This Is What I Live For

This is what I live for🙏

Moths to a Flame

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Fire and Ice weren't always a duo on and off court. There'd been a time when they had another element they followed around: Earth. Or, as most call him, (Y/N) (L/N).

Pronouns: He/Him/His

I don't know what possessed me to write this but here we are

~~~

Patrick spotted him before Art did. Art could tell right away when Patrick's teasing eyes flickered away from him and then lit up like a firecracker, the victorious and gleeful grin that spread across his lips. Patrick clapped his shoulder, a tad roughly if Art had to admit, and hurried past him, leaving Art to chase after him as they dodged students and other people touring Stanford's campus. Art's attention drifted away from Patrick's back and locked onto that familiar side profile he'd dearly missed.

Patrick bent over the backrest of the bench (Y/N) sat on and slammed his lips against the player's cheek in a messy, playful kiss. (Y/N) immediately whined and crinkled his nose, the book in hand forgotten as he attempted to shove Patrick's face away. Art snickered as he plopped down beside the squirming player, shifting around to face him and brushing his fingertips over (Y/N)'s knee, instinctively tracing the scar he carried since a small accident with his skateboard back when he was thirteen. 

"God, Patrick, get off me," (Y/N) huffed, managing to shove his fingers between his cheek and Patrick's lips and pushing him away. Patrick laughed against his fingers, hand curling around (Y/N)'s wrist and staring at him with twinkling eyes. (Y/N) set the book aside and wiped away at his reddening cheek, his gaze following Patrick as the brunette circled the bench and sat down beside him, still holding onto his wrist. Patrick made no move to release him. (Y/N) always had to be the one to pull away, from both of them.

"Come on, don't pretend you didn't miss us." It always felt like Patrick had some control, some dominance over the friendship. And maybe he did when it was just Art and him, but (Y/N) was a different ballpark. He had no control over (Y/N), no words or actions that could amount to the way the two of them would react to (Y/N)'s touch and stare. (Y/N) knew that, too. 

"Missed the two of you running after me like little dogs? Sure." His smile bordered on smug but Art relished the way (Y/N) dropped his hand to place it over his, his fingers wrapping around Art's hand but his attention focused on Patrick, whose eyes lingered on their hands. Art pushed his finger into the scar and smiled sweetly when (Y/N) finally looked at him.

Patrick demanded attention just by existing, always soaking everything up while Art stood by, waiting to be noticed. He - embarrassingly enough - grew attached to (Y/N) because of his attention, because Patrick had to fight to be noticed, but he liked it like that. "Why are you here, puppy?" 

Art flushed at the pet name, one he hadn't heard in a year or two, and tugged at the vibrant red Stanford hoodie he sported. (Y/N)'s lips curled upward and his hand squeezed Art's. "Maybe we can dorm together." Art said with a borderline pleading undertone, a trickle of smugness invading his veins when Patrick pursed his lips. He'd chosen to tour, unlike Art. Too fucking bad. 

"Maybe." (Y/N) nodded and pulled away from both boys, the bench creaking as he stood and slipped the book into his backpack. Before he could pick it up from the floor, Patrick snatched it up and slung it over his shoulder, a lazy grin on his face as he challengingly arched his brow at him. Art rose from the bench, long fingers reaching out to adjust the back of (Y/N)'s shirt, feeling his nails graze over his skin. 

"Patty Cake." (Y/N) raised his brows at Patrick and extended his hand, wiggling his fingers but Patrick tugged the backpack further onto his back. 

"Speaking of dorms," Patrick wrapped his free arm around (Y/N)'s shoulders and tugged him closer, right into his chest and out of Art's reach. "Where's yours?"

(Y/N) led them through campus, working as their own personal guide of sorts on their way to the dorms. Patrick strolled on nonchalantly, evidently bored on their journey but he kept his mouth quiet, letting Art shoot off question after question until they reached (Y/N)'s temporary home.

The room was blatantly divided, (Y/N)'s belongings on one side and his dormmate's things on the other. The two eyed the stranger's things, gazes almost scrutinizing and nearing jealous. The two had roomed together once, something that led to Patrick's favorite story to tell about Art's inability to jack off until he met him. 

"I think," Patrick began, tossing the backpack onto the bed and flashing (Y/N) a smile when he scowled at him while his arm slithered around Art's shoulders. "We need to do (Y/N) a favor and get him a better roomie."

"Charlie's fine." (Y/N) told them, his mattress dipping under his weight as he climbed on top of it. Patrick dropped his arm from Art's shoulders and stepped forward, knees bumping against the edge of the bed and body bending over. His arms loosely wrapped around (Y/N)'s waist and he pressed his cheek to (Y/N)'s collarbone, eyes threatening to flutter shut when (Y/N)'s fingertips danced over his cheek.

"Come on, (Y/N). Art needs you, remember? Besides, each night you'll get to hear him jerk off to you-"

"Patrick." Art's voice sounded like a mix between a groan and a hiss, his skin lighting ablaze and palm pressing against Patrick's hip to shove him gently.

Patrick's adams apple bobbed when he laughed, and with no prying eyes around to watch, he pressed his lips against the side of (Y/N)'s neck. His mouth open to dig his teeth into (Y/N)'s skin, lightly at first it seemed but Patrick had never been able to restrain himself. His teeth sunk deeper and harder, and once it seemed like he'd leave a mark, (Y/N)'s fingers moved from his cheek to his hair and tugged. 

"I have a girlfriend, Pat." (Y/N) huffed, not that it proved to be much of a revelation to the two boys who spent frankly too much of their time trying to keep up with the whirlwind that was (Y/N) (L/N). Maybe they should've nicknamed him Air instead of Earth. At least then they could compare him to tornadoes or hurricanes. 

It'd been the fateful night they'd all been graced with the presence of Tashi Duncan. Gorgeous, badass, and with a killer smile, she was exactly their type. She seemed to like them, too, especially (Y/N), but he'd been the quietest of the three, simply observing while lazily pulling his cigarette back and forth between his lips, eyes trailing between her and the ocean.

Maybe it'd been his indifference to her presence or the knowledge he'd eventually become a global sensation because despite giving Patrick her number and having her suspicions about the goings between the three, she ultimately chose him. Patrick had wondered aloud once if maybe it'd been the other way around and (Y/N) had chosen Tashi. After all, his calls and messages turned rare, leaving the two high and dry. But Art dismissed that. 

(Y/N) never chose. 

He never chose between Art and Patrick after joining their little friendship. He never chose when he made them his little playthings, his little admirers eager to compete against each other for his attention. He never chose who got more attention, he simply divided it as necessary, only ever using it when one needed it more than the other.

Besides, he'd had his fair share of partners throughout their odd relationship, some who knew and others left in the dark. They never mattered to Art and Patrick. Sure, they disliked sharing him with anyone other than each other (Hell, sometimes they got jealous of each other), but the girlfriends and boyfriends never stayed for long. Art and Patrick did, though. 

"So? Tashi made out with all of us in one night, remember?" 

"I know," (Y/N) took hold of Patrick's jaw, fingers lightly digging into his flesh. Patrick finally stilled and (Y/N) touch turned gentler, his thumb stroking over the spot of red now on Patrick's skin. "But she'll kill me if anyone thinks she's getting cheated on."

"Isn't she, though?" Art questioned softly, sinking into the mattress beside him and leaning forward to hook his chin over (Y/N)'s shoulder. He liked the dynamic, the difference in how the two were treated. Patrick often acted like a brat, mischievous with feigned control, so (Y/N) treated him like one. (Y/N) treated Art more sweetly, and gently. Always tending to him with a gentle hand. The rising star tilted his head toward him, angling his head to brush his lips over Art's temple. 

"It's just a power couple thing, baby." A smile spread across Art's lips and he hummed, his thoughts on Tashi and her position in their relationship forgotten for a moment as he pressed his face into the crook of (Y/N)'s neck, breathing in his cologne until it imprinted itself back in his head.

Patrick hummed, feigning skepticism and dragging (Y/N)'s attention back to him. Patrick moved his head downward, kissing the spot between (Y/N)'s thumb and index finger before that cheeky grin appeared again. His eyes flickered toward Art who peeked up at him as he trailed his lips over the thumb until he popped the fingertip into his mouth and made his desires evidently clear. 

"(Y/N)," Art murmured, already breathless as he raised his head to look at him. (Y/N) chuckled and hooked his thumb fully in Patrick's mouth, using it to pull him closer and peck the tip of his nose. Despite the mischief behind his actions, Patrick's shoulders sagged and his eyes softened. 

"If you boys wanted a treat, you could've just asked."

Your batfam fic really gives me both fuzzy feelings and flight and fight reactions.

You are an amazing writer :)

Thank you so much, anon!

I really appreciate your message, your support for my writing means a lot to me. It’s epic knowing that people are actually enjoying my work and it makes it so much easier to continue writing each chapter. Thank you.💚

This is my first official post, and idk how to feel about it. So any and all comments & reblogs are really appreciated. If it’s bad please comment so I know I have to delete it🙏

Your secrets are ours, Kid

Yandere BatFam x Reader — CH1 -> CH2 -> CH3 -> CH4 -> CH5 -> CH6 -> CH7 -> CH8 -> CH9 -> CH10

Nightwing, who’s known for his impressive acrobatic skills and crime-fighting abilities, has become a prominent figure in the city of Blüdhaven. Renowned for his fearless approach to taking down criminals and has gained a notable reputation among the superhero community.

The guy's identity is a complete mystery, though. Nightwing works alone, leaving many of us to wonder who the man behind the mask really is. — Some say he has connections to Gotham City’s own famous vigilante, Batman.

When the young hero is seen in action, he can be often spotted leaping from rooftops and engaging in daring acts of superheroism, leaving criminals and citizens alike in awe of his skill and courage. Some question if he's a human or something more, while others simply look on in admiration. Despite the secrecy surrounding his identity, Nightwing's reputation seems to grow endlessly.

Then there’s Red Hood, the dark and brooding vigilante of Gotham City, a fearsome sight to behold. His red mask and signature pistols make him easily recognizable, and his actions leave criminals trembling in terror.

Some have speculated him being a former criminal reforming his ways while I believe that he too has ties to our one and only Batman. Despite his dark demeanor and ruthless tactics, it seems clear to me that there is a connection between the two. There has been a lot of evidence submitted for their collaboration, even if they choose to deny it publicly. Though, Batman, known for his strict code of ethics, would not typically associate himself with someone as morally ambiguous as Red Hood. But the circumstantial evidence is too compelling to ignore.

Regardless, Red Hood's impact on the criminal underworld is undeniable. He uses violence and intimidation to enforce his own brand of justice, which is rather admirable, yet causing many to question his brutal methods.

Next up is our one and only Batman himself, the dark knight of Gotham City. He’s a mystery in itself. His tall, imposing stature is enough to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, and his reputation as a master detective and fighter only enhances his mystique.

I have been trying to piece together the puzzle that is Batman's identity. Who is the man under the mask? What drives him to take on Gotham's criminals with such determination?

Though the billionaire Bruce Wayne has long been suspected as the man behind the mask, no concrete evidence has ever been presented. His true identity remains a puzzle, something that adds to his allure and intrigue. Every lead I follow seems to hit a dead end. The playboy is too obvious, too niche. What would motivate a Wayne, someone brought up into filthy wealth, who wastes his money on grand galas and prostitutes, into defending this city? The theory is too far reached.

Next are Red Robin and Robin. Batman’s sidekick-associates. Their partnership with Batman has been evident in their actions and fighting style. However, a rumour has been running around, theorising that the newer Robin was a young child when he had first joined Batman at his side.

Would our beloved hero really force a minor into sighting the dark dangerous streets of Gotham? Would he_

As you sat uncomfortably at the countertop of your kitchen, typing away on your laptop, you were suddenly interrupted by the unexpected sound of someone clearing their throat. You look up from the bright screen to see your roommate standing in the doorway, arms crossed. You raise an amused brow, a grin tugging at your lips at the sight of the other male in pyjamas rather than the usual broody black clothes and leather jacket. You click save and shut off the computer, turning fully to face him. “Yes, Jayson dear?”

Jason’s nose scrunches at the name, even as he stands in the doorway wearing nothing but a thin, well-worn shirt and pants. He looks like a child, which is somehow more than a little endearing. His eyes flickering up and down your frame as he appraises you. Despite the relaxed state his attire provides, his expression is as serious as ever. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of the worn flannel pants he’s sporting, but it does little to make him look anything other than intimidating.

He raises a brow, tilting his head as he looks at you, watching you save your work and then turn to face him. “Don’t ‘yes, Jayson dear’ me, smartass.”

You snort, moving off of the chair and stretching out, the cracks in your back loud enough for him to purse his lips at. “Well aren’t you sour this fine morning.”

Jason scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “It’s four am.” He mutters, crossing the kitchen to get to the coffee pot. He doesn’t really need the caffeine, but he likes the routine. He grabs a mug from one of the cabinets, filling it up with black coffee. He’d just snuck back in after his patrol, not expecting to see you up.

“And I’m not sour,” he says a bit petulantly, taking a sip of the coffee before setting it aside. “I’m concerned.”

Your brow raises higher, turning to the worn down clock practically glued to the wall from all the times you’ve both hit it to get the ticking sound to shut off. It’s a digital, why does it need to make such an annoying sound? “Huh. I guess it is.”

He rolls his eyes, not at all surprise that you would lose track of time so easily when you got lost in your writing. “Yeah, you do that sometimes,” he grumbles, taking another sip of coffee.

He looks you over, studying you intently as he crosses his arms. “How long have you been working?”

You hum, looking out the window into the polluted skies of Gotham. The sun had risen. “What answer will make you the least angry?”

“None of them,” Jason says, a scoff escaping his lips. His jaw twitches slightly as he watches you stare out the window, and he can’t help noticing how tired you look. He’s seen you like this before, pushing yourself to the brink just to finish a project, just to get everything perfect.

“How long?” he asks again, his voice a little softer this time.

“...” you sigh, looking away from the window to face him once more. “All night.” Before he can open his mouth to reprimand you, you cut in. “But! My project is due today. And Tim will decapitate me if I’m late on another assignment...” You rub the side of your face tiredly, displaying an uneven smile.

Jason’s annoyance melts away into concern as you speak. He can tell you’re exhausted, and the thought of you pushing yourself so hard for so long makes him want to wrap you up in a blanket and force you to take a nap.

But he can’t do that. Not when you’re an adult, not when you’re not actually his little sibling. Yet. He settles for crossing the kitchen and putting a hand on your shoulder. “You need to take care of yourself,” he says firmly. “You won’t be any good to your professor if you pass out from exhaustion.”

You grin softly and give a tired nod, fishing out your phone to check the university’s time table. “I only have to go in at nine forty.”

“And then you only have to endure a full day of classes,” Jason says dryly, narrowing his eyes. He gently takes your phone out of your hand and tucks it into his pocket. “No more work until then.”

Your eyes widen at the action, quickly scrambling to get the device back. “You– Jay!” You huff, leaning back against the hard counter. His gaze set sternly on you. You feel small under his gaze, as if he’s your father disappointed in you for stealing a tenner.

Jason crosses his arms once more, his eyes never leaving your face. Looking like the definition of a disapproving older brother. “No,” he says firmly, his voice stern. “You need to rest. I can’t have you passing out in the middle of class.”

He takes a step closer, looming over you as he stares you down. “You’re gonna take a nap, and then you’re gonna eat a proper breakfast. Got it?”

You can do nothing but glare. Cursing under your breath and walking past him. You’ll have to complain to Tim about this later.

He watches you stalk past him, a smirk on his face. He can practically hear you swearing at him in your head. He takes a moment to finish off his coffee before following you into the living room.

“What, no clever comeback? No witty remark?” he teases, leaning against the wall and watching you storm into the living room. “Are you actually listening to me for once?”

You make a show of laying down on his red beanbag, tugging the blanket off of the couch to drape over your form and throwing up the middle finger at him.

Jason can’t help but chuckle at your childish display. He moves towards you slowly, stopping when he’s close enough to look down at your face. He crouches down beside you, a smirk on his lips. He places your laptop on the table opposite you and your phone next to it.

“Real mature, kid.” He says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He ruffles your hair then stands, descending back into the kitchen. “I’ll wake you up an hour before you gotta leave, don’t worry.”

You sigh, mimicking him in an exaggeratedly high pitched voice. “I’ll wake you up an hour before you have to leave, mehmeheh.”

No use of y/n, currently gn leaning towards male.

Things to note: reader is unaware that the Batfamily members are related yet, age is young adult (19-20), everyone is aged up.

Any questions or feedback is appreciated.

5628 words, 31564 characters, 328 sentences, 133 paragraphs, 22.5 pages.

Tag list: @chemicalsandghosts @yandere-enthusiast @starsdotalk

No idea how I’ve been constantly making a chapter every day and posting straight away.

Your secrets are ours, kid

Yandere BatFam x Reader — CH10 -> CH9 -> CH8 -> CH7 -> CH6 -> CH5 -> CH4 -> CH3 -> CH2 -> CH1

Tim had been observing you from his seat across the table, his keen eyes taking in your focused state as you immersed yourself in whatever it was on your laptop. You had been at it all day, your gaze fixed intently on the screen, your fingers tapping away at the keys. There was a hint of determination and concentration on your face, yet there was also a tinge of anxiety mixed with it. He was curious, to say the least.

Tim had to repeatedly pull your focus away from your device. In each class you shared together, he would notice you glued to the screen, your eyes fixated intently on whatever you were working on. Despite repeated attempts to divert your attention, you kept getting pulled back into your work, your focus unwavering. It ticked him off. His deep blue orbs piercing through your form. A frown tugged at the corners of his lips, dark brows furrowed. Alfred was going to be here in ten minutes and you hadn’t averted your attention towards him once. He hadn’t joined this low class university for you to not spare him a glance.

He clears his throat, pocketing his phone and resting his chin against his palm.

Your attention diverts, finally. His frown twitches up. You send him a soft grin then look back down to your computer. His eye twitches.

Tim casually leans across the table and closes your laptop without warning, his fingers moving swiftly to shut it down. Quickly pulling back before you have a chance to swat at him. He leans back into his chair, just out of your reach, anticipating your reaction. His eyes twinkle with a mischievous glint, remaining just out of range.

You shoot Tim a glare, your annoyance evident on your face as you take a swipe at his arm. However, he's a little too quick for you, dodging your punch with ease and moving out of your reach before you can connect. He grins at your frustrated expression, clearly enjoying the reaction he's gotten out of you. Reviling in the attention.

“What.” You demand, exhausted. You flex your fingers, suddenly acutely aware of the subtle aching from constant typing.

Tim casually lies, claiming that his phone is dead and that he needs your attention. The words roll off his tongue effortlessly, as if twisting the truth had become a natural reflex for him. "My phone is dead," he says matter-of-factly. "Give me some attention."

Your sour expression whittles down to a begrudging smile. “So demanding.” You pretend to huff, opening your laptop to click save then stuffing it in your bag carelessly.

Tim smirked at your response, silently pleased with himself for successfully derailing your focus from your work to him. He watched as you pack your laptop away, his deep blue eyes tracking your every move, his gaze almost lazy.

As you finally give him your full attention, he leans further back in his chair, his pose nonchalant. "Well, you were pretty immersed in your laptop earlier. I had to do something to get your attention."

He feigned a wounded expression, a hand clutching at his chest dramatically, his words dripping with mock hurt. "I was feeling a bit neglected, to be honest."

You snort at his reaction and roll your eyes. “Oh shove off, you sod. It wasn’t that bad.”

Tim chuckled softly, his smirk remaining as he raised an eyebrow at your response. "Oh, it was definitely that bad," he teased. "You looked like you were having a more engaging conversation with your laptop than with me."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "I swear, I could hear you whispering sweet nothings to the keyboard.”

You scowl at Tim's playful words, not entirely amused by his demand for attention. Your expression is tinged with irritation, but there's also a hint of fondness beneath it. You know this is just his way of getting under your skin, and although you may not want to admit it, you can't help but find it slightly endearing nonetheless. You lean over and lock your leg around his chair so he can’t get away as you pinch his side.

He yelps in exaggerated pain, immediately recoiling away from your grip. "Hey, that hurts," he protested, rubbing at the spot on his side that you had pinched.

Despite his feigned agony, a hint of a playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, betraying his true feelings. He was enjoying this back and forth between you, the way you easily fell into his teasing banter.

He quickly recovers and feigns a dramatic pout, his blue gaze meeting and holding yours. "You're being so mean to me," Tim whined, his voice dripping with fake hurt.

You roll your eyes at Tim's exaggerated overdramatic voice. His puppy dog eyes and feigned hurt expression are all too familiar to you, and you know exactly what he's trying to do. Nevertheless, you can't help but feel a pang of guilt as he accuses you of being mean. "Oh please," you scoff, your irritation momentarily overwritten by his pitiful act.

Tim senses your moment of guilt and capitalizes on it, his pout deepening as he continues to play the part of the wounded damsel. His voice is laced with mock hurt, "You don't feel bad for hurting my feelings, do you?"

He places a hand on his chest, his expression one of exaggerated despair. Inwardly, he knows he's being ridiculous, but the way you react to his antics is just too amusing for him to resist. He lets out a dramatic sigh, feigning exhaustion from your callousness.

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to laugh at Tim's over-the-top antics. His pathetic expression and exaggerated despair are absolutely ridiculous, and yet somehow, you can't help feeling a hint of guilt creeping up on you. With a resigned sigh, you roll your eyes and reply, "Oh, I feel terrible."

Your sarcasm is blatantly obvious, but there's a hint of genuine concern in your expression, a sign that you're not completely immune to his playful manipulation.

His eyes gleam with satisfaction as he senses your guilt, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He's fully aware of the effect his puppy-dog eyes and dramatic flair have on you, and he's not afraid to use them to get your attention and sympathy.

He leans even closer, resting his chin on the palm of one hand, "You should feel bad," he responds, his voice filled with mock arrogance. "I've been sitting here all day, begging for your attention, and you've been ignoring me for that stupid laptop of yours."

You let out a sigh, rubbing the side of your neck as you feel a hint of awkwardness creeping in. Although Tim's demeanor is still laced with his typical playful demeanor, you sense a touch of seriousness beneath his words, a subtle hint that his request for attention is not entirely a joke.

“Sorry. I’ve been...” You nibble at the inside of your cheek in thought, trying to find the right words without blurting out anything you’ll regret. “... stressed.”

Tim's expression softens at your words, his teasing facade dropping for a moment. He notices the way you nibble at your cheek, his observant gaze not missing a single thing. He senses that there's something more to your stress than meets the eye, but he doesn't press you for answers just yet. Instead, he puts up a facade of understanding, his concern for you genuine.

"Stressed, huh?" he repeats, his tone gentler now, but his eyes are studying you intently. "What's got you all twisted up?" He puts up a facade of nonchalance, his expression not displaying his internal worries in the slightest. Why were you stressed? Should he get Bruce to pay off some of your professors again? Were they putting too much pressure on you?

You bite your cheek, torn between being annoyed at Tim's overprotective tendencies and appreciating his genuine concern. Part of you wants to brush off his question and avoid revealing the source of your stress, but another part yearns for the comfort and support that he seems to endlessly offer.

You give in, admitting quietly, "Yeah, I'm a little stressed. It's just been a lot lately, with classes and assignments piling up... I’m starting to worry about rent too. I know that Jason can cover for me this month, but I just feel bad. Y’know?” You sigh, running a hand through your hair anxiously. It was easy to open up to Tim. You never knew why, but he just always seemed to know when something was bothering you. He’d text you right as a panic attack sprouts, or just when you wake up in the middle of the night from a heart drenching nightmare. He always seemed to know.

Tim listens intently as you speak, his eyes never leaving your form. His keen mind absorbing every word, noting every nervous gesture and anxious sigh. He feels a pang of worry in his chest as you mention your struggles with rent, and his hand clenches into a fist instinctively, but he manages to keep his outwardly calm demeanor.

He shifts closer in his seat, reaching out to gently rest his hand on top of yours, trying to provide some comfort. "Hey," he says, his voice soft and reassuring, "you know we're all here for you, right?" The words slip past his lips before he has the time to register them.

You pause, your hand falling from your hair and landing in your lap. Taking your other out of his hold. There's a moment of silence as you gather your thoughts, your eyes dropping to your fingers as you idly pick at the skin around them. You let out a soft murmur of doubt, your voice laced with uncertainty and question. “... All?”

Tim raises a brow as you withdraw your hand from his own, his eyes tracking your movements, taking note of the way your fingers nervously pick at your skin. The pause in your conversation causes a flicker of worry to flash across his features. He had inadvertently let slip the secret in his attempt to console you.

He watches as you murmur that one word, 'All?' and feels a pang of guilt in his chest. He mentally curses his slip-up.

“Yeah,” he confirms, his voice hesitant. “All.”

He shifts his chair closer, “Your roommate, me, your friends. We’re all here for you. I’m sure they are.” He attempts to poorly explain, relived when you seem to believe him, nodding.

"Yeah... all..." You respond quietly, the implications of your words heavy in the air. Doubt laced in your tone.

Tim takes the moment of silence to mentally berate himself for his careless slip-up. He hadn't meant to reveal anything that you weren't ready to know. He opens his mouth to speak, wanting to clarify something, anything, but he's interrupted by the familiar sound of Alfred's voice.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting something." Alfred's voice cuts through the tension as he approaches. His expression is unreadable, his gaze flickering between you and Tim.

You glance up from the Drake, your eyes meeting those of his butler, Alfred. A small, sad smile graces your lips, an acknowledgment of both the man's silent presence and the care he provides. Despite the circumstances, you can't help but feel a pang of loneliness, knowing that your own parents were nowhere to be found while Tim was fortunate enough to have an attentive and kind caretaker. You knew deep down that your thoughts were a bit silly. You were an adult now, independent and capable of taking care of yourself. There was no point in yearning for affection from parents who had never cared enough to show it in the first place. But the ache for acceptance and recognition remained, a constant whisper in the back of your mind, an echo of the neglected child you had been.

With a forced smile, you push yourself to your feet, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. The weight of it is heavy, both physically and emotionally, a constant reminder of the load you're carrying. "And that's my cue," you say, a tone of resignation in your voice. You're eager to escape the situation, desperate for a moment of solitude to sort through your thoughts.

Alfred's eyes flicker with a hint of concern at your forced smile, noting the resignation in your tone. His gaze scans your features, taking in every subtle shift and twitch, his astute mind already noting the burden you seemed to be carrying. He opens his mouth to speak, perhaps to offer a word of reassurance, but Tim cuts in before he can.

The young man rises from his chair, his movements smooth and controlled. He steps forward, standing between you and Alfred, his tall frame acting as a physical barrier. “Wait,” he says firmly, his blue eyes locking with yours.

You pause at Tim's firm command, your gaze locking with his intense eyes. There's something about his tone and the way he steps forward to block Alfred's view of you that makes you hesitate, a sense of unease creeping in. Despite your desire to flee, his presence and the command in his voice keep you rooted in place.

The air in the room crackles with tension as Tim holds your gaze, his eyes burning into yours with an intensity that is both unexpected and unsettling. His hand moves to grip your elbow, fingers gently but firmly wrapping around your arm, as if to prevent you from escaping.

Tim’s eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes you feel both uneasy and exposed. His body is taut, his broad shoulders serving as a physical barrier between you and Alfred, effectively cutting you off from the older man’s line of sight. You flinch subtly as his hand suddenly lunges out to grip your elbow, his fingers wrapping firmly around your arm in a manner that feels almost possessive.

He can't help but visibly startle when he notices your flinch, Tim’s eyes widening in surprise. He quickly bites his lip to contain himself from cooing at you, resisting the flood of gentle words and reassurances that threaten to spill out. The words almost accidentally slipping past his lips, the instinct to protect and comfort you strong within him. Seeing your fear, whether it was a direct response to him or not, causes a pang of guilt to stab at his heart. He wants to pull you close, to wrap his arms around you and whisper that everything is okay, that he'd never hurt you, that it's alright, little bat.

You exhale softly, your voice filled with a quiet apology. You don't quite understand why your body had reacted so instinctively to his touch, why you had flinched at the sight of his hand reaching for you. It was Tim, your best bud, someone who had always been there for you, he’d never hurt you. But there was something about the intensity in his eyes, a look that you couldn't quite shake off. You shake your head, pushing aside any lingering doubts and trying to forget about it.

You hesitate for a moment before slowly wrapping your arms around Tim, enveloping him in a gentle embrace. Your voice is filled with a mixture of uncertainty and affection. "I'll see you on Thursday," You murmur. That’s when you next had class with him. "Text me when you get home, yeah?"

The moment you wrap your arms around Tim, his tense muscles relax almost immediately. He relishes in the feel of you against him, basking in your warmth as it fills his senses. He returns your embrace quickly, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight against his chest. A breath he didn't even realize he was holding escaped his lips.

“Yeah," he responds softly, his voice a low murmur against your ear. He can't help but bury his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent, his body relaxing as you hold him close. "I'll text you right when I get home, I promise."

Alfred watches the exchange in silence, his expression unreadable. His gaze flits from Tim to you, simply observing quietly.

Once you return to the threshold that is your apartment, you instantly notice the pure chaos that greets you. The place was a mess, with items scattered everywhere, and your eyes widened at the sight. In the kitchen, you spot Jason pacing back and forth, his expression etched with tension.

You hiss, dropping your bag on the couch and picking up your speed to the kitchen. You give no warning before wacking the older males side.

Jason recoils at the unexpected blow to his side, spinning around to face you with a scowl. “Hey, watch it,” he grunts, rubbing his side.

He crosses his arms, his eyes darting around the living room before settling back on you. “Before you go off on me—“ he starts, but he’s cut off by the glare you give him.

“Did the place get raided while I was gone!?” You yell, eyes piercing through his form.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands of white that had fallen into his eyes.

Jason scoffs, rolling his eyes at your outrage. “It’s not that bad,” he mutters, gesturing around the living room.

In reality, it is bad. There are papers and clothes everywhere, and it looks like a tornado tore through the place. But compared to some of the messes he’s made in his life, this is nothing.

You give him a pointed look, your jaw clenching.

Jason lets out a sigh, seeing the irritation in your expression. He knows he’s in trouble. “Listen, I had a few people over and…” He trails off, his excuse dying in his throat. He sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, it’s a mess. I’ll clean it up, alright?”

You cross your arms, a stubborn expression on your face. “Damn right you will,” you mutter, eyeing the chaos around you. “And I swear, if I see another used cup, I’m going to shove it down your throat.”

Jason rolls his eyes again, a smirk playing on his lips. “So violent,” he teases, taking a step closer to you. “Maybe I’m rubbing off on you.”

You let out a frustrated huff, zooming past Jason in the kitchen without sparing him another glance. You stride out onto the cramped balcony, arms crossed as you lean against the railing. Your head rests against your arms, a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion etched on your face.

You had looked forward to having some peace and quiet once you finally made it home, but your relief was quickly replaced by frustration upon seeing the state of your apartment. The sight of the mess caused a wave of annoyance to wash over you, which you tried to squash down. Letting out a soft exhale then leaning back. The air, less than fresh, stinging your skin. You close your eyes.

—

After a solid two hours, Todd knocks softly against the door frame leading onto the balcony, a sheepish smile perched on his lips.

He stands awkwardly in the doorway, holding your favourite tea out in front of him. He knows he messed up, and he knows you’re still mad at him. He can see it in the tension in your shoulders, in the firm set of your jaw.

He clears his throat, taking a small step forward. “Hey,” he says softly, his voice gruff but hesitant. “I brought you tea.”

You don’t turn around at the sound of his voice, but he can see the slight shift in your frame. He takes another step forward, approaching you slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal he’s afraid will run away.

He stops when he’s close enough to touch you, but he doesn’t. He holds out the cup of tea, the steam wafting up in front of you. “It’s your favourite,” he mutters, his voice apologetic and tentative.

Your shoulders relax slightly, and he can see the tension in your face ease a bit. You still don’t turn to face him, but you reach out to take the cup from his hand, and he considers that a victory.

He stands there silently for a moment, watching as you bring the cup to your lips and take a small sip. He wants to say something, anything, to break the silence between you. But he doesn’t know what to say.

The silence stretches on, and he shifts awkwardly on his feet. He’s not used to feeling this unsure around you. Around anyone, really. But you’re not just anyone. You’re you, and he cares about you more than he wants to admit.

“... Why was the place really trashed?” You question, breaking the silence for him. Your voice didn’t hold any accusations, just simply curious. You know that he hadn’t really held any gathering. He barely tolerates when the neighbours get too close to the front door, Jason was fiercely protective of his personal space, and you couldn't imagine him willingly inviting strangers into the sanctity of his home.

Jason hesitates for a moment, his mind racing for a plausible excuse. He could tell you that it was just a rowdy party, and that he’d underestimated how much damage the guests could do.

Instead, he opts for the truth. “I was... looking for something,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Bruce had gone against their deal. Planting cameras in areas other than your bedroom. He had planned to sort it out before you had arrived, but you had come home earlier than he had anticipated.

He watches as you turn to face him, your face a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. Your eyes narrow at his answer, and he knows you could see right through him. You were too damn smart for your own good.

Jason holds your gaze, his eyes silently pleading with you to accept his answer and drop the subject. But he should know by now that you were relentless, unwilling to let anything go without a thorough explanation.

You raise a brow, your serious expression cracking, a fit of giggles escaping past your lips. “No shit.” You nudge his side. “You have a girl over?” You wiggle your eyebrows in teasing question. Immediately assuming he was scrambling around for a condom.

Jason rolls his eyes at your assumption. “No,” he says firmly, a bit too firmly. “It wasn’t anything like that.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, a scowl on his face. But underneath the scowl, he’s more than a little embarrassed by your question. Of course, you would assume that the only reason he would trash the apartment was for a quick hookup.

You snort, taking a long sip of the tea and raking your eyes over his form. “Sure, Sure.”

Jason lets out a huff, his scowl deepening. “I’m serious,” he grumbles, his face heating up.

He doesn’t know why he’s so defensive, or why the thought of you thinking he had a girl over bothers him so much. He’s probably had dozens of girls - and guys - in that apartment. Before you moved in. And yet, the idea of you thinking he had a random stranger in the apartment irks him. You’re going to be his younger sibling. You shouldn’t think of him in that way.

You smirk, seeing him get all flustered and defensive. It’s cute, in a way. You’re not used to seeing him like this – he’s usually so aloof, tough, and carefree. But seeing him all red-faced and embarrassed is a rare treat.

You take another sip of your tea, savouring the flavour before speaking again. “You’re acting like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.” You snicker softly.

Jason scowls at your laugh, his face growing even redder. “I’m not!” He protests, his voice raising slightly. “I just-“

He stops himself, realizing he’s only making it worse. He lets out a frustrated huff, running a hand through his hair again. He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him, like a cat toying with its prey. It bothers him more than he cares to admit.

The older boy bristles at your insistence, his hands gripping your shoulder blades as he guides you back inside. "Get your ass to bed already, kid." He mutters, his voice gruff. "You barely had three hours of sleep earlier."

You let out a small squeak of surprise as he abruptly spins you around, pushing you back into the apartment with a firm grip. He’s being oddly firm and protective, and you can’t help but feel a little rattled by his sudden change in attitude.

Before you can protest, he’s already practically shoving you down the hallway. “Go to bed,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll finish cleaning up here.”

You open your mouth to protest, mindful of not spilling the tea in your hand. "It's barely eight!" you exclaim, your tone edged with a hint of disbelief.

Jason practically rolls his eyes at your protests. "And?” He counters, his tone unamused. “You need to rest. You’re acting like a damn zombie, kid."

He steers you towards the bedroom door, his grip firm but gentle on your shoulders. “Just go to bed. I’ll clean up the mess and then make dinner, alright?”

You scowl, about to continue your argument but Jason had effectively shut it down by pushing you onto the soft covers. He smoothly takes the cup from your hands, placing it gently on the side table. A huff of annoyance escapes your lips, but the cozy warmth of the bed strangely beckons to you, tempting you to surrender to its comfort.

"...Fine." You concede with a resigned sigh, a small pout on your lips. "But I'm only doing it because I choose to, not because you’re telling me to," you quickly add, your voice tinged with a hint of defiance.

Jason snorts, an amused expression taking over his features at your protest. He runs a hand through your hair, mussing it up playfully. “Yeah, sure,” he says, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Keep telling yourself that, kid.”

He pulls back from the bed, his hand falling from your hair, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Get some rest," he orders, his tone brokering no room for argument. "I'll wake you up when dinner is ready."

You grumble a bit, pulling the blankets up to your chin and snuggling into the pillows. Despite your protests, the soft bed is too comfortable to resist, and you can already feel your eyelids growing heavy.

"You better not burn the food, or I'll kick your ass," you mutter sleepily, your voice muffled by the thick wooly blankets.

Jason chuckles, a playful smirk on his lips. "Don't worry, I'll give Gordon Ramsay a run for his money."

He lingers by the bed for a moment, his gaze lingering on your form as you snuggle into the blankets, his chest feeling strangely warm at the sight. He shakes his head at the feeling, clearing his throat before speaking again. "Get some rest," he repeats, his tone gentle. "I’ll wake you up later."

He gives you one last look before turning to leave the room. As he walks out, he flicks the lights off to the bedroom, leaving the door open just a crack. He wanted to make sure he could hear you in case you needed anything. He couldn’t risk watching through the cameras, just in case you leave while he’s mid mixing something on the stove and see it.

You respond with a faint hum, already starting to drift off to sleep, the plush bed pulling you into the realms of unconsciousness.

As Jason leaves the room, he can faintly hear your soft, steady breathing, a small sign that you’re drifting off to sleep. He stands in the hallway for a moment, listening to the quiet sighs and puffs of breath that escape past your lips.

After a few moments, he finally turns and heads into the kitchen to start dinner. He mentally goes over the plan, planning to call Alfred to get him to talk Jason through the steps to make a simple noodle dish that he knows you’ll like.

He sighs, shifting through the cupboards for what he’s looking for.

Once he’s prepared, Jason stands in the dimly lit kitchen, a small bowl of ingredients and utensils laid out in front of him. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he reaches the one he was looking for: Alfred Pennyworth.

Before he can hit the call button, Jason hesitates for a moment. Asking Alfred for help wasn’t something he did often, he liked to be a self-sufficient person who could handle things on his own. But this was for you, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t mess it up.

He takes a deep breath and reluctantly hits the call button.

After an excruciatingly long phone call with Alfred, Jason manages to get the instructions he needs to follow to make a simple yet delicious pasta dish. He’d had to endure a few cheeky quips from the older man, who couldn’t help but rib him for asking for help with something as simple as cooking.

Jason places the two plates on the table, a small grimace on his face as he glances at the food. It doesn't look quite like the mouthwatering photo from the restaurant's website that Alfred had shared, but oddly enough, it still looks appetizing. If anything, it’s edible. And he can handle a quip or two from you if it really is that bad.

With a huff, Jason makes his way back to the bedroom, a hand firmly on the handle of the door as he enters. He finds you snuggled up in your bed, fast asleep, the blankets tucked up to your chin. He can’t help the affectionate smile that tugs at his lips at the sight, a small, fluttery feeling in his chest. He’s never really had anyone he’s felt this protective of, not even his other siblings. And seeing you so defenceless in bed brings out all sorts of strange feelings.

He approaches quietly, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the bed. His deep grey eyes study you for a moment, listening to the soft, steady breaths leaving your parted lips. You look so damn peaceful, so damn vulnerable, and it’d be so easy for him to reach over and touch you. Brush some of the hair away from your face, or trace the arch of your brow with his finger.

Jason sighed, poking your cheek softly. Your skin squishing under his calloused finger. You had always looked so fragile in your sleep. Something the family was fond of watching through the cameras, your defencelessness just fuelling their obsession. He’ll have to adjust the dosage of the drug he slipped in your tea. They just couldn’t risk you staying up all night again. You needed rest, and the thought of you accidentally running into him in his vigilante suit gave him a headache.

He had been careful not to give you too much yet, needing you at least conscious for dinner, but he had made sure to administer enough to keep you in a state of drowsiness and mild disorientation. Making sure you would stay tired enough to slip right back into bed after eating.

He pokes your cheek again, a little harder this time. "Wake up, shithead," he mutters, his voice gruff. "You've gotta eat something."

You stir slightly at his touch, a small groaning noise escaping past your lips as you slowly start to wake up. Your eyes flutter open sluggishly, still heavy with sleep and your vision slightly dazed and unfocused.

You blink a few times, trying to clear the fuzziness from your mind. You feel groggy and disoriented, your brain still in a state of haze as you try to wake yourself up enough to sit up. But it’s hard, your body feels sluggish and heavy, and the room seems to be spinning slightly.

Despite the drowsiness, you managed to muster up a weak glare and toss it at Jason, silently expressing your annoyance at being torn away from the peaceful moment of tranquility which was your sleep.

The older boy grins at your weak glare, completely unfazed by your attempted display of annoyance. "Don't give me that look, kid. You gotta eat if you wanna stay healthy."

He pokes your cheek again, his touch light but insistent. "You can go back to sleep after you eat. I made you dinner."

You grumble something unintelligible under your breath, shifting in the bed as you try to sit up. It's a struggle, your body feeling heavy and clumsy, but you manage to force yourself into a sitting position. You give Jason another half-hearted glare, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Why do I have to eat now? I'm not even hungry," you complain, your voice thick with sleep.

Jason chuckles at your protest, his tone tinged with amusement. "You're not hungry now, but you'll be starving again in a few hours. And I'm not about to deal with a grumpy, hangry kid while I'm trying to watch a movie." You pout at his words.

He reaches forward, grabbing your arm and pulling you up from the bed, practically forcing you to move. "Come on, up. You're eating, even if I have to stuff it down your throat like a little birdie."

You grimace at the thought. “Gross, dude.”

No use of y/n, no use of any descriptive features for the reader, no gender mentioned.

I tried to make the difference between what everyone calls you obvious — in Dick’s perspective you’re his baby bird, to Tim you’re his little bat, but that’s used in a more literal sense as you’re shorter than him, to finally Jason calling you kid.

All comments, asks, and reblogs are really appreciated! Please comment if you’d like to be tagged.

3939 words, 22942 characters, 232 sentences, 136 paragraphs, 15.7 pages.

Please don’t ask me what this is. I just started writing and didn’t fucking stop.

I’m a Hufflepuff. You may ask why I wrote a Ravenclaw reader then… Well, Simple. I’ve gone feral over Batfam fics with bird terms of endearments and wanted to write about a weak lil nerd who gets called bird.

TW — Dark. Theo’s mean, dick Theo. Yandere-ish. Non consensual touch, but not really bordering anything sexual, just implying that it would happen. & others. I’m not good at the trigger warnings.

GHOSTS

Theodore Nott x Male Reader

As you make your way down the long, deserted corridors of Hogwarts, the shadows stretch and creep in the soft moonlight. The air is thick with tension and anticipation, as if tales and secrets are whispered through the very stones themselves. Suddenly, you accidentally bump into a fellow student.

His voice, a deep, velvety whisper, breaks the silence.

“Are you afraid of ghosts?” Nott, a quiet and solitary figure, had spoken, startling you. He’d taken notice of your aversion to the shortcut many other students so carelessly wonder. Choosing to walk along the longest path lead away from any of the roaming undead creatures.

You find yourself caught off guard as you realize it's none other than Theodore Nott, known for his eerie silence and his dangerous connections. A Death Eater, a member of the dark lord's inner circle, and a man associated with fearsome tales of torture and blood supremacy. Your gaze travels up, taking in his imposing presence.

You run your fingers through your soft hair anxiously, the moonlight illuminating your face, making you look almost otherworldly. You lean back a little, taking in the sight of the notorious Nott. Having grown up hearing about the Nott family's dark legacy, the very presence of the boy in front of you is frightening.

Licking your chapped lips nervously, you struggle to find the words to answer Nott's question.

"…I am.” you finally admit, you know better than to lie to someone whose family is of such high status.

Theodore tilted his head, studying you from behind a mask of unreadable expressions. His eyes gleam in the moonlight, betraying no particular thoughts or feelings.

"Perché i fantasmi? Why?" Theo asked simply, crossing his arms. The Italian words slipping past his lips naturally. He leaned against the stone wall, seemingly at ease. His body was slender, but still stronger than his gaunt appearance suggested.

"What's so frightful about..." he paused, giving a little gesture that encompassed the vast castle around you, "Ghosts?"

You were not sure how to respond.

He continued to study you intently, taking in every detail, as if you were a puzzle to decipher. You could feel his eyes tracing your features, your body language, trying to discern your emotions.

His silence was unnerving.

You swallowed hard, your Adam’s apple bobbing as you become acutely aware of how dry your throat is. Licking your chapped lips for a second before speaking. “...Ghosts are the lingering spirits of the departed. They’re a reminder that death is... inescapable. That the line between life and death is fragile.”

You pause, his gaze unwavering, making you feel slightly uneasy.

“Ghosts are shrouded in mystery. The unanswered questions surrounding their existence make them frightening. Their presence serves as a reminder that there may be more to this world than we can comprehend, and that the boundaries between life and death are thinner and more complex than we realise.” You looked up, meeting his watercolour eyes. He looks almost amused.

A hint of a smile played on Theodore's lips. He was faintly amused by your answer. It was so eloquent and philosophical. Typical of a Ravenclaw to put such emphasis on the mystery and uncertainty surrounding ghosts.

"You speak as if you've studied the subject," he observed, tilting his head slightly. His eyes glinted in the dim light, his expression inscrutable.

You nibble at your bottom lip, your coloured eyes boring into the other boys. “... it’s hard not to.”

Theodore pushed himself off the wall, moving towards you. He was slender, yet there was a certain elegance in his movements. He moved with the grace of a predator, silent and fluid.

He stepped closer to you, his tall stature looming over you. His eyes had darkened, as if contemplating something. He studied your features once more, his gaze flickering over your face, your neck, almost like he inspecting your every blemish, every little detail.

You swallowed again, feeling strangely out of breath. His proximity was overwhelming, his silence making every moment feel like an eternity. It wasn’t until he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, that you realised he had moved closer still.

“You’re shaking,” he stated, his eyes never leaving your face. You hadn’t noticed, but in the cold air of the corridor, your body was trembling.

You felt the heat rise on your cheeks, realising how vulnerable you looked in front of him. You averted your eyes, trying to gather your composure.

He was so close, you could feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent- a blend of leather, parchment and spices- filling the air around you. “Are you scared?” he questioned, his voice low and quiet. “Of me?”

You dared to glance up at him, your eyes widening as you met his gaze. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he found your fear amusing. Yet, there was something else in his expression- something you couldn't quite place. He tilted his head, studying you intently.

“You seem… interesting.” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His eyes raked over you once more, as if he was trying to see beneath the surface, to get a glimpse of your thoughts, your fears, your secrets.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, making you feel small and exposed. You found yourself unable to look away, your heart racing in your chest. You knew he was dangerous, a Death Eater, someone not to be trusted.

But there was something about him that drew you in, a magnetic pull that you couldn’t resist. His fluffy hair fell in soft waves over his forehead, and his eyes seemed to have captured the moonlight, making them appear almost liquid silver rather than watercolour green.

He stepped closer still, your bodies nearly touching. You could feel the warmth of his skin just inches from yours.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your exposed skin, so softly it was barley a touch. You felt as if you couldn’t move, like being transfixed by a serpent. Nott’s cold fingers gently brushed a strand of hair off your face.

“Such soft skin…” he murmured, his eyes flickering over your features. He seemed almost mesmerised by you. He slowly moved his fingers over your jaw, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “And you bite your lip so often. It’s… distracting.”

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You’re so… fragile…” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Like a perfect porcelain doll.”

His fingers continued their journey, tracing along your neck, causing you to suck in a sharp breath. He paused for a moment, his hand still resting on your skin. Thumb tracing over the Adam’s apple in your throat.

Theodore let out a soft, humorless chuckle as he observed you, his normally reserved demeanor replaced by a mixture of amusement and condescension.

"Look at you..." he began, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Trying to be all tough, trying to put on a show of bravery. But I can see right through you.”

He hummed, studying your shaking form with a critical eye. Then, his lips twisted into a sly smirk.

"You're just a scared piccolo uccello."

“... Trembling at the slightest touch,” he continued, his thumb slowly tracing up and down your neck. “Your heart’s racing. You’re practically quivering.”

His lips were hovering maddeningly close to your ear now, the whispered words sending a small shiver through you. He leaned in a bit closer, his hand sliding down your neck, towards your collar.

"Do you know what they do to pretty little birds like you in the wild?” He inquired.

His voice was almost a whisper, low and menacing, his fingers lightly tracing the buttons of your shirt. “They catch them, break their wings, and keep them in little cages. Trapped, completely at their mercy.”

He moved his hand further down, stopping just above your hip, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your shirt.

“Would you like that? To be my little pet?” he mused, his breath warm against your skin.

You tried to speak, but your mouth felt dry and your mind was in disarray. Your head was spinning, and your heart was racing so fast you feared it might explode.

His fingers curled around the waistband of your trousers, pulling you closer with a sudden jerk. You stumbled involuntarily, landing against his chest.

“You’d look stunning in a collar,” He murmured, his lips gently brushing against the shell of your ear. You felt his other hand grip your hip, as if to hold you in place. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the hard press of his muscles.

The moment he grabbed your waistband and pulled you close, your mind became a maelstrom of confusion and panic. Your heart raced to an almost concerning pace, and your dry mouth made it impossible to form coherent words. Stumbling against his chest, you felt the heat of his breath against your ear as he murmured his suggestion.

The mere mention of a restriction around your neck, metaphorical or not, sent a shiver down your spine, and the firm grip on your hip left you feeling trapped. You were suddenly all too aware of the proximity of his body, the contour of his muscles pressing against your own.

“I...”

He chuckled quietly at your inability to form a coherent response, enjoying your evident distress. He didn’t give you time to regain your bearings, though. His fingers continued to explore, tracing the hem of your shirt, sliding underneath the loose fabric to gently brush against the skin of your hips.

“Don’t be shy.” he whispered, his voice taking on a patronizing tone. “Use your words, pretty boy.” He was mocking you.

Theo’s touch was both gentle and possessive, his fingers teasing the edges of your shirt, slowly slipping beneath the fabric to touch skin. Trailing over your hard stomach. The subtle mockery in his tone was like a knife to your pride, the taunt causing a mix of embarrassment and frustration to bubble up in your chest.

Clenching your jaw, you forced yourself to speak, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

"Don't call me that."

He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering with what looked like a hint of amusement. He seemed to be enjoying your growing irritation. His touch grew firmer, his hand wrapping around your hip, pulling you even closer.

Your protest seemed to amuse him even further. He chuckled again, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Why not?” he drawled, his breath hot on your ear. “Such a pretty little bird, fluttering its feathers when I’ve only just begun to touch it.”

He slowly tilted your chin up with his other hand, forcing you to look into his eyes, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“It’s a compliment,” he continued, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “To call you pretty. It’s what you are- Pretty. Delicate. Fragile.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing the shape of it before he spoke again.

“Do you not like being called pretty, my pretty raven?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. Pretty. The word was simultaneously flattering and demeaning, highlighting the vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide. His thumb gently caressing your lip only served to emphasize it.

His touch was infuriatingly gentle, as if he was both mocking you and enjoying your discomfort. You took a deep breath, trying to maintain a sense of dignity, but his words, combined with his actions, were making it increasingly difficult.

“I’m not... fragile,” you mumbled, your voice sounding weaker than you would’ve liked.

His eyes darkened, amused by your weak protest. He took a step closer, his body now pressing against yours, pinning you against the wall. The smirk on his face grew, his voice lowering to a dangerously quiet level.

“Are you sure about that?” he murmured, his hand releasing your chin to slide down your chest, his fingers tracing your collarbone.

“You’re shaking. Heart’s racing. All from a little touch.”

The proximity of his body to yours, the feeling of being trapped between him and the wall, was overwhelming. His hand on your collarbone, tracing the shape as he spoke, only served to highlight your own physical reactions, your involuntary tremors and the fast pace of your heartbeat.

Feeling both humiliated and panicked, you tried to take a step back, but your back was already against the wall. There was nowhere to escape.

He didn’t give you the chance to escape, though. He took a step forward, effectively closing the already minimal space between you. His body was pressed against yours, his height and strength making you feel even more vulnerable.

His nose gently brushed against the side of your neck, as if he were breathing you in. His grip on your hip tightened.

“You’re so on edge, love...” he murmured. “Like a little bird, about to take flight. But there’s nowhere to go, is there?”

Feeling overwhelmed and increasingly frustrated by Nott's condescending tone and possessive touch, you finally manage to find your voice. Your words are sharp, your tone a mixture of indignance and determination.

Gritting your teeth, you practically hiss at him, your voice low and tight with barely suppressed anger.

"Let go."

His smirk widened as you finally gathered the courage to speak up. He leaned in closer, his body pressing more firmly against yours, effectively trapping you.

“Let go? But I’m not done playing with you yet, il mio uccellino.” he cooed, his thumb idly tracing the line of your happy trail. My little bird.

The condescension in his tone was almost patronizing, as if he was amused by your attempt to stand up to him.

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost touching your ear, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“You’re trying so hard to put up a brave face. But I can feel you trembling against me. I can practically hear your heart racing.”

He nipped the sensitive skin of your ear, his grip on your hip becoming almost painfully tight.

“Such bravado... It’s almost endearing, Raven.”

He lets out a soft hum, his dark eyes raking over your form, drinking in every detail. He takes a moment, then grins, a sly, mocking expression that irritates you even more.

He then speaks, his voice low and taunting.

"Come with me to my dorm, little raven. Wouldn’t want any wayward ghosts to snatch you away now, would we?”

Theodore’s soft hum seemed almost mocking, his gaze raking over your form with a sort of arrogant, detached interest. As if he was a cat toying with a small, frightened mouse.

The mention of ghosts and his dorm made you stiffen. You instinctively wanted to protest, but his amused tone and condescending smirk made you hesisitate. You loathed the idea of being lead somewhere private with him, a Death Eater, a dangerous person, yet the fear of being caught alone in the darkened halls was stronger.

He seemed to notice your hesitation, and chuckled softly to himself. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he observed your expression.

"Oh, don't look so afraid, darling," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "I promise I won't bite. Not tonight, at least."

His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, a subtle, commanding pressure urging you to step forward.

You found yourself moving forward without much thought, the subtle pressure of his hand on your lower back guiding you towards the dungeons. The corridors were dimly lit, the shadows cast by the flickering torches making everything look eerie and ominous.

Nott walked beside you, his pace seemingly leisurely, his hands in his pockets as if this were all entirely casual. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, watching your every move, taking note of every reaction. You were supposed to be smart, little raven.

The journey was quiet and tense. Every sound echoed too loudly through the dark halls, making everything feel even more foreboding. Nott said nothing, his eyes occasionally flicking from your face to the surroundings, keeping a look out for any passing professors or patrolling Prefects.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reach the entrance into the dungeons. Nott placed his hand on the cold stone wall, and the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room slid silently open.

You came to a halt, your gaze fixated on the open door before you. As you stood there, a sense of unease suddenly hit you like a punch to the gut. What were you doing? Why had you followed so blindly? The realization struck you, a sizzling sensation of revelation coursing through your veins.

Wait, did you actually... want this? A mix of embarrassment and confusion swirled within you, the thought both unexpected and, disturbingly, not entirely undesired.

Nott seemed to notice your hesitation, his sharp gaze watching your expression carefully. He raised an eyebrow as he observed your internal struggle, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Having second thoughts, my little bird?" he teased, his voice a low, velvety murmur. He took a step towards you, closing the space between you. The scent of his cologne enveloped you - musk, expensive fabric, and pine.

"Too late to back out now."

He reached out, gently grasping your chin and tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were now a dark, smoldering black, filled with a mixture of curiosity and arrogance.

"You're mine now, il mio uccellino." he murmured, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "And I don’t let go of what's mine."

His fingers trailed over your jawline, leaving a trail of tingles in their wake.

The Slytherin stepped closer, the heat from his body radiating through the thin fabric of your clothes, his presence almost suffocating. He leaned in, the whisper of his breath against your ear sending a shiver down your spine.

"Come on. Don't be shy. I don't bite." he crooned, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "Well, not tonight, anyway. Unless you beg."

There was a predatory edge to his voice, a barely contained impatience hidden beneath his smooth tone. He wanted to get you into the dormitories and away from the corridors as soon as possible.

His hand slid down to your lower back, the pressure firmer now. "Let's keep moving, shall we?" he drawled, urging you forward.

He didn't give you an opportunity to argue or resist. He firmly guided you through the open entrance of the dorm, his grip on your lower back guiding you past the threshold into the dimly lit common room.

It was quiet down here, the only sounds coming from the soft bubbling of the water in the tank by the back wall, and the low chatter of other students lounging in the common area. A couple of fourth years glanced at you with mild curiosity, but quickly looked away when they spotted your escort.

Theo paid them no mind, his focus entirely on you. He gently propelled you towards the winding stone staircase, leading you up to the seventh year dormitories.

The silence between you was thick, the only sound being the soft pad of your footsteps on the cold stone. He was so close behind you that you could feel him against your back.

The climb up the stairs seemed to last an eternity, the silence only broken by your footsteps and the occasional creaking of the old stone walls. All too soon, you reached the top of the stairs and came to a halt.

Theodore stepped around you, brushing past you closely to reach the large oaken door leading into the seventh year boys' dormitories. He leaned against it with one hand, the other gesturing for you to enter.

Your breath hitches. ‘Should I run?’

You stood in front of the imposing door, your heart racing in your chest. A part of you wanted to turn and run, to escape the predicament you've unwittingly entered.

But something held you back. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was foolish curiosity. Or it might’ve been that strange, twisted part of you that secretly wanted this.

Nott watched you quietly, his gaze calculating as he observed your internal struggle. He seemed to see right through your indecision, his smirk growing more confident, more condescending.

"Are you going to just stand there, staring at the door, or are you going to come in?" he drawled, his voice dripping with arrogant amusement.

In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, and maybe even distract yourself from the confusing realization, you tried to joke, but your voice trembled with desperation, making it clear that your words lacked any real conviction. You managed to stutter out a reply.

"... I'm not sure yet."

The Nott's smirk widened at your pathetic attempt to play coy. He pushed away from the door and stalked towards you, his gait predatory and confident.

He stopped a mere inch from you, towering over you with his greater height. His gaze softened slightly, his head tilting to the side as he studied your expression.

"Oh, my little bird," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You're a terrible liar."

He raised a hand, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing over your skin in a disturbingly intimate gesture.

"Deny it all you want," he whispered, leaning in so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "But I can see right through you."

He leaned even closer, his body pressing against yours, his words a low, sensual murmur whispered directly into your ear.

"You’re scared." he breathed, the smirk returning to his voice. "Confused. Aroused. And you don't even understand why. That's adorable, really.”

He hums, his pretty emerald eyes darken the longer he looks over your form. His hand running down your chest. “Don’t worry, my little wizard. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice was soft and almost comforting, like a dark, poisonous lullaby that wrapped around you like a suffocating embrace.

He stepped back slightly, just enough to look down at you. His gaze was still just as intense, but there was a softer edge to it now.

"So, will you come in, or will you run away?" he said, his tone still arrogant, but there was an underlying hint of hope in it. As if he actually wanted you to enter, even though he knew he could force you if he so desired.

You couldn't know if it was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. Either way, the choice was yours. Would you enter the dorm and give yourself to this boy with the beautiful viper eyes? Or would you run away, back into the dimly lit corridors filled with the creatures of the unknown wandering the dark hallways?

As you stood there, the silence between you two thick with tension, you wondered if his offer was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. The choice was laid out before you like a treacherous path, each step promising either the allure of a dangerous liaison or the safety of the unknown corridors.

With a pang of anxious uncertainty, you ask yourself if you're willing to give in to the boy with the beautiful viper eyes, knowing that what lies beyond might be more perilous than the ghosts prowling the night.

You had to ask yourself: Would you cross the threshold into the serpent's den, or flee from the enticing jaws of the beast?

The choice was yours, dear reader.

No use of y/n, no in-depth descriptive features.

Please feel free to send in requests.

What would you have chosen? Let me know in the comments or reply with a reblog!

🧎‍♂️

line 'em up and measure ↳ lo'ak sully x male!human!reader

content warnings | smut ( mdni ), characters are aged up, brief description of wounds, slight intoxication, mutual masturbation, literal dick measuring contest, xenophilia ( alien biology ), dirty talk, praise

word count: 3995

notes | this was originally supposed to be for the last day of @eywaite and @tallulah477 romancing pandora event, but life got in the way. still, i couldn't get this out of my head so please enjoy this now !

na'vi dictionary | narlor — beautiful ( visually )

It was stupid—absolutely fucking insane, really—the situation you’ve planted yourself in. You knew you were a trespasser, not looked upon with any grace by Eywa on this exomoon but fuck, this must be some kind of sick joke.

“Dude, my dick is definitely nicer than yours.” Lo’ak’s cheeks are flushed with alcohol, grin toothy and shit-eating as his knee bumps yours.

You’d come across the Omatikaya purely by chance—a lone xenobotanist presumed dead after the tragic and fiery crash of your research team’s buggy in the depths of Pandora’s forests. You’d been warned about the local indigenous population, of course, and had been explicitly told your group was not important enough to risk more lives should you fuck up this exploration.

No one was looking for you, and you were alone on an alien planet with nothing but a scalpel and a faulty research tablet.

You’d wandered for hours, bleeding and disoriented, ears ringing with the impact of your buggy into the tree and heart pounding in fear at the inescapable situation you were now in. You were certain that you were smaller than anything in this forest, and that your sluggishly bleeding wounds and pounding headache would soon make you easy prey for whatever roamed in these woods.

You’d thought the time had finally come as you gasped against a tree for air, vision blurring with pain as your legs shook with the exertion to keep you upright. The air was rife with beastly screeching, the sound so high-pitched you thought briefly that this might be what death sounds like. The deafening flapping of giant wings had you scrambling to the forest floor, using the last of your strength to move pitifully away from the gnashing jaws of the creature who landed in front of you.

You were able to catch a glimpse of worried golden eyes and a lean blue frame that towered over you before the world slipped into inky blackness.

You’d learned afterwards that the Omatikaya did routine patrols in the areas known to the RDA, scheduled bouts of precautionary scouting should the Earth’s military ever stray too far from their boundaries. Well, you’d strayed a lot, apparently.

The man who’d saved you had carried you in a princess hold before the chief, his strong arm holding up your back and looped under your bent knees. It should’ve been embarrassing, you thought, a grown man having to be carried like a ragdoll by a stranger who was bargaining for your life to be saved. Then again, you didn’t exactly have time to worry about how tough you looked when you were on the verge of slipping unconscious again.

It had taken over a week in the medical care of the nearby human outpost before you were on your feet again, body weak from dehydration and healing minor fractures. The man who saved you, Lo’ak, came to check on you regularly, asking questions about your life and your intentions—how you’d wandered into the Omaticaya borders, why you were traveling in the forest, if you had any trackers on you, if anyone was following you.

After several days of him poking and prodding at you with questions, he returned with a much more intimidating man at his back—The chief, Jake Sully, adorned in ornate feathered regalia and a stern expression.

You knew you were best off telling the truth—you were a researcher with many injuries, nowhere else to go, and of no harm to any of the People. You’d even offered to leave once you healed, return to the RDA encampment with tight lips and fake amnesia, though Jake Sully had quickly brushed that off. It was in the People’s best interest that the RDA never knew you came in contact with them, and the only way you could do that was by never returning.

You were met with a mix of fear and anger from the local population. You were an intruder, an unwanted reminder of just how closely war knocked at their doorstep. It would’ve been easy to feel isolated, a bird without a nest.

Except you were surrounded with the most incredible flora and fauna you had ever laid your eyes on, the lands near the village so much more rife with life than the secluded bases of the RDA. The scientists at the outpost just outside the village welcomed you eagerly, sharing their notes and knowledge and living space with open arms. Then, of course, there was Lo’ak.

Lo’ak was a friend, one of the few that you’d acquired in the months since the crash. Turns out, one of his best friends was a human boy who’d grown up in the labs outside the Na’vi encampments, Spider, so he was neither scared nor angry with you. He was mostly curious, poking and prodding you with questions about Earth and showing you hidden wonders of the Forest when he got a rare day off.

He was also damn beautiful—tall and indigo-skinned, with lean muscles and swirling tattoos over the length of his strong arms and the curve of his ribs. You would be able to get over your little infatuation with some ease, you’d met plenty of good-looking people in your life, except he wasn’t just beautiful. He was fucking kind too, and it drove you nuts. 

So yes, Lo’ak was beautiful, funny and kind. He made you feel safe and wanted in a world that wanted to kill you at every turn, and he did it with the most endearingly toothy smile you’d ever seen.

He was also the chief’s son, which made him explicitly off-limits even if you did have any chance in any multiverse of getting to be with him. Which was exactly why you shouldn’t be in this situation right now, lazing together on a couch that is far too small for the two of you, passing a leather flask of pxir that was quickly emptying.

You must have been more drunk than you thought, letting the rogue idea slip between your teeth. It was supposed to be a joke, really—a dumb quip about how much you missed getting dicked down back on Earth. Your options were extremely limited, even more than they had been in the RDA outpost. At least over there there had been some sexually repressed military guys to get it on with. Here, everyone was either decades your senior, or definitely not your type.

“You just need to get some Na’vi cock. It’ll make you forget all about whatever puny action you were getting on Earth, bro.” Lo’ak laughed

 You were two young men, tipsy and comfortable with one another, it was completely natural to talk about sex. You knew that the Na’vi were extremely comfortable with sex, seeing it as a connection between life forms, something natural and beautiful. Plus, humans were inherently curious, not to mention repressed and hormonal. You figured that sexual experimentation between the two species was something nearly inevitable.

Still, it made you hot beneath the collar, having Lo’ak’s eyes so keen on you with hazy comfort as he suggests you get down and dirty with a Na’vi. With someone like him.

“Hey, watch how you talk about human cock. I’ve still got one, dude.” You scoff, taking another deep swig of the bitter alcohol. It’s always been so easy this way, hiding your discomfort behind sarcasm and dumb jokes. “Besides, it can’t be all that different.”

“Dude, my dick is definitely nicer than yours.”

It should be insulting. It is insulting, you tell yourself. That’s why your cheeks flush so devastatingly red, definitely. “Oh, fuck you, pretty boy. If that’s what you tell yourself to sleep at night, go ahead.”

“Well, there’s one way to find out.” Lo’ak’s eyes glisten with amusement, obviously reveling in the dumbstruck look on your face.

That was another thing you’d come to love about Lo’ak. He was always competitive, even over the stupidest things, even with stuff that will get him smacked or killed. He jumps at any opportunity to prove to himself and others that he was capable and brave. It usually made your heart flutter with admiration, now it just puts you on edge.

“You’re not seriously suggesting to whip it out, are you?” You chuckle

“What, you’re scared I might be right?” He goads.You’re about to deny him, about to insist you’ve had too much to drink when you’re barely even feeling a buzz so you can  

Except that Lo’ak is already pulling his hips up from the couch, moving to sit up on the arm of the seat so he can untie his loincloth. His muscled torso stretches while he extends his body, black swirling lines of tattoos he acquired with the reef tribes etched down his ribs and tapering just at the edge of the v-line leading into his bottoms.

It’s completely stupid and irrational. It’s definitely something that could get you smacked or even exiled if people found out. Hell, Lo’ak could never talk to you again if he knew what dirty things were running through your mind. It’s also the start of every stupid, dirty fantasy you’ve been unable to repress for months.

If you were a stronger man, you’d get up and leave. Except, you’re not.

“Alright, pretty boy. Put your money where your mouth is.”

Lo’ak’s grin is a little smaller than before, still confident but edged with something that seems bashful, his tail swinging leisurely behind him. It only takes a few tugs of his practiced fingers for the leather of his loincloth to loosen, then fall to the tiled ground of your room.

You feel ashamed for looking, even though that was the whole point of this stupid competition, if it could even be called that. You try to keep your face neutral as Lo’ak lighty spreads his legs, brows furrowing a bit. The apex of Lo’ak’s legs resembles more of a human female’s anatomy than anything. His skin is smooth, hairless just as the rest of his body, the darker stripes on his skin narrowing to a slit in his crotch

You swallow heavily, tucking one of your legs up to your chest to hopefully obscure the growing bulge in your shorts. You try to keep your voice even, teasing, even as it shakes. “From where I’m standing, looks like there’s nothing to compare, bro.”

“Fuck off, just give me a second.” Lo’ak mutters, cheeks warm as he brings a hand between his own legs. “Only humans are dumb enough to have their shit hanging out all the damn time.”

You’re glad to see a flush on Lo’ak’s cheeks, hear the gruff rasp of his voice. It’s comforting to know you’re not the only one a little affected, and you feel a bit of hope blossom inside your chest.

His fingers move between his legs, parting the slit with soft movements, his fingers shining with slick between his legs as he coaxes the opening open. He keeps his lips tight, chest moving with heavy breaths at each of his own touches.

Your eyes are rapt at his every movement, heart pounding .You briefly wonder if this is how he touches himself when he’s all alone, if he makes the same heavy breaths and twitches of his ears.

It takes only moments for something to begin breaching the folds of Lo’ak’s slit, his breath coming a little heavier. Slowly, a cock emerges from the sheath inside his body, a lighter shade of blue tapering to pinkish at the tip. There’s no balls that follow it, though the base seems a bit swollen as he hangs at half-mast before you. 

“Whoa.” You clear your throat quickly, averting your gaze from Lo’ak’s laughing eyes. “Thought you’d be bigger, honestly.”

It’s a big fat lie, and an obvious one too. Even without being fully hard, Lo’ak’s cock almost easily matches the length of your forearm.

“Oh, fuck off. I can smell you, you know. I know just what you think of your first Na’vi cock.” His tone isn’t malicious, just teasing, each word laced with 

Your face flushes, fingers twitching anxiously against your thigh that still sits tucked up against you. It’s easy to forget how superior Na’vi senses are when you spend so little time with them, especially outside of the lab. You briefly wonder if Lo’ak has been able to tell every time you’ve felt a flare of arousal in his presence, if he had connected the dots that your brain constantly wandered to your filthiest thoughts in his presence.

He leans forward, pressing one hand on the arm of the couch behind you. He’s close now, his breath near ghosting over your face as his eyes search yours. “Your turn. Not much of a competition if I’m the only one showing off, now is it?”

This is quickly treading into dangerous territory, something that sobers you up quicker than any water of coffee could. Lo’ak’s hand is still cradling his length, just ghosting lightly along the enlarged base as he leans over you with his muscled body. You know you’re hard, can feel the blood rushing from your head to pound between your thighs, can feel your length pressing uncomfortably against the cotton of your shorts. Unlike him, there’s nowhere for you to hide, no way to conceal just how affected you are.

You feel like you’re free-falling, diving head first into all the emotions you’d convinced yourself would be better off tucked away. Part of you wanted to keep it all at arm’s length, to let this be a moment of lust, another memory to be tucked away. The other part wanted to jump in feet first, consequences be damned, fuck the fallout.

You steel your nerves as Lo’ak backs off a little, giving you the space to undo the buttons of your pants. You know you can end this all with a few words, that if it really bothered you Lo’ak would forget this ever happened and never bring it up again, because he was that kind of guy. Except, you’re sure you aren’t imagining the lingering heat in Lo’ak’s gaze, or the excited flick of his tail as his eyes follow the movements of your fingers as you drop your pants.

You don’t need visual confirmation to know you’re already hard and leaking, the tip of your cock red and aching as your fingers ghost along your thighs.

“Looks like I win.” Lo’ak’s voice is breathier than before, his knee brushing against your leg as he lingers closely to you. His hand still sits close to his own cock, which has made no signs of retreating back into his body.

“Okay, you’re obviously gonna be bigger than me. You’re a fucking giant.” Your face flushes, trying to ignore the throb in your cock as Lo’ak’s eyes trail across your body.

“Don’t be so hateful, bro. No one likes a sore loser.” 

“Yeah, well, at least I have more stamina than you.” It’s so easy to slip back into teasing sarcasm, like a shield you can put around yourself to keep all the confusing emotions at arm’s length. It helps you feel some control that has been steadily slipping away, grasp onto some sort of reality.

Lo’ak just chuckles lowly. “More stamina? I’m a trained warrior, bro. Stamina is my game.”

You snort, trying desperately to forget the fact that you’re both naked beneath the waist. “You’re the most reckless fucker I’ve ever met. I bet you blow your load in two seconds.”

“Oh, come on, you’re the pent up little scientist. You really think you can last longer than me?” Lo’ak’s voice deepens, one of his hands trailing up across the outside of your thigh as he shadows over you.

“Try me.”

Lo’ak’s mouth is on yours before you have a chance to regret the challenge. He’s so much bigger than you, and the way his entire mouth encompasses yours is strange but not unpleasant. One of his hands eagerly comes up under your shirt and along your ribs, the other holding up his weight on the couch behind you. You run your fingers up along the planes of his body, tracing the ridges of his ribs and the curve of his shoulders, to embed them in your memory.

He gasps as he pulls away from you, his hips dipping to nudge his hardening cock against your hip as he leaves a line of wet kisses from the corner of your mouth to underneath your jaw. You vaguely register his tail thumping excitedly into the plush of the couch, the way his ears twitch forward to catch every hitch of your breathing.

“Shit, you’re so hot.” Lo’ak’s voice mumbles across your skin, canines grazing the sensitive skin of your neck as he pushes himself closer to you.

“Touch yourself.” You gasp, tightening your grip on Lo’ak’s bicep as he pushes his hips down into you.

Lo’ak pauses. “What?”

“Come on, you wanted to talk a big game. Let’s see how long you really last.” Your grin is devilish, edged with excitement and desire as you trail your fingers teasingly across the muscle of his arms. You delight in the little shiver that passes through him.

“Wouldn’t you rather be the one to touch me?” His voice is raspy, breathless as he nibbles along the curve of your neck.

“Oh, where’s the fun in that, pretty boy?” You bite your lip in a grin, resting your forehead along his own. “We want this to be a fair trial, and having my skilled hands on you could definitely skew the results.”

Lo’ak laughs, removing his hand reluctantly from your ribs to palm along his own cock. “Fine, no touching. For your results.”

You can feel yourself steadily losing control as you lean back and watch Lo’ak—the way he teasingly trails his fingers down his own chest and across his cock, the little gasp he lets out when he tightens his fingers around the base, the desperate hitching of his hips as he keeps his eyes firmly on you as he works himself over.

Lo’ak’s eyes flick expectantly towards your own hard cock, moaning loud as he finally sees you grip yourself in your palm. You’re so sensitive and it’s been so long, each touch feels magnified with Lo’ak above you, watching your every move with panting breaths. Lo’ak slows his movements on himself a bit, moving to grip himself at the swollen base of his cock. His reaction is immediate, a deep groan vibrating through his chest as his eyes roll a bit.

You tighten your grip on the base, heat shooting through you as you drink in the sounds of Lo’ak’s moans. Fuck, of course he’s loud. Your lips brush against his own as you speak. “Jesus, the sounds you make are fucking incredible.” 

A knowing smile reaches across Lo’ak’s flushed face. He parts his lips to run over yours, drinking in the sigh you let out. “Really? Well, you’ve got a pretty incredible mouth too.”

“S-shut up-” You gasp. You know you should go slow because some stupid part of you still wants to win, to make Lo’ak come undone first because of you. Yet, you can’t help the way your fist tightens at each wet little gasp coming from Lo’ak’s mouth, the way your hand quickens around yourself as you watch his pretty cock move through his fist.

“It’s true. You don’t know how many times I’ve done this thinking of your stupid smart mouth, how it would feel.” Your breath hitches at Lo’ak’s words, each breath emphasized with the roll of his hips into his own fist.

“Oh, oh, shit.” You know your desperation is seeping into your tone, suppressed moans barely being hidden by your gritted teeth. You’ve always been weak to Lo’ak, and now is no exception, especially now with the admission that he’s thought of you before.

“You look so sexy like this, all spread out under me. You know, you’re always calling me pretty boy but you’re putting me to shame here, narlor.” Lo’ak’s eyes are hazy but calculating, watching each expression on your face as the filth he’s saying echoes into the air around you. He has a look in his eye, like he knows he’s winning.

“Oh fuck you.” You groan, your hips moving desperately up into your hand. You can feel the heat of Lo’ak’s body encompassing you, the head of your cock brushing against his leg with each movement of your hips. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Hah, really?” Lo’ak gasps. The sly grin that comes across his face is all the confirmation you need.

“You’re trying to get me off, by…by saying that stuff. I-it’s cheating.” You moan as your fingers snag against the head of your cock, catching the precum leaking from your tip to slicken the slide of your fist.

“Oh, that wasn’t in the rules,” he teases, licking a stripe up your neck. He lowers himself closer to you, the head of his cock bumping against your stomach where your shirt has ridden up. “Not my fault I can’t stop thinking how perfect you’d feel wrapped around me.”

Fuck, you don’t know if he means your mouth or your ass but it really doesn’t matter, either one of the images sending your brain into a frenzy. A moan rips through you, fingers twisting around your cock. It’s so easy to picture how Lo’ak would look inside you, or how he would fall apart on your fingers. It has you hurtling dangerously close to the edge.

Your breath quickens as you look up into Lo’ak’s eyes, dark pools ringed with the slightest amount of gold. His tail coils around himself, wrapping possessively around your shin.

“Fuck, look at you. It’s like you’re out of a wet dream.” Lo’ak grits his teeth, pushing his cock up against you as he strokes himself. You can see the slick from his slit dripping across his cock and down his thighs, a sweet and musky smell coating the air.

“Hah, have a lot of d-dreams about me?” You tease, but your voice is thready, more pleading than asking.

He grins against your lips. “Maybe. Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And fuck the thought has you reeling. It’s so easy to see Lo’ak in your mind, waking up hot and needy to dirty thoughts of you, half-asleep as he stuffs a fist in his mouth and strokes himself to completion with your name on his lips.

“S-shit, shit, Lo’ak, I-” your breaths come in quick gasps, too turned on to care about any embarrassing sounds that are leaking from your throat.Your body is thrumming with energy as heat coils tightly in your stomach.

“I want you to come, narlor. Right now, on me.” Lo’ak groans and you can feel his fist bumping into your hip with his rapid movements. Your eyes are clenched shut, riding the overwhelming feeling of your orgasm 

“Come, let me see it. Now.” His voice is urgent, pleading.

“Oh, f—uh-”

The muscles in your thighs clench as you buck up into your fist, your cock bumping Lo’ak as you come across your fist and stomach, smearing your release onto your partner with each movement onto Lo’ak. Your nails dig into the skin of his shoulder, a moan tumbling from your throat as you come harder than you ever had. Maybe there was something to Lo’ak’s theory about Na’vi cock after all.

Lo’ak isn’t far behind you, panting into your mouth as his hips move unsteadily against you. His throat strains around a loud groan, and you’re able to open your eyes just soon enough to see his face scrunch in pleasure, ears twitching with each rolling wave of pleasure pulsing through him. 

You try to commit the look to memory, down to the lopsided and dopey grin that stretches across his face. Lo’ak sighs with satisfaction, his dirty hand coming to rub softly across your hip. “Told you I would win.”

You can’t help the giddy smile that comes across your face, giving a peck to his grinning lips. “Best two out of three?”