Bakersbucky

Of Duty and Desire | Chapter 3 | Neteyam x Metkayina!reader

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I literally rewrote this like three times before I figured out what I wanted. Hopefully the next part will be a lot easier for me lol. Again, thanks for the love I got on the last chapters, and to everyone who left a comment under them, you get a little kiss on the forehead (consentually)

Word count: 7.5k (I literally cut out like 700 words too)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“That wasn’t fair!”

You laughed at Lo'ak as he came up on his ilu behind you, looking a little sour at your victory. You slid off of your own ilu into the waist-high water and shrugged casually. “It is not my fault you took the long way,” you told him with a smug grin. He huffed at you. “Only because I didn’t know there was a short way,” he muttered.

The two of you had been out that morning collecting sea grass to make more ropes, a never-ending demand in the reef. After gathering as much as you could pack, you had suggested a friendly race back to the village, and Lo'ak, powerless to resist a challenge, had agreed. Now, he was wallowing bitterly in your victory wake.

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neteyam x reader neteyam x metkayina!reader neteyam sully x reader neteyam angst neteyamsully

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bakersbucky

1 year ago

growing sideways

pairing: kuroo tetsurou x fem! reader

summary: kuroo tetsurou is all grown up. you think you might have to learn to let him go. or: an exploration of love, and loving things.

note: sorry that it's been so long!! college has been so silly funny goofy (derogatory) but i'm on break now and pretending that i dno't have to go back in a week.

sort of spoilers for occupations (kuroo, kenma, yaku) post-timeskip! (but also doesn’t really follow canonical futures… sort of a mess, to be honest.) my attempt at reconciling what i’d hoped for him and what he becomes. title taken from a noah kahan song of the same name that has next to nothing to do with the actual fic.

cw: mention of throwing up (doesn’t actually happen, though)

___

When Kuroo Tetsurou gets scouted to a professional team in Russia, you’re the last person he tells. Technically, he doesn’t tell you at all – it’s Kenma who does, blinking up at you from behind a curtain of his hair.

“I thought he’d told you already,” he says, voice as apologetic as you’ve ever heard it, which is to say apathetic, as always, but with a dash of sympathy mixed in.

“No,” you say, because there’s nothing else left you can say. “He didn’t.”

Kenma doesn’t say anything, shifting his focus back to his game. You take the moment he offers you to exhale, quietly. To resituate yourself around this new hurt in your chest.

“Does everyone else know?” you ask. Kenma lifts one of his shoulders up, a half-shrug.

“Maybe not his mom,” he offers. This is poor consolation, and both of you know it – Kuroo hasn’t talked to his mother beyond stilted platitudes in years, not since she uprooted her life and his sister and half his chest and taken it with her, leaving a husband, a son, and a house with too many rooms.

“So he’s gonna take it, then,” you say. Kuroo is a lot of things – mercurial, bright, a pain in the ass when he puts his mind to it – but everyone knows that first and foremost, he’s a volleyball player. You’d realized it for yourself, back in your first year of university, when one of your friends had dragged you to a match and you’d spotted him, arms outstretched, fingers splayed and braced as if he thought he could hold a sun in his hands. When he’d landed, you’d caught sight of his grin, almost too large for his face.

Ah, you’d thought. So this is what it means to love something.

The next morning, at your eight-thirty introductory economics lecture, you’d shuffled in and put your head down on the desk, drifting closer and closer to sleep every second.

Then the person behind you had poked you, hard, and you’d let out a half-scream, jolting up in your seat in a way that made every single person in your lecture hall, including your professor, look at you.

The person behind you had started laughing – an ugly laugh, cackling like a hyena, the kind of laugh that made you want to join in, despite your burning embarrassment. You’d swiveled around to face him as the professor resumed his lecturing.

“What is wrong with you,” you’d hissed. It was the boy from yesterday– the middle blocker with the awful hair.

He’d raised his hands up in surrender, although there was still a crooked grin on his face. “Sorry, sorry,” he’d said. “Just was wondering if you had a pencil.”

“You know,” you’d said, fishing one from your bag. “There are easier ways to ask people for a pencil than giving them heart attacks.”

You’d passed the pencil to him, and he’d given you a jaunty little salute with it, one that made your lips curl up despite yourself. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he’d said, and you’d turned back around again, and that was that.

Except the next lecture, you’d arrived at your usual seat to find a disposable cup of coffee there, likely from the little cafe downstairs. You’d turned to the boy behind you, raising your eyebrows.

“As a thank you,” he’d shrugged, leaning back in his chair in a way you’d suspected was meant to be cool and casual. “And also so that you don’t keep falling asleep in lecture.”

“How do you know I’ve been falling asleep in lecture,” you’d said, a little grumpily, pulling the cup towards you and taking a sip nonetheless. It wasn’t your usual order, but it was drinkable, and if you were being honest, you’d need all the caffeine you could get.

He’d watched you take a sip of the drink, a pleased smile playing on his face. “I sit right behind you. I’ve seen you take a nap at your desk every single week.”

“I’ll have you know that that’s just the posture I learn best in,” you’d sniffed.

“What, drooling?”

“I do not drool,” you’d said, haughty. “And even if I did, how would you even know? You’re such a stalker.”

“Harsh,” he’d whistled, although the smile didn’t leave his face. “I’m just observant.”

You’d rolled your eyes at him, swiveling around to face the front of the room as the professor began his lecture. And if you’d managed – for the first time this entire semester – to make it all the way through without falling asleep, well, that was nobody’s business but your own.

The next week, another cup was waiting for you.

“You know,” you’d said, “I think you’ve repaid your debt from the pencil in full.”

“Oh, this isn’t about the pencil,” he’d replied. “I didn’t get the right order for you last week, did I? I wanted to try again this time.”

You’d blinked at him. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Kuroo,” he’d said. “Kuroo Tetsurou.”

“Well, Kuroo Tetsurou,” you’d said, “did you ever think about just asking me for my order?”

“What’s the fun in that?” he’d asked.

The drinks kept coming, every week, without fail, ranging from plain to ridiculously extravagant. He still hadn’t gotten your order, although at some point during the semester, he’d migrated from sitting behind you to sitting right next to you, passing you stupid notes and doodling all over your notebooks.

The last lecture’s drink was wrong, again, although you kept drinking it anyways. “You should come hang out with me and my friends sometime,” he’d said, sudden, and you’d nearly choked.

“What brought this on?”

“I dunno,” he’d said, uncharacteristically shy, looking away from you. “You know when you meet some people and it’s just like, they’re meant to be in my life, so you have to try really hard to not let them go?”

“So making a girl scream during lecture is your idea of an ideal introduction,” you’d said, and he’d rolled his eyes, leaning over to lightly push at your shoulder.

“You know what I mean.”

“I saw one of your volleyball matches,” you’d told him. Suddenly you’d wanted him to know. “At the beginning of the semester. Before we’d met.”

He seemed to understand what you were trying to say. “What’d you think?”

“You must really love it,” you’d said. “Playing volleyball.”

“I do.”

“Well, then, Kuroo-kun. I’ll come meet your friends, under one condition.” He’d raised his eyebrows at you, expectantly.

“I get to tell you my coffee order,” you’d said. “Some of these drinks are becoming downright disgusting.”

“You drink them anyway,” he’d replied. “But I suppose that’s a fair trade.”

You’d grinned at him, and he’d grinned back, and it’d all gone from there.

You’ve known since you started talking to him that Kuroo is a natural at getting people to orbit around him. He draws people near – crooked grin, warm eyes, quick wit – and then holds them there, at arm’s length, never quite letting them get any closer. You’d thought, perhaps, that you could be an exception to this. That he’d seen something in you that was enough for him to want to let you in. To pull you close. The thing is this: in your heart of hearts you are a romantic, and to you Kuroo has always been a little like the sun, like tilting your face towards the golden wash of afternoon and remembering, soft and gentle like falling into something, So this is what it is to love.

“I don’t know,” Kenma says, and you look at him looking at his game. He is, out of anyone, the most likely to understand how you feel: the air knocked out of you, leaving you gasping and breathless . But he has the reassurance of more than a decade of friendship behind him, built on neighboring houses and the squeak of shoes on a gymnasium floor. Some days you feel like what you have with Kuroo is fragile and insubstantial, playing-card houses on a precarious surface. Like if he left he’d take it all with him.

“Of course he’s going to take it,” you say past the lump in your throat. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

Kenma doesn’t say anything, but the little sound effects from his game pause. He blinks up at you through his bangs.

“We should throw him a party,” you say. “Or something. To celebrate.”

“If you think that’s a good idea,” he says, noncommittal.

There is an ache in your chest and you think that once you leave Kenma’s apartment you won’t be able to stop yourself from crying. “Of course it’s a good idea. You know how much Kuroo loves having everyone he loves in one place.”

“That’s exactly the thing,” Kenma murmurs, but you don’t hear him, already pulling out your phone to make a list.

“Invites, decorations, food… Oh! Kenma, do you think Kuroo would like it if we made him saba? Or went out to a restaurant that specializes?”

“Probably,” he says. The game resumes. “He’s always going on about doca-something acid.”

“Docosahexaenoic acid,” you correct absently, scrolling through a list of nearby restaurants. Kuroo’s talked about it enough – and despite your better judgment, you’ve listened to his rants enough times – for you to remember the name in full.

You miss the look that Kenma gives you, exasperatedly fond.

It turns out that Kuroo knows a lot of people. Even more than you’d thought. There are the guys that he plays with on the volleyball team, of course, but then there’s also his other business major friends and the other undergraduates who work in the same lab that he does in his free time (because of course he’d be the type of person to do that.) Then there’s the neighbors he’d had freshman year and still miraculously keeps in touch with, and the ones from sophomore year. Then Kenma casually mentions that Kuroo still frequently talks to everyone from his volleyball team his third year of high school, and you have to beg him to let you use his phone and ensure that everyone from there will be able to attend.

Then there’s the issue of getting enough food: you know from prior experience that volleyball players can eat, and there’s a part of you that worries that the budget you’ve scraped together from whatever your friends managed to donate won’t be enough for one of them, let alone the stampede you’re about to invite into your apartment. And besides, there’s decorations to think about, and maybe a present for Kuroo, and maybe it would be cute if you could get one of those places that rents out cats to send over a couple – do those places actually exist or was the whole thing just a stress-induced hallucination? Either way, the stress of budgeting is enough to make you understand why Kuroo had succumbed to his base capitalistic tendencies and become a business major. You’ll never be able to make fun of him for it again.

Kenma solves this problem readily enough, extending a credit card towards you with barely any hesitation when you mention it in passing.

“Stop stressing out,” he mutters. “It’ll be okay. Kuro’s not the kind who’d care about things like that.”

You blink at him. He determinedly avoids your eyes. “Kenma,” you say. “You know what I have to do, don’t you.”

He sighs, setting down his game. “If you must.”

You launch yourself at him in a bone-crushing hug, and although you hear him click his tongue at you, you can also feel the way his hands come up to rest on your back, soft and steady.

“He asked me if I’d seen you around recently,” Kenma mentions when you separate.

“What did you say?”

“Said you seemed busy. He said he hadn’t seen you and was worried he’d done something.”

There isn’t much to say back to that. You busy yourself by picking at one of the threads in your shirtsleeves.

Kenma says your name.

“I know,” you say. “I know. I just – I don’t know.”

Kuroo has many smiles, you know. There’s the one when he’s trying to get a rise out of someone, lazy and lean. There’s the one when he sees a cute animal or a small child or the old lady you always run into the market, the one that reminds him of his obaa-chan. There’s the one he gets when he sees you, sometimes, and doesn’t realize that you’re seeing him back, small and fond in a way that makes you a little afraid, sometimes. At the enormity of it. At how fragile it seems, some days. At what it could become, if given the chance.

And there’s the one he has when he’s playing volleyball, the one that makes his eyes go all squinty; the one that’s a little too large, just on this side of feral, because he’s so happy that he doesn’t remember to think about things like presentability and not scaring the people around him, both on his side and the other side of the net. The one he has when he hits a kill block, or a no-touch ace.

You don’t think you could stand to take that from him.

“I’ve just been busy. With the party planning, and all,” you finish, meekly. You know he knows you’re lying. Still, Kenma doesn’t push.

“If you say so,” he hums, turning back to his computer. “It seemed like he missed you, though.”

You hate yourself for the small spark of want that blooms in your chest.

Kuroo Tetsurou, in another life, could probably be yours. You’ve seen the way his ears turn red sometimes when you press a little too close, thighs close enough to be touching at one of the tables of your favorite izakaya. You know he knows your favorites the same way that he knows his own, know that in his head there’s a file of nothing but his knowledge about you, filled to bursting. You know that there are days, hours, moments where his touch lingers on your wrist, your cheek, the back of your arm – never long enough to presume, just long enough for you to notice.

In this life, you’ve seen the way he plays volleyball clearly enough to know that he loves it. That in terms of paths, this is probably the most natural one for him, as easy as breathing. That the world is so big and he deserves to go out and see it, that he’s growing up and some days you feel in your bones that he’s leaving you behind, in the same way that you’d left behind the yellow rubber rainboots you’d adored as a child, outgrown and overworn.

You busy yourself with party planning, so that at least everyone except Kuroo knows that you have a valid reason for ignoring him. Once the budgeting crisis is averted, things go surprisingly smoothly: money really does make the world go round, you think, in a rare moment of reflection between arguing with the caterer and double-checking that you have enough chairs in your apartment.

It’s good, to keep busy. Drowns out your heartbeat in your ears. He’s leaving, he’s leaving, he’s leaving. He’s leaving and you’re not gonna even ask him to stay.

The day of the party is bright and clear, because the universe loves Kuroo in the same way that you do. Bokuto – one of Kuroo’s teammates, and one of your favorites out of all of Kuroo’s teammates (although you’ve long maintained that it would be difficult for Bokuto not to be anyone’s favorite) – is tasked with distracting Kuroo for the day, then leading him to your apartment. This is a good plan because Bokuto is, himself, easily distractible, and Kuroo is, more often than not, perfectly willing to go along with Bokuto’s distractions. However, this is also a bad plan because Bokuto is, out of everyone you’ve invited, perhaps the second-most likely person to spoil the plans for the party. (The first being Lev Haiba, naturally.) To counterbalance that, you’ve asked Akaashi Keiji, one of your juniors, to go along – he has a natural talent for keeping Bokuto in check, more so than anyone you’ve ever met. But you’d feel bad, leaving Akaashi alone to deal with the two of them like that, so to ensure your plan had the greatest chance of success possible, you convince (read: bribed) Kenma to go along with the three of them. Odds are good that he won’t do much to curb Kuroo and Bokuto, but you’re willing to hope that his presence will keep Kuroo from doing something completely insane.

Back in your apartment, you’re adding the last finishing touches to the streamers hanging in the doorway. Yaku, next to you, squints at the streamers. “They’re a little crooked,” he says.

You bite back your immediate response, which is to tell him that if you had a stepladder tall enough that he could reach you’d gladly go get it for him so he could fix them himself. Instead, you ask, “How is it, over there, Yakkun?”

“In Russia?” he asks, and you nod. He pauses, considering. “It was rough, at first.”

“But you got through it,” you say, voice coming out a little more desperately than you’d like. “You like it there now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It won’t ever be Japan, but I think I can make it home. And Kuroo’s always been able to land on his feet, wherever it goes. I don’t think you need to worry about him, even if he does decide to take the offer.”

“Of course he’s going to take the offer,” you say. “Why wouldn’t he –”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You take it out to read a text from Akaashi. Heading back, it says. Be there in three.

Hurriedly, you jam your phone back into your pocket. “Okay, everyone, places!” you call, watching with a critical eye as everyone tucks themselves away.

“Lev, that’s not gonna work. Hiding behind the lamp’s not gonna do much.”

“Idiot,” you hear someone – Yaku? – mutter, and you laugh a little despite yourself. Your phone buzzes again. In the elevator, you read, and hastily you dive underneath a table with one of Kuroo’s kouhai from high school – Fukunaga, you think – to hide yourself, just as you hear the sound of a key in a lock.

“I just don’t understand why she’d ask you to take care of her plants,” Kuroo says as he steps through the door, sounding a little bemused. “I mean, I love you, bro, but I still haven’t forgotten what happened that one time –”

Three, two, one, you mouth silently, holding your fingers out where everyone can see them, then –

“Surprise!” you call out, stepping out of your hiding place. The others all scramble to follow, adding their own voices to the chorus.

It is, to your delight, one of the few times you’ve seen Kuroo properly surprised, enough that he actually staggers back a step, eyes wide.

“What – how – when – what is this for?” he asks, directing his question to you, standing right in front of him.

“To say congratulations, Kuroo,” you reply. Suddenly your throat is a little dry. “On getting the offer.”

This time his eyes widen with realization – and maybe a little flash of guilt. He covers it quickly, though, and you’re left a little uncertain, like stepping on uneven ground.

“So you didn’t actually ask Bokuto to take care of your plants,” he says instead, and you laugh. The sound is a little brittle in your ears.

“Of course not,” you say. “I haven’t forgotten that one time when he –”

“Did I mention we have cake?” Bokuto swoops in. “I picked out the flavor myself and everything. You gotta come see it. The lady at the store was so nice, though I don’t think she understand exactly what I was asking her to put on it at first –”

With a wry eye roll to you, Kuroo lets himself be dragged away. The rest of the partygoers take it as their sign to start mingling, and you let yourself fade into the chatter, becoming nothing more than background noise. It fits uncomfortably, now, where before it might have been a little more natural. Kuroo has always been good at creating space intentionally, whether it be for you or anyone else: a sly smirk for your eyes only, a joke directed towards you and you alone. It’s one of the reasons why you think everyone feels like they can fall into his orbit more effortlessly.

Kenma appears by your side, unobtrusive as usual. “You should talk to him.”

“And say what?”

“Whatever you want.”

There is a want in your throat and it chokes you. I want you to stay. I know you should go. I’m terrified that I’ll never see you again, either way – if I made you stay and you resented it, if I let you leave and you loved it.

“I’m worried that he’s getting bored here,” you say instead. “Like it’s not challenging him enough. Like he wants more.”

There are things that you’re willing to admit you can be slightly paranoid about: like putting too much of your heart on the table, like finding someone who loves all of you but the worst parts. Like loving someone and watching them start to resent you, like wanting to learn how to love in the right way but really only learning how to suffocate. And you know it’s possible that in this could be a combination of all those things, that rationally Kuroo knows better than anyone what’s his to keep and what’s his to give away. But you’ve known him for so long now, and there’s a part of you that likes to think you know him better than almost anyone in the world. It’s that part of you that insists you can see Kuroo Tetsurou getting tired, a little bit. He walks off the court with his head tilted back, eyes closed against the glaring lights on the gymnasium, far above. When he looms over the net, you think of it as less a state of being and more of a conscious action: a weary sigh. Another day at work.

Kuroo Tetsurou, you think, is learning to want new things. To love new things. And that’s okay – that’s more than okay. There’s just a selfish part of you that wishes you could be there to see him through it.

Kenma hasn’t said anything, staring at you patiently. You think you might throw up.

“I have to go,” you say, limp, and spin on your heel to slip out the back door. Somewhere behind you, Bokuto’s cheers rise above the din, followed by Kuroo’s cackling laugh. It makes your chest ache a little, but at the very least it provides you with some cover.

Your little apartment building stands at an intersection between two streets. Turn right and you’ll get to the park with the stray cats, the ones who’ve started coming around more frequently now that Kuroo has started showing up (now that Kuroo has started bringing them treats, although he denies it every time you bring it up.) Turn left and walk far enough and there’s a little embankment that slopes down to a river. Sometimes in the mornings joggers will pass through the area, but in the dead of the night like it is now the grassy slope is deserted. You sink down onto it, ignoring the way the cold sinks into your skin.

Part of you wants to cry. Most of you is glad you aren’t: can’t, maybe, or won’t.

You tell yourself the grand lesson in this is that you have to be better at letting go. That there is a lot that your hands could hold – a lot that your hands could want to hold, given the time. Given the opportunity – but not all of it is meant to be held by you. That there is a whole world out there and tonight it feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

Perhaps the grand lesson is just this: that loss exists. That wanting perseveres.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind you. You know without turning who it is, fingers tightening in the grass.

“Hey,” you say back.

“Can I sit?”

You wave a hand listlessly at the space beside you. “There’s space available.”

He settles in next to you, close enough that your thighs could brush if you were a little more careless, if you hadn’t been holding yourself strung tight and stiff.

“Why aren’t you in there?” you ask finally, when it becomes clear that he has no intention of saying anything, that he’s planning on waiting until you start first. “It’s your party.”

“Why aren’t you in there?” he counters. “You planned it.”

“It was a little loud,” you offer. “Was getting a little sleepy.”

“You weren’t there anymore,” he says. “Kenma said he saw you heading out.”

The words stick in the hollow of your throat, between your collarbones. You can feel them lodged there. “Kuroo,” you say, careful to not let your voice shake, “you can’t say things like that.”

There’s a hand on your knee, long fingers and broad palms spreading over your skin easily. His hand is warm. You direct your gaze down to it. His hand is big enough that it nearly covers your knee.

“Why not?”

“It’s not fair,” you say. “I know you’re not that stupid, Kuroo. You can’t go saying things like that when you’re about to leave.”

He says your name, sharp and soft.

“And of course I’m happy you’re going. I know you’re not happy – not as happy here as you could be. I know it’s an incredible opportunity. I know you deserve it, and you deserve every incredible thing that comes your way. Or at least – I want to be happy for you, Kuroo. I want to be able to give you that much, at least.”

He says your name again. It sounds fond enough that you gain the courage to look up at him. He’s looking right at you. The hand on your knee reaches for your jaw, instead, cradling it tenderly.

“I think I’m gonna stay,” he says. “And I’m sorry for not telling you about the offer earlier. I just – I didn’t want you to think I was leaving. I wasn’t even sure if I was, at first. But then I kept coming back to it – the fact that I didn’t want you to think I was leaving. Not at all, not even a possibility. It made me realize that – well. Russia would be incredible. But I think – I know – I would rather stay.”

The words take a moment to sort themselves out in your brain. Then:

“Kuroo, you can’t,” you choke out. “This is your dream.”

“It was,” he says. “For the longest time, it was. And I thought it was something I had to keep loving. Something that I had to pursue. Like I would be doing a disservice to the me I was when I was little, if I decided I didn’t want to follow the path I’ve wanted since I first started playing volleyball.”

You say nothing. There is a sun rising in your throat. You are afraid to let it go.

“But you know,” he says, thoughtful, “I think there is a difference between loving something and being in love with something.”

“Yeah?” you say. He reaches for your hand, flipping it over from where it rests in the grass so that your palm is facing upward. Slots his fingers through the gaps between your own.

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing once, twice, three times. “Like – I love volleyball, you know.”

“I know,” you say, because you do.

“But I’m in love with it here. With Japan. With the connections I’ve made, with the people who keep me here.”

“I’m glad,” you say, because you are, selfishly so.

“And,” he says, hesitant in a way that you’ve only ever seen once before, back when he was just the boy with the awful laugh and the ugly hair and who kept getting you coffee and getting it wrong, “I’m in love with you.”

And the sun, blooming over the horizon.

Tags

haikyuu x reader kuroo x reader Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

626 notes View Post

bakersbucky

8 months ago

8K notes View Post

bakersbucky

1 year ago

def my fav neteyam fic

ONE OF US| neteyam x avatar!reader

summary: neteyam sully was the next olo'eyktan and for years had been focused on his training and his responsibilities only. he had never accounted for you to become one of them. when you got your avatar body and ended up in the forest alone, being brought to the village and offered to be taught the ways of the people wasn't what you expected. let alone it being neteyam, future olo'eyktan becoming your teacher.

pairings: neteyam x avatar!reader (aged up)

word count: 97,582 (completed: 02/01/23)

warnings/notes: enemies to lovers trope, slow burn, angst, swearing, mention of child abandonment, mention of sky people, mention of death, lo'ak x avatar!reader (if you squint), asshole!neteyam/protective!neteyam, smut in later chapters

masterlist | requests are currently open for now

please keep in mind that all characters in my stories are always 18+, and although I can't monitor who reads my work, if you are not 18+ I advise that you do not engage in my page or stories.

I. snga’itseng — just the beginning

II. the ways of the na'vi

III. the outsider

IV. iknimaya

V. na’viyä hapxì — one of the people

VI. as the world caves in

VII. one of us

VIII. the deepest sighs, the frankest shadows

one of us spotify playlist - any songs you might think fit for the series? lmk so I can add them.

poem inspos: let him be soft the sun and the moon

Tags

neteyam x reader lo’ak x reader avatar fanfiction neteyam x y/n neteyam fanfiction neteyam x avatar!reader neteyam sully angst

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bakersbucky

2 years ago

UOU ATE THIS UPPP OH MY GOD IM OBSESSED. more blaise fics please 🤭🤭🤭💘💘

Love, Anonymous | Blaise Zabini

Synopsis: The rumor mill at Hogwarts has expanded into physical print, and with it, a buzzing section dedicated to anonymous confessions.

Pairing: Blaise Zabini x Hufflepuff!Reader

Notes: I accidentally grew extremely fond of Ernie while writing this. Susan Bones supremacy, always.

Word Count: 4.8k

The infamous rumor mill of Hogwarts, upheld by boisterous Gryffindors Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, seemed to finally reach eminence in the social sphere of the castle. It was a long time coming, you thought. Grapevines. Heard from a friend. Through an open door — nothing was as fascinating as the arbitrary spiel that grew to fruition in the rumor mill.

“I’m impressed. With all of this, you’d think Lavender was going after Skeeter’s job.” Susan hums, eyes scanning over the leaflets of paper lain strewn in front of you both.

Ernie snorts as he shovels a spoonful of peas into his mouth, eyes rooted to the ceiling as he awaited the daily post, “What a load of bollocks.”

“Hey, now. Don’t be so curt with it, E.” You muse, mouth folding into a wry grin as you pick up one of the loose papers, bringing it to eye-level so you could read it, “Look at this riveting slice of writing, Hogwarts Anonymous: With the Yule Ball so fresh in the minds of the student body–”

“Fresh? It was almost three bloody years ago.” Ernie interjects, tongue clicking loudly as the sea of owls begin to scurry across the plane of the ceiling, dropping rolls and boxes of news and gifts. However, the surge of mail went largely ignored as many students remained engrossed in the new Hogwarts gossip column.

You shoot Ernie a stern look at the interruption, but continue when Susan releases an amused huff, “As I was saying—With the Yule Ball so fresh in the minds of the student body and love so sorely missed as a result, Hogwarts Anonymous is dedicated to working towards the revival of matchmaking. To submit an anonymous clip of your own, reach out to Parvati Patil for inquiries.”

“Love so sorely missed?” Susan echoes, eyes blown wide in disbelief.

“Poetic. Inspired. Riveting. Ingenious.” Ernie utters with faux sincerity, ignoring the raucous younger years fighting behind him.

You nod, barely able to conceal your grin as your eyes drop further down the blocks of text, seeing a few confessions and messages splayed across the paper. As you continue to read through the text, a sudden passage has you choking on your spit, thumb pressing harshly against the flimsy paper as your eyes narrow.

Ernie peers up at you from his plate, glancing towards Susan as they both share unimpressed looks. Eventually, it’s Susan who plucks up the voice to question your sudden bafflement, “Y/N? Are you alright there?”

“Y/N looks like a startled crup puppy in Arithmancy.” You recite rigidly, feeling the paper warp and crease under your unrelenting grip.

There is an unsettling pause in the atmosphere, as though the entirety of the dining hall has paused in their routine to listen to the confession, but it soon washes away as Ernie practically howls in laughter, his broad frame throttling forward as he tries to muffle his guffaw.

Susan, ever the diplomat, proves to be more successful at maintaining her composure, but you don’t miss the small grin that tugs at her lips as she reaches over to grasp the paper, “Here, give me that.”

“Crup puppy? Oh my goodness! That is bloody—Ow! Hey! Okay, stop!” Ernie’s fit of laughter and verbal tirade is swiftly dealt with as you send numerous stinging hexes his way, basking in the alarmed glint in his eyes.

Susan shakes her head at both of your antics, and folds the paper up, eyes scanning the room as she muses, “How romantic. You just have to wonder who the culprit is.”

“Merlin. It might just be a prank. Or maybe someone has a vendetta against me.” You groan with exasperation, realizing that just about everyone in the castle was going to be hearing about it.

Ernie bumps his shoulder against yours and grins, “Chin up, Y/N. If someone’s out to get ya, Susan and I will send them to their maker—without their kneecaps, rest assured.”

You roll your eyes but nod in appreciation, gaze falling down to your pitiful plate of food as your mind is thrust into overdrive. Hopefully, it would all blow over by the next day.

Wishful thinking on your part because in fact, it did not.

“It is endearing how Y/N is always lost during Potions.” Susan reads off the paper with squinted eyes, mouth furling into a frown of disbelief at the words.

“Does this person hate me?” You murmur, leaning on your elbows as your eyes run across the aisle of bookshelves in front of you.

Ernie rocks on the heels of his feet as he hums, “Abysmal flirting. Subpar, one-sided banter. Hardly charming. A Gryffindor, for sure.”

“Well, the only Gryffindor in both Arithmancy with me and Potions with us is Hermione Granger, and I surely hope she hasn’t turned away from Ron. He’ll be insufferable if so.” You grit out, torn between chasing down your secret “admirer” and putting forth your best effort to ignore their future comments.

Susan hums at your suggestion with crossed arms, Runes homework long forgotten about, “Surely not. So not a Gryffindor— and really Ernie, you can’t let your heartache blind your judgement! Seriously, are we sticking with the ‘All Gryffindors Are Bad’ thing?”

Ernie gapes at her words and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Guys, I’m over her, we’ve been through this.”

You pat your friends arm empathetically, hiding your sly grin as you muse, “Of course you are. Poor Fay Dunbar, really.”

Before your friend can retort, the sound of clicking footsteps attracts your attention as a figure emerges from behind the shelf next to you. Your eyebrows furrow as you watch the familiar Slytherin stroll towards you all with cool eyes, hands shoved in his dress pants as he hums, “Bones. Macmillan.” His eyes drop down to where you’re seated and you see an indecipherable glint cross his gaze as he greets you, “Puppy.”

Your reaction is almost immediate as a hot wave of mortification swallows all your sensibilities, “Excuse me?” Your offended wheeze hardly deters the Slytherin as he merely smirks at you.

“I think your time would be better spent working through the latest Arithmancy assignment instead of gossiping, no?” He asks with a slanted grin, eyes never trailing away from yours.

“What’s it to you, Zabini?” Your voice comes out taut as you feel Ernie place a hand on the back of your chair, likely eyeing down the boy in front of you.

Blaise’s eyes briefly flicker to survey Ernie’s ministrations before they glide back to you in consideration, “Just concerned for a fellow classmate is all. I’ll see you around, Puppy.” Without giving you time to retaliate, the tall Slytherin vanishes just as swiftly as he arrived.

“The absolute nerve!” You utter with indignation, swiveling your attention over to Susan. The girl frowns in the direction that Blaise disappeared through, eyes glimmering as you could see her brain whirring.

“Strange. I thought Zabini was one of the tamer Slytherins out of their lot.” Ernie mutters, resuming his position beside you as he rubs his chin.

You shake your head, “Malfoy’s influence is something to fear for years to come. Zabini may have been pleasant in our youth, but he’s been so shifty to me as of late.”

Ernie snaps his fingers at your words and snickers down at you, “You used to have the largest love-sick eyes for him.”

Clicking your tongue, you send a side glance at your friend before looking at Susan as she seems to take in your clueless expression.

“Seriously?” She huffs, eyebrow drawn up as she gazes at you both like she was staring at a pedestrian display.

“Seriously what? Suze?” You prod, leaning over as she shakes her head and redirects her attention to her work.

Ernie shoots you a shrug as he pulls out the chair beside you, reluctantly following the girl’s lead as he sifts through the pile of parchments in front of him.

The next few days blur by in a similar fashion, except you had taken to avoiding Hogwarts Anonymous like the plague, forcing Ernie and Susan to do the same when you were around. You eventually fell back into your routine of focusing on coursework and your future anxieties, letting the anomalous events slip from your mind.

It is not until you’re organizing your supplies during Arithmancy that your fragile bubble of peace is disturbed.

“Puppy.” The dulcet sound of Blaise’s voice has you snapping your head up, boggled by his sudden appearance beside you. The boy usually sat rows behind you, leaving the spot next to you to be occupied by Padma Patil. However, it seemed she was nowhere to be found.

Suppressing your complaints, you don’t even attempt pleasantries as you sigh, “Zabini, hello.”

“What’s with the long face? Not happy to see me?” Blaise teases, mouth stretching into a small grin.

You’re almost tempted to squint as his perfectly white teeth glare at you in all their glory. Fuck. Did he not have a single flaw?

“I’m flattered, but perhaps the only thing I’m unable to do is catch you on a good day.” Blaise’s eyes twinkle with mirth as he smiles softly at you.

Your face heats up so violently that you’re sure radiators across the globe were turning to you with envy. Forcing your jaw from parting so gauchely, you can only sputter out weakly, “Did I say that out loud?”

Blaise hums wordlessly as he continues to look at you. Clearing your throat, you turn back to face the front of the classroom as Professor Vector begins to rise from her desk, “Right.”

The rest of the class seems to tick by like molasses from a tipped jar: incredibly, painstakingly slow. You were usually quite engaged with the lesson and content, but you couldn’t ignore the occasional glances from the Italian boy beside you.

As you absentmindedly continue to scrawl on your parchment, eyes transfixed on the swirls of ink blooming on the page, you feel something poke your arm. Frowning, you try to ignore it, directing your full attention onto sketching your diagram.

The light poking persists until you bring your other hand up to swipe at your robe, fingers dancing across a sheet of paper with a slight crinkling noise. Faintly tilting your head, you furrow your eyebrows when you see Blaise attempting to slide a sheet of paper towards you. Slowly grasping the paper, you lay it atop one of your dry parchments, eyes scanning across the leaflet in confusion.

‘Hogwarts Anonymous. Submission 0128: Y/N L/N is devastatingly oblivious. It really is quite cute.’

You feel your entire body steel up at the words, lips parted from shock as you continue to reread the confession. The nerves across your body seem to buzz wildly as you try and rein in the burning climbing up your chest.

“Alright, dears! That will be all for today. I expect the next two chapters to be read by our next convening. Ah, and L/N, my dear! I need to speak with you.” Professor Vector’s euphonic voice cut through your haze of disbelief, drawing your eyes away from the dizzying passage and up towards the heart of the classroom.

You don’t dare to glance at Blaise as you quickly clamber towards the awaiting woman, weaving around the retreating students that file through the grand doors. Huffing to relieve the pressure in your chest, you peer at the woman in anticipation as you finally step toward her.

“Sorry to call you up like this, L/N. It’s just that the other professors and I are concerned about the recent articles that are being passed around the student body. It’s come to our attention that these anonymous confessions regarding you are quite prolific.” Professor Vector keeps her voice steady as she gazes at you with warm eyes, evidently trying to gauge your honest opinion on the matter.

It would appear that everyone knew about your predicament.

You shake your head quickly, eyes wandering towards the tomes resting on her desk, “It’s quite alright, they’re just small statements. Besides, no one has been giving me a hard time.” Which was partially true, but you also did not want the column to be shut down and run the risk of facing Lavender’s wrath.

“If you’re quite sure, dear.”

With a soft nod, you send a small smile towards her before bounding back towards your table, releasing a small breath as you see the rest of the classroom was vacant. As you slung your bag over your shoulder, the call of your name has you twirling on your heel.

“L/N.” Professor Vector gives you a faint nod, “You’re doing quite well in this class. I’m sure whoever is sending those messages is just teasing you.”

Clearing your throat, you plaster on a reassuring smile, “Thank you, Professor. Have a good afternoon!”

You practically sprint out of the classroom, mind set on nipping the blooms of your troubles—starting with the roots.

The clicking of your shoes against the dusty corridor tiles seem to smother every other inkling of noise, many students shifting from your path with wide-eyes as your gaze darts around furiously. Even the slightest hue of crimson drew your dutiful eyes like a moth to a flame, and you were beginning to get tunnel vision.

A flash of wispy blonde waves flashes across your plane of sight, and you’re immediately beelining towards the girl, a victorious smile painting your face once you see Lavender’s startled frown. The girl glances from side-to-side as you draw closer, shoulders tensing once you tentatively stop a few paces before her.

“Lavender, good afternoon.” You greet cordially, fingers lightly brushing against your sides as you become wary of your awkward hand placement.

The girl nods and shoots you a confused smile, “Hi, Y/N. What’s up?”

“I think we both know why I’m here.” You mutter frankly, head tilting down emphatically as you take notice of the latest edition of Hogwarts Anonymous in her hands.

Lavender glances down at the paper and hums, “Ah. Right.”

Sighing, you readjust the strap of your bag as you step closer, “Look, I’m not here to give you any grief over your work. In fact, Hogwarts Anonymous is probably the most exciting thing to happen all year. But, I need to know the person behind all these messages aimed at me.”

“I’m sorry, but confidentiality–” Lavender starts, eyebrows stitching together in remorse at your clear disdain over the matter.

Before the girl can continue her, no doubt, enlightening spiel about the rules of journalism, a velvety voice curls through the air around you, “Hello, Puppy. What seems to be the fuss.”

You aren’t sure any measure of propriety could have stopped you from raising your eyes to the sky as you slowly spin on your heel. A frown briefly washes over your face as you address the boy behind you, “Zabini. Again with that nickname? It’s getting quite old. Originality doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”

“No use in fixing what isn’t broken. Besides, I’ve never known you to be overly concerned with trivialities like this.” The boy retorts, eyes sparkling with blatant amusement.

You purse your lips at his choice of words before musing, “That’s because you don’t know me, Zabini.”

Without missing a beat, Blaise is quick to step closer to you, head craning towards you imperceptibly as he lowers his voice, “I suppose you’re right. I could get to know you though.”

Your lips part at his words, but you try to remain nonchalant as you huff, “Hysterical. And what’s in it for me?”

“You’d get to know me, too.”

“As enticing as that sounds, I’ll have to pass.” You mutter, taking a step back from the boy. His eyes remain firm with confidence even as you begin to retreat, your gaze glued to the growing smirk on his face.

As your nerves finally seem to spark back to life, you swiftly spin around and begin to stomp towards your common room, brain muddled with harping thoughts about the exchange. Before you’re able to round the corner, you hear Lavender’s soft voice bristle through the air, “Maybe try a different approach…”

A few odd days pass after your encounter with Blaise, and you’ve taken to gluing yourself to Ernie and Susan in hopes that the Slytherin would be too intimidated to approach you again. Your friends take the new developments in stride, only occasionally shooting you knowing glances.

“Weird.” Ernie hums, fingers drumming against the grass as he peers at the paper in his lap.

You don’t take your eyes off of the serene lake just yards away as you reply, “What’s weird?”

Susan pauses in her reading as Ernie straightens up and turns to you, “There aren’t any more anonymous messages about you in the column.”

“Seems that you missed your chance with your secret admirer, Y/N.” Susan hums, propping her chin on her palm as she smiles teasingly at you.

You shake your head and wave them both off, “I talked to Lavender the other day, maybe she intentionally left it out. Either way, I look forward to reinhabiting the semblance of peace that I lost.”

Ernie hums as he diverts his gaze towards something behind you, “Peace might have to wait.”

“Y/N.” Blaise’s honeyed voice dances through the cool air, accompanied with the soft crunching of grass as you sense the boy approach your lazing figure.

“Blaise.” You greet evenly, eyes slowly drifting across the tufts of clouds meandering across the sky.

Susan and Ernie pretend to busy themselves as the Slytherin stops behind you, close enough where the edges of his robe lightly graze against your back. It is quiet for a few moments before the boy addresses you again, “Have you given my offer any further thought?”

“I can’t say I have.” You mutter, slowly fidgeting with your wand as you add, “Do you want me to?”

The Italian huffs out a small laugh before you hear a faint rustling, “That’s entirely up to you.” Your eyebrows draw together in confusion, but before you can turn around to question him, a crisp envelope drops into your vision. You feel the curtains of Blaise’s robe swim across your back as he offers the tempting object to you.

Gently grasping the envelope, you flip it in your palm to inspect the front, but you’re met with shallow disappointment when you see the paper is completely blank. On the back, you recognize the Zabini emblem pressed into the bleeding red wax.

“Blaise, what is this for?” You slowly peer over your shoulder only to be met with Blaise’s retreating back growing farther into the distance.

Staring at the envelope with a frown, you debate on whether or not to frisbee-launch the paper into the lake as the wind sweeps across your face. Susan is the first to interrupt the calm silence that blanketed the air, shooting you a knowing smile as she points her chin at the stiff paper, “Open it.”

“Do you know something about this?” You question with narrowed eyes, tone light with jest, but bleeding in genuine confusion.

“About the envelope? Nope.” She hums with a sweet smile, quickly swiveling her head back to her book.

You shuffle closer to your friends, shooting them a disbelieving frown, “And about Blaise?”

Ernie mimes a zipping motion across his mouth as he shakes his head, which is all you need from the boy to know that both of your friends were privy to something you weren’t seeing. Clicking your tongue with exaggerated indignation, you carefully peel the envelope open, noting that neither of your friends were attempting to peer over to see its contents as you did so.

You didn’t know if you were thankful or concerned for that fact.

Reaching inside the smooth cradle of paper, your fingers run across a folded piece of paper. Pulling it out, you hesitate for a few moments before deciding to bite the bullet.

Smooth, even swirls of letters dance across the paper in abundance much to your surprise.

Y/N,

Lavender advised me that my previous tactic of trying to get your attention was ineffective, so I should therefore be more forthcoming. I hope you understand now. Although it was entertaining watching you fumble about for answers, I realize that time is slowly dwindling as we progress through our last year here at Hogwarts.

This is not some ploy if you’re wondering (because I know that you are… really, are you Hufflepuffs not supposed to be the most trusting of us all?)

I have admired you for quite some time. If you are willing to, let’s meet before dinner. I will be at the library.

Love,

“Anonymous”

You drop the letter into your lap as you sigh into the air, neck aching as you roll your head from side to side. Ernie assesses you from the corner of his eye, head tilting at your reaction, “Well?”

“Well, I’ll have to meet you both at dinner it seems.” You concede with a heavy sigh, realizing that you were the only one who was drowning in the darkness of oblivion for the past few days.

Susan nods at you with twinkling eyes as Ernie muses with a wide grin, “Sounds like a plan. Good luck!”

Pacing away from your friends and up the vague incline of grass, you fiddle with the paper in your hands as you begin to dredge up all your encounters with Blaise. They were plentiful in your youth, but between then and the whirlwind of Hogwarts Anonymous— you could count the number of proper conversations you’ve had with the Slytherin on one hand.

That’s not to say you still didn't find the boy attractive. There was an unspoken consensus amongst the entire student body that he was the prime candidate for bachelor, between his suave demeanor, dry wit, academic prowess, towering trust fund, and neutral political stance— it did not get much better than Blaise fucking Zabini.

For the first time in weeks, you feel that your head is finally clear. An airy aura encircling you as you traverse through the halls, not minding the bustling of younger students or the perpetual miasma of stress that radiated off of your fellow seventh-year peers.

At the threshold of the bright library, you take a deep breath of consideration before you step in, an intangible veil of warmth immediately ushering you into its cavernous hold as you sift your gaze through the hunched backs and steep shelves.

Taking slow steps so as to not remain erect in the entrance and cause traffic, you’re snapped from your concentration by the softest tug to your robe sleeve. Dropping your gaze to the chair beside you, you aren’t able to mask your nonplusness at the sight of a familiar Slytherin searching your expression with curiosity.

“Oh, hi Theodore.” You wave smally, stepping closer as he begins to speak.

“Y/N. You’re here for Blaise, right?” The boy’s words are barely above a murmur as he slowly shuts the cover of his book.

You nod and shift to lean against the table as Theodore begins to look around, only dropping your eyes to him once he speaks up again, “He just came in. He might be toward the back, near the Restricted Section. He doesn’t like being around others when he’s restless.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrows shoot up at the insinuation, unable to truly comprehend a mental picture of the composed Slytherin as anything but smug and assured.

Humming, you shift your weight from one leg to the other as you dismiss yourself, “Alright. Thank you, Theodore. I’ll see you around.”

The boy merely nods before turning back to his work, but you don’t miss the glimmer that flickers across his eyes as they quickly catch sight of the letter in your hand— it was the same knowing look that your friends held.

Shuffling towards the back of the library, you slowly feel the confidence draining from your veins as you near the Restricted Section. Rounding one of the shelves, you stop in your tracks as you catch sight of Blaise sitting at a corner table by the window, robe discarded and flung over the adjacent chair as his eyes run across the book in his hand.

Clearing your throat faintly, you make your way towards him. Before you’re even within reaching distance to him, his head shoots up toward you.

His eyes swim with confusion for a split moment before they sink into a familiar unreadable look.

“I read your letter.” You mutter with uncertainty, squaring your shoulders as Blaise nods and rises from his chair.

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” He softly admits, lips curling up at the sheepish look that replaces your former expression of hesitancy. Before you have time to reply, he steps forward and chuckles, “Couldn’t wait to see me, then?”

Swallowing harshly, you hum, “You have a bit of explaining to do.”

“Yeah, I do.” His voice comes out light, shedding away into a near whisper at the end as he gazes at you with consideration. He takes a step forward and continues, “Before that though, I need to know how you feel.”

“About you?” Your mumble is met with a firm nod, and you feel your heart miss a few beats as the words seem to just glide out of your mouth without filter, “Well, we haven’t spoken properly all that much this year or last year, but I like you… too. I like you, too.”

“Yeah?” Blaise hums, shoulders faintly drooping as the tension dissipates from his muscles. He reaches his hand out in offering, and you have to give his face another once-over to confirm that it wasn’t an elaborate ruse before you take it.

He slowly drags you towards him before nudging you to sit in his chair as he smiles, “Well, I’ll apologize for the public messages, it just seemed like the opportune moment when Lavender approached me.”

“Lavender approached you?” You quietly squawk, not even batting an eye when Blaise crouches in front of you and brings his other hand to clasp yours.

“My attraction to you is no secret, Y/N. Not that I tried to hide it.” He supplies, eyes full of warmth as you recount all the indecipherable looks you’d received from Blaise’s friends over the months. Honestly, you had merely assumed they were looking for a fight.

Squeezing the boy’s hands, and ignoring the tingling that buzzed up your wrist from the coolness of his steel rings, you muse, “So… you like me.”

“Hm.” Blaise hums patiently, assured by your reciprocation of his physical touch.

“Well, you’re quite the romantic, Zabini.” You can’t fight the lopsided smile that falls on your face.

Blaise huffs a small laugh as he shakes his head, “I was thinking you’d hold a contrary sentiment.”

“You better be planning ways to make it up to me, public scrutiny is not enjoyable.” You mutter with a small grin, relishing in the way Blaise shifted at your words.

He gives your hands a firm squeeze before he straightens up and leans towards you, “There’s no rush anymore.”

“Who says? I’m fleeing once we graduate.” Your teasing elicits an eye roll from the boy as he shakes his head.

Leaning over, he grazes his lips over your forehead as he mutters, “Funny, but no can do, you’re stuck with me.”

His arms encircle you as he continues to drop light pecks to your face, clearly uncaring of the unconventional crane of his spine as he does so. Bringing a hand up, you place it on his cheek before leaning to join your lips together, acutely aware of how his hands tighten around your frame as he leans in impossibly closer to you.

Pulling back briefly, you smile as an idea balloons in your thoughts, “I’m going to need to find Lavender later.”

Blaise’s hands draw circles on your waist as he hums, “Why’s that?”

“I can’t let you have all the fun, now can I? I have the perfect anonymous submission.” You grin brightly, tugging at his tie to draw him closer.

His eyebrows slowly raise at your words as he leans in, “Yeah?”

“Yep. How does ‘Blaise Zabini is a terrible flirt and an even worse snog’ sound?”

Blaise hums and drags you closer to him as a playful glint blazes across his lidded gaze, “It sounds like I’ll have to change your mind before then.”

“I agree.” You whisper just as his lips sink against yours again, the faint scent of his cologne swirling around you like a blanket as you lean back against the table.

And when morning rolls around, bringing clear skies and a new column of Hogwarts Anonymous, you can only shrug your shoulders when Susan practically slams the paper against your face in fervid question.

‘Hogwarts Anonymous. Submission 0283: Blaise Zabini is an alright snog.’

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blaise zabini blaise zabini x reader blaise x reader blaise zabini imagine

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bakersbucky

1 month ago

One of my favs

LOW COUNTRY | HIGH NOON

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

yearning—they're both so dumb.

Two weeks fly by and Johnny proves himself in ways you weren’t prepared for.

The first two days after he arrived, you’d spent hours showing him the ropes, expecting some level of difficulty, some struggle once he got down to actually doing the dirty work. Sure, he could listen and memorize to his heart's content, but if he couldn’t do the work, he wasn’t useful to you.

But goddamn, could he do the work.

The day after he arrived, you had him shadow you as you worked. You narrated everything you did for the livestock and important things to remember. Shimmer was on a diet and needed a little less hay in her stall. The water in every barn had to stay cool to keep the animals from overheating. The sheep’s bedding came from cornstalks harvested straight from the fields, and the barn doors had to stay open during the day for ventilation. Dixie had to be fed alongside the sheep—otherwise, she'd get jealous. The cows ate soybeans, and their barn fans had to run non-stop to keep the heat at bay.

On the second day, you let him take the reins. He remembered everything, every miniscule detail, down to a T. You were there if he needed help, but he never did. He fed the animals—hell, he did it all like he's been doing it his whole life, like he could do it blindfolded.

It was almost jealousy-inducing how easy it comes to him. You’ve spent years building up the strength needed to handle farm work. You’ve got muscle, no doubt about that. Every long day under the sun has carved power into your body, earned through a lot of sweat and double the tears.

It’s unfair. It’s painfully distracting. He’s painfully distracting.

Regardless, you shove your pride to the side. This is what he’s here for, after all.

The division of labor falls into place easier than you expect. He takes over livestock care and you handle the crops and the house. But together, everyday, you both fix the fences, riding out in the afternoons with supplies in tow, patching up the weak spots before they become real problems.

You don’t speak to Johnny much during the day—mainly during meal times. He spends most of his day to the left of the house at the livestock pastures and barns. The main pastures are all sprawled out, home to about fifteen cows and sheep, respectively. You spend most of your time at the crop fields, which stretch to the right of the house, along with the old barn your family stopped using years ago. Too much upkeep for what it was worth. The cornfields are there too, easy to reach on horseback.

The stables sit in between both, a ways behind the house. The whole farm isn’t a big operation, not by most standards, but it definitely needs more than one person to run it. With Johnny proving himself capable, you both fell into an easy routine rather quickly.

Johnny's up at 7 a.m., like clockwork. He takes the biggest horse, Scout, and makes his rounds, feeding the animals breakfast, checking the water troughs and filling them up when needed. He lets the livestock graze before the sun gets too high.

By 9, Johnny finally gets a moment to breathe while you’re awake and already in the kitchen cooking breakfast. You found that if you time it right, you can get an eyeful of Johnny from the kitchen window. You’ve unintentionally made it part of your morning, standing by the window, mug of coffee in hand, watching him. You repeatedly tell yourself it's to make sure he’s getting the job done, but the more you watch, the more you find yourself thinking about him in ways that grow exceedingly inappropriate for a boss-employer relationship.

You should stop watching. If he were to ever catch you, he’d probably think you were some kind of freak. Maybe you should focus on the eggs in the pan, the bread in the toaster, but it’s hard to follow your better judgement with Johnny around. Pa’s been on your ass for how much toast you’re burning these days.

Breakfast is never fancy, but it’s solid. Eggs, grits, fried potatoes, sausage, bacon. Sometimes fresh fruit if you’ve got it, a pitcher of orange juice on the table alongside the coffee. Variations of the same spread every morning, something hearty and filling to start the day.

Johnny’s damn near worshipful over your cooking. It brings a flush to your cheeks each time he comments on it, considering Pa’s never had too much to say about it. The way Johnny reacts, closing his eyes when he takes the first bite, letting out a quiet “Christ, that’s good”- or he groans under his breath, making it hard not to feel at least a little smug.

You’re used to running the cooking and cleaning on your own: the dishes, wiping down the counters, making sure everything’s in order. Pa never offered much help in that regard. He’s traditional in the sense that ‘it’s a woman’s job’ to take care of the home, with all of its chores and domesticities. He’s stuck in his ways but he’s got a kind soul.

But Johnny does it all with you. Doesn’t even ask.

He waits till everyone’s finished eating, then rolls up his sleeves and helps clear the table like it’s second nature, like it’s part of the job description. He stands beside you at the sink, drying dishes as you wash, putting them away without needing to be told where anything goes. He just remembers.

Most times, you both wash in silence. The only sounds are the clink of dishes, the rush of water, the occasional scrape of a sponge against a pan. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching as you scrub a pot or rinse off a pan. He never says anything—just waits for you patiently.

But it does something to you. Makes you feel small in a way you can’t quite explain. Not insignificant, but exposed. Like he sees too much, like he notices things you don’t even realize you’re giving away. It sets your nerves on edge, tightens something low in your stomach, makes your hands move a little quicker even though you don’t want to give yourself away. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just dishes. Just a quiet kitchen. But under the weight of his gaze, it feels like something else entirely.

His arm brushes yours sometimes—subtle and fleeting but often enough that it doesn’t feel like an accident. Like maybe he’s finding excuses to touch you, even if it’s barely there. And it’s nothing, really. Just the briefest press of skin, the softest graze. But it burns and it lingers. It sinks into your skin like a brand, like something your body wants more of, wants to memorize. You keep your face neutral in the moment, your hands steady. Inside? Your pulse stutters, your breath feels too shallow, and your mind won’t stop spinning in circles. It’s ridiculous, how something so small can unravel you like this. But god help you, it does.

You try to brush it off. He’s just being kind, just paying attention. That’s all. Nothing more.

You remind yourself to be grateful for the extra set of hands, for the way his quiet presence makes the work easier. It’s a small thing, really—his help. But somehow, it takes the edge off the mornings, makes them feel a little lighter.

Johnny’s makes everything feel lighter, now that you really think about it.

Mornings used to be a race against the rising temperatures outside—shoveling down breakfast just to sprint outside and make sure the livestock were moved to the shaded pastures before the sun got too brutal. But with Johnny around, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s got it covered.

After breakfast, usually around 11, Johnny heads back out to do just that, while you get ready for your day’s work. You throw on something you don’t mind getting dirty—some overalls and a tank top, old boots, maybe one of Pa’s loose flannels if there’s a breeze.

You head to the stables and grab Shimmer, heading out to the crop fields. You pass the time, watering, weeding, checking for pests, making sure everything is growing the way it should. It’s tedious work, but at least now, you can actually focus on it. In a way, it’s calmer than dealing with the animals.

By 3 p.m., you've made your final rounds around the fields, harvesting some cucumbers and tomatoes if they’re ready, checking on the other plants to make sure everything’s in place. The heat nears oppressive, and you’re already looking forward to heading inside.

As you ride back toward the stalls to put Shimmer away, your eyes find Johnny by the sheep pen. He’s herding them inside, guiding them with an easy patience, keeping them out of the harsh afternoon sun. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s got a good handle on them.

Your gaze drifts past him to Scout, tied to a fence post nearby. Shimmer must notice him too, judging by the way she whinnies, ears pricking forward with interest. They’ve been sticking close lately, choosing to graze together in the mornings and evenings, grooming each other like they’ve suddenly decided they’re inseparable. It’s odd, considering they’ve never paid each other much mind before—at least, not until two weeks ago.

It’s still August. Scout’s still in heat. You make a mental note to keep an eye on him.

Your gaze flickers back to Johnny—jeans slung low on his hips, a plain wife-beater stretched across his broad chest—and as always, you try not to stare.

But Johnny has a habit and it’s downright cruel. When the sun reaches its peak and the heat settles thick over the land, he peels off his shirt without a second thought. Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just trying to keep cool. But sometimes—when he catches you looking, when the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly—it feels like he’s doing it on purpose. Like he enjoys watching you struggle not to let your eyes linger on him too long, not to let your thoughts wander somewhere they shouldn’t.

You’ve never been so thankful for the relentless southern sun.

It clings to him, highlighting every sharp line and defined edge. His skin glistens with sweat, the golden light catching on the broad curve of his shoulders, the sinew of his arms as they flex with every movement. Thick and strong.

The first time you saw him shirtless, you stared. You couldn’t help it.

And of course, Johnny caught you.

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and amused, and in that split second of distraction, you didn’t even realize you were sliding right off Shimmer’s back—not until you hit the ground with a graceless thud, landing in a fresh patch of mud.

His laugh had boomed across the fields, full and unrestrained, carrying all the way to your burning ears. You barely had time to process the sheer humiliation of it before you wordlessly climbed right back onto Shimmer like nothing happened, like you weren’t covered in mud, like you hadn’t just been caught drooling over him.

Played it cool. At least, you had tried to.

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts away from Johnny, and focus on putting Shimmer away. It’s easier said than done, but you manage, leading her into her stall and giving her a quick brush-down before heading back toward the house.

Lunch won’t make itself, and you figure you might as well get a head start—assuming you’re not completely covered in dirt from standing around, too busy staring at him to notice the dust clinging to your clothes. Which, if you’re being honest, happens more often than you’d like to admit these days.

At least he has the decency to put a shirt on before stepping inside. Small mercies.

You always whip up something light—sandwiches and a salad, maybe. You’re never in the mood to make anything too heavy. Pa skips out on lunch as usual, though. He always does, opting to head out to visit your Ma. She’s buried alongside a 200-year-old willow tree at the far edge of the property, the place that was always her favorite. Lunch used to be between you and a farm catalogue. Now, it’s between you and Johnny.

He never comments on how Pa slips away; he’s gotten used to the routine of it by now. It didn’t take long for him to piece it all together—Ma’s absence, the way Pa goes to kneel by the tree each day. He notices something in your eyes, too. He’s seen it in his own—loss. Grief.

When the aching sound of silence settles over the house—when the scrape of forks against plates is the only thing filling the empty space, when Pa’s vacant seat feels heavier than it should, Johnny’s hand inches toward yours.

It’s subtle, barely there. His fingertips just skim against your own, light and careful, like he’s offering something without asking. Like he’s reminding you, in the quietest way possible, that he’s here.

The first time he does it, you flinch and pull away before the warmth can settle, before the weight of it can mean something. But the next day, and the one after that, he does it again. Always the same way, always patient.

Day after day, you stop avoiding it.

It’s unspoken, something steady. A silent offering. He never asks for more, never demands, just open to let you take what you need.

Today, your hand creeps to meet his. Your fingers slide to hold his own so easily—so naturally. Your fingertips graze over his knuckles before slipping between his fingers, not gripping, just resting. His other hand stills mid-stab of a piece of fruit, the fork hovering in place before a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips—soft, easy, like he’s careful not to startle you. He doesn't tighten his hold, doesn't rush, just lets his thumb brush along your skin, as if memorizing the feel of it. His consistency is comforting.

And day after day, without meaning to, you realize just how much you’ve come to rely on it.

Today, Johnny checks on the livestock one last time after lunch, but not before pitching in to help clean up. He’s quick about it, helping you get everything in order before heading out to make his rounds. He moves through the pastures, checking the water troughs, topping them off, and making sure the animals get their feed. It’s a rhythm by now—one that’s almost as natural to him as breathing.

You, on the other hand, head upstairs. The heat of the day still lingers in the air as you peel off your dirt-smeared clothes and step into the shower. The water hits your skin, hot and soothing, washing away the sweat, the dust, the weight of everything. For a few minutes, it’s just you and the steam, curling around you like a fog that keeps the world at bay. Thanks to Johnny, you can take more time for yourself, allowing for a few moments of peace.

Once you're clean, you retreat to your room for a bit, letting the quiet settle around you. The heat from the shower still clings to your skin, steam curling lazily in the air, and for a little while, you allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing. Just breathing. Just being.

But duty calls, as it always does.

With a sigh, you pull on something comfortable—old jeans, soft and faded in all the right places, a loose tank top that drapes over your shoulders, and a pair of boots worn supple from years of hard use. You leave your hair down, still damp, cool against the nape of your neck as you step into the hallway. The air meets you in a soft contrast, brushing against your skin as you shake off the last remnants of stillness and head downstairs.

Pa’s sitting in his armchair, the low hum of the 5 o’clock news filling the first floor. His eyes are glued to the screen, but you don’t disturb him, slipping into the kitchen to prep dinner. The knives feel familiar in your hands as you chop the vegetables you harvested earlier, the scent of fresh tomatoes, onions, and herbs filling the air. You sprinkle salt over the meat, massaging it in gently, knowing it’ll make the roast tender for tonight.

The clock ticks past 5:30, and at 6, the last task of the day is waiting. Fence checks.

You and Johnny do it together every day. At first, it was purely for convenience—two hands are always better than one. But now, you look forward to it—to seeing him again.

You grab your jacket from the hook by the door, the familiar weight of it settling over your shoulders, and step outside. The evening air is cool against your skin, the sky beginning to soften into a wash of purples, pinks, and golds, the colors mixing together like paint on a canvas. The breeze picks up, gentle at first, but carrying with it the earthy scent of grass and soil.

You make your way toward the stables, the gravel crunching under your boots in a steady rhythm. The evening air is cooler now, carrying the scent of hay and earth.

As you near the stables, you spot Johnny already there. He’s inside, leaning against Scout’s stall door, his back to you, speaking in a low murmur meant only for the horse. His fingers move through Scout’s mane with an absentminded gentleness.

There’s something different about him in moments like these—when he thinks no one’s watching. He softens. It’s endearing in a way you don’t quite have words for. And for a moment, you hesitate, just watching, before finally stepping forward.

You hum a soft, "Hey," and Johnny turns from Scout, a small smile tugging at his lips like he can’t help it, and he steps toward you with his hands tucked into his pockets.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, caught in some strange pause, like you’re both waiting for something. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning your face with quiet curiosity, and the longer the silence stretches, the more unbearable it gets.

“You talk to the sheep like that too, or just Scout?” you ask, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

He stills, processing your outburst before he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Only th’ ones that listen.”

Before he can say anything else, you turn away—too quickly, probably—and busy yourself with Shimmer, running a hand through her mane like she suddenly requires all of your attention. Anything to ignore the way your chest feels too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.

Johnny doesn’t move right away. You can feel him still standing there, watching, like he knows exactly why you turned so fast but isn’t going to call you on it.

“She givin’ ye trouble?” he finally asks, nodding toward Shimmer as you stroke her mane.

“Always,” you mutter, scratching behind her ears and she whinnies. “She thinks she owns the place.”

“Cannae blame ‘er. She’s got ye wrapped ‘round her hoof.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He’s not wrong. Shimmer huffs softly, nudging at your shoulder like she knows you’re talking about her. You softly push her nose away, shaking your head.

Johnny steps next to you, leaning his arms over the stall door, softly scratching the base of her neck. “That why ye bolted over here, hmm? Needed an excuse tae hide?" His voice is light, teasing—but there’s something underneath it. Something careful.

Your hand stills for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “Please.” You turn, meeting his blue eyes with a practiced ease you’re not sure you actually feel. “If I wanted to hide from you, I’d pick a better spot.” You’re almost teasing when you say it, but you do know the property better than him, afterall.

“Dinnae have tae hide from me, hen,” he hums, the corner of his mouth quirks..

You hate that it makes your stomach flip. Hate that you have to force yourself to look away, to pretend the warmth crawling up your neck is from the evening heat and not from him.

Johnny lets the silence stretch, like he’s giving you a chance to say something—anything. His gaze lingers, drifting over you. Taking in the curve of your shoulders, the way your hair catches the fading light, the way you hold yourself like you’re thinking too much but refusing to say why.

When you don’t speak, he exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before pushing off the stall door. Letting it go, for now.

He nods toward the fields, “C’mon. Fence line’s no’ gonna check itself.”

You follow without a word, slipping out of the stables with him. Long shadows stretch across the fields, swaying with the wind-blown grass, and somewhere in the distance, a few cattle call out, their distant sounds blending with the steady hum of crickets.

Neither of you rush. There’s no need. The fence line is long, stretching across acres of land, and it’s a quiet sort of work—just walking, looking, making note of any broken slats or weak posts that’ll need fixing. He walks alongside you, the toolbox rattles lightly in his grip as he carries it at his side, the sound punctuating the steady crunch of boots against dry earth.

For a while, neither of you speak.

It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. You’re aware of him in a way that feels impossible to ignore—the way his steps fall in rhythm with yours, the occasional brush of his arm when the path narrows, the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Ye always this quiet?” Johnny asks, his voice low, barely disturbing the quiet, as if it’s a part of the gentle breeze.

You snort softly, eyes fixed on the fence as you mindlessly trail your fingers along the wooden slats. “Only when there’s nothing to say.”

“That so?” His voice carries easily with a sprinkle of amusement.

“Mhm.”

You keep walking. So does he.

Every so often, you test the fence with a firm press of your palm, checking for weak spots. He does the same. Occasionally, he stops to inspect a loose post, tapping it with the toe of his boot before moving on. It’s a simple rhythm—walk, check, walk again—but the silence between you is anything but simple.

It’s thick, growing heavier as the minutes tick by.

You can feel his presence beside you like a current, something you could fall into and get swept under if you weren’t careful. And maybe he feels it too, because every now and then, his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to reach for something, but can’t. Won’t.

“Ye ever get tired o’ all this?” His voice is quieter this time, almost like he’s asking himself more than you.

Your brows pull together slightly. “Of what?”

He gestures vaguely around you with the hand that isn’t carrying the toolbox. “Th’ same land, same routine. Mornings start early, work’s never really done. That ever get to ye?”

You consider that for a moment, kicking at a stray rock with the toe of your boot. “Maybe. Some days.” You glance at him. “You?”

His mouth tugs into something like a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah. Never.”

You don’t know what to make of that.

The two of you keep walking, keep checking the fence. The breeze picks up, stirring loose strands of your hair. Johnny exhales a slow breath, his shoulders shifting as he rolls them back, working out a stiffness from the long day. The movement draws your attention, and for a brief second, you let yourself look. Really look.

The sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light catches on his cheekbones, the way his shirt clings to the broad stretch of his shoulders, still slightly damp from the sweat of the day. The gold cross dangling from his neck and the dark, miniscule birthmark that sits just below his ear. His hair has grown a bit since he first came. Maybe you could cut it for him, like you do for Pa.

You swallow hard and snap your gaze forward before you get caught. Again.

Another long stretch of silence. Another step. Another brush of his arm against yours—so light it could be accidental.

Could be.

Johnny stops when he catches sight of a sagging section of barbed wire, his steps slowing before he finally comes to a halt. Without a word, he sets down the toolbox and crouches, running a hand over the worn wood of the post before reaching for the wire. Testing its give. Seeing how bad it really is.

You watch as he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly before grabbing the wire stretcher and a handful of staples. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even complain about the extra work—just gets right to it, like it’s second nature.

Rather than hover over him, you hoist yourself up onto a sturdier section of the fence beside him, perching on the top rail with ease. The wood is solid beneath you, not like the weakened stretch he’s working on now.

The sun is nearly gone, but there’s still enough light to bathe the fields in a golden glow, the last remnants of warmth brushing against your face. You tilt your head toward it, letting the heat sink into your skin, letting the evening breeze lift strands of your hair. It’s the kind of peace that settles deep in your bones, the kind you don’t appreciate until it’s gone.

Johnny breaks the silence first.

“If I’d’ve grown up somewhere like this…” He pauses, twisting the wire tight before driving a staple into the post. “I think things would’ve turned ou’ different for me.”

The way he says it—flat, almost absentminded—makes you hesitate. You’re not sure if he’s inviting the conversation or just thinking out loud. You don’t want to pry, but something about the way his voice lingers in the air makes you ask anyway.

“Different how?”

Johnny keeps his eyes on his work as he answers, pulling the wire taut. “Would’ve been normal, I guess. Wouldn’t have joined up. Would no’ have spent years runnin’ toward shit other people run from.” He exhales softly, a ghost of a chuckle. “Think I’d have been calmer. More settled.”

You watch him work for a moment, the way his hands move with ease, deft yet steady. He doesn’t look unsettled, per se. If anything, he seems at ease out here, like he belongs in the quiet.

“You don’t seem unsettled,” you say finally, tilting your head to him.

Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulls the wire one last time, before giving it a final staple to secure it. “Then ’m doin’ a great job at pretending.” His voice is light, but there’s something underneath it, something that makes you press your lips together.

You watch as he finishes up, hammering in the last staple before brushing the dirt off his hands. “If you aren’t happy here, you can always leave, y’know,” The words slip out before you can really think them through. “There’s plenty of families that need help.” It’s not a challenge, just a simple fact.

That stops him.

He straightens up, turning to you with something between bewilderment and confusion, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. Like he can’t quite believe you’d think that, let alone say that.

“Ye think I’m no’ happy here?”

You shrug, glancing out toward the fields. “I mean…” you pause, exhaling as you look toward your boots, drawing shapes in the dirt with the pointed toe. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s isolating.”

Johnny sets the tools down in the grass beside him, his jaw tightening as he mulls over what you just said. It sticks in his head, gnaws at something deep in his chest. He hadn’t considered that you might think that—hadn’t realized he might’ve spoken in a way that’d made you assume he wanted out.

But when he looks at you now, perched on the fence, swathed in the gold, pink, and purple swirls of light from the sun, he understands why you would.

You’ve been here your whole life. You know the weight of isolation, watching things in your life pass by and disappear before your eyes. You probably expect people to leave.

And maybe that should be the case. Maybe he should leave—move on to bigger and better things. But when he looks at you—really looks at you—it doesn’t feel that simple. It can’t be. It’s not.

Your very presence buzzes with life, from your hair to the ever-present flush in your cheeks—from the heat or him, he doesn’t know. You’re sat on the fence like you belong here, like the land itself was carved around you. And maybe it was. Maybe that’s why he’s so goddamn unsettled. You’re everywhere; you’re in every breeze that brushes his skin, in each rooster crow that signals the wake of a new day.

He’s spent his whole life moving, chasing something—war, adrenaline, a sense of purpose that’s always been just out of reach. He knows the weight of isolation just as well as you do.

His throat feels tight as he finally speaks, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “I’m no’ unsettled because o’ the job. Or the farm.”

His gaze is locked onto you, unrelenting. Waiting. Willing you to understand—like he’s been holding this in for too long, and if you don’t get it now, he’s not sure what he’ll do.

And then it all clicks.

It’s not about the farm. Not about the work, the isolation, the long days under the southern sun.

“Oh.”

The word breathes out of you before you can censor it, before you can even feel it.

You’re the reason he carries tension in his shoulders, the reason he looks at you like he’s already lost whatever battle he’s been fighting with himself.

All at once you can feel the sharp pull in the air between you, the way his jaw tics, his breath slows, his fingers flex like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you.

And the worst part?

You wish he wouldn’t.

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bakersbucky

5 months ago