#wrong enemy

[undertale-ost-tournament]

STAGE 1, GROUP O

Top 2 qualify, 3rd has a chance.

Music under the cut.

[bougiebutchbinch]

Luo Binghe: I had a hard life but my mother loved me so much and I loved her :D

Shen Jiu, quivering with jealousy: guess I have beef with a 12 year old

[casscainmainly]

Okay gonna analyse some common Duke beliefs just for quick and easy reference. Some of these are up to interpretation (as indicated), but these are some common things I see that aren't quite accurate to Duke as a character.

Claim: Duke started We Are Robin

True or false: False. Alfred started We Are Robin, and the entire core cast of We Are Robin was already there before Duke.

Claim: We Are Robin is a gang

True or false: kind of tricky? They're technically a gang in the most general sense of the word, but 'gang' has racial implications that I think people gloss over (We Are Robin is primarily composed of kids of colour). Movement is a much better term, and We Are Robin doesn't self-identify as a gang to my knowledge.

Claim: Duke led We Are Robin

True or false: tricky. While Robin War has him as the leader, for the majority of Duke's time in We Are Robin he does not give orders or act like a leader at all. We Are Robin generally doesn't have a leader. Duke certainly has leadership abilities, but WAR is not the best showcase of them. Up to personal interpretation though.

Claim: Duke is a Wayne

True or false: False. Duke is not adopted.

Claim: Duke is intimidated/scared of any Batfamily member

True or false: FALSE!!! There is unfortunately some horrible comic writing, but for the VAST MAJORITY of Duke's appearances he is not scared of any Batfam member. He's certainly not afraid of Damian, Jason, or Cass.

Claim: Duke can emit light

True or false: probably?? His powers are constantly in flux and he develops new abilities all the time, so who knows. But he is much more likely to use light to turn invisible/manipulate his perception of light than attack with them (for which he can use his shadow powers). Up to personal interpretation/fun headcanons.

Claim: Duke jumped out of a cop car

True or false: True, but it's a Tom King comic and he's written horribly in it. If you want another example of him not being the 'sane one', I recommend using the time he got shot by a bullet and thought about how baller it was.

Claim: Duke is new to the Batfamily and doesn't know their dynamics

True or false: Please stop ���� It's been like a decade since his introduction there's no need to make him the clueless newbie. Also he's a fiercely intelligent detective who makes references to Jason's daddy issues, there's no way he's still in the dark about most of their relationships.

Claim: Duke tends to obey Bruce's orders

True or false: FALSE. Duke sneaks out even during his training days, and for the most part operates independently. He generally has a grudge against authority of all kinds.

Claim: Duke is very sunshine-y, bright, and optimistic

True or false: False. I get where this one is coming from (sunshine boy is cute I love it), but while his powers are light-based, his personality is not. He's pragmatic, rude, skeptical, and often disillusioned. He is an optimist in the sense that he believes in community and change, but he's nowhere near a bright, bubbly kid.

Claim: He's the normal one AND/OR he's just as crazy as the other bats

True or false: Both of these are somewhat false. Duke is not the normal/sane one, he's literally a vigilante how would that make sense. But he also thinks of himself as more normal than the others (at least at one point). Duke discourse should move on from this debate, both these statements obscure what makes Duke unique and interesting.

Claim: Duke designed his Signal outfit

True or false: False. This isn't really a belief I just see people assuming he designed it, he didn't though, Bruce gave it to him. There's no indication he had a hand in the design. Bruce actually gave him TWO designs, I think Bruce just loves giving him outfits tbh.

Claim: Duke's parents are still under the Joker toxin

True or false: Technically false. His mom was healed in Urban Legends #19, but Duke's sporadic appearances mean this was never really followed up on. I have no clue what happened to Doug. Up to DC to SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THIS!!!

Claim: Anything to do with his portrayal in WFA

True or false: False. Literally everything. (The only, and I do mean only, thing to take from WFA is his interactions with Damian)

Okay that's all, I hope that was helpful to anyone out there!!! There are tons of things here that are my interpretation only of course, the best way to get to know Duke is to read his comics. We Are Robin and DC Rise of the Power Company is waiting for you <3333.

[cloudyluun]

London Fever (p2) | neighbour!harry 

Summary: Y/N knew exactly what she was doing when she slipped into his oversized merch. She wanted a reaction, and oh she got one. Harry doesn’t take well to being toyed with, especially not when she’s been pushing his buttons for weeks. One knock at her door is all it takes for things to spiral out of control. But after a night that leaves them both wrecked and wanting more, reality comes crashing in. The world finds out, the headlines explode, and suddenly, it’s not just a game anymore.

A/N: Turns out, playing with fire does get you burned. Who knew? 🥹 Anyway, here’s Harry losing his mind over Y/N in his clothes, an ungodly amount of tension, and a smut scene so intense it should come with a safety warning. Enjoy the chaos, my loves.

Word Count: 5,5k

Warnings: 

Smut (explicit, detailed, and very NSFW)

Power play, dominance, and control (Harry is in charge, let’s be real)

Possessiveness (because of course)

Teasing & sexual tension (this could fuel a power plant)

Rough sex (hair pulling, manhandling, praise + dirty talk)

Aftercare & softness (he may be mean, but he’s also sweet 🥹)

Angst (because life is cruel)

Public fallout & paparazzi drama (oops)

[part 1]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

A line had been crossed.

He moved.

A slow, deliberate step forward.

Then another.

She felt it before she fully registered what was happening—the shift in the air, the heat rolling off his body, the static crackling between them like a wire pulled too tight.

Until her back hit the door.

Until he was so close that she could feel the ghost of his breath against her cheek.

Warm. Unsteady.

His presence swallowed her whole.

The scent of spice and cedarwood curled around her, intoxicating, familiar. It filled every inch of space between them, sinking into her skin, into her lungs, making it impossible to think clearly.

She swallowed hard, pulse hammering at the base of her throat.

This was new.

Harry had always watched. Always pushed, always teased—a smirk here, a lingering look there. He kept the tension simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken, something electric.

But he had never touched.

Not like this.

Not with his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, knuckles grazing her skin, the tips barely pressing into the delicate hollow of her throat.

Not with his body caging her in, his chest nearly brushing hers, his presence a weight she could feel everywhere.

Not with his lips hovering so, so close.

His emerald gaze flickered over her, slow and dangerous, cataloging every reaction. Every stuttered breath. Every slight part of her lips, every flutter of her lashes, every tiny movement.

Like he was memorizing something.

Like he was committing every single detail to memory.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers curling against the doorframe, nails pressing into the wood to ground herself.

But it didn’t help.

Not when his thumb brushed against her cheek.

Featherlight.

A whisper of a touch. So delicate, so intimate, it sent a shiver racing down her spine, left a hollow ache in its wake.

Made her knees feel weak.

Made her mind spin.

His gaze dipped lower, lingering at her mouth.

And then—his lips parted, voice dropping into something low and lethal.

"Because, sweetheart," he murmured, the words slow, deliberate, dripping with something dark.

Something possessive.

Something that curled tight in her stomach, hot and consuming.

His fingers tilted her chin up.

Forcing her to look at him.

To really see the heat in his gaze.

The warning.

"I don’t like sharing."

Silence stretched between them.

Thick. Heavy.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

She wanted to say something. Anything.

But she couldn’t.

No words came.

Just the heavy pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.

His fingers lingered; thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, tracing the delicate curve.

A test. A tease.

And then—

He pulled away.

Abrupt. Sharp.

Like the snap of a rubber band pulled too tight.

The loss of his touch was instant.

A cold rush of air in his absence.

A hollow ache in the pit of her stomach.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look back as he turned and walked away, his shoulders tense, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Leaving her there.

Pressed against the front door.

Heart slamming against her ribs.

Every nerve ending burning.

She made a choice the next morning.

A deliberate decision.

The oversized shirt slipped over her frame easily, the fabric soft against her skin, hanging loose, dipping just enough to expose the curve of her collarbone.

It was his merch.

A bold logo stretched across the front, his name, his design.

It wasn’t actually his. Not something borrowed, not something stolen.

But that didn’t matter.

It was the implication that counted.

It was the game.

She saw him before he saw her.

He was leaning against the front desk in the lobby, scrolling through his phone, fingers tapping idly against the polished marble surface.

Dressed down. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. A hoodie pushed up to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms.

Casual. Unassuming.

But then, he looked up.

And everything changed.

His entire body went rigid.

She saw it all.

The flicker of realization. The quick inhale through his nose. The sharp clench of his jaw.

His eyes darkened.

Dragging down. Over the loose neckline exposing her collarbones. Over the way the fabric swallowed her whole.

Over the fact that his name—his brand—was stamped across her chest like a mark.

Then lower.

To the bare stretch of her thighs.

His nostrils flared.

His grip tightened around his phone.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

Just looked at her like he was trying to figure out if this was real. If she was really doing this.

If she was really taunting him.

Then—

"I thought you weren’t really a fan."

His voice was rougher than usual. Low and sharp.

She tilted her head, lips curling into something dangerous.

"What can I say? Opinions change, I guess."

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t smirk the way he usually would.

His jaw ticked. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to do something.

To touch.

To grab.

To undo this tension that was so close to snapping.

But instead—

He exhaled.

A slow, measured breath.

And then, he walked away.

Not a word.

Not a glance back.

But the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides—

It told her everything.

This wasn’t over.

It happened late that night.

Three knocks.

Deliberate. Heavy.

The kind that demanded attention.

The kind that made her breath catch before she even opened her eyes fully.

She stirred beneath the sheets, her heartbeat slamming in her ears.

It was late.

Too late for neighbors.

Too late for casual visits.

And she knew.

She knew who it was before she even reached the door.

Fingers trembling slightly, she curled them around the handle.

She exhaled—slow, steadying—before she unlocked it.

Before she pulled it open.

And when she did—

There he was.

Harry.

Standing in the dim hallway.

His hoodie was gone.

Just a white T-shirt, clinging to his frame. His curls were messy, like he’d been running his fingers through them.

His eyes—

Dark. Blazing.

And when he finally spoke—

His voice was hoarse. Low.

"Open the door wider."

For a second, she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her fingers curled tighter around the handle, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. But then she did—slowly, cautiously—stepping back just enough to let the door swing open. Just enough to let him inside.

The second he crossed the threshold, she knew she had made a mistake.

The air shifted.

His presence sucked the oxygen from the room, leaving behind something thick, something stifling. The hallway light behind him cast his features in sharp relief—the sculpted lines of his jaw, the tension coiled in his shoulders, the unmistakable hunger in his eyes.

He looked at her then.

Really looked at her.

His gaze swept down, dragging over every inch of her, drinking her in like he was committing her to memory. Her bare legs. The way the oversized shirt swallowed her frame. The way the fabric dipped past her collarbones, slipping from one shoulder, exposing the delicate skin there. It wasn’t his shirt—but it might as well have been.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He reached out.

A slow, deliberate movement.

Fingers curling around the hem of the fabric, thumb barely grazing her thigh as he tugged it between his fingers. Testing. Teasing.

"You think this is funny?"

His voice was rough, like it had been scraped raw. A warning. A challenge.

Y/N swallowed, her pulse hammering, her skin prickling beneath his touch. "I don’t know what you mean."

Harry huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. Then he stepped closer.

Too close.

His body heat was suffocating. His scent—spice and cedarwood and something purely him—wrapped around her, invading her senses, making her head feel light.

"You’ve been teasing me for weeks." His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, the calloused tips ghosting up, up, up, barely touching, barely there.

A shiver raced down her spine.

His breath was hot against her temple, his words slow, measured, dangerous. "Is this what you wanted?"

Her knees felt weak. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Every nerve ending in her body was on high alert, every muscle coiled tight, waiting—

She barely heard her own voice. Barely recognized it when she whispered—

"Yes."

That’s all it took.

The snap.

A fraction of a second and his mouth was on hers.

Hard. Desperate. Bruising.

A collision of lips and teeth and frustration. His hands gripped her waist, firm and unyielding, pressing her back against the door. She gasped, the sound swallowed between them, lost in the mess of it all. He kissed like he was trying to punish her, like he had been holding back for too long and was finally snapping.

His hands slid up—fingers tangling in her hair, gripping just enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to let him take more. Take everything.

His knee parted her legs, pressing up, pressing against her. She let out a small, choked sound, one she barely recognized as her own, and his grip tightened in response.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t give her a second to breathe.

And she didn’t want him to.

His hands moved lower, fingers skimming the bare skin beneath the fabric, tracing the soft curve of her waist. Teasing. Exploring. Making her squirm.

Then—

He pulled away.

Just enough to let her feel the loss.

To make her chase after him.

His mouth hovered just above hers, his breath unsteady. His eyes, dark and blown, flicked down—to her lips, her throat, the way her chest rose and fell in rapid succession.

He smirked. Barely.

Then, he whispered—

"Told you, sweetheart."

His hands found the hem of the shirt again.

"You like playing with fire."

He peeled the shirt up.

Slow. Torturous.

His fingers traced every inch of newly exposed skin, dragging up the sides of her ribs, feeling the way her body shuddered beneath his touch. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her stomach as he lifted the fabric higher, higher, his tongue grazing over sensitive spots, inhaling the way her body reacted to him.

When the fabric lifted past her breasts, he paused.

Pulled back.

Just enough to look at her.

His thumb brushed over a peaked nipple—a featherlight touch, teasing, testing—watching the way she gasped at the contact, watching the way her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something.

But before she could, he leaned in—

And wrapped his mouth around her.

A gasp ripped from her throat.

He took his time.

His tongue flicked, slow, deliberate. His teeth grazed, just enough. He worked her up, dragging out every tiny sound, every sharp intake of breath, every shiver that wracked her body.

Then, he switched.

Repeating the same sweet torture on the other side.

By the time he finally pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it aside, she was trembling.

And they had only just begun.

His hands skimmed down her waist, slow and deliberate, his palms branding heat into her bare skin. She barely had time to process the loss of the shirt before his grip tightened—firm, commanding—as he caught the backs of her thighs and lifted her with effortless strength.

A startled gasp left her lips, her fingers scrambling against his shoulders, nails digging in for balance as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

The air felt thick, electric.

Her back pressed against the door, the hard surface grounding her as he held her up, his body locked against hers, caging her in.

And then—he rolled his hips.

Just once.

A slow, deliberate grind that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through her core.

A strangled moan slipped past her lips.

His reaction was immediate.

A low, deep groan rumbled from his chest, his grip on her thighs tightening like he needed to steady himself. His forehead dropped against the side of her face, his breath warm against her cheek, his voice rough.

"This what you wanted, sweetheart?"

He did it again, slower this time, pressing himself against her just enough to make sure she felt him.

Felt how hard he was.

How much he wanted her.

The friction sent another shudder rolling through her, her body betraying her, her head tipping back against the door with a sharp gasp.

His teeth scraped along her jaw, catching the sensitive skin before he sucked lightly, just enough to make her whimper.

"Yeah," he murmured, voice dark, smug. "That’s what I thought."

And then, he let her down—just barely.

Lowering her just enough that her toes skimmed the floor, his fingers still digging into her thighs, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

And then—he dropped.

Sank to his knees in front of her, his hands still gripping her thighs, fingers spreading over the soft skin, holding her open.

His gaze flickered up.

Dark. Intense.

Watching her as he pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh.

Slow.

Lingering.

She exhaled shakily, her entire body tensed, caught in that unbearable space between anticipation and desperation.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t move too fast.

Instead, he took his time, his lips trailing a slow path higher, the heat of his breath searing against her already-sensitive skin.

A soft gasp escaped her lips when he nipped lightly, just above her knee, his tongue flicking out to soothe the spot.

He hummed against her skin.

"So sensitive," he murmured, voice full of wicked amusement.

She bit her lip, fingers curling into fists at her sides as he kept going.

Higher.

His mouth moved up the inside of her thigh, his tongue dragging in slow, torturous strokes.

When he reached the curve where her thigh met her hip, he paused.

She could feel his breath there.

So close.

Right where she needed him.

Her hips shifted instinctively, a small, unconscious movement. A plea without words.

And instead of giving in—

He pulled back.

A small, teasing chuckle rumbled from his throat.

"Impatient?"

She made a small, frustrated noise, her hands twitching at her sides.

And then—

His fingers curled into the waistband of her underwear.

A small tug.

Not enough to pull them down.

Just enough to snap the elastic against her skin.

The sharp little sting made her jolt, made her breath catch.

Harry grinned.

"So eager," he murmured, voice dark, teasing. "Look at you—already soaked for me."

She whimpered.

His fingertips traced just above the fabric.

Not touching her where she needed him.

Just hovering.

Letting her feel how close he was.

Letting her ache for it.

"Tell me," he murmured, voice rough, his lips brushing the inside of her thigh.

"Do you want my fingers or my tongue first?"

Her breath hitched, fingers clenching into fists at her sides. The heat of his breath against her skin sent a shiver rippling up her spine, and she felt like she might go mad if he didn’t touch her properly.

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. She knew what he was doing—pushing her, making her beg for it.

But her pride could only hold out for so long.

"Your mouth," she whispered, voice unsteady.

A pleased hum vibrated against her skin. "Good girl."

And then—he snapped.

In one sharp motion, he hooked his fingers into her underwear and ripped them down her thighs. A gasp caught in her throat at the sudden movement, at the way the fabric barely had time to glide over her skin before he was shoving it aside like it was a useless scrap in his way.

The cold air barely had time to meet her exposed skin before his mouth was on her.

Her whole body jerked against the door, a strangled sound escaping her lips as his tongue flicked out, slow at first.

Testing.

Tasting.

He took his time, dragging the tip of his tongue in a long, deliberate stroke, savoring the way she trembled, the way she exhaled in stuttered little gasps.

His grip on her thighs tightened, thumbs pressing into the soft skin as he held her open for him.

"Fuck," she breathed, already struggling to stay upright, nails clawing at the wooden door behind her.

His tongue moved again, flicking over her in a lazy, teasing rhythm that made her hips stutter forward—chasing the feeling, chasing him.

That seemed to amuse him.

"So desperate," he murmured against her, lips curving before he dipped his tongue deeper.

Her whole body jolted. A strangled moan caught in her throat, her knees nearly giving out.

Harry groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, making her stomach tighten, her pulse race. His grip tightened on her thighs, holding her steady, keeping her exactly where he wanted her as he worked her open with his mouth.

And then—he got impatient.

The slow teasing disappeared in a snap.

His tongue pressed deeper, flicking faster, rougher, his lips sealing over her in a way that sent electricity shooting through her limbs.

She gasped, back arching, hands slamming against the door as her whole body clenched.

He didn’t let up.

Didn’t give her time to breathe, to process, to do anything but take it.

Her hips tried to jerk away, the pleasure rolling through her so intense it was almost too much.

But Harry wasn’t having it.

His hands pinned her in place.

"Stay still," he ordered, voice muffled against her. His lips brushed over her slick, sensitive skin, a promise, a warning. "Take what I give you."

And then—his fingers slid inside her.

She nearly sobbed.

His fingers curled inside her just right, pressing into that spot that made her see white behind her eyelids.

She was already unraveling, already falling apart in his hands.

And he loved it.

His mouth and fingers worked in tandem, pushing her higher, pushing her toward the edge so fast she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but let him wreck her.

Her hands clawed at the door, her head falling back, a sharp cry slipping from her lips.

So close.

So close it was torturous.

Her body clenched around his fingers, legs trembling, the pleasure building, burning, threatening to consume her whole.

She was right there.

Right on the edge of breaking.

And then—

He pulled away.

Completely.

Her eyes snapped open, her breath catching, her head spinning in a dazed, wrecked, frantic haze.

"Harry—"

Her voice came out shattered, her body desperate, aching, ready to fall apart.

But he just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips red and glistening, his eyes dark and burning as he stared up at her.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice low, rough, firm.

She didn’t move at first, still gasping for breath, her mind slow to catch up, still clinging to the pleasure he had just ripped away from her.

But Harry—

Harry didn’t wait.

He grabbed her.

Spun her in one swift motion, pressing her face-first against the door.

Her hands braced against the wood as she sucked in a shaky breath, her body still trembling from what he had done to her.

But she barely had time to recover before she felt it.

Him.

His cock, thick and hard, dragging over her slick folds.

Not pushing in.

Not yet.

Just teasing, letting her feel how ready he was, how desperate he had become.

His breath was hot against her ear as he leaned in, pressing his chest against her back.

"You like playing with fire?" he murmured, his voice low, taunting. His lips brushed over the shell of her ear, the words a dark promise.

"Now you get to burn."

Her body shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. There was nothing cold about the way he held her, about the way his hands framed her hips, keeping her pinned between his body and the door. Nothing cold about the weight of him pressing into her, the hard line of his chest against her back, his thighs bracketing hers as his grip tightened—possessive, unrelenting.

His fingertips dug into her skin, marking her before he’d even properly touched her. A slow, dark thrill curled in her stomach, anticipation pooling low, thick and hot, making her legs tremble beneath her.

Harry tilted his head, letting his lips graze the curve of her jaw before trailing lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of her neck. He hummed against her skin, his voice nothing but a rasp. "You were teasing me all night. Now look at you."

She bit her lip, swallowing down the sound that threatened to escape. It was pathetic, how easily he unraveled her, how effortlessly he wound her up. He hadn’t even touched her properly, and already she was teetering on the edge of something reckless, something that stole the breath from her lungs.

His fingers skimmed down her stomach, deliberate and slow, until they settled on the waistband of her underwear. He played with the fabric, tugging it just enough to make her gasp, before dragging his hand back up.

She whimpered.

"You hear that?" he murmured, pressing his lips to the hinge of her jaw. "You’re already desperate for me."

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing down the response on the tip of her tongue. He knew it was true. He knew exactly what he did to her.

And still, he made her wait.

Seconds stretched between them, thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of what was coming. His fingers flexed against her waist, his breathing uneven, his restraint razor-thin.

And then, finally—finally—he pushed inside.

There was no hesitation, no teasing. No gentle buildup.

The moment he entered her, it was deep and hard, stealing the breath from her lungs in one sharp thrust.

Her fingers flew to the door, pressing against it for support, her body arching in response to the sudden fullness, the delicious stretch of him inside her. A broken moan tumbled from her lips, her forehead falling forward, her body tensing around him.

"Fuck." The word was a ragged groan from behind her, his voice thick, strained. His grip on her waist tightened, his nails pressing crescents into her skin. "So tight, sweetheart. Always so fucking tight for me."

She barely heard him. Barely registered anything beyond the way he felt, the way he filled her completely, the way his hips pulled back—just enough to make her whimper—before snapping forward again.

It was punishing. Relentless.

There was no slow build, no tenderness. Just pure, raw need.

His other hand slid up, fingers tracing the path between her ribs before curving around her breast. He squeezed, rough and possessive, his thumb swiping over the peak. She gasped, her knees nearly giving out beneath her.

She couldn’t think.

Couldn’t focus on anything beyond the way he moved, the way he took her—deep and desperate, like he needed this as much as she did.

"This is what you wanted, huh?" His voice was nothing but a rasp, wrecked and breathless. "To be fucked like this?"

A strangled moan was all she could manage, her hands scrabbling against the door, nails scraping against the wood.

His pace quickened, hips slamming into hers, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the dimly lit room. The dresser beside them rattled with every thrust, the sharp edge of the door biting into her palms as she braced herself.

She could feel herself slipping, unraveling beneath his touch. The pleasure built rapidly, winding tight in her stomach, threatening to snap.

But just as she reached for it—just as she started to fall—he pulled away.

She gasped at the sudden loss, her body protesting immediately, but before she could even form a coherent thought, he spun her around.

Her back barely hit the dresser before his hands were on her thighs, lifting her easily, placing her exactly where he wanted. Her fingers scrambled for purchase, gripping his shoulders, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he aligned himself again.

His mouth crashed against hers—desperate, bruising.

The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongues, heat and hunger. He nipped at her bottom lip before swallowing the breathy moan that slipped out, his hands digging into the flesh of her thighs as he held her still.

And then, without warning, he slammed back into her.

Her head tipped back, a strangled sound escaping as her fingers clawed at his back.

He didn’t give her time to adjust. Didn’t give her time to catch her breath.

He set a brutal pace from the start, each thrust deep and deliberate, dragging pleasure through her like fire licking at dry wood.

"Look at me."

His voice was commanding, his grip tightening as his fingers tangled in her hair.

She forced her eyes open, her vision hazy, dazed, as she met the intense green of his.

His pupils were blown, his jaw tight, sweat dampening the curls at his temples. He looked wrecked, desperate, and completely in control all at once.

The way he was looking at her—like he wanted to watch every second of her unraveling, like he wanted to imprint this moment in his memory forever—sent a fresh wave of arousal through her.

The dresser rocked beneath them, the force of his movements sending jolts of pleasure through her, her body trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

She was close.

So close she could taste it, could feel it creeping up her spine, threatening to pull her under.

And then he did something devastating.

He slowed.

His thrusts dragged out, the pace shifting—not easing in intensity, but stretching the moment, prolonging it, making her suffer.

She whimpered, her nails digging into his skin, frustration making her eyes sting.

"Harry," she pleaded, voice wrecked, shaking.

His smirk was slow, teasing, even as his own restraint wavered. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured, "Come on, sweetheart. Let go."

The words shattered her.

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, dragging her under, burning through every nerve ending. She gasped, her whole body tensing, thighs squeezing around him, fingers gripping him so tightly she was sure she’d leave marks.

The sound that left her—somewhere between a sob and a scream—sent him spiraling after her.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat as he buried himself deep, his whole body shuddering as he spilled into her.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Their breathing filled the silence, ragged and uneven, the scent of sweat and sex lingering between them.

Then, Harry let out a breathless, hoarse chuckle against her shoulder.

"Fuck," he muttered, forehead dropping to hers.

She exhaled shakily, still floating somewhere between reality and oblivion.

And when she finally laughed—soft, dazed—he smirked, shaking his head.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to her jaw. "Real funny."

Her body still hummed from the aftershocks, her skin dewy, her limbs heavy and languid. The dresser was cool against her back, contrasting the overwhelming warmth of him—his body still pressed to hers, his breath warm against her temple.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself exist in this space, in the remnants of what they’d just done. Her fingers trailed absentmindedly along his shoulder, nails scraping lightly against damp skin.

He sighed, a slow exhale that ghosted across her collarbone. "You okay?"

It was soft. Barely more than a murmur, but the concern in his voice made something pull tight in her chest.

She swallowed, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. You?"

His lips brushed over her throat, lingering there for a beat before he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "Always."

She huffed out a tired laugh, shaking her head. But she didn’t argue.

Because for now, she’d let herself believe it.

The first thing Y/N registers is warmth.

It surrounds her, presses against her back, blankets her in something heavy and solid and safe.

A slow, steady breath ghosts over her shoulder, warm lips barely grazing her skin in sleep.

Harry.

Reality creeps in slowly, threading through the fog of exhaustion. The sheets are tangled around her legs, twisted in the aftermath of limbs and desperate touches. His arm is draped over her waist, his fingers relaxed against her stomach, but even in sleep, his hold is possessive—like even now, he doesn’t want her to leave.

She blinks, adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the window, to the weight of his body curled around hers.

This is real.

The thought hits her with startling clarity. The heat of him against her, the soft inhale and exhale of his breath.

His fingers twitch against her stomach, flexing slightly—like he’s making sure she’s still there.

For a moment, she lets herself sink into it.

She stays still, breathing him in, memorizing the feeling of his skin against hers. She closes her eyes, reveling in the warmth, the intimacy of it, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed against her back.

But then, the second thought comes.

She needs to go.

Carefully, she shifts, trying to untangle herself without disturbing him, but the moment she moves, his grip tightens.

"Where you going, trouble?"

His voice is low, thick with sleep, rough in a way that makes something clench deep in her stomach.

She swallows. "I should leave before—"

His arm tightens around her, pulling her back into him.

"Stay."

The word is soft. Barely a whisper.

But it steals the breath from her lungs.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Because this? This isn’t supposed to happen.

She bites her lip, staring at the ceiling.

"Harry, this—" she hesitates, her voice quieter now, less certain. "This wasn’t supposed to happen."

His fingers move slowly, tracing small circles against her hip, his breath steadying.

"Maybe not." He presses a lazy kiss to her shoulder. "But it did."

She doesn’t respond.

Because she doesn’t know how.

So, for now, neither of them moves.

For a while, they exist in a bubble.

The tension is still there—always—but now it’s laced with something heavier.

Something neither of them speaks about.

They steal moments.

Quick touches in the elevator. Lingering glances across the lobby. The brush of his fingers against her wrist in passing. A hand on her lower back when no one’s looking.

The silence between them is thick with unspoken words, with things they should say but don’t.

Because saying them makes this real.

And if it’s real, it can break.

But then, the bubble bursts.

A paparazzi photo leaks.

"Harry Styles spotted leaving neighbor’s apartment in the early hours."

Her phone is vibrating before she even opens her eyes.

A constant buzz against her nightstand, insistent and relentless.

She groans, squinting against the early morning light as she reaches for it.

Calls. Messages. Notifications blowing up.

Her stomach tightens.

With shaking fingers, she swipes through the alerts.

People found her Instagram. They’re digging through her posts. Speculating.

Her heart pounds as she scrolls through the headlines. The invasive comments. The messages flooding her inbox—some curious, some vicious.

Her stomach twists.

Her hands shake.

She doesn’t even hesitate before grabbing her keys and heading to Harry’s apartment.

By the time she gets there, the door is already unlocked.

She steps inside cautiously, closing the door behind her, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Harry is pacing.

His back is to her, his hands tangled in his hair, his shoulders rigid.

He turns sharply at the sound of the door clicking shut.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are dark, stormy.

"Harry—"

"We can’t do this."

The words hit like a slap.

Her breath catches, her stomach twisting so violently she thinks she might be sick.

"So that’s it?"

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t answer.

Because he doesn’t know.

And that’s the worst part.

Not the photo. Not the headlines. Not the fact that the world is picking apart something she doesn’t even understand herself.

It’s this.

The hesitation in his voice. The conflict in his eyes. The way he looks at her like he wants to pull her close but knows he shouldn’t.

She waits.

Waits for him to take it back.

To say something, anything, that makes this hurt less.

But he doesn’t.

His throat bobs, his fingers twitch at his sides, his mouth parts slightly—like he might speak.

But he doesn’t.

She exhales shakily, her vision blurring.

And when she finally turns, when she finally walks away—

He doesn’t stop her.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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[anghraine]

It's interesting (if often frustrating) to see the renewed Orc Discourse after the last few episodes of ROP. I've seen arguments that orcs have to be personifications of evil rather than people as such or else the ethics of our heroes' approach to them becomes much more fraught. Tolkien's work, as written, seems an odd choice to me for not wrangling with difficult questions, and of course, more diehard fans are going to immediately bring up Shagrat and Gorbag.

If you haven't read LOTR recently, Shagrat and Gorbag are two orcs who briefly have a conversation about how they're being screwed over by Sauron but have no other real options, about their opinions of mistakes that have been made, that they think Sauron himself has made one, but it's not safe to discuss because Sauron has spies in their own ranks. They reminisce about better times when they had more freedom and fantasize about a future when they can go elsewhere and set up a small-scale banditry operation rather than being involved in this huge-scale war. Eventually, however, they end up turning on each other.

Basically any time that someone brings up the "humanity" of this conversation, someone else will point out that they're still bad people. They're not at all guilty about what they're part of. They just resent the dangers to themselves, the pressure from above, failures of competence, the surveillance they're under, and their lack of realistic alternative options. The dream of another life mentioned in the conversation is still one of preying on innocent people, just on a much smaller and more immediate scale, etc.

I think this misses the reason it keeps getting brought up, though. The point is not that Shagrat and Gorbag are good people. The point is that they are people.

There's something very normal and recognizable about their resentment of their superiors, their fears of reprisal and betrayal that ultimately are realized, their dislike of this kind of industrial war machine that erases their individual work and contributions, the tinge of wistfulness in their hope of escape into a different kind of life. Their dialect is deliberately "common"—and there's a lot more to say about that and the fact that it's another commoner, Sam, who outwits them—but one of the main effects is to make them sound familiar and ordinary. And it's interesting that one of the points they specifically raise is that they're not going to get better treatment from "the good guys" so they can't defect, either.

This is self-interested, yes, but it's not the self-interest of some mystical being or spirit or whatnot, but of people.

Tolkien's later remarks tend to back this up. He said that female orcs do exist, but are rarely seen in the story because the characters only interact with the all-male warrior class of orcs. Whatever female orcs "do," it isn't going to war. Maybe they do a lot of the agricultural work that is apparently happening in distant parts of Mordor, maybe they are chiefly responsible for young orcs, maybe both and/or something else, we don't know. But we know they're out there and we know that they reproduce sexually and we know that they're not part of the orcish warrior class.

Regardless of all the problems with this, the idea that orcs have a gender-restricted warrior class at all and we're just not seeing any of their other classes because of where the story is set doesn't sound like automatons of evil. It sounds like an actual culture of people that we only see along the fringes.

And this whole matter of "but if they're people, we have to think about ethics, so they can't be people" is a weird circular argument that cannot account for what's in LOTR or for much of what Tolkien said afterwards. Yes, he struggled with The Problem of Orcs and how to reconcile it with his world building and his ethical system, but "maybe they're not people" is ultimately not a workable solution as far as LOTR goes and can't even account for much of the later evolution of his ideas, including explicit statements in his letters.

And in the end, the real response that comes to mind to that circular argument is "maybe you should think about ethics more."

[dasketcherz]

the way he left all of corona gagged, oh villain V era they can never make me hate you...

i dunno when i will ever resume back to working on this cuz i have so many other vat7k i wanna work on first so for now this stays as a draft in a while, did a quick doodle of it just so i wont forget when it popped up in my mind

[donutfloats]

They were both fired the next day

[kick-a-long]

Stuff like this is why I get so pissed off at accusations of genocide and apartheid.

Why would a genocidal country pause a war to vaccinate at least 90% of Gaza kids against polio as soon as the first case of a two year old paralyzed by type 2 poliovirus is confirmed? If they wanted gazans wiped off the earth they would keep the war going and vaccinate Israeli kids and citizens. If they wanted them dead they would never vaccinate “the enemy.” Russia wouldn’t do that.

I see you dickheads in the comments, “it’s for optics! Plus they must be worried about Jews getting it from them! That’s the only reason they want to vaccinate anyone. Plus vaccines are poison even checked by the WHO! They probably have autism in them!”

If it’s an apartheid why would Palestinians have access to the same places and bodies of water as Israelis? And if they don’t why would Israel vaccinate. The Regan administration didn’t respond to the HIV outbreak in the 80s because they hated gays and drug users and wanted them sick, spreading it, and most importantly dead. During peace time to their own citizens.

All Israel would have to do is ignore the outbreak.

Vaccines work. Polio is one of the most devastating diseases a kid can get. There’s no medication that can stop the damage once you get the virus. Lil kids die from diarrhea, are paralyzed for life and if they’re immune system doesn’t stop the paralysis at their legs it climbs up their bodies and once it hits their diaphragm (the muscle that lets you breath right under your rip cage) kids as young as a few months old to their teens will die from lack of air. Both are the absolute worst and most painful ways a person can die. Waking nightmare delusions from dehydration and low oxygen on top of the physical pain.

Nazis infected Jews with this shit intentionally to study how polio affects children. Israel is stopping in the middle of a war to end the polio outbreak when they are still trying to rescue kids so young they have spent the majority of their lives on earth in Hamas captivity. And after only one kid was confirmed with polio type 2, the one that causes paralysis.

How can it be a genocide or an apartheid when they are literally helping safeguard Palestines next generation of kids?

[bigfatbreak]

Birds of a Feather previous / next

[kizzer55555]

Core Gems

So when a ghost becomes injured, they have a last ditch defense where they retreat into their core. And I mean, injured badly where their body is rip apart to the point they can’t hold a solid form anymore. And they basically go into a hibernation state until they are strong enough to form again.

Ellie, Danny, and Dan are all injured in a final battle against the GIW. The organization was destroyed and the ghosts were safe but the halfas ended up being so injured that they reverted to core form and then went to sleep for a bit. When they woke up, they were still weak but at least recovered enough to gain consciousness. And realize…they are in some kind of auction…in the middle of a heist. It appeared that two furries (one in a bat costume and one in a cat costume) were ducking it out. And they…they were a necklace. All three of them had been turned into a necklace with their cores as gems accompanied by sapphires, pearls, and opals. And frankly gorgeous craftsmanship as the metal was crafted around their cores as if to cradle them and the other gems.

Unfortunately, they were too weak to take a form properly, they could still feel the strain on their bodies. But at least they could still communicate through their auras. Then the cat lady punched a hole in the glass container surrounding them and grabbed their necklace.

However, the bat grabbed the other end and it resulted in a sort of tug-a-war. Meanwhile, Danny, Ellie, and Dan were having a back and form commentary on the situation and what they should do. Completely unheard by the other party.

In the corner of their eye, the three halfas finally noticed a third contender. Some kind of clown who was…hold on…holding a gun?! And it was pointed straight at the two fighting furies who had yet to notice him. The ghosts’ protective instincts went into overdrive and they frantically tried to shout, yell, move. Just do something to warn the two but their cries fell on deaf ears. All they succeeded in doing was faintly glow which immediatly caught the attention of the fighting duo. The two turned to look at the strange necklace but right at that moment, the clown fired and a gunshot rang throughout the auction room. Having no other options, Danny and the others poured every ounce of ectoplasm they had to try and phaseshift, making the two furries intangible as the bullets passed right through them, but in their shock, the two jumped away in opposite directions and accidentally ripped the necklace apart. Gems and pearls went flying and the three cores bounced along the ground.

Luckily, the two finally noticed the clown and went to deal with him and his minions who had appeared. Seemingly putting their fight on hold and forming a temporary truce. The three halfas could only watch as the battle finally wound down, ending with the cops barging into the place and arresting the clown and his grunts, the cat managing to escape with half the scattered gems and pearls from the broken necklace along with a few other jewelry pieces (none of their cores though) and the bat leaving through a skylight.

The auction continued and in the end, despite being broken, their necklace seemed to have caught someone’s interest. A man named Bruce Wayne bought up every piece of the shattered jewelry wear. The auctioneers appeared relived that the item managed to sell in the end and gratefully gave it to him.

Bruce had no idea what happened at the auction, but he could have sworn that some of the gems faintly glowed right before he and Selina were shot. If the necklace was some sort of magical item, then he needed to understand exactly what has been brought to Gotham. It was unfortunate that Selena had taken some parts of the necklace but he utilized his vast wealth to make sure all the other parts ended in his possession. Now he would take them back to the mansion for examination.

[mikqchoux]

the moon will sing

[fancyfade]

i think it's funny that bruce presumably has covered up at least two people damian killed (spook and nobody) in main continuity and probably did it in the the boy wonder continuity too with the random thief bruce is like i'm sorry but we are NOT sending him to baby jail it was just a little mistake. he already looked incredibly sad when i wasn't proud of him for the murder is this not punishment enough?

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

“Dain is just an imperfect 21-year-old kid who trusted his dad, and is a little over-protective telling his chronically ill friend to sit the fuck down.”

[littlefeltsparrow]

Schrödinger’s Feyre: Where Feyre is simultaneously a cunning and badass girlboss with a mind of steel and a fragile little lamb who doesn’t know any better. When they’re proud, she’s a skilled strategist and competent High Lady, but when it comes to facing the consequences of her actions and the implications of her power, suddenly she’s a little baby waddling through fairy land.

[nerdy-frog98]

Best friends to lovers is THE trope.

As a romance girly, I have much appreciation for most romance tropes. Enemies/rivals to lovers? Passionate, exciting, fun! Fake dating? The potential for accidental miscommunication gets me every time. Second chance romance? Angst!! (Not insta-love though, that trope rarely ever works for me). But god, there really is something so fucking delicious about friends to lovers.

Maybe it’s the fact that there is a foundation of trust and understanding before anything explicitly romantic occurs. Maybe it’s that there is shared history, which allows for inside jokes and a level of comfort with that person that doesn’t exist elsewhere. Maybe it’s the slow burn potential, having two people who deeply love each other slowly realize it’s more than just friendship (meanwhile their friends and outside observers think it’s incredibly obvious). MAYBE it’s because it feels so much more realistic than nearly every other trope.

It is a mix of all of the above, but honestly, I love it so much because it takes away the potential for surface level attraction. Enemies to lovers is an incredible trope when done well, but sometimes it falls prey to seeming more like a lust fueled attraction rather than a love meant to last (& we love lusty romance, but I personally prefer love that feels like it will last).

I also like that in friends to lovers, the angst seems to be higher stakes. If you get into a relationship with your best friend, will it ruin your friendship? How will that dynamic changing affect your other friends? How do the insecurities of being in a relationship manifest when you do it with someone you already deeply love and trust?

Anyway, I thought about all of this because I went through all of the ships I’ve loved in the last 5 years, and 78.5% of them are some variation of friends to lovers.

[trappedinafantasy37]

POV: Evil murder kitten tries to evil murder you in your sleep. She's desperate for a reason not to evil murder you because she does not want to.