glasses with the other. He started reading; his voice was smooth and velvety, filling the space between the old stone walls.

At first, you listened.

But then Eggsy leaned over, whispering, “Oi, reckon he’s mad?”

You smirked. “I don’t care.”

Roxy snorted softly, covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes flicking toward the front of the room as if checking to see if Harry had noticed.

And of course, he had.

You felt his gaze cut toward you like a blade, his jaw tightening slightly as he turned the page.

He didn't stop reading, didn't pause, but his grip on the book was a little tighter than before. You ignored it, leaning in as Eggsy muttered something else under his breath, something that made Roxy stifle another laugh.

It was stupid, really. Just quiet, harmless whispers, the kind every student engages in during a lecture that stretches on too long, but you knew exactly what you were doing.

And so did Harry.

It was in the way his voice slowed just a fraction, in the way he turned the page with more force than necessary, in the way his fingers drummed against the desk before he finally snapped the book shut; the room went silent.

You looked up.

Harry’s gaze was already on you. “Miss [Last Name],” he said smoothly, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Since you seem to have found an entirely separate conversation far more engaging than our discussion, perhaps you’d like to share your thoughts with the class?”

A flicker of satisfaction curled in your chest at the irritation lurking beneath his polished tone.

You smiled, feigning innocence. “I was just asking Eggsy a question about the text, Professor.”

Harry arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Is that so?”

You nodded.

“Then, by all means,” he continued, tone deceptively mild, “why don’t you come up and read the next passage aloud for the class?”

Your stomach twisted, but you forced your expression to remain neutral. You knew what he was doing.

He wanted to reestablish control, to remind you that no matter what had happened the night before, no matter what power play you thought you were engaging in now, he was still the one in charge. You hesitated, gripping the edges of your book a little tighter.

Harry’s lips twitched, but there was no amusement in his expression. “Come now, don’t keep us waiting.”

For a fleeting moment, you considered saying no. You considered testing just how far he would let you push before he snapped, but you knew the answer. Not far. Not in front of the entire class. Not when he was still Professor Hart to everyone else.

So, slowly, deliberately, you stood, smoothing your skirt before making your way to the front of the room. You felt every pair of eyes on you; you felt Harry's gaze most intensely.

When you reached the desk, he turned his book toward you, tapping a single, long finger against the page.

“Start here,” he instructed, his voice low, controlled.

You met his gaze, tilting your chin up slightly in defiance. And then you began to read. Your voice was steady, controlled, each word crisp as you made your way through the passage. But you felt it—him—standing just a little too close, his presence like a shadow curling around the edges of your composure.

You knew what he was doing, knew that this was a warning, but it didn't matter. Because this time, you weren't backing down. When you reached the end of the passage, you shut the book gently, placing it back on the desk.

Harry regarded you for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. “Well done,” he murmured.

You turned on your heel and walked back to your seat without another word. And though he resumed the lecture as if nothing had happened, you knew—oh, you knew—this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. Harry continued discussing Tess of the d’Urbervilles, his voice smooth and unwavering, but you weren’t really listening. Not fully. Your mind was still tangled in the tension crackling between you, in the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when he thought no one would notice.

You did your best to feign indifference, to focus on your notes, but it was impossible to ignore the way your body still thrummed with adrenaline, with the aftershocks of the power play unfolding between you.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and students began gathering their things, the scrape of chairs against the wooden floor filling the room.

“Right,” Harry said, placing his book down and straightening his cuffs with practiced ease. “Before you leave, I expect a two-page analysis on the themes we discussed today. Due next class. No exceptions.”

A chorus of groans rippled through the room, but Harry simply raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Complaints will not change the assignment,” he said smoothly, a hint of dry amusement lacing his voice. “If you’d all paid as much attention as Miss [Last Name] has today, perhaps it wouldn’t feel so daunting.”

Your jaw clenched at the pointed remark, but you didn’t react. You simply slung your bag over your shoulder, refusing to look at him as you turned to Roxy.

She arched a brow. “What do you have now?”

“Art history,” you muttered, adjusting the strap of your bag.

Roxy hummed in acknowledgment, stepping toward the door. “Walk with me, then. I’ve got history in the same wing.”

You nodded, falling into step beside her, but before you could make it to the exit, Harry’s voice stopped you cold.

“Miss [Last Name]. Stay behind for a moment.”

You stilled, heart skipping a beat, but you forced yourself to school your expression into one of mild disinterest.

Roxy shot you a look—one part concerned, one part intrigued—but didn’t press. “I’ll wait for you outside,” she murmured, giving your arm a light squeeze before disappearing into the hallway.

The last few students trickled out, and when the door finally shut, Harry moved slowly, deliberately.

You watched as he strode toward the door, turning the lock with an audible click. The sound sent a sharp thrill through you, but you ignored it, tightening your grip on your bag as he turned back around. He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his expression unreadable.

The silence in the empty lecture hall was thick, stretching between you and Harry like an invisible thread pulled taut. He hadn’t moved from where he leaned against his desk, one ankle casually crossed over the other, his arms still folded across his broad chest. His hazel eyes—sharp, knowing—studied you, waiting.

You knew what he was about to ask.

Why did you sit in the back today?

And maybe, under different circumstances, you would’ve let him ask. Maybe you would’ve played coy, shrugged, let him stew in the fact that his precious control wasn’t as ironclad as he liked to believe.

But not today.

Not when you were already hanging by a thread, the weight of last night, of everything, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

So before he could open his mouth, before he could so much as tilt his head in that quietly inquisitive way of his, you spoke first.

“I think we should end this.”

Harry went very still. For a moment, he just blinked at you, as if he hadn’t quite processed the words, as if they were foreign, impossible. Then, slowly, he scoffed, the sound low and incredulous. His lips curled slightly, not quite a smirk, not quite anything, just amusement laced with something darker, something sharp.

“One evening with the Unwin boy and you’re already thinking about ending things?” he drawled, his voice smooth as ever, but there was something off about it. Something deliberate. Calculated.

Like he was testing you, like he didn’t believe you.

You exhaled sharply, tightening your grip on the strap of your bag. “This isn’t about Eggsy.”

Harry hummed, unconvinced. He pushed off the desk, stepping toward you with slow, measured ease, his hands slipping into his trouser pockets. The air between you shifted, charged, the weight of his presence pressing down on you in that way that always left you breathless.

“No?” he murmured, tilting his head just slightly. “So, what is it about, then?”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, even as heat coiled in your stomach, even as every instinct screamed at you to back down, to let him have his way. But you couldn’t—not this time.

“I’m tired, Harry,” you admitted, voice quieter now, the fight in you dimming just a little. “I’m tired of—of feeling like this. Like I don’t know where I stand with you.” You shook your head, exhaling shakily. “I just—” You hesitated, your fingers clenching around the strap of your bag. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Harry was silent.

His expression didn’t change, not much. His jaw ticked slightly, barely noticeable, but you caught it. The way his lips pressed together, the way his fingers flexed just once before curling into his pockets again.

He was thinking. Calculating.

Then—finally—he exhaled, long and slow, before shaking his head, almost in amusement. “You don’t think you can do this anymore,” he repeated, voice laced with quiet mockery.

You bristled slightly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m being ridiculous.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly, and his lips curved—just barely, just enough to make your stomach twist with irritation. “Forgive me, darling,” he murmured, voice laced with faux sincerity. “It’s just… I wasn’t aware we were discussing this relationship with such finality. And here I thought you quite enjoyed yourself in my company.”

Your jaw clenched. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Harry, I just—I need more than this.”

For the first time, something flickered across his face, something almost imperceptible, but it was there. He stepped closer, his presence warm, heavy, overwhelming.

“More than this?” he murmured, his voice dipping into something softer, something dangerous. His fingers brushed your wrist, barely a touch, but it was enough to send a shiver up your spine. “Tell me, love, what exactly is it that you need more of?”

You hated how easily he did this. How effortlessly he unraveled you with just a look, just a touch.

“Something real,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s expression didn’t change. But you saw the way his throat worked, the way his breath hitched—so subtly, so quickly, you might have missed it if you didn’t know him as well as you did.

Then, just as quickly, he exhaled again, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle, stepping back, as if putting distance between you would steady him.

“You knew what this was from the beginning,” he reminded you, his voice smooth, practiced. “No expectations. No promises.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Right,” you murmured. “And yet, I’m the one who gets scolded for going out with a friend. I’m the one who gets pinned against doors and lectured about leading people on.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

You scoffed. “And yet, you can take Professor Hughes out in broad daylight, and that’s fine, isn’t it?”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence.

Harry didn't move, didn't speak, and that told you everything you needed to know.

You exhaled, stepping back. “That’s what I thought.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t stop you as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, your fingers trembling slightly.

“This is over, Harry,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.”

And then, without waiting for a response, you turned and walked out of the lecture hall, leaving Harry Hart—stoic, composed, untouchable Harry Hart—standing alone, his hands still curled into fists in his pockets.

And for the first time, he didn’t have a clever remark to stop you.

Harry stood there for a long moment, staring at the door you had just walked out of, the finality of your words hanging heavy in the empty lecture hall. The echo of your footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the distant hum of campus life, and still, he didn’t move.

His jaw clenched.

Slowly, deliberately, he took a hand out of his pocket and ran it through his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands with a sharp exhale. He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head at himself, at you, at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

It doesn’t matter.

That’s what he told himself.

This was inevitable. It was bound to end sooner or later. You were young, impulsive. This thing between you was never meant to last.

He straightened his tie, adjusting the crisp lines of his suit with practiced ease, his movements meticulous, controlled. He had a class to teach in a few minutes. The world didn’t stop because you decided you wanted more.

He had Eleanor, anyway.

That thought should have settled something inside him, should have been enough to brush this whole thing off. Eleanor was a good, respectable, sensible woman; a logical choice. She wasn’t a risk; she wasn’t a complication. But Eleanor wasn’t the one he had spent the past year unraveling behind locked doors.

He exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought as the sound of approaching voices filtered through the lecture hall doors. A few students wandered in, taking their seats, their conversations low and idle, oblivious to the fact that their professor’s composure was hanging by a thread.

Harry forced his irritation down, pushed it back beneath the surface where it belonged. He was good at that—at controlling his emotions, at keeping them in check. It was a skill honed over decades, a necessity in both his past and his present.

By the time the rest of the students had filtered in, he was composed, his irritation buried beneath a layer of cool professionalism.

He turned, expression unreadable, and walked to the front of the room. Without preamble, he picked up a piece of chalk and turned to the board, writing out the day’s topic with sharp, precise strokes. His baritone voice cut through the murmured conversations, steady and controlled.

"Before we begin, put your essays from last week on my desk."

A collective groan rippled through the students, some grumbling under their breath as they fished out their papers, shuffling toward the front of the room to drop them onto his desk.

Harry barely acknowledged them. He straightened his cuffs, smoothing down the fabric, willing away the lingering tension still coiled in his chest.

He had a job to do.

And that was all that mattered.

Wasn’t it?