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#druig x poc!reader
witchychanel · 2 years
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If Y/N is related to a character then that's an OC. Please label your fics correctly 😩 I'm tired of reading fics and then finding out I'm related to a character....
I'm not white yall...a lot of us aren't....
I'm very happy that most writers of Euphoria do lable their fics correctly!
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cdragons · 10 months
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...Should I make Druig a dad w/ Katey (that's what Hecate!Eternal goes by, but it's still you ig?) with twin girls when the gang arrives...or is that too much?
Because I already got the names, powers, and personalities picked out: They are 4 in this.
Laoise (Light Manipulator & Solar Magic; very energetic & social butterfly, loves sneak attacks, very hands-on learner; the older twin so she is very close and protective of her baby sister; Nicknames: Little Dove, Our Dawn, Mighty Warrior, Little Light, Our Sun)
Aisling (Dream Prophet & Lunar Magic; more quiet and introverted, loves to hang in her mom's magical library & the Amazon medical hut, go-to lie detector; being the younger twin, she is shy but her big sister always reassures her that she is brave; Nicknames: Little Nightingale, Little Seer, Mini-Librarian, Sweet Thinker, Our Moon)
Both girls have Druig's eyes & dimples & freckles; but Laoise has his brown curls that are lighter with slight highlights, while Aisling's is much darker and slightly wavy. Both like to wear it long and loose, but will wear it up if it is done by their mom and dad.
Both are extremely close to their parents, and see your and Druig's relationship as gold standard, and hope for that in their future. They grew up watching how you two were still separate individuals, but a powerful unit. They witnessed every gentle kiss and tight embrace, every loving gaze and soft smile, all the whispers of love and reassurance, and the overwhelming love and respect you two held for one another.
They don't really ask their Aunt Sephie about love because one time they did, and she got really quiet. She was still smiling, but her eyes became sad, as if she was remembering a certain blue-eyed friend with a silver streak in his hair who would keep her secrets and held her heart.
There are 2 other kids, both you and Druig's biological kids, but you pretty much adopted them. They are both
Damian, it was a name he gave himself. He was born in what is now Pakistan but was sold to Turkish military. He was sold into the army and trained since birth to be a soldier. At 20, he was then killed by order of his commanding officer, and resurrected as a "Div or Dev". He was then given a very strict and formal education: learning many languages and varied skills. His favorite that he picked up was drawing and painting. The only person who treated him with kindness was Shireen, a servant girl who was mistreated due to having survived leprosy as a child. He pitied the little girl for being assigned to a killer, but she always reassured him that she was happy to be his friend. In response to her kindness, he offered to teach her how to read and write. When he learned of her death, he collected her ashes and killed everyone involved in her death before escaping to look for anyone who could revive her. Shireen was born into poverty, she doesn't remember much of her past. She remembers that she was sick for a very long time before recovering. But after she recovered, her mother started to yell for anything. Not only that, but she would beat and ignore her too. She cried at night asking why Allah would curse her with such a hideous child; it wasn't long until she disappeared. Shireen knew her mother was cruel to her, but she still loved her. A man would find her on the streets, and told her that she was sold to them. She was assigned to be the Div's servant. The other servants would tell her horrible stories about him: saying that he would tear her limb from limb, pluck out her eyes, and drink her blood. But she quickly discovered that wasn't true. She also remembered dying, and being lost. But soon she woke up...only...with wings?
Dear God, I have absolutely ZERO self-control.
Tagging: @spacetalbot, @valeskafics, @beananacake
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captainsimagines · 2 years
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dreaming in june || eleven
Summary: At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.
Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader
Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National
Series / AO3 Link / Playlist
(11/15)
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Warnings: blood and gore; blood offerings; demons; cults/religious cults; scary vibes; alcoholism and alcohol abuse; emotional angst; canon-typical violence; enchanted creatures; mention of infertility (if you blink); character ‘death’; descriptions of physical deformities; strong language; blood play (slight); mentions of suicide; fantasy vibes
Word Count: 7,600+
Author’s Note: Lots of shit goes down. Tread lightly lmao. xxMoni
~
“You don’t get to leave me. Not you. This time I’m begging.”
~
     Bucky’s pacing.
He’s giving himself a headache with how much he’s moving, but he is physically incapable of sitting down.  Nothing has calmed him long enough to think rationally. 
Sam, bless him, seems to be the only level-headed one.
Until Druig barged through the front door and demanded to know how the fuck three supers allowed for the kidnapping of his Princess.
“How fucking convenient of you!” Sam growls, pushing at Druig’s hard chest. The Eternal simply looks down at where Sam’s palms had connected. He doesn’t say anything. “The second time she needs you, relied on your intel, you weren’t fucking here!”
A muscle tics in Druig’s jaw. 
“We tried to stop that demon,” Sam explains, his face a permanent scowl. “But she cut the webs and basically sacrificed herself.”
“A demon.” The way Druig repeats the word doesn’t reveal anything. He says it casually, as if testing the taste. “Explain the encounter. All of it. In vivid detail.”
“It wasn’t an encounter. It was an attack,” Peter spits. 
But Bucky ignores the beef simmering, and spills it all. Every detail. Until his mouth has gone dry and his hands shake.
“And you say the demon referenced Greek mythology?”
“I am this close—” Sam says, pinching his fingers together for emphasis. “This close to fucking decking you.”
Druig casually intertwines his hands behind his back. “Why would you want to do that?”
Sam steps dangerously close. “You heard Buck correctly. From the beginning, you have been ominous and brief. So I’m asking you politely—one more time—to tell us everything you know about this cult, about the blood, and about demons.”
Druig scans Sam from his eyes to his feet. Chin held high, Druig makes a decision. 
“Just recently, Makkari informed me about this cult. A cult that began in the 1500s by none other than Rodrigo Graciano, Spanish conquistador who murdered hundreds either with his weapons, disease, or his bare hands. The blood my Princess infused into him made him Immortal—true Immortal. A true Immortal cannot die unless their mind and body are separated entirely or reduced to ash. There is no way to survive decapitation, nor burning into miniscule particles. In popular Salem, he was accused of witchcraft by a fellow follower who did not want to be Made. He burned at the stake. His followers, obviously, did not let the traitor live.”
A history lesson, Bucky thinks. Great. 
Druig continues. “There is a flaw. A glitch, if you would like to call it that. The Princess is a true Immortal. Anyone bred from her blood is true. Immortals created by second generation sources, third generation, fourth…” Druig grimaces, looking to the wall instead of their faces. “They do not possess the same healing abilities, the same aging, or the same mutation.”
Simple genetics then. The more a trait, a gene, a specific mutation is passed through a bloodline, the less and less potent it is if it is no longer dominant. You must carry the dominant, and since you have not created literal offspring of your own, you have not passed down the dominant gene through your blood. A natural birth, however—the dominant gene would pass.
Graciano had gotten the recessive. 
“The Princess is an Immortal who was born. The cult fanatics are Immortals who were Made. The Princess naturally stopped aging. Her body chose a point, and stuck with it. The followers change whenever they want, whoever they want, like vampires.”
“So with her blood, they can create true Immortals? Without it, they’re…what? Low grade?”
Druig smirks. “Yes, Samuel.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Sam snaps.
Bucky pushes in between the two males who are sizing each other up. He pushes Druig slightly harder, however. “How are we getting her back? How are we stopping these fanatics from hurting her? How do we deal with a fucking demon?”
Druig rubs at his jaw. “You mentioned it called her Persephone? It must be a demon of the Greeks, then. Christian mythology doesn’t have such dramatic demons. Egyptians do, but not like this.”
Peter snorts, “Lucifer literally went against God because he thought he was too pretty.”
“Lucifer was kicked out of Heaven because he grew an individual consciousness.”
Bucky ignores the quips, shaking his head. He continues, “So, if we’re dealing with a demon from Greek mythology, are we dealing with Hades? Does he want her for himself?”
“Hades isn’t evil like that.”
Sam holds up a hand. “Back up. Explain.” 
Druig rolls his eyes. “Hades is the ruler of the Underworld. He oversees, like a CEO. He doesn’t do the killing, or the raping, or the torture. Trust me, I’ve been there multiple times when he asked for a change in scenery.”
“Is this what we’re doing? Defending demons?”
“Hades isn’t a demon. He’s a God.”
Sam gives him a blank look, hand on his hip and foot slightly tapping. 
Peter interjects, his voice timid but still marked with a playful undertone. “Should we call Thor?”
“He’s Norse.”
Sam whirls on Druig once again. “What fucking difference—”
“I do not know if his skills will function well with a demon from another realm.”
Bucky blankly stares, completely unimpressed. “I hit things. This one shoots webs. This one is a human. I have no idea what you do. We need a literal God.”
It’s true. What the actual fuck were they going to do when faced with that demon again? You, with the most powerful powers of the three of them, seemed helpless. Or maybe you were in shock. 
If they are able to come up with a game plan, learn a little bit more about how to take down a demon, then maybe they stand a fighting chance. 
If Bucky has to take a fucking ring up a mountain, then so fucking be it.
“Perhaps this is what the cult is expecting,” Druig says. “The demon itself might have studied Norse mythology before preparing to attack. It could be expecting this."
“That motherfucker didn’t look like it reads,” Sam drily says. He shivers from the memory of bloodless lips and void eyes.
Peter cringes. “We’re going in blind, then?”
“You all must be prepared for bloodshed.”
“Great, my favorite.” 
Bucky’s got to give it to Peter. The kid is handling this better than he expected. 
“I’m serious. The Princess opposed violence many times until it was absolutely necessary. I deem this necessary.”
“These are fanatics,” Sam says, waving a hand as if the fight would be no big deal.
“These are made Immortals who summoned a demon. A dangerous and illegal offense.”
“Illegal?” Bucky asks.
“It’s certainly not a practice that anyone should partake in.”
“Okay, wait. Hold up, hold up!” Peter blows out a breath. “I need a minute.”
“I understand this is a lot to take in—”
“You’ve literally just told us that demons exist. That Gods exist, not just Thor. That our friend is a true Immortal who might very well be what we humans like to call Mother Nature! And I’m starting to piece together that the reason she didn’t forget me is because she is not fully human and her consciousness extends to deeper levels. Does Thor remember me? Did we even ask?”
No. They didn’t.
Sam grumbles, “We’re summoning the God.”
“Better than a demon, I guess.” Druig shrugs.
“Anyone got his number? I—” Peter asks, shrugging like fuck-all.
“I can get in touch with him,” Bucky quietly mumbles. There’s shame etched into that statement—the only times he’s ever gotten in touch with the God was for liquid relief. A meager volume of that hungover desire swims in his stomach, in his mind, on his tongue. He’s breaking—the elastic at its final tug—and if he doesn’t find you by the end of the day, he’s going to drown himself. 
“Great! While you do that—” Druig pushes the two folders he’s been holding this whole time into Sam’s chest. “File these for me. Call that lovely assistant of yours.”
Sam glowers at him. He opens the folders and scans. “What are these?”
“You think I haven’t been doing anything?” Druig insists, his face neutral. His words, however, come out wry. “The Princess wasn’t the only one who lost someone that day. We all lost our Prince.”
It’s all signed. Stamped. Official.
“You did all the groundwork. Thanks for flinging the Captain America title around. Really.”
Ari’s remains are to be returned to his only surviving descendants. 
His wife.
~
      You wake with a lump in your throat and clouds swimming behind your closed eyelids. You groan in discomfort, scrunching your face and wiggling your fingers. The air is cold and the surface you’re on pricks your thighs.
Oh, Hell. You’re in a t-shirt and panties. 
Bucky’s t-shirt. 
You go to snap your body upward, but the weight of your head is exhausting. Instead, you roll to your side. 
One of your legs goes over, dangling from the cliffside. Your stomach swoops—your body goes into fight or flight mode. 
You're at the literal cliffside. That fucking demon left you to tip over and take a massive plunge, all for his enjoyment. 
You roll the opposite way, now more alert. The sun is out, but just barely. The clouds cover most of it. You can’t tell if it’s morning, afternoon, or mid-day. 
Perhaps the several distorted faces staring back at you will have that answer. 
You struggle to stand but push through the pain to do so. Lying down is too vulnerable—you can swing your magic better standing. 
“Where am I?”
It takes a moment for you to realize that their faces aren’t their own at all. Their masks—masks of all colors and all expressions, extending from the top of the person’s forehead to their chin. You’d compare them to those drama mask expressions—the joyful and the anguished—but that would just ruin theatre as a whole for you. 
“Mother Earth.”
You shake your head. “Not my name.”
“No,” the one up front confirms. A male. “Your name is not yours at all anymore, is it?”
He’s the tallest of the group, and with the creepiest mask. Gold, metal horns stick out from the forehead of the mask, completely contradicting the sickly green color of the rest of it. You can’t see his eyes or if his mouth is moving—you simply see the frozen anguished expression. 
The trees rumble. Do not try to run! the small voice shouts. They have arrows pointed at you. 
You roll your eyes. An arrow wouldn’t kill you. Still, you listen. 
“So, this is it? You’re here to drain my blood or what?”
Several of them cock their heads to the left at the same time. A shudder travels up your spine. 
There looks to be about thirty people staring back at you. Not one sign of the original demon. 
“We must first prove you are the Mother.”
You frown. “Ew. Can’t I just say yes or no and get this over with?”
They don’t laugh. They don’t move. They don’t even seem to acknowledge your voice. Except for the one leering at you. Frozen and calm.
“The universe chose you to be one with the earth. And since me, humans, and all other living beings come from the earth, we come from you.”
You slowly nod. He continues, “For years, we have been trying to find you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Your blood will heal us. You will lead us.”
“Honestly, it looks like you’re doing fine without me.” Your lip curls as you assess the robes they wear—heavy, thick black robes (or rather, cloaks) that sink to the floor in an extravagant puddle. 
This shit is too movie-like. Yet, it’s not the craziest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s just the first time you’re seeing something like this. 
Right? You shuffle through your memories at lightning speed. 
Yeah, no cult encounters.
What time is it? The sky is a sickly, gray-blue and the sounds of the nearest village are faint. The trees don’t answer you.
Aggravated, the front man stalks toward you. Out of instinct, you step back.
He doesn’t like that.
He grabs your arms and holds you still, the mask boring its hollow eyes into your frightened ones. “We are your disciples. You will heal us.”
“Heal what?”
He hesitates, then abruptly pulls the long sleeves up his forearms.
Spikes grow from his skin. Nasty, dangerously sharp spikes. The flesh around them is bruised and bloody. His veins are a heinous red. It’s like he’s a living rose thorn. 
You cup your parted mouth. “Oh my Gods.”
Others step forward and showcase their deformities. 
Some have real horns. Others cannot speak. Bones are easily breakable. Claws, or feathers, or bothersome shadows. There’s even one member who is intangible. Your hand goes right through them. 
The fact they're all undeniably human is what they share in common. The ones who lack deformities in the face look like any person you’d pass on the street. 
And there are literal children. Children. Immortal children. Their age, bizarrely, in nothing but a number. They speak like the grown adults around them.
“Now you see.”
You look up at their leader, brows furrowing. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
He shakes his head rapidly, his mask still unnerving. “We know what to do. You simply need to offer up your blood.”
A startled laugh rattles your chest. “You literally sent a demon to retrieve me and you want me to help you?” You step away, trying your hardest to not look at the members with more severe disabilities. “Where is it anyway? You cannot let that thing wander through the mortal world without a leash.”
“I have been alive for two hundred years. I am the oldest. If you are worried that we follow Graciano’s ideology, you are mistaken,” the leader explains, ignoring your initial question. 
Another laugh. “That would settle me if you people weren’t dressed like this or if you hadn’t sent a fucking demon to terrorize me.”
“Sending the demon was a precaution. We did not know how powerful you would be.”
Your mouth opens for another retort, but someone else from back of the group chimes in with, “I suggested we unleash a pixie messenger instead of the demon.”
“And this whole ordeal has demonstrated that you would not have willingly left with a pixie tour guide.”
“Damn right,” you mumble. 
What the actual fuck is going on? 
“Mother Earth,” the leader says. “Please help us.”
You piece it together bit by bit.
The cult is a literal cult with freaky attire, unsettling line delivery, and horrible manners. They unleashed a demon because they’re fucking idiots who couldn’t just ask you for help. Are they a cult like those that make the news? Violent, out for blood, and look up to a leader that will ultimately sacrifice them in the end? Or are they merely a group of people who found each other, donned creepy fucking masks for the hell of it, because of their shared life experience?
They are not original, Made Immortals. They are third generation, maybe fourth. You have no idea if they wanted to be Made or if they regret their decision. All you know is that they are horribly deformed and begging you to help them heal. 
Which means they must be in awful pain and discomfort. 
You’ve lived for hundreds of years. Your bones ache, your skin occasionally dries, and your heart slows from time to time. Yet, your physical appearance is that of someone who finds no need to hide. 
Should you trust that they do not follow Graciano’s ideologies? Druig seems to think they still do. 
You can’t help the overwhelming feeling that plagues your chest, though. Graciano’s blood runs through their veins. Their maker’s blood runs through their veins.
Your blood runs through their veins. 
Children of Mother Earth. The title has you cringing. 
“What would helping you entail?”
~
     “Okay—” Thor runs a large hand down his face. “I think I’m all caught up now.”
Thor has his hair strung up in a bun. He wears a Guns N Roses t-shirt and regular jeans pants. The God is even wearing leather boots and a belt. Peter stares at him in pure wonder. 
Sam rubs his temples, his face drooping from tiredness. 
“Do you think you can help us?” Bucky asks. 
“I can help you slaughter the cult. I do not know if my lightning will harm the demon.” 
“Slaughter makes it sound so…”
“Evil," Sam stresses.
“Put down? Slay? Destroy?"
Peter clears his throat. “Wouldn’t the cult be hard to kill? You know…Considering they’re Immortals?”
Everyone takes a few moments to digest the words. 
Bucky grunts, “Are we going to have to decapitate those fuckers?”
Druig snorts. “We don’t actually have to do much. I can control their minds and make them slice into their own throats. They’ll decapitate themselves.”
Sam shudders. “This is…Too fucking vivid. Too heinous. I don’t know if I can do that.”
“What do you expect to do then, Samuel?” Druig demands. 
Sam glares at the Eternal. “I’m not letting Peter see that shit. It’s too fucking graphic for an eighteen year old kid.”
“I’ve literally seen the guts of aliens spilled on the floor, so,” Peter says, shrugging. 
“Bear with me, kid.”
“Okay,” Bucky sighs. “We locate the group through Druig’s mind reading slash listening thing. Once we have their location, we search for Ace in the—”
Sam tilts his head. “Ace?”
“Yeah.”
It only takes a few seconds for Sam to piece it together. “Like, Acer?”
“Like Acer.”
“What does it symbolize?”
“Peace, because that’s what she’ll fucking need after being kidnapped by a fucking demon.”
“For sure.”
“Can we get back to the main situation?” Druig groans. He hovers near Thor mostly, probably because he’s the only other Immortal-like being in the room. Yet, Thor aims his facial expressions at Peter, who returns them excitedly.
“Right,” Bucky replies. “Thor—if the demon is present, you take care of that motherfucker. Peter, Sam, and I will be responsible for getting Ace out of there safely. Druig, you handle the cult.”
“With pleasure.”
If anyone would have asked Bucky what the hell he thought he would be doing today, this week, this month—it most certainly would have had nothing to do with demons and cults. He thought Hydra was bad with its government corruption, Nazis, and presidential assassinations. At least with Hydra, Bucky was dealing with real-life, flesh and bone human beings. Although, he would argue that Nazis aren’t people. They don’t deserve to be categorized in the human species at all. 
Demons and cults, however…That makes his stomach churn and his blood run cold. He doesn’t know how to deal with those things. He’s the goddamn Winter Soldier—a ghost, a spy, a lethal weapon. No amount of bullets, spying, or grenades is going to stop a demon. Or maybe the demon is tangible…
No. Bucky would rather sit that shit out. 
God, you must be so scared.
“Where do we put the bodies after we…” Peter inquires. 
Thor raises his hand. “I can obliterate them.”
Sam gasps, “Hard no.”
“We have to put them somewhere.”
Bucky cringes as he says, “Ace mentioned that she could…lift roots. So the bodies could be hidden underneath—”
“This is such a fucked up conversation.”
“As if we hadn’t had worse shit happen to us,” Peter argues, rolling his eyes at Sam.
Sam sighs, bowing his head as he rests his hands on hips. Bucky watches him, and sees a little bit of Steve’s mannerisms. 
It’s got him grinning, even if all his nerve endings are on edge.
They’ve wasted too much time just calling Thor to Earth. Precious time. You could be hurt, tortured, taken to the fucking Underworld. 
Bucky hasn’t felt this way since T’Challa had told him Steve and Sam were coming to Wakanda back in 2018. That impromptu visit resulted in half the world dying. 
Bucky reminds himself that you’re strong, stronger than him and damn well stronger than a lot of people he has met. If anyone could survive a demon, it would be you. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand not knowing. 
Not knowing will be the death of him. 
He does not know why his luck was shit and he disappeared in 2018.
He does not know why Steve left him so suddenly. It’s not like Bruce destroyed that stupid time machine. 
He does not know why you were cursed to live forever, having to watch everyone else around you grow old and wither away. 
He does not know why people are evil. From his experience, people are simply born that way. Evil people tend to be evil to the core. A person's environment and experiences are factors, but if they’re willing to change—Are they truly evil? 
“When do we suit up?” Thor asks. 
“Right now,” Sam answers. He looks at Druig, who nods. “Miles and miles until you find their minds, man. Go for it.”
Druig breathes in slowly, and searches. His eyes glow a bright yellow. 
~
     “You each get a drop.”
You’re crazy. Absolutely fucking idiotic, to be honest. 
But here’s the thing:
They’re already immortal. You found the proof in their heartbeats. They weren’t lying when they said they were only a few centuries old. That would mean that none of them were around when Graciano ruled or when he was executed. 
Besides, healing them wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. If they turn out to be evil once they’re healed, then you’ll kill them then. Plain and simple. But you cannot walk away from them when they’re suffering because of some fucker who utilized the “gift” you didn’t know you gave. 
They’re already Immortal, you tell yourself. You’re not making them Immortal again. 
“As you wish.”
It’s late in the evening and the sun is starting to set. Beautiful hues of blue and orange paint the cliffside and compliment the massive fire they have built and contained. They all stand in a circle, like the fucking cult they are, no matter how often you asked them to get into a single file line.
Like you’re giving out party favors. 
Oh, Gods. 
One of the nine women of the group gave you their robe so you’re not just parading around in your underwear. You tried not to stare at her moving flesh, almost like fish scales, when she handed it to you. 
You glance at the fire, at the knife in your hand, at the human circle. Not even the Cold War felt so eerie. 
“If I give you the drop, and nothing changes or something bad starts happening, I will not continue with the others,” you tell their leader. You’re grateful they all removed their masks for this. The man in front of you is in his mid-thirties, or mid-two hundreds really, and frozen in time. His black curls shine in the fire's light, as do his green eyes. He reminds you of every fictional character you've imagined when reading. Young, devastatingly attractive, but his eyes are old. Pained. 
He nods. “We trust you.”
Quickly, because you’ll lose your nerve if not, you slice the palm of your left hand. Balking slightly, you look at him with the question you refused to ask earlier. 
He nods again, understanding. He takes your mangled hand, looking directly into your eyes, and raises it to his mouth. His tongue peeks out, then lies flat as he swipes from the end of the cut to the top. Shivering, you watch as he laps at your blood like it’s the most desirable dessert. 
It’s erotic, and quite unsettling. Drums pound in your ears, possibly the unsteady beat of your heart, as you watch his tongue poke out again. He laps it all up, even if it’s never-ending. Completely greedy. 
“Had enough?” The stable delivery of your words elates you.  
His eyes rise to meet yours. He wipes the side of his mouth, breathing heavily. “Yes. I apologize.”
“That was more than a drop.”
The confidence he had when he was licking you vanishes a little bit, a shy smile forming instead. “Don’t hold my fault against the others.”
You clear your throat, awkwardly. “Is it really that delicious?”
As quickly as it vanished, his confidence resurfaces. Cocky. “The richest flavor. It makes me want to get on my knees.”
You feel your face grow warm. Turning from him, you walk to the second recipient. Your palm is beginning to heal. 
With your face flushed, you force yourself to look back at the leading cultist. “Is it working?”
He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s trying to dig deep inside himself for the answer. He’s still breathing heavily. 
“Take off your cloak,” you instruct. His brow lowers. “Take it off.”
He smirks, strips, and that’s when you see it. His thorns are shrinking, curling then snapping, his veins turning green, red, blue, purple. You watch his face and his arms. The pain flushing his features is unmistakable, but he’s enduring it. Every bit, every thorn submersion, every instance of blood poisoning. 
He falls to the ground, a heaving mess. Someone unlinks their hands from the circle to crouch beside him. He clutches at their arms, their face, the ground. 
When he falls silent, his body unnaturally still, you worry. All your original worries crowd in the forefront of your brain, screaming, scolding you. You move to fall beside him, but he revives. Breathing in deeply, everything falls into place. 
The thorns are gone, replaced by beautiful golden skin and natural freckles. His veins run down their corresponding arms, alongside perfectly placed arteries and tendons and ligaments, shining green and purple. 
It worked. It worked, it worked, it worked. 
“You’re—”
“I’m me again.” His voice wobbles. “I’m me.”
“I do not know if it’ll last—”
“Mother Earth,” he says urgently. “You made me me again. If I die now, I will die myself. And I am grateful.”
Breathing in, you slice your palm again and hold it out for the next person. They too take more than a drop.
~
     The last person, the Intangible, hesitates. 
“I cannot do it. I cannot drink or eat. I am Midas without the touch.”
Fuck. You’ve healed each person besides him. 
“How do the clothes on your back stay in place?”
He turns away, ashamed. “Maxwell believes it’s because I was gifted them. Something of my own, declared mine.”
You assume Maxwell is their leader. 
“So I gift you my blood.”
“As easy as that?”
“We will see.” You slice your hand for the tenth time tonight, barely even wincing. “Tilt your head back.”
You raise your hand in the air, squeezing a fist, as the blood almost slips—
A scream erupts from the circle. You turn around and see a man with a knife in hand, slicing through his own throat. Whipping your arm out, tattooed vines stem from the tips of your fingers to your shoulder and neck. Nearby roots reach up and wrap around the man’s wrist, tugging him down and throwing the knife away. The man gurgles and tries to stop the bleeding himself before two women come to his aid. 
Another scream, this one more brutal, and you witness the same thing. Except the woman is about to fling herself into the fire. 
You bring the roots up, rumbling the ground and chipping rocks off from the cliffside. They wrap around her waist and hold her down. 
“What’s going on?” you yell. You’re preventing two people from hurting themselves, and if others begin doing the same, you don’t know if you’ll stop them all soon enough. 
“What—” You cut yourself off when you see a yellow glow emerge from the nearby woods. Dread and relief assault your senses simultaneously. Behind Druig, your friends appear. And they brought along Thor. 
Fuck.
“Druig,” you call, resisting his pull. “Stop controlling them!”
The people you’re holding down begin snapping the branches keeping them safe, their own eyes bright yellow. 
“Druig! Enough!”
Everyone behind him pauses. Like they’re the only ones who heard you.
“Druig! There are children here! Stop it! Stop!”
His head tilts, confused, but his rampage doesn’t stop. Another person begins screaming. You curl both hands, all your fingers, using all your might to call upon the Earth. The ground explodes the moment your eyes shine bright green, a roar sounds, and all heads snap to the woods your friends just emerged from. 
Sam and Bucky tackle Peter to the ground when something leaps over them and sprints toward Druig. The ground shakes with its every step. 
Bucky risks looking up. What he finds stuns him stupid. 
A monstrous, twenty-foot thick tree roars, practically shattering the sound barrier. Its mouth—its fucking mouth—opens wide, spiked wooden teeth rattling as it roars again. It barrels across the short distance, picking Druig up with its arms, and slams him to the ground. 
Half of your attention remains on Druig while the other half focuses on the task at hand. You bring your hand up, motioning to the speechless cultist in front of you. “Bend, and open wide.”
He obliges and you squeeze your fist hard. Drops of blood fall into his open mouth, remaining there, flowing through him. His wide eyes let you know he’s surprised too. 
Once that’s done, you slowly turn back toward your magical creation pummeling Druig. Gritting your teeth, your eyes still glowing emerald, you curse. “Now, what the fuck did I say?”
Druig’s eyes are no longer yellow. In fact, he’s not controlling anyone’s mind anymore. He’s simply guarding his chest and head from the punches, eyes frightened. 
You stalk toward him, hands still extended and tattoos still visible because of the crumbled sleeves. “When I say stop, you stop.”
Druig nods quickly, groaning. 
“Tell me, Druig! Tell me you understand what I’m telling you!”
“Yes! Yes! I understand!”
You swipe your hand through the air, and the tree goes flying. Bucky hears it crash land somewhere back in the woods, but he’s too stunned to focus on that right now. 
…What the fuck just happened?
“Am I not your Princess?” you ask Druig while he crawls from the hole. Your tone is death. “Should you not obey me?”
Druig stutters over a crumpled sound. 
Before you can speak again, you’re knocked off your feet and thrown several feet away from him, back to the fire. Shocked, you look up to meet the hideous eyes of that same demon, blacker and more deadly. You quickly stand, powers ready. 
“Oh,” you sigh. “It’s you.”
“My instructions were to capture you,” the demon explains, words somehow slick and sticky. “I was never given a time stamp.”
Maxwell, the lead cultist, curses loudly from behind. “It's lying! Its instructions were to bring you to us!”
“And yet, you did not instruct me to return to Hell after I succeeded.”
Maxwell meets your gaze, sorrow swimming in his irises. 
“If you want me—”
Your words fizzle when a blast of lightning smashes against the demon’s skeletal body, throwing it away from you and to the ground. Its shadows dim, but it quickly recovers. 
“A Norse God,” the demon licks. “What a treat.”
Thor has the good sense to look scared. Yet he challenges with, "War, demon! That is what you are starting!"
“I’ll leave you with this.” The demon vanishes, only to appear at your side. Bucky, Sam, and Peter are almost to your side when its shadows swallow you up. The demon floats over the cliffside, holding you by the back of the neck. 
“When her heart beats again, I will come to collect my prize.”
When gravity pulls a body down, the stomach leaps up. You didn't think it would feel so traumatic.
You scream and claw at the air as you fall to the rocks below. Roots and branches swing over the ledge, but they’re not fast enough to catch you. Still, they persist. 
Someone threw themselves over. This, you can see. Fog and mist blind you, but this you can see. 
Webs stretch from his wrists, quicker than the trees, and snap against your abdomen like a sucker-punch. 
But your head hits the rock, and you see nothing. 
Peter falls on a nearby rock, but not with the same momentum as you. He scrambles on his hands and knees, hyperventilating. 
“Oh my god,” he mutters. “Fuck, oh my fucking god.”
Peter doesn’t want to move you. He doesn’t want to make it worse. 
“Oh my god,” he sputters, lips wet and eyes watering. “Oh my god!”
Bucky lands beside Peter with Sam’s hand in his. Sam’s wings re-enter their pack. Thor falls on the other side of you. 
“Peter—” Sam tries, but is interrupted. 
“I thought I—” Peter chokes. His hands hover over your chest. “I thought I caught her.”
Bucky’s not breathing at all. He tries to ignore the puddle of blood pooling beneath your head, tries to ignore the dead look in your eyes. Grief, upon grief, upon grief. Not even Hydra’s hands inflicted this much pain. 
He drops to his knees just as Thor declares, “She’s Immortal. She’ll recover, she’s—”
Thor stops himself when Bucky tries to lift you up, and finds that the back of your head is practically caved in. Thor is right. You’ll survive this. You’ve inflicted worse on yourself—but does that make it any less gruesome, any less painful?
A million times no.
Bucky hiccups, holding you steady. His forehead rests on your sternum as he pleads, brokenly,  “You don’t get to leave me. Not you. This time I’m begging.” 
He begs the entire flight up the cliffside. The entire walk back to the house, avoiding the eyes of the cultists and Druig. Even when he and Sam place you in the bathtub and wash away all the blood they can. 
You’re dead. 
You’re actually dead, and Bucky can’t do anything but wait for you to come back to him. 
~
      It begins similarly as the last time. The same beautiful, blue cliffside and the same deafening silence. Yet, if you listen closely, you can hear the break of waves and whistle of the wind. But you don’t bother trying to define the elements—no—not when Ari is running to wear you’re standing.
You crash into each other in the same level of dramatics as before. There is no negative connotation to that word, however. You’ll be as dramatic as you want. You have five hundred years of dramatics to make up for. 
“My love.”
God, his voice is like liquid caramel. So delightfully delicious. Memories bombard you: Ari, drunk and happy and dancing around the campfire on his birthday; Ari, brilliantly naked and stretching his morning muscles from deep sleep. The stories he would tell the children, how he would hold their hands when they learned how to swim—how you two tried to have children of your own. 
“I’m dead,” you say, a gurgled laugh accidentally breaking through. 
Ari stares at your face, scanning, then bursts into laughter. Your laugh mixes with his like chocolate and sugar. 
“You will be back soon enough.”
Last time you “died”, resurrection occurred a few hours later. Of all the ways to die, this wasn’t the most pleasant.
“Did I do something bad?” you ask. 
Ari shakes his head. “No, my love. They were telling the truth.”
Air tumbles from your shaking mouth. At least that’s one good thing that’s come from this. You just hope your friends heeded your instructions and didn’t leave a massacre behind.
“I love you,” you respond, seizing his cheeks in your hands. 
Ari smiles, teeth and all. “That has always been one of your first declarations whenever you see me.”
“I feel a lot of things, Ari. But my love for you exceeds all else.”
He grabs each of your wrists, but doesn’t pull you away. “And yet, the love I declare for you exceeds even that.”
You chuckle, allowing him to take your wrists to kiss the insides. His lips like a movie soundtrack, his touch mimicking dialogue. 
“When will I wake?”
Ari takes the opportunity to come in closer, his chest against yours. “Soon.”
“And when we defeat this demon, will I see you again?”
Ari’s breath hitches. “I do not fault you or anyone for keeping the living safe. I understand your fight. But, my love…” Ari’s eyes close, and he rests his forehead against yours. “I am so tired of wandering alone.”
Five hundred years worth of cracks in your heart. What’s one more?
“There are no other lost souls with you?”
His expression is answer enough. 
“You have been alone all this time? For over a century?”
“Have you not been alone, too?” It doesn’t sound like a question. 
You pat his broad chest, too shaken to do anything else. “I am going to put you to rest, Ari. I promise you. I promise with everything in me.”
He nods, your connected heads moving at the same time. “I will stay with you now, after, and beyond.”
“If you want to rest forever, I will not prevent you from doing so.”
An afterlife can mean two things: Either he chooses to wander for however long he wants, at peace, until he decides to lay his soul to rest or resurrect. Or, he chooses to wander forever, his soul never resting but still at peace. A ghost in the afterlife, essentially. 
As much as it pains you to let him go, you have to.
Ari places a soft but fierce kiss to your lips. This is your peace. 
“I do not know if this is the last time we will see each other,” Ari mumbles. Even his breath tastes like caramel. “But if it is…My peace will always be found with you. Three or five hundred years, my love—It was not enough. No amount of time would have been enough for me to wholly sink into your soul.”
“Nor me, yours.”
You pull away from him to memorize his face. But it’s a face you’ll never forget, no matter how hard you try. 
“I love you,” Ari whispers. 
“For five hundred years more. And however long after that.”
~
      Bucky leaves your room when he can no longer stand the dryness of his throat. All his screaming has left him sore, as if the demon’s claws dragged ugly indents along the walls of his throat. He looks at you, anger and grief a dangerous combination, and exits. 
You’re dead. 
You died. He saw you die. Peter tried to catch you, and you fucking hit your head so hard, you died. He had to watch you die because throwing himself off the cliff wasn’t a decision on the table. But he was ready—ready to spring himself just far enough to grab you, turn, and break your fall. 
Is this how Steve felt when he watched Bucky fall?
Bucky cringes. Why would he think about Steve at this time? Why would his brain conjure up the image of him, when it knows it’s starting to make him angry? It almost feels like he’s cheating on you. He didn’t think about Steve once when he was sleeping with you, but now that you fucking die? It makes his stomach turn upside down.
How did this love become tainted? How did loving Steve become such a burden? Steve makes him love New York, then he hates the city. His memory soothes Bucky’s soul, but his actions make him miserable. 
Is it possible to love and hate someone at the same time?
Bucky throws the glass across the room. It shatters in a triumphant display of glistening water and the shards of his heart. 
“Leave me alone,” Bucky whispers, haunted by the very fact he’s asking that of Steve. 
Isn’t that what he did? the voice in the back of his head cruelly whispers. 
“It wasn’t the Steve I knew.”
Steve during the war, during Bucky’s rescue from Hydra, before Thanos—that was Bucky’s Steve. What the hell happened in those five years? Steve only had Natasha. Sam and Bucky were both snatched from his soul, coincidence and shit luck. Did it break him? Did it make Steve yearn for a world where everything was familiar? Did it make him forget?
Maybe in a few days, weeks, months, Bucky will forgive Steve entirely. Grief is a strange thing, a long haul of paralytic agony, that has no cure. 
Bucky thinks of you, and how you’re still grieving after five hundred years, and is scared. He doesn’t want to grieve for that long. He wants it to end now. 
Now. 
He thought he never would, but he has begun cursing Steve’s name. His whole existence. What was the point of sending something so angelic, so heroic, so gloriously noble and marvelous, into Bucky’s life? What was the point of having Bucky Barnes fall so hopelessly in love only to end up with a disastrous story? Shakespeare would laugh, or capitalize from his heartbreak. Bucky’s life is a Shakespearean tragedy—Steve is the tragic hero, Bucky the tragic villain. 
What else? Those two characters always have the most dire, erotic, agonizing tension that straddles the romantic dynamic of a tragedy. Steve was the play’s hero. Bucky, the villain. They were each other’s heart-wrenching antonyms, yet so terribly similar in the way their souls spoke. Characters so unfortunate in their endings, and an exhausting constant in each other’s dreams. 
Last time Bucky had a good dream about Steve Rogers was when the Wakandan summer faded into autumn in the tragic year of 2018. 
He misses that summer. He misses dreaming in June. 
Shakespeare’s characters always meet a dreadful end. One that is unsatisfying. Bucky can’t think of a description more fitting when he opens that fucking bottle in the haunted, Icelandic house. He tips his head back and hates himself for it.   
“You don’t get to do that.”
Bucky shuts his eyes tightly. 
“Go back to bed, Sam.”
“I know we all deal with shit our own ways. You drink, Shortcake wallows, Peter works until he can’t feel his bones. But I’m begging you right now…Do not drink that.”
Bucky can feel it eating away at his insides. He needs another taste, the sip of the liquor that’s been soothing his stomach for the past year and half, making his heart beat just a little quicker, making him forget for just a few hours. He wanted to drown in it when Steve left, when Sam started putting his life in danger, when you didn’t open your eyes as he tried shaking you awake. It’s itching like crazy, picking and pulling at the open slip of skin near his lips. 
And yet, the thought of Sam begging has his hands shaking. “Okay,” Bucky says quietly, putting the bottle down on the table. “I won’t do it.”
“I lost him, too,” Sam mutters quickly.
“Sam—”
“I lost him, too! He was my friend, too!”
Bucky chokes on a choppy inhale. Of course Steve was Sam’s friend, too. Of course he was, Bucky knows this. But it’s the exclamation that rocks Bucky to his core and causes his chest to heave once, then twice, as he tries to respond. There are angry tears forming in Sam’s eyes, incessant.
“You’re not the only one he fucked over! He left me, too!”
Bucky raises his flesh hand in a sort of surrender, unable to keep it from trembling. He turns a little to the side so he doesn’t have to look directly at Sam. If anyone walked in right now, Peter probably, it would look like Bucky is shielding himself from an incoming blow. But Bucky seriously, honestly, is curling in on himself. 
“I know you loved him,” Sam continues, breath hitching. “And I know I’ll never know exactly what you’re feeling. But he left me, too.” Sam smiles sadly, then shrugs, as if it’s all his body can do. “He left me, too.”
The moment is frozen. For seconds, maybe minutes. Bucky doesn’t walk down the path of the bottle and Sam doesn’t leave the room. He feels like a small child being scolded, but Bucky knows that’s not a fair comparison. He doesn’t even want to call this a guilt trip. He’s had an intervention coming any day now. He just didn’t expect it to be so startling and blue. 
“I’m not gonna let you drink yourself to death. I don’t know how your body works, or how the serum works, but I’m not gonna let it happen. I’m not your counselor, fuck, I’m nobody’s fuckin’ counselor. I’m your friend.” 
Bucky looks at the bottle, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. His ribs are incredibly sore, and each intake of air resembles a stab of fire. 
He lifts his head, meeting Sam’s brown eyes. “I need help.”
Sam’s lips part and a small crack in his throat loosens. His entire face flushes with grief. “Yeah, Buck.”
Bucky shudders, his eyes watering. “I need help.” 
“I’m gonna get you help, okay? We all will. I promise.” Sam closes the massive gap between them, holding Bucky’s shoulders in place. “I’m going to be there along the way, okay? I’m not leaving you.”
Bucky grips the fabric of Sam’s sweatshirt. “Don’t leave me.”
Sam shakes his head fast. “I’m not going to leave you. But you gotta promise you’re not going to leave me too, yeah? You’re not going to leave me, or Ace, or Peter. We need you just as much as you need us, Buck.”
“Why did he leave us?” Bucky breaks, sobbing into Sam’s chest. He feels as if the fog in his brain has just lifted, but it’s fighting to stay clear. 
Sam holds him, staring over Bucky’s shoulder. “Million dollar question, Buck.”
Maybe Bucky isn’t the tragic villain of this play.
Maybe it was Steve all along.
~
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pogueswrld · 2 years
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*•.¸♡ find me among the stars ♡¸.•*
summary: Druig never believed himself to be the kind of guy to have a sappy and tragic love story, but as his years dragged on, he couldn't help but fall in love with you── in every lifetime.
warnings: uhh repeatedly reincarnated fem!poc!plus sized!reader, Druig falling in love and having his heart broken for centuries on end, so much fluff and so much angst (I'm sorry I'm not), hints at smut but none actual smut is written, prepare yourself ig
note: I thought about this in the middle of math class 🧍‍♀️ this is my first druig fic so please let me know what you think <3
okay edit: sorry, no parts :(
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Babylon, 527 BC
The Eternals' presence demanded to be seen across the ancient city, although they get addressed as gods between the peasants they're just as mundane as the rest of them. And everyday their love for the humans grow, as does their curiosity, some of them allow themselves to indulge in the experience of being human while others prefer to keep to themselves.
It was a celebratory night, the celestials had managed to keep Babylon safe from the dangers of the deviants once more and to thank them, the humans gathered around to play music and dance around bonfires.
The Eternals enjoyed the festivities, Sprite going on and on with her illustrations to overplay the fight and retell the tales of the great warriors in their midst while Kingo and Gilgamesh share gossip, their eyes jumping from one human to the next while chuckles passed between them.
They were all there, except for one. He never was into big gatherings, but tonight was a bit different than usual. Druig was planning to spend the night entertaining the humans with their trades alongside Makkari, but a girl with glowing tawny beige skin and ash brown hair in a white dress walked by him, captivating his attention in the most elegant of ways.
He couldn't help but trail after her as she walks into the woods, her hands clutching her dress as a soft hum of the traditional music left her lips, a tune so beautiful Druig thought it could make their angels weep at her feet. He followed her behind the trees, remaining unseen as to not frighten her, and he watches as she stops by the river and sits on a boulder.
She pauses for a moment, if he'd blink he wouldn't have noticed it, but then she proceeds in watching the river flow.
"It's inappropriate to follow a lady to the woods when she's by herself, you know." she calls out, not turning to face him as he smirks to himself. For dramatics, Druig waits a moment, and when he's approaching her his hands are clasped behind his back, his baby blue eyes staring at her with an interested glint and the pretty girl looks up at him with an inviting smile.
"I believe it to be inappropriate for a lady to walk through the woods by herself, no?" it was a rhetorical question, his accent emerging as a smirk tugs at his lips. The girl merely shrugs, "I like the woods, it's quiet. Peaceful."
There was a moment of comfortable silence where she continues to watch the water while he watches her, then she turns to him. "Would you like to join me?"
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, he's never met a human that was willingly asking for his presence to remain, his stoic expressions made almost everyone uncomfortable to be around him, his apparent nonchalant personality had people believing him to be bitter and cold hearted. This girl was the first to not think of him the same everyone else does.
He nods, exhaling a deep breath as he settles beside her. He notices her feet submerged in the water as her hands pluck at the little plants growing on the sides. She holds one of them up for him to see, "You know, plants are one of the most important things to live," she starts, inspecting the lively being closely, "They've been here way before any of us have. This land belongs to them first and foremost."
Druig watches her silently as a pout forms on her lips, the urge to look into her mind to get a look at what she's thinking surges through him and he doesn't fight it.
To say that her mind was unique would be an understatement, instead of receiving thoughts and inner monologues, Druig was met with images. One sight after another of burning forests and torn down trees rushes into his mind and he has to clench his teeth to not make a noise of frustration.
He understands what she's feeling, having been forced to stand aside as humans tore into each other for hundreds of years, forcing the destruction of their own planet upon themselves, it gets tiring at some point.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that Druig couldn't help but smile at her, "'am Druig." he introduces himself and the girl looks up at him in surprise. Of course she knew who he was she just wasn't expecting him to try and introduce himself to her so casually.
Still, she grins at him. "Y/N."
Some moons later
Druig believes it to be ironic that every time the thought of the girl with golden skin and warm eyes floats about his mind, she'd be coincidentally walking right past him.
He'd managed to not give his interest in the human away whenever he's among his Eternal peers, but he couldn't help but let his eyes chase after her. She was giggling with the children of the city, running after them and hosting them up in laughter.
She was a sight to sore eyes, and if he dares he might call her the most beautiful thing his eyes has every laid on. But Druig was a private man, so he grabbed the thought and stashed it deep within his mind.
Makkari was the first to notice his absent minded behavior, she followed his eye sight and grinned at the brunette creating a flower crown for some of the children around her.
She nudges her shoulder with his as a teasing smirk tugged at her lips, "Who's she?" she signed to him and Druig's eyes widened, he geniuenly believed he was being discreet with it. He casted a quick glance at the other eternals at the table to make sure they didn't read what she asked and he hissed at her, "Hush 'Kari."
The speedster's shoulders shook as she choked on her laughter, "I'm just asking! She seems nice." she signed and Druig rolls his eyes, he couldn't help the smile that emerged on his face at her comment and he let his eyes wander back to the pretty girl in the golden dress. She was already staring at him with a gentle smile.
"She is," he says, raising his left hand just slightly to wave his fingers at her in greeting and she waves back. That doesn't go unnoticed by the rest of his family, "Oh! You've met Y/N? That's wonderful!" Ajak says, her smile reaching her eyes as a happy glint dances in her irises.
Kingo and Gilgamesh start their teasing almost immediately, chanting childish songs about Druig supposed crush on the human girl and the man couldn't do anything but sit there and let them have at it, because even if he tried to deny it he knows he'd be lying to himself.
Druig had a crush on the human girl with the white rose in her hair.
One month later
Countless nights later and repeated meetings between Druig and y/n, they were both certain they've known each other for eternity. They'd spend the day attending to their chores (or y/n would attend her chores while Druig lingered about, always watching her.) and the night would flicker away after spending it together beneath the stars.
It seems like time simply wasn't enough for them, the night didn't last as long as they wanted it to, their conversations weren't as long as they craved them to be, their words always dying short with a simple glance from the other in their direction.
They desired to be carved into each other's souls, remaining with the other for infinity and beyond, but that wasn't possible so they were stuck with counting the stars and retelling stories hundreds of years old.
It was a full moon tonight, the glowing light illuminated the sky and allowed the starts to burn brighter, littering the space between them and the unknown. Druig and y/n lay on a large cloth on the ground near the river where they first met, it's a ritual they both took a liking to.
The rush of the river accompanied by the burning gases in the sky gave y/n a sense of comfort, and what better way to ravish into the comfort then spending it with your favorite person?
He keeps his eyes on her as she tells the tales of the stars, stories she grew up learning and relearning, legends and myths passed down from one generation to the next, all spilling out of her lips to him. And he listens closely, paying extra attention to the details she told with such passion that her hand movement goes crazy, he smiles when she smiles, he chuckles when she giggles and he fights back the urge to wrap his arms around her when she shivers.
"'re ya cold?" He asks, and another shivers rushes through her. This time it's because of him and not the weather. Y/n shakes her head, "I always shiver, even when I'm not cold. It's alright, thank you." he nodded but still wasn't convinced. Druig pulled off the jacket that was gifted to him by a man from the city and carefully placed it upon her broad shoulders, making sure its wrapped around her completely to shut off the cold breeze before settling back in his spot. He sat much closer to her this time.
Sometimes, Druig would forget that she's human, but then things like this happen and suddenly he's reminded of how little time he has with her. Then she smiles at him, a smile so dazzling it leaves his head spinning and his mind foggy, and suddenly that worry evaporates.
"Thank you." She whisperes, suddenly aware of his close approximately. Her eyes dart between his beautiful blues to his parted lips and something exciting stirs her insides, her stomach flutters up and she has to swallow to remind herself that she's staring a bit too much.
Druig notices of course, but he doesn't smirk like he'd usually would. Instead he mirrors her actions and he feels something shifts in the air, the tension thickens and the silence that was once stretched between them pushes them closer to each other.
She doesn't miss the way he bites his lips and before she could even comprehend what they could possibly be doing, Druig rests a hand on her cheek, cupping her face in his large calloused hand and her attention is poured solely on his beautiful eyes, the way they glitter and switch from her own to her lips.
"May I?" his voice was a mere whisper, a pleading tone to it making her whimper, she nods slightly but he doesn't move, he glances up to her eyes and she understands what he needs from her. "Yes." and he was kissing her.
He was kissing her like he craved to live, like if he were to let go his world would crumble and he would wither away, like letting her go meant tredding in unknown territory and he wasn't prepared to do that in the slightest.
And she felt it all, she felt it from the way he kissed her gently at first, lips on her own, tasting her as she did him. She felt it from the way his tongue prodded at her bottom lip and from the way he explored every inch of her. She felt it tin the way his hands went from cupping her cheeks to holding her close to him from the back of her neck and from the curves of her waist.
He longed for her like a dying man and she shivered in his hands, never have felt like this before, never have experienced this kind of intimacy before and it was delicious.
He pulls away but he doesn't let go, he keeps reminding himself that she's merely human and she can't possibly bare the same things he does so he gives her a moment to breathe. He can't let go of her.
He presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, a sigh of happiness at finally getting to experience the thing that's been haunting his mind for a while escapes him and she grins, her eyes trained on him.
She did her best to memorize every landmark on his skin, every invisible freckle and little dimple, she counted every lash and drowned in his presence.
She would spend forever here if she could.
Many full moons later
Accepting y/n into their family wasn't as difficult as Druig thought it might be, she got along with all of them perfectly, even Thena and Ikaris.
She'd talk Ajak and Sersi through her family's traditions, she'd listen with wide excited eyes to Phastos as he explained some sort of machine that would become part of her race's future, she'd sit through hours of illustrations and retold stories by Kingo and Sprite, or she'd be with Thena and Gilgamesh, learning about all the weapons they can call forth with their abilities. Her favorite was Makkari though, as the girl with braided hair taught her how to talk in sign language to help her understand her better.
Don't tell the other eternals that.
It warmed Druig's heart to see her care and love all of them equally, and it made him even happier to hear from Ajak how proud she is of him for finding someone like her to enjoy his life with, even if it wasn't everlasting.
Y/N was sitting with Ikaris and Sersi in the Domo, Sersi would turn the rocks the human had previously collected into roses and she would sew them into a beautiful rose necklace. She was tying a knot to the first one when he interrupted them.
"Can I steal her away for a moment?"
Her head shot up at the sound of his voice, immediately a wide grin spread across her face and Sersi giggled, "Of course, thank you again Y/N."
Druig guided her through the familiar halls of the Domo, the orange lights illuminated her orange-brown skin, casting a beautiful golden hue across her body, she twirls to face him and her locs twirl along with her, they settle on her shoulder as she squeals in giddiness.
"Are you taking me to your room? Oh! Oh! Or are we going to Phastos' 'laboratory' I think he called it." she asks excitedly, her fingers interlocked to hold herself back from grabbing onto his arms.
Druig only chuckles at her, "No, I'm taking you to my favorite room on this ship."
Druig had spoken of the illustration room, but ever since she's gotten into the Domo y/n has never visited it. The idea of finally being able to see the place Druig spends most of his time in whenever he's not surrounded by the humans made something within the human stir.
It felt too personal to step into that kind of territory but Druig trusted her enough to do that, and she cherished it more than anything.
He pushes a door open and allows her to walk in first, he admires her as she took a glance around in bewilderment.
The room consisted of what appeared to be gateways into different areas of the world, a single stand took place in the middle of the room and Druig stood by it.
"Dru," the girl laughs breathlessly, he will never be able to get over the way she says his name. "This is remarkable."
"Just ya wait, you'ven't seen anything yet."
His hand glides over the stand and the images change, they go from the jungles in the middle of the land to the blue gates of Babylon, y/n stares with astonishment as the images change once again and displays the Domo. It zooms into the walls and looks right through, to them.
"That's us," she gasps, her finger tips reaching for the screens and she could see Druig walking closer to her, he stood behind her and slowly wrapped his arms around her waist. He hums and watches their reflection as she leans into him, a hand reaching for the back of his head to play with the ends of his hair.
"Can you see yourself?" He asks, his voice but a murmur, gentle and soft and loving. His eyes bore into her reflection and it somehow manages to send her shivering in his arms. He smirks at her reaction and his hold on her waist tightens, "Can you see how gorgeous you are?" his voice gets muffled by her neck when he starts prepping kisses across her exposed skin.
She gasps in surprise and her hand clutches at his hair, the sudden tug makes him moan into her skin. He lossen his grip on her waist and let's his hand travel the length of her body, memorizing every curve, the placement of every stretch mark and ever scar on her skin.
Y/N eyes flutter shut when his lips brush against her soft spot, it makes her shudder in his hands and her knees almost buckle but his hands hold onto her hips to steady her. He slowly pulls her dress upwards and the girl closes her eyes to not witness his reaction to seeing her completely bare for the first time.
When the garment leaves her skin, there's a gasp and a pause. She dares to open one eye to see Druig and his eyes drink in all of her, he notices her staring at him with a troubled expression but he's already loving her.
And as the moon disappeared off the night sky and the sun emerged, they became one. In the midst of all the emotions and the overwhelming pleasure, Druig and Y/N pour their hearts to one another.
Two weeks later
The dynamic between Druig and y/n had clearly changed, everyone who sees them together can tell. He's grown softer, more open and loving and caring, and she's gotten tougher, accepting nothing but what she deserves from everyone and managing to maintain her kind personality at the same time.
As she spent more time with his family, Druig spent time with hers. He learned some fighting techniques from her father and the group he runs with, he learned some hunting tips and he was even challenged by another guy who had his eyes set on his girl.
Druig only waved his hand at the guy dismissively, rolling his eyes at him.
Even though things have been calm for the past few months, Ajak has made it clear that the deviants weren't gone. Y/N was reminded with that once again as she sat down to have dinner with the eternals.
Ajak was telling her team about how Phastos sensed their activity with this device he created and how they need to leave Babylon as soon as possible to put an end to the deviants once and for all. It made her sad to know they're leaving of course, but what made her even sadder was the fact that she couldn't go with them. Even if she tried to convince her family, it was going to be fruitless.
She and Druig were by the river again, this time their silnec hung heavy with the unspoken words about their upcoming separation. Y/N decided to simply ignore it by burying herself in his embrace, soaking up whatever remains of him with her, here.
"Y/N/N," he called for her, the nickname she's grown to adore rolled off his tongue effortlessly and her heart clenched at the thought of not being able to hear him say the words again, tears immediately gathered in her lashline as she pulled herself away from him to look him in the eyes.
His eyes, those gorgeous blue eyes that will continue to haunt her for the rest of her days. She adored his eyes.
Her lips were pulled into a pout and her bottom lip quivered, Druig frowned and cupped her cheek, his own chest aching with the hurt coating her eyes. "My beautiful y/n, why do you cry my angel?"
A sob breaks through her trembling mouth, "I don't want you to leave me." she whimpers and if Druig wasn't an eternal the pain in her voice was enough to kill him.
"I'm never leaving you my darling, no matter where I am in this world. I'm always with you." it doesn't feel better, but it comforts her to know that he's just as hurt with this as she is. "Come with me." His request takes her by surprise and she blinks at him.
"You know I can't, my father wouldn't allow it."
"I'll make him allow it." he seemed determined and she understood what he intended to do, y/n shakes her head at him in disapproval, "No, Dru. You can't just mind control everyone who stands against you, it's not fair to them."
Even when you're on the edge of collapsing, you're still teaching him a lesson on humanity.
The man clasps his hands around her much smaller ones, his eyes pooling with tears as the reality of the situation downed on him. "Please, sweetheart, come with me. I can't live without you── I won't- I won't do it."
She opens her mouth to reply, but a distant screech causes both of them to pause. Druig recognized the noise almost immediately and he went rigid under her touch, his eyes wide and panicked as he stared at the most precious person in his life in his arms.
"What was that?" she mumbles in confusion and Druig shakes his head, "Go back to the city, go to the Domo and lock the door." he instructed, but his beloved's mind was still hazy from crying and she mumbles incoherented words. He grabs her shoulders and shakes her roughly, grabbing her attention successfully, "y/n! You need to go to the Domo and lock the door, you understand?" she nods hastily and watches him run off deeper into the woods.
Confused and scared, y/n rushes to her feet and back to the city she was born and raised in, surrounded by people she's known the entirety of her life, strangers and friends alike.
A rough hand grabs a hold of her forearm and she turns to the owner of it, it's the guy from earlier, the one who challenged Druig to a sparring session for her heart and she furrowes her eyebrows at the concern flashing behind his irises.
"Are you alright? You look like you've been crying. Where's your lover boy?"
Without much thought, she points at the woods behind her. Her mind was jambled from everything that happened in the past two minutes she still hasn't managed to comprehend it.
The boy notices her distracted and disheveled state and guides her off the streets and into a secluded corner, away from peering eyes.
"y/n? Can you tell me what happened?"
She tries, and she fails. She tries again, and again, but every time she remembers why she started crying in her lover's arms her throat closes up and it gets hard to breathe.
She wishes she noticed it earlier, she doesn't really know when he called for his friends. She can faintly hear the screams of people, very distant but not too far away. She looks up when she feels a bit calmer and her heart rate picks up.
Four guys surrounding her in a half circle, trapping her between them and the wall. The boy sits beside her with the fake concern in his eyes as he fights back a devious grin.
"what are you doing?"
He notices her change in demeanor and drops his act immediately, he folds his arms and stands beside the guys around her. Y/n shrinks into herself as horror builds within her chest. In her mind, she's screaming for Druig. Begging that he might find her, hear her obnoxiously loud mental screams and rushes to help her, but no such thing happens.
"I've seen the way he's with you," the boy says, he reaches a hand to touch her cheek and she recoil into herself. He scoffs, "I talked to your father. You're mine, you've always been mine." he tries to reach for her again but this time she slaps his hand away, spitting at his feet.
The guys around him raise their eyebrows at her then glance at him, he shrugs. "Go ahead, with the monster outside they wouldn't even notice her gone."
The horror within her double in seconds and she was shaking in fright, y/n almost screams when he leans towards her, "If I can't have you, he can't have you either."
He walks away and in the midst of her fright as they close in on her, y/n lets out a blood curdling scream.
Druig was at the gates of Babylon, his usually calm and collected blue eyes shining gold as he used his abilities to force the people back into the city and away from the deviant his brothers and sister were fighting. That's when he heard her, he would recognize her voice anywhere, it's a blessing and a curse.
His blood runs cold and he freezes, a hundred million scenarios of what could have possibly happened to her invade his mind and he shares a look with Makkari as she speeds towards him. She grabs him and zigzags through the city they've grown to adore to the source of the noise.
Druig wishes he had the ability to control time because the second Makkari stopped, it felt like time did too.
He watches in terror as his angel, his other half, the better part of himself, his favorite person on this planet, make eye contact with him, a single tear rolls down her cheek as her mind catches up with her body, slowly processing the painful pressure in her chest that slowly turned into numbness.
She crumbles to the floor and he doesn't hesitate to catch her, Makkari does her part and rounds up the boys that were cornering her as Druig sobs.
"No, no no no. Hey, you're alright, you're okay, it's okay." his accent mixed with his cries made his words inaudible. "Ajak!" he cries, "Ajak!"
His girl, the elegant princess with the locs intertwined with golden lace in a light brown dress, was cradled in his arms as she wheezed air into her damaged lungs. A single blade handle poked out of her chest, having had settled through her lung and poked at her heart.
His tears, a continuous river, trail down his cheeks as he watches her face scrunches in pain with ever gasp. "Ajak!" he continues to cry, begging the woman he looked up to as a mother to help save the girl he loved with every fiber within him. The woman kneels beside him, her own eyes overflowing with tears.
"I'm sorry Druig, you know I can't."
As if her literally dying in his arms wasn't painful enough, he looked up at his mentor with betrayal and hurt in his orbs, "Ajak please, please." his voice breaks, and so does his heart.
He's distantly aware of Sprite burying her face into Sersi's side as she sobbed at the loss of a friend. His whole family stood aside, watching him hold and mourn and beg for his love to be saved.
y/n, ever the elegant thing, even while resting in death's palm, rests a hand on his chest, right where his heart lies. It captures his attention and looks down at her, the look on her eyes told him that she's accepted her fate. She was ready to let go, but he wasn't ready to let her go.
She smiles at him, the same smile that made his heart throb and his mind spin, that dazzling smile that he fell for from the moment he first laid his eyes on her, and it breaks him even more.
He's choking on his sobs to hear her whisper her last words to him, he hears her thoughts cutting off, never completed. Unable to be completed.
"I love you," she whispers, the pain subsiding but never giving her the chance to talk loudly, "I never- I-" he just nods, I never got to say it, his lips trembling as he pulls her closer to his chest, his forehead resting on her own as a sob breaks through. "I love you, I love you." he repeats her words, meaning every single feeling coursing through them.
She smiles at him again and closes her eyes, "No, no no, y/n? Please don't── don't leave me, darling please."
One last thought of hers in her intoxicating voice enters his mind and Druig couldn't help the heartbreaking scream that ripped through his throat as her heartbeat stopped.
Find me among the stars.
He will. Even if it's the last thing he does with his eternal life. He will find her among the stars, in this life time and the next.
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ay0nha · 2 years
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Venus in Blue Jeans
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(Shitty) Summary: After the events of stopping the Emergence, Druig decides to take some time for himself like the others allowed themselves to do only to find Venus. The only exciting thing about Venus was her name, otherwise she was just another waitress in a diner somewhere that was really in the middle of nowhere. Yet, everything she does is mesmerizing in the eyes of the eye-glowing eternal (whether he realizes it or not).
(This is ignoring the actual end of the movie)
Pairing: Druig x POC!femme oc
Word Count: 1.9k?
A/N: I had this idea the MINUTE I saw Druig in a leather jacket, like 50s/60s Greaser vibes, but not actually (moder au? idk man, I ran with it). It was supposed to stay in the drafts, but oop here it is because there aren’t enough Druig x POC characters out. But check out @wickeddruig ‘s master list for some Druig x POC!
(First time writing in third person, be kind plz)
Part II
"Irish, right?"
"Hm?" The blue-eyed boy hummed as his waitress topped off his coffee, a few drops falling on her shoes as she pulled the pot back towards her chest.
In all honesty in all of his years alive Druig's only been to Ireland a handful of times and never for pleasure. He wasn't sure why he'd come out talking the way he had, but all could be credited to the celestial that had made him the way he was. He never gave much thought to it as his family all had their own intonations. It was just the way it was. He was also never questioned about it. Looking at the person in front of him, he let his thoughts take place of his answer, leaving her only a blank expression as a response.
"Sorry, I've never been good with accents," She smiled softly, not embarrassed at the assumption, but confused at her own blurt-out. Her shift was never-ending, dull, and predictable. The diner was full of truckers from all over the states as their mandatory breaks led them here just as the sun was beginning to rise, "We don't get a lot of diversity around here."
"Born and bred, actually" Druig answered politely.
She was never one for small talk with the people who came in, she left that for the others. So now, awkwardly, she added, "You're a far way from home..."
"You don't know the half of it," He laughed lightly, bringing the black cup of coffee to his lips.
"What are you doing here?" She couldn't help but question. He stuck out like a sore thumb. He had a smart-looking haircut and a leather jacket to match. It contrasted the burly men with barn jackets who watched him carefully. But before she could hear his answer, her boss pulled her back to work, reprimanding her for the lingering chit-chat.
Druig hadn't meant to be here, but he couldn't bring himself to go back to his compound if there was even a compound left. Trying to avoid the question in its entirety, he decided to travel north. He thought about settling somewhere new, but nothing felt right and he kept moving. He was going to move until something felt right. And now he was looking for this so-called 'right' in El Paso, Texas. Or well, some small, forgotten town with its closest city being El Paso.
He didn't know what drew him to the dingy diner with the broken neon lights. But he knew he needed a moment to think, a moment where his thoughts could be his own,  a moment to figure out his next steps, a moment to finally breathe. However, he hadn't expected it to be busy as dawn broke. Druig thought about using his powers to clear the unusually busy diner, but the men that occupied it looked like they needed a break of their own.
"For when you're ready," the waitress came back, placing the handwritten receipt in front of him and flittering off to the next person who needed her attention.
Druig watched her for a moment. She too looked out of place. Too deserving to be in a place like this. Yet, she moved elegantly around the place. While he sipped on his burnt coffee, he couldn’t help but notice how she added breath to the stagnant seeming environment. It was like she was floating. Her hair was in locs that were tied expertly into a bun. But it was clear she intentionally left two out to frame her face. Something that only added to the charm the other men gravitated towards.
He looked down at her handwriting, the numbers very round looking, a rushed scribble showing a quantity he didn't have on him. He had no money, he had no home, he had no life created like the others. Nothing to offer to the waitress. He was next on her rounds of collection, circling around the place swiftly. He was the last obstacle between her and the end of her shift.
When did coffee become so expensive, Druig thought to himself. He didn't want to use his powers at the moment, he needed a break from that too. But he didn't have much of a choice as she looked down at him expectantly.
Druig could feel the natural surge of his energy flow through his eyes as he tried to tap into her mind and have her work to his advantage. But she only blinked her dark eyes, her eyebrows furrowing as she watched him look back at her with confusion. Never before had his power not-
"Please don't tell me you're about to dine and dash over terrible coffee," She joked with nervous laughter, hopeful she was wrong. He didn't look like someone who didn't have money, especially with the expensive-looking leather jacket he had on.
He was too stunned to even lie to her and try to get out of it, "I'm...sorry, I just-
"You know what," She said, pulling from the small number of tips she collected in her apron and counted out enough for a coffee, "Think of it as a welcome to town."
—-
It was day three of Druig staying in a ratty motel with itchy sheets and damp ceilings. He contemplated moving on to his next destination, but his mind was plagued with guilt.
He thought maybe it had to do with the fact that this would be his second self-exiling experience or the fact that for centuries he had held people captive. He thought hard and long on the subjects, and others, only to realize they felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. But it was the damned coffee that weighed him down. It was pocket change, it was nothing, but it was everything that kept him up at night. So much so, it forced him to return to that dingy diner.
"I'll be right with you," Her voice rang softly as she heard the door chime, "Sit wherever you'd like."
Druig watched as her finger followed the words of the text she was reading as if finishing the last line. Her nails were different than last time. They were longer and more colorful. There was a design on them, but he wasn't close enough to make it out quite yet, but from where he stood he could see how each color paired beautifully with her rich umber skin.
It took him a minute to pull his eyes away to follow her initial instructions and find a seat. It was the same as last time, the booth in the smallest corner of the place that was slightly hidden and secluded. Once she looked up, it took her a moment to find Druig's newly familiar face.
"Nice to see you again, Irish,” She smiled pulling her pen and pad out routinely to take his order, "What can I get you?"
He hadn't thought he'd get himself this far. He wasn't supposed to be here, he was interfering, again.
"What do you recommend?"
She didn't. Each plate was hard to distinguish from the next from all the grease.  The same grease that's smell was almost impossible to wash out of her hair and clothes after each shift. She thought about telling him how most of it was frozen and microwaved or how the desserts were bought premade. But she plastered on the service smile and said, "Can't go wrong with a burger, right?"
He nodded his head in agreement and waited for her to take his order to the back before letting out a deep breath. He had gotten his initial wish of being one of the only people in the diner. There were two other men on the complete opposite end who were close to finishing their mean, chattering about human politics, something that wouldn't touch Druig the way it would them.
He took small bites of the food the waitress dropped off fluidly, eyes focused out the window looking out at the plain scenery. It was various shades of browns and tans for miles. The stereotypical tumbleweeds that could barely be made out in the distance were the most exciting things happening.
Druig's focus was shot and his energy felt different. The was something off. He wanted to find out what it was, maybe that would be the thing he was desperately looking for.  He knew it would be a boding excuse for a distraction from what was truly bothering him. But he struggled to even think about that as his eyes shifted back to the increasingly rowdy men that were interrupting his brooding.
They were up from their booth and talking with the waitress, getting more combative by the moment. Druig wanted to roll his eyes at the older men and their utter incompetence. He tuned into the argument now. The men resorted to primitive insults all because they couldn't do simple math. He was watching it all unfold right in front of him. He didn't need to step in, he didn't need to intervene.
Instead, he pulled the crumpled money he had been able to scrounge up and placed it on his table. He had gotten as far as his newly acquired car before he stopped. He could still see her struggling with the two men through the window panes. He could see her getting more upset by the second. Druig's had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the key that was one turn away from his freedom.
"Excuse me," Druig's voice was loud as he pulled the door open, placing as much attention as he could get onto himself, "Do either of you men have jumper cables, my car doesn’t seem to want to start.”
Easily taken from their previous conversation, the two men were more than happy to talk shop and follow the Eternal outside. Druig didn't care what they had to say and he didn't give it a second thought before his eyes glowed, making the men forget the diner, leave, and never come back. The same thing he thought he'd be doing. He wanted to do more damage, wanted his control back again, but he knew better.
Druig could leave now, get back in his car, and never look back. Again, something that would be the obviously smarter choice. Yet again, his body was drawn back inside the ever-so-dingy diner. There was no one but him and the waitress now, something that sparked an almost imperceptible sliver of excitement in him.  
"I had that handled," She said in hushed tones as she pulled open the cash register, clearly frustrated by the entire situation, "I didn't need your help."
"I was helping them," Druig started, which made her eyes flash up in utter annoyance. But Druig hadn't finished as he added smartly, but kindly “If I waited any longer, you would have ripped them to shreds."
Her expression diffused slightly at his comment, but it wasn't enough to shake all of her upset, "Well you're all set."
Druig thought she wanted him to leave too, adding to the original guilt he had come in with. He could only deal with one source of guilt at a time. Once again digging through his jacket's pocket, he pulled out enough change and then some to hand to her. He counted out his money carefully, not really caring about the value, but taking every second he could to prolong the interaction.
"For the coffee..." Druig explained as she eyed him suspiciously, "Thank you...," He added as his eyes glanced at her plastic name tag, "Venus."
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Note
Hey i see u write about drukari a lot and I'm so grateful for it cos it's difficult to find new drukari fanfic.
Btw to the point, mostly i see u write about drukari x female reader. If u don't mind could u write a fanfic where the reader is a male. It would be cool to read the reader get full by druig and makkari at the same time. U know like druig stuff him from back and he stuff makkari from front??
But u did great with ur own fanfic idea tho, its just some stupid suggestion from me if u don't mind...
it's not a stupid suggestion!
i, being a person with female anatomy, am not entirely comfortable with writing male!reader smut, i'm sorry. if it would suffice i can write male!reader fluff and angst? and i can do some more gender neutral fics so that they're more applicable to a larger group of people? i want to write so that lots of people can read it and relate to the best of my ability, but i'm not comfortable with writing things i'm not sure on which mostly just includes poc!reader (cause im white asf and it would be inappropriate for me to write something i know nothing abt), plus size!reader, male!reader (relating to smut), and any like children or pregnancy stuff bc i have no desire to have that in my personal life and so i have no inspiration to write it either.
let me know about if writing more gender neutral stuff would benefit you! and if you're taller than druig is i can try to write more stuff with a tall reader cause when i write i usually use myself as the reader example and i'm only 5'4"...
again, i'm so sorry i'm not comfortable with writing that, you have no idea how much i want to say yes just so that you have more content to read but i know it wouldn't be any good bc i know nothing abt what sex is like with male anatomy :(
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captainsimagines · 2 years
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dreaming in june || finale
Summary: At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.
Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader
Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National
Series / AO3 / Playlist
(15/15)
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Warnings: angst; strong language
Word Count: 6,680+
Author’s Note: Just you wait... xxMoni
~
‘I think about him—and I am whole, and I am empty.’
~
    "I didn't know if you would want to see my face again."
His voice is now a well-rendered reminder of the past. It hits you the same way it hit you all those weeks ago when he showed up unannounced, calling you Princess and sharing the outcome of your people. Who were still deep in the Amazon somewhere—you never asked where—and since you don’t quite feel like a Princess anymore, without a kingdom or a purpose, it just doesn’t feel right to look into the faces of those who came after the people you once knew. The people who sat around you during supper, who stitched your clothing, who grieved the death of both their Princess and Prince. 
You had crawled out of bed this morning, shrugging some old tracksuit on to go into work. Barbara had verbally shared her distaste about how you took a week off work without warning. She complained about how bombarded she was with shipments, files, and transport times. But you had simply ignored her, flashing your middle finger as you walked past, and settled into the routine you’ve been conducting for the past six years. Stamping, googling, filing, unpackaging—until a certain Eternal walked through your office door and spoke.  
“You pissed me off, but I won’t scorn you forever,” you reply, your eyes still on your computer. 
Druig hesitates near the door frame, but he ultimately shuts it behind him. He’s dressed in all black, despite the summer heat outside. 
“I truly am sorry.”
“You said that already.” 
Druig even hesitates with sitting in the chair. As if you’d summon one of your giant, monstrous trees and pin him against his will again. You had never seen Druig so confused and surprised, like the very knowledge that you were a mutant wasn’t enough to fully measure your powerful capabilities. But one pointed glare from you and Druig sits obediently. 
“I don’t blame you for how my life turned out. I doubt knowing about mutants would have changed anything. I probably would have just been more paranoid. But I did deserve to know that my grandmother cursed me and defied the Fates.”
Druig solemnly nods. No matter how many times he apologizes, the sting will always be there. So he doesn’t do it again. Instead he asks,  “How is Samuel?”
“Last I heard he was healing.”
Druig startles, but quickly fixes his face. “You haven’t been to visit him?” The hiss you let out is almost inhuman, and Druig closes his mouth. You haven’t visited because what the fuck would you say?
He took claws for you, and you gave up your heart for him. Literally. You’ve tried to relax, kill every other sound besides the noises your body naturally makes, but it was no use. You couldn’t hear your heartbeat anymore. As if turning mortal wasn’t real. Mortals had beating hearts, and yours was…
Stone.
“I will visit him when I can. When I am ready.”
Druig slowly nods, eyes wary. If he’s dissecting you, he doesn’t do much to hide it. He studies your eyes, your hair, your lips, your hands, your bouncing foot. As if he too is searching for what is now making you mortal. And similarly, he finds nothing besides flesh and bone. 
This is what Druig was afraid of—there is no trace of evil in your heartlessness, but it is obvious it’s making you empty. Like Ari filled such a great part of your chest that his leaving meant half of you shutting down. 
Is this how Bucky felt when Steve left? That uncomfortable, raw hollowness in the chest that hurt whenever you moved the wrong way? 
“Ari looked just as I remembered him.” And he says it so brokenly, memories in his irises, and guilt combined with the redness of his cheeks.
Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. Forcing yourself to look up at him, you whisper, “Yes. He did.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
Cursed to live half empty and searching for the other piece of your heart? Not likely. But you don’t want to get into the specifics, about how this feeling resembles the one five hundred years ago. That your screams had resembled the ones five hundred years ago. That your path feels as zig-zagged, if not more, than it ever did back then. 
Answering truthfully, you say, “I will be. I’ve had five hundred years to grieve without closure. Perhaps my mourning will be the slightest bit more tolerable this time.”
Perhaps. Slightest bit. Tolerable. All carefully chosen words that held no promises, but were enough. 
Druig leans forward, placing his palm on the desk, face up. You stare at the lines across his flesh, the veins visible through his pale skin, the rings adorning his three center fingers. An invitation. 
You bottle up all your unspoken words, all of your questions, any resentment—and curl your fingers through his. He’s warm, ancient, real. A sliver of home, and not. “If you ever need anything—anything…”
You hold onto him tighter. “Go and keep my people’s descendants safe, Druig.”
The breath he releases is one he’s been holding in since he stepped into your office. One he’s probably been holding since finding out you were still alive. That weight off his shoulders, and the realization that although he fucked up and you don’t forgive him, you still trust him enough to do what he’s been doing for the last five hundred years. After he abandoned his friends, after he crossed that damn river without his Princess and Prince, after risking his life to fight a demon alongside you—you trust him to try. Try and make it up to you. 
He walks slowly to the door, his posture letting you know that he wants to say a million more things. But he shouldn’t. And maybe sometime soon, or whenever you deem fit, he’ll be able to. “I’ll be seeing you, Princess.”
With a half-hearted smile, you nod. “In all the realms."
~
    Of course Sam senses you outside his apartment door. He’s had that camera rigged with a sensor since he moved in. Well, Bucky rigged it. You purposely set yourself in its eyesight—not quite Redwing—but camera enough. 
Sam didn’t knock on your door this morning when he returned from the compound, and you didn’t bother him. The funeral didn’t count—you hadn’t even spoken to him, or looked at him, when you put Ari in the ground. Sam was standing upright, and that was enough at the time.
Selfish, selfish, but also not. You’re not even taking care of yourself. How can you check on Sam? 
But Sam Wilson is your best friend, and your own sanity isn’t worth more than knowing if he’s okay. 
The door opens, and Sam leans his upper body against the doorframe as he smirks. “There’s my Shortcake.”
Your breath shudders. Just the sight of him, intact, overloads your body with emotion. “Hey, Sam.”
He moves to allow you in. Ducking your chin, you enter. Shielding yourself from him, from the conversation, from the guilt. “It’s been four days,” he says. “Why the visit now?”
The apartment looks the same. Alpine stretches lazily on the couch, knocking the remote to the ground as she does so. There’s a faint scent of bacon in the air, even though it’s late in the evening. Which confuses you, because Bucky is the ‘all-day breakfast’ type of guy, not Sam. 
Then you realize you don’t feel Bucky here at all. 
“Because I spent the first day in bed, and the second staring at the wall. The funeral was yesterday.”
Sam nods, his mouth twisting downward as sympathy floods his face. You look away fast, uncomfortable. 
You’ve lived your whole life avoiding when people casted their emotions so blatantly. Only a select few knew of your true history, and yet you always twisted some of your truths. But the looks of sympathy were always the same. The downward droop of their eyes, their mouths twisting around supportive words, their shoulders crumbling. Sympathy is an emotion that one has to endure and receive, because it’s rude to ignore. And the turn of your head is the smallest act of rudeness you commit. Because that’s allowed of you. It has to be. 
You’re tired of sympathy, even if Sam has the most honorable intentions. 
“You healed fast.” Small talk. Gods, you want to die. The chair creaks as you sit on it. “Are you feeling okay?”
Sam nods and sits at the head of the table. Your knees brush against his, and it takes everything within you not to shatter. 
“Feels like all the other times I’ve been kicked in the stomach and sent flying. I’m lucky it wasn’t worse.”
“It was worse.”
“Yeah, Shortcake. But that’s something we’re not going to talk about again. Traumatizing as it is.”
Fiddling your thumbs, you whimper, “Why the fuck would you step in front of me? I was still Immortal. I could have survived, Sam!”
He huffs loudly, “Easy for you to say! I saw what it did to the vibranium!”
“So? I would have come back! You nearly didn’t!”
“Shortcake.” Sam reaches over to clasp your hands. They look so small as he encases them. “I did what I did. But if it was you who was gutted, then that demon would have sucked up all your blood and dragged you in the portal, right? Am I right?”
“You can’t know that,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. 
“But I can theorize. And I was not. Going. To. Let. That. Happen.”
“It was a stupid fucking call, Captain.”
Sam, through the pain and hollowness in his stomach, tugs you into his chest with extreme force. You tumble into him, smacking your cheek against his breast and tangling your arms. But Sam moves to the floor with you—an anchor as you finally stutter and fall, tears flowing freely. He holds you as you crushes you, and you let him. 
“It’s okay,” he whispers into the top of your head, his hot breath soothing. “You saved me. You. Saved. Me.”
Countless more sobs break free, sounds that had felt extinct these past few days. But you’re able to form them, push them from your lungs and through your throat—you’re still able to cry. 
Grieving is silent, but this—
This was grief given form. You are, and always have been, grief incarnate.
“Don’t you almost die on me again,” you say, and your words are muffled in the fabric of his shirt. But Sam hears, fully expecting it, and mumbles an equally desperate “I won’t, I promise. I promise.”
It feels like eternity as you kneel on the kitchen floor, Sam holding you with everything he has. Sam breaks the silence as he asks, “What broke inside of you?”
You pull away, not meeting his eyes. With a heavy sigh, you translate your pain into words. “It felt like someone clenched their fist around my heart and then tore it through my ribcage. And I was left with this gaping hole that allowed all that cold air in. My teeth hurt, my skin dried, my neck ached.” 
Sam picks you up from the floor, walking the two of you to the couch. Alpine moves to make room. You rub your chin as you continue. “The concept of soulmates was folklore to me until now. I don’t think the rip in the multiverse did anything to this Earth besides open our eyes. Hell, demons, Immortals, vampires, mates?” 
Sam might not know of the word, but he damn well knows what it means to lose someone worth everything and more. 
“It hurt so much five hundred years ago. The exact same way. I lost my mate twice, and I don’t know how I’m still alive.”
How is it possible for a human being to endure so much heartbreak? People have literally died from broken heart syndrome, but what of those that suffer and suffer? Do they burn out? Do they have a limit? How often and for long can a person carry such overbearing misery before their shoulders can take no more? Before their knees give out and the floor cracks beneath them? 
Are some human beings built stronger than others? Because you know for a damn fact that Bucky Barnes is one of those few. Anybody else would have crumbled under Hydra control, and yet, Bucky Barnes survived. And did not lose his soul. 
But the pain he carries is still present, still relevant—Does Bucky have a limit? 
You shouldn’t be alive but because of your grandmother’s wish, you are. If she would have simply let you live, let you have a choice, then you would have died with Ari. The Fates wouldn’t have cursed you. 
“I do,” Sam declares, dipping his head slightly so his eyes meet yours. “I don’t think this world is done with you yet. This world, and all the others. You were sent to me for a reason. You were sent to Bucky for a reason. You are our friend. And after everything that happened with Steve, I didn’t think I knew what that word meant anymore.”
“Steve Rogers was your friend.”
“Yeah, Steve Rogers was my friend. But he was also a jackass. And I understand that he was hurting, and that he wanted out. Maybe he suppressed his pain the only way he knew how, which was to go back to something he knew. I can’t answer for him, but friends don’t leave friends behind.” Sam presses his lips together before he says, “I’d jump in front of you again. I’m gonna hold Bucky’s goddamn hand when he starts having withdrawals. A lot of my friends died or left, and I’m not letting that happen again.”
“Sam…”
“When I see a person in trouble, there's this innate feeling inside me. A responsibility. But with you and Buck I know you’ll be there until—”
“Until the end of the line.”
Sam chuckles around a sniff. “Until the end of the line. It doesn’t feel like responsibility. It’s just friendship.”
You embrace him again while Alpine climbs onto your lap for an impromptu nap.
Bucky doesn’t come home that night. Or the next. 
~
    Peter Parker has decided to take Sam up on his offer and move in with him and Bucky. They purchased the pull-out couch for guests, but a third roommate will work too. Besides, Sam couldn’t turn his back on the kid who quite literally held his guts in his abdomen. 
You helped Peter carry his minimal belongings up the stairs and into the apartment. Peter did his best to keep conversation limited—asking simple yes or no questions, talking about his side jobs, picking what to eat for dinner. You did your best to respond, but forming words was still tiring. Peter didn’t take it personally. In fact, he even gifted you a new plant for your own apartment. Said it was your moving-in present considering three male neighbors were going to be overwhelming for little ol’ you. 
Bucky didn’t return until the weekend. Sam had assured you he was okay and not dead in a ditch somewhere. And when his word wasn’t enough, the Earth let you know. 
He is okay. He does a good thing.
Whatever that meant. 
A soft knock on your door at two in the morning wakes you. Feeling the floor for your slippers, you slide into them and throw a robe around your body. Fuck brushing your hair. 
Your chest constricts when you see him. “Hi.”
Bucky’s lips pull thin, but it’s obvious he’s also affected by the sight of you. “Hey. Is it okay that I’m here?”
A small nod in answer. Bucky points behind you, and you let him in. 
There are dark circles around his eyes and his hair is the slightest bit oily. He shrugs off his sweater and places a plastic bag on your dining table. Hugging your robe closed, you continue studying him head-to-toe until he turns back around. 
“I know there isn’t anything I can say that will make this right, or make you feel better.” A small smile. “But I need to say this, and I need you to listen.”
You blink. There is so much you want to say to him. I’m sorry my heart isn’t yours yet, you had told him in Iceland. Without a pulse, how are you going to offer it to Bucky now?
Bucky interrupts your overthinking with words that make your knees tremble. “I’m not giving up on you. I fell for you and I’m not giving up. And I respect that you most likely will not be ready yet, or ever, or maybe soon—but I will wait. Because Shortcake, you are everything I’ve ever wanted and more. You see me for who I am, who I was, and who I will be. I know how you look in the mornings. I know how you look when you dance, when you brush your hair, when you cook. My heart stops when you wear that beige cardigan. I anticipate you calling me James and that’s about the weirdest thing ever. And whenever you call me Bucky, I feel as though my heart will burst. Your voice is familiar even when I’m drunk out of my mind. Your voice—your question—helped me remember my sister’s name. And when we slept together…” Bucky uses this opportunity to breathe in deeply. “It felt right. My mind was calm, my body relaxed, and I felt safe. Safe.”
A solitary tear runs down your left cheek as Bucky concludes, “You make me feel safe, Shortcake.”
“Shortcake?”
Bucky huffs a short laugh. “Someday I’m going to run out of flowers. Figured I can use that name once in a while.”
Safe. Through superpowers, demons, cults, and death—Bucky Barnes feels safe around you. With you. 
Elijah had felt safe with you until you scorched those slave owners alive. The softness in his eyes had hardened when you didn’t back down. And you accepted that, because it wasn’t going to work between you and him anyway. He deserved better than a mutant with vengeance on her mind. 
Joshua had felt safe with you until you broke his heart in front of those he held dear. You rejected him because it was unfair to tie him to you until he realized you didn’t age. That you never would. And you ran away before hearing him out because he truly, truly, needed to hate you. He wouldn’t have hated you if you told him why, and you couldn’t risk that. 
But now, Bucky Barnes says he feels safe with you. Even after all those near-death experiences, tragic backstory, and week without speaking—Bucky Barnes feels safe with you. Like you left a permanent mark. One that he’s too headstrong to ignore or erase. Your goddamned equal. 
He isn’t going to let you go. Triple the demons, multiply the heartbreak—Bucky Barnes feels safe with you and he isn’t going to let you go. 
“Everything you said—” You step closer, the silk of your robe cozy against your skin. “Ditto.”
Bucky throws his head back and laughter pours out in the most wonderful display you’ve ever witnessed. He roars with it. All crinkles by the eyes, adam’s apple bobbing, smile so wide it breaks your heart. And seeing it, seeing Bucky, you smile for the first time since losing Ari. A genuine smile. 
“Oh,” Bucky starts, reaching into the plastic bag he previously set on the dining table. He pulls—
“You didn’t.”
Bucky chuckles and holds out a greasy, brown paper bag filled with french fries and a separate container of Vicks vapor rub. “You said these help you heal from anything.”
“I did say that.”
“It was good advice.”
You hold the greasy bag and the medicine in both hands, looking down at them with tears in your eyes. This is too…too considerate. 
“And,” Bucky continues, whispering. He pulls the next item from inside his jacket pocket. 
A jewelry box. 
“What—”
Bucky pops open the lid before your mind could go crazy with ideas. 
What sits in the box wasn’t one of your ideas at all. At all. 
Ari’s bracelet. The bracelet that was trapped behind the glass in Iceland’s museum. The bracelet they said they wouldn’t part with if you claimed Ari’s remains. It was one or the other. 
“Is that…?”
Bucky carefully lifts the jade bracelet from the box and holds it out for you. You set the other items down before holding your wrist out. “Where do you think I’ve been these past two days?”
“You stole it?”
Bucky gives a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Can you technically steal something that was stolen to begin with?” He rolls the bracelet onto your wrist, where it embraces you with Ari’s figurative weight.
“For me…”
“Who else?”
You can’t believe it. You feel like if you blink, it’ll disappear. That this added weight is a figment of your imagination—and it could be considering you’re so impossibly tired. But it’s there even after you blink. And although it’s been touched by several gloved hands, no one would have dared wear it. You press your lips together, willing yourself not to cry the tears that would most likely dry out your cheeks, and blink up at Bucky. 
Bucky whispers, “His love came back to you.”
Bucky releases an oomph sound when you throw yourself on him, arms wrapped around his neck and bearing down. You hold him tightly, trying to mold yourself in the curve of his body. He wraps his arms around your waist, and helps you fit. 
“You committed grand theft and risked a possible diplomatic dispute for me?”
Bucky shrugs the best he can in your tight grip. “It wasn’t that hard. Snuck in at night, incapacitated the security guards, destroyed the tapes, and snatched it. Margot sent me on a private jet so I didn’t have to go through customs.”
Of course she did. Your lip twitches with amusement. “Seriously?”
“Seriously, Shortcake.”
You pull away and cup his face in your hands. That simple touch has Bucky sighing. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you, Bucky Barnes.”
Bucky rests his forehead against yours, nudging the tip of his nose with yours. “I’ll be right here.” 
And because it’s been gnawing at him—that question—he risks it. Because he knows you’ll always love Ari until the day you die, as he will Steve. He just wants to be sure you’re in the same boat. 
“Are you always going to love him?”
You brush the pads of your thumbs across his cheekbones. Your bottom lip wobbles as you say, “Yes. Sometimes I think about him in the late nights in the middle of June. When the air is too hot and the water is warm. When I hear the beat of a drum or the sound of a child’s laugh. I think about him even when I’m not thinking about him specifically. I think about his favorite foods and how I haven't eaten them since. I think about him and waterfalls and the heat of the wind when it’s nearing dusk. I think about how I can’t remember if he snored or not. I think about him and I am whole, and I am empty. I miss him.”
Your words bring tears to his eyes. Tears that are grateful and understanding.
“You?” you ask.
Bucky vaguely remembers the little noises Steve would make when his ninety-pound body would stretch first thing in the morning. He remembers the sound of charcoal meeting paper and the belly laughs Steve blessed him with every day. He remembers the look of relief Steve had when Bucky first remembered his mother’s name and when he lucked out on the newspaper-shoe detail. He remembers the giddy attitude Steve had before he returned the stones and the gut wrenching pull he experienced when Steve actually did what he said he was going to do. 
But now that he thinks of it, and it breaks his heart to admit, he can’t remember the feeling of Steve’s hand in his. Was Bucky’s hand bigger, or was Steve’s? Steve had an extra heartbeat when they were kids and Bucky can’t remember the rhythm of it anymore. Did Steve ever draw him? He wants to remember these little things, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he has blocked it out or because of his mashed brains, but Bucky mourns the loss nonetheless. 
Bucky Barnes will always love Steve Rogers. Just as you will always love Ari. Because no one ever lets go of their first love—people don’t have to. They were the first for a reason, whether good or bad. First loves aren’t usually meant to last forever, but it’s damn magical when they do. They burrow deep into your chest, laying their claim, and won’t ever release their grip.
Second loves, however…
Second loves knock on the door to your chest. They peek their head through, glance at the surroundings, and decide to build a home. 
First loves are quick to happen. Second loves take their time. 
Yet, for Bucky, it’s a mute love. One that will never be cherished, reciprocated, experienced, or spoken of, again. But the knowledge that Bucky loved once, and he loved true, allows him the opportunity to love again. 
Love came back to him, a different one, back from the dead.
So he answers truthfully, with that sleepless and numbing pain found in the cracks of his heart, and says, “I will always love him. But I won’t let it control me anymore.”
He believes it, too.
Bucky turns his face to peck small kisses against your left palm. A palm that fits perfectly against his face. A touch of reassurance. As if you’re holding him steady.
~
Six Months Later   
    Racing home from work, giddy and tripping over the stairs, you nearly rip your door from its hinges and fall in the shower. You washed yourself as quickly as you could, picked your most comfortable and warm outfit for winter in New York, and brushed your teeth twice. 
Six months.
It’s been six months since everything happened, and every day has proven to be a new challenge. Sometimes you’ll wake up screaming, others nights silently. You’ve lost track of how many times Bucky, Sam, and Peter have barged into your apartment to make sure you weren’t being dragged to Hell. And even though it wasn’t literal Hell, it was a Hell nonetheless. 
Ari’s voice, his touch, his love—all of it coaxed you in warmth during your deep sleeps, tricking you into believing you were still underneath your shared tent. Then you would wake, and the grief would slap you with enough force to bruise. 
Suffering through it proved brutal. So you’ve decided to embrace it. Instead of waking up screaming, you try to wake up gradually. During these dreams, you attempt to break through and remind yourself, “This isn’t real. But Ari was. You’ll have tomorrow’s sleep to see him again. Wake.”
Then Bucky’s words follow: I will always love him. But I won’t let it control me anymore. 
Ari loved you back. And you won’t let the pain of his loss control you anymore.
You’ve eaten so many french fries these past few months. It doesn’t matter the hour—Bucky always had a bag in hand. The same treatment worked for his withdrawal episodes. And Sam had done as he promised: On the worst nights, he holds Bucky’s hand as Bucky spills his guts into the toilet while you wipe the sweat from his forehead. 
Besides the bouts of rough awakenings, these past few months have been calming. No aliens, no more demons, no surprise cults. Just the normal things: Peter applying to college, Sam visiting his sister and nephews more often, Bucky visiting you at the library to help with the big shipments. 
And just last week, when you were lounging on the couch in your apartment, Bucky seated on the floor between your knees, you had felt it. Some gentle tug, a string of warmth connecting you to the moment. As weird as it was, you looked away from the television and ran your hand through Bucky’s longer hair and said, “I think I’m ready.”
Bucky had stilled—Winter Soldier still—then he looked over his shoulder, warily. 
“You’re certain?”
You nodded. “Let’s go old-fashioned, James. Pick me up and let’s grab a cup of coffee.”
Bucky had controlled his breathing, all of his training coming to the surface. Instead of jumping up like an excited teenager, he had simply nodded and pressed his lips together. 
“Am I allowed to bring you flowers?”
You had smiled, cheeks heating. “As many as you’d like.”
Everything had to be perfect. And when you finished rolling Ari’s bracelet on your wrist the second a soft knock sounded on your door, you knew it would be. 
Patting your cheeks in the mirror, you smile and nod once. You’re ready, and so goddamn excited. 
Bucky holds a bouquet of lilies, a sheepish grin spreading even wider as he takes in your appearance. His hair has grown longer these last six months, reaching his chin and curling at the tips. It frames his face so nicely that it nearly makes you swoon off your feet. 
“You ready for breakfast at seven in the evening?”
Biting your lip and smiling wide, you grab the flowers from him. Bucky waits for you to grab your purse, put the lilies in their water vase, and lock your apartment door. 
“I still can’t believe you want to eat at a fucking Denny’s for our first date.”
You shrug, giggling. “It’s simple, crowded, and different. I figured we’d keep it true to ourselves.”
Bucky laughs, but is interrupted by Sam and Peter pulling open their apartment door with Peter exclaiming, “Don’t be so loud like you were all those months ago when you guys return, alright?”
“Aren’t you heading out tonight?” you throw back at Peter. He sticks his tongue out, proving you right.
Mouth agape, you smack the air as if you're swatting his shoulder. Sam ignores the quip and says, “Buck, you sharing your location?”
Bucky groans, “Yes, Samuel. I’m sharing my location and I promise we won’t make any detours.”
Sam hums, unconvinced until he double-checks his phone. “Still. You two be careful, alright?”
A ball of delight ignites in the pit of your stomach. “I’ll protect him, Sam.” Bucky scoffs and pushes you forward, ignoring your giggling as he sticks his tongue out at Sam over his shoulder. 
The atmosphere between you four is as comfortable as ever. Sam is still his overprotective self, Peter still likes to be in everybody’s business, Bucky is still his awkward self, and you’re still along for the ride. You haven't heard anything from Druig all these months—he really is keeping his side of the bargain: the unspoken decision that if you needed him, if you wanted to speak, you would be the one to seek him out.
At least he’s honoring that. 
And Maxwell, the fucker, is nowhere to be found. Not a lick of a sarcastic drop-by or even evidence that he survived his trip to Hell. You figure he did considering nothing catastrophic happened afterward.
Everything, even the walk to the restaurant around the corner, is calm. 
“Did you hear that?” Bucky asks as you’re walking through the glass doors he has held open. 
You pause and look at him funny. “Hear what?”
Bucky looks past you, then to the ground. 
“Bucky, what?”
He chuckles, “You’re too easy.”
Snorting, you check his shoulder on the way in. 
There is no wait. Sam, funnily enough, called ahead to reserve you a table in the back. He pulled rank and reserved you a table. At a fucking Denny’s. 
Bucky grumbles, “Remind me to pummel him later.”
“Offended he thought ahead?”
“It’s my date. I’m the guy. He just made me look bad.”
You giggle, “Never, James. Pay for the meal and you’ll be back to my number one spot.”
“Oh, so I’m number two currently?”
You smirk as you settle into the booth, Bucky directly across. “Let’s see how this date goes, James.”
Bucky, as much as tries to deter it, shudders from your tone. Because the last time he heard you speak this way, you were halfway across the world in Iceland. The one and only time you two shared a bed. Hearing it now curls something at the base of his spine.
He’s had nothing but his hands since—on him, inside him. His thoughts are always—always—of you. And in the mornings, he shies away for a few minutes as the thoughts creep back. He feels guilty, but he wonders if you also indulge in some alone time. That gets him going again. 
He’s not expecting to get lucky tonight. So he knows damn well he’ll be enjoying his hands. 
The restaurant is crowded, but not to the point where Bucky feels smothered.  “So,” he starts, casual as ever as he opens his menu and pretends to read it. “Where did you grow up?”
You burst out laughing, the sound so loud that the tables beside you flinch. Bucky allows you to ride it out—waiting a whole minute before you finally settle. 
“Sorry,” you pant, flipping open your menu absentmindedly. 
“Too personal?”
You roll your eyes humorously. “At least you didn’t ask about my age.”
It’s Bucky’s turn to cackle. “Ditto.”
The calm before a storm should be familiar by now.
Before you could sip from your seven o’clock coffee, the floor beneath you shakes. Your eyes meet Bucky’s, and before either of you can draw a weapon, a bright flash of orange light blinds you and half the restaurant. People duck beneath their tables, waitresses cower in tight corners, Bucky lunges from his seat to stand in front of you—by the time the portal completely opens, you and Bucky are the only ones standing near. 
A head of curly black hair peeks out first, then the most beautiful green eyes lock with yours.
Half-lies. Maxwell is possibly one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen.
“Glad to know you aren’t dead!” you call from behind Bucky’s shoulder, giving Maxwell an incredulous glare. 
Maxwell smirks, but it feels forced. Not at all the confident cult leader who held you against your will and performed a 360 to capture a demon. His palms open and close. His clothes are…different—medieval?
“I would have called, but…”
Bucky blinks, mouth open as he stares at the flaming portal behind Maxwell. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
If Maxwell’s offended by Bucky’s tone, he doesn’t show it. He glances around the restaurant and at all the terrified faces like he’s weighing whether to speak so openly. But he concedes, his tongue unable to restrict the words. 
“When you gave up your Immortality, there were consequences.”
No. 
No, no, no. You’re tired. So, fucking tired. You and Bucky were finally ready. You were ready, and this cannot be happening—
“No one has ever defied the Fates. You changed your fate—Ari changed your fate. They weren’t expecting him or your bond.” Maxwell gulps. “They’ve never had a healthy relationship with Hades and this was the last straw.”
“So you decided to open the Portal to Hell in the middle of a fucking Denny’s?”
A few customers try and fail to hide their gasps, some even cowering farther into their booths. If you hadn’t encountered such horribleness this past year, your whole life, then you guess you’d probably react the same way.
“It would have appeared regardless of where you were. And besides. I was summoned—by Hades himself.”
Now the gasps are clearly audible. 
“What does he want? What could the God of the Underworld possibly want?” Bucky demands. It’s fleeting, but you catch Bucky’s metal hand punch Sam’s contact for a phone call. It wouldn’t be much of a run from around the corner, but part of you prays Sam doesn’t make it. 
If Hades is going to retaliate—if he’s going to step out of that damn portal—you pray Sam isn’t here when he does. 
Maxwell groans, shutting his eyes for a long while before forcing them open again. The portal flickers, the darkness within giving a few short bursts of rainbow coloring. 
“Hades cannot replace the Fates unless they die. But they’ve escaped. And because it was your twist of fate that caused it…” Maxwell rolls his neck, sweat dripping from his perfect eyebrows. “Hades summons you to Hell.”
Hell. 
The place you had banished that demon. The place your grandmother supposedly had some otherworldly connection to. The place standing behind Maxwell, pulsing with such strange energy it’s making you dizzy. 
“Fuck that,” Bucky says, giving a forced laugh. “Tell him he’ll have to find someone else. The Fates, whatever the fuck they are, are his problem. We don’t want anything to do with you again.”
Maxwell’s face contorts painfully. Slowly, he grinds out, “I wish you had a choice.”
The restaurant doors fly open as Sam Wilson, Captain America, runs in. Minus his Captain America gear, that is. He’s even forgotten the shield. Sam Wilson came to fight with his fists. Your eyes meet his, and no matter how much pleading you try to emit, he does not yield.
“It’s their first date, man. C’mon.” Sam holds up his arms between you and Maxwell, effectively shielding you from Maxwell’s line of sight. Or the portal’s. You can’t really tell.
The portal rumbles with a disgusting groan. Maxwell mutters something along the lines of ‘the one time I don’t leave Hell willingly.’
The chairs and tables in front of you are pushed to the side by some invisible force. Customers scream, some even rushing for the exit in a stampede. Maxwell steps into the portal, hesitating with the other foot.
A harsh gust of air spits in your face—then wraps around your waist, your shoulders, your legs—and drags you toward the dark mouth of Hell. 
No. Not just you. Bucky and Sam, too. 
Sam grabs onto the door handle, but the lack of gravity simply lifts him up. He dangles in the air, even as Bucky rushes to lower his legs. The trees from the sidewalk planters smash through the windows and wrap around your waist, pulling you back toward them. 
You turn to Maxwell, demanding a better explanation with your stare, but he gives nothing. In fact, he just stares back with pity. Pity that makes your stomach churn. 
The door handle snaps, and both Sam and Bucky are thrown across the floor and to the portal. The branches scramble to catch their wrists, but they miss Sam altogether. His palms smack against the floor, swiping without purchase, until the portal completely swallows him. Bucky yells, his metal fingers clawing at the floor in deep gashes. He barely catches your hand, his last rope to this realm. 
But the portal is too strong. Stronger than anything you’ve ever encountered. The full wrath of an Immortal God. Their influence, their thread, their power. 
Knowing full well you aren’t going to make it, you whip your head around to the customers who stayed—either from curiosity, morbidity, or because their insides watered—and scream, “Peter Parker! Tell him Hell has us. Peter Parker, Peter Parker, Peter Parker!”
Bucky uses his last remaining drop of strength to safely wrap you against his chest, shielding your head. The branches snap.
The portal closes. 
Darkness lives.
~
Epilogue
     She knows she should have left. Should have pushed people out of the way and scrambled onto the streets, sprinting to maximize the distance between her and that supposed portal to literal Hell. She should have done a lot of things—but ultimately, she’s glad she stayed. 
Peter Parker! Tell him Hell has us! Peter Parker, Peter Parker, Peter Parker!
She knows that name. It may have only been a name she learned in passing, a face that only came around every other month or so, buying random pastries and coffee like all he wanted to do with strike up conversation with her. 
What are the odds it’s the same guy she’s come to anticipate?
She knows that name. 
Michelle Jones knows that name. 
She’s really glad she stayed.
~
xx
This story is for those who have loved too much and broken themselves because of it.
xx
~
TAGLIST:  @cloudyfeel​​ @wintersgirl1917​​ @aquariusbarnes​​ @fandoms-writings​​ @shirukitsune​​ @goldylions​​ @real-jane​​ @mannien​​ @sentimental-for-maneskin​​ @dezthegeek​​ @avengershoney​​ @ginger-swag-rapunzel​​ @natbarnes1917​​ @cutechubbybunnyy @gabewerk @howlermonkey69
Author’s Note: 
OH, YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS THE END? WHY WOULD I INTRODUCE ALL THIS FANTASY AND LEAVE IT UNTOUCHED? 
MY BOYS DESERVE THEIR SWORD FIGHTING, MAGIC WIELDING, AND MEDIEVAL-LIKE ADVENTURES! WE DESERVE SEXY HADES!!! WOOOOO!!!!
The sequel, “Hunting The Fates” will start in July! It will have much more smut (like...a shit ton tbh), swordfighting, and inaccurate Greek Mythology lmao. 
Thank you for taking this healing journey with me. I hope I did the characters some justice. xxMoni
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captainsimagines · 2 years
Text
dreaming in june || ten
Summary: At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.
Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader
Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals and iann dior ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National
Series / AO3 Link / Playlist
(10/15)
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Warnings: 18+ ONLY; smut; unprotected sex; oral sex; rough/emotional sex? (lmao you’ll see what I mean); strong language; discussions of cults; emotional angst; Steve Rogers, baby, why did you do what you did; mild violence; blood; whoop! DEMONS!
Word Count: 7,420
Author’s Note: That warnings list is a doozy. xxMoni 
~
“The Immortal, the Bleeding Heart, the Forgotten, the Shield.”
~
      “I was thinking—“
“Oh, no.”
Bucky sends Sam a glare across the kitchen counter. Sam continues making the eggs, unmoved.
“What were you thinking about, James?”
“I call you by a different flower everyday. Do you want me to call you by your birth name, or continue with my nicknames?“
Your birth name hasn’t been uttered by anyone since Ari, with the exception of Sam very rarely. Even Druig refrains from calling you it—“Princess” is his go-to. You’ve never even told Bucky your birth name, but you assume Sam told him.
“Why do you call me by different nicknames? Why not settle on one?”
Bucky shrugs. “I didn’t plan on it. You just buy, wear, or smell like a different flower everyday.”
“Weird that you notice that, Buck.”
Bucky grabs a banana from the fruit bowl and chucks it at him. Sam jumps, the sudden movement sending scrambled eggs to the floor.
“Those are yours,” Sam grunts, pointing the spatula down. Bucky rolls his eyes.
You try and fail to contain the incoming grin. “Who am I today, James?”
Something shudders behind his sternum. Something sweet and familiar.
Bucky scans you over, trying to keep his eyes focused on the important features. You’re dressed in a large, pink knit sweater that reaches your knees, with white leggings and fuzzy pink socks. Your red nails are a dark contrast against the colors, especially with the way you’re hugging one knee against your chest and steadying yourself on the stool.
He loves your hands. The hands that have wiped his brow and fed him, held his own and waved him off, flipped him off and welcomed him home. He thinks about the way your fingers curl when you use your magic, the way they seem to change in color. He swears he has seen ink, like a tattoo, crawl up your arms and to your neck. It all depended on which hand you used.
You applied an artificial blush to your cheeks and lips today. The make-up you use always seems to have some glitter infused in it. He scans your hair, your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, your lips—if Bucky thought red did it for him, pink certainly lights a switch as well.
The thoughts bombard him—those pink lips on his neck, leaving their innocent mark. Those lips connecting to the base of his neck, to his chest, where your tongue would finally peek out and brand him as yours. Lower, lower, lower, until those pink lips swallow his cock down and stain the tender skin, up and down, until his harsh thrusts smudge the perfected outline. Then he’d finish on them, watching as his spent dripped down your chin as he tugged you back up, and smashed his own lips over yours, licking and tasting himself on—
He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. He looks around the room, hoping no one watched him practically defile you with his stare alone. Peter smirks at him from the sofa, his eyebrows raising and falling, like his stupid spider-sense can scent the arousal.
Bucky quickly diverts his eyes.
“Poppy,” Bucky declares. “Ancient Greeks associated poppies with Demeter’s daughter, right? She had something to do with the seasons and agriculture. You said your mother was gifted. So you’re Persephone in this equation. Or, poppies like, for the Ancient Egyptians—they associated them with eternal life. Plus, you look preppy today. Preppy, poppy.”
Everyone stares at him.
“If my question gets a ‘yes’ answer, I’m going to tease the ever-living fuck out of you until we die,” Sam starts. He shuts off the stove and turns his whole body to Bucky. “Have you been googling these damn flowers and their symbolism?”
Bucky turns scarlet. “What else was I supposed to do on that ten hour plane trip—”
Sam erupts with laughter, Peter following.
“Poppy,” you repeat. You say it a few more times, testing it out. Bucky turns his attention back to you, where he finds you unmoved from his confession. He watches your lips softly smack together. Poppy, poppy, poppy.
“Are you fine with the nicknames? Do you want me to call you by your birth name instead?” Bucky whispers, clenching one eye shut when Sam laughs even louder.
You shrug, even if what you’re about to say is a big deal. “By calling me multiple names, it may seem like you kill me off the next day. But that’s fine because you make me into something new. Ari was the last person to call me by my birth name—and that name, sadly, is dead to me. Even on official documents I use a different spelling. So please continue to call me by what you see. I like that you take the time to see me.”
But you told Sam. Bucky wonders if Sam knows what honor he had been given.
“Well, then. Poppy.” Bucky’s smile is electrifying. “Up for a museum trip today?”
~
     For a history buff, you hate museums. You can stand art museums—those ones you do find joy in. Some of the paintings and statues were created during your lifetime. Hell, you were alive for some of the Renaissance. When you woke up, the 1600s only brought more art with it.
But natural history museums…Something about them makes you want to crawl underneath the bed and never come out. The stuffed animals are fine, so is the evolution section, and some historical art. But the New World section…
The lights are dimmer than the rooms where they house earlier history. It’s the same way in all these sections: Egyptian history, Mesoamerican history, Native American history—all of it is stored as if its people are extinct, as if the culture has dimmed throughout the centuries. You don’t believe all that light-preservation bullshit.
Whatever you think you’re expecting isn’t at all what it was.
The Mesoamerican section is dimmed, yes, but there’s so few items that it actually tears your heart in two. The small room does its best to showcase the wonders—the pottery, the jewelry, the stone art. It’s both suffocating and amazing.
You carefully navigate through the small aisle, around glass cases and standing nameplates. Bucky, Peter, and Sam follow closely behind, but keep their distance. They too are relearning history.
Scraps of clothing, old bows, colorful blankets, baby shoes, instruments. A flute, still intact, has its own glass box. You don’t bother reading the information plaque.
You can hear it.
Closing your eyes, the first notes of whistled breath begin to take form. It starts as one long whistle, until it becomes lower, lower, higher, lower. Paired with the mellow beat of the drums. The sound carries through the tents, over the river, up into the trees.
In the late 1600s, you remember walking through an Italian marketplace. Packed, busy, bustling. The sound of a flute had caught your attention, then the beginnings of a brand new instrument. Four strings, one bow, on the shoulder of a boy no older than ten.
It was the first time you had ever heard a flute and violin pair.
And next to the flute’s case—a case containing all found jewelry.  
The jade stones stand out from all the rest. Even with dirt along the thread and some of the stones cracked, it’s an exact replica for the one you still have. The bracelet you haven’t worn in so long. The bracelet that was stored in the box you brought in the bottom of your suitcase. The bracelet burning a hole in your coat pocket right now.
Pressing your hand against the glass, you swallow down the tears. It’s sitting right there. A piece of Ari. And you’re so far away.
“Excuse me, ma’am. You can’t touch the glass.”
But you don’t hear them. Your top lip greets a stray tear.
“Ma’am…Ma’am.”
“I booked a private tour for a reason. Can’t you see she’s visiting family?”
The security guard startles, clearly confused. He looks at Sam then back to you. “These things are older than some of the castles here.”
“And in a world full of aliens, Gods, and supers—How do you know she isn’t seeing her own jewelry from that long ago?” Bucky nudges Sam’s side with his elbow. But Sam doesn’t back down, his eyes flaring with threats.
“I still can’t let you touch the glass. It’s my job to say this. I’m sorry.”
Peter stands next to you, staring at the same piece of jewelry. He reaches down and grabs your hand, his grip powerful.
“For his soul to rest, I need to rebury him.”
Peter chooses his next words carefully. “Does the museum have him here?”
His bones. His remains. His corpse. Say it, Peter. Just say it.
“Druig told me they did.”
It was a blessing they hadn’t put his bones on display. A small, but glorious miracle.
“So then he’s in storage?”
You grunt, your face contorting into an expression of disgust.
“Ma’am. I can lose my job. Please, just…Just stand there without touching.”
You turn to the security guard. Sam is ready to fight, and Bucky’s holding him back. But your lips twitch into a small smile, and you nod at the guard.
Reaching into your coat pocket, you reveal the matching bracelet. Your bracelet.
“It’s part of a pair,” you say, rolling the bracelet over in your hands. The guard looks from the case to your hand, no doubt wondering if it’s an exact replica or if you stole it from one of the cases.
“That one was my husband’s. We didn’t do rings back then.”
We didn’t do rings back then.
Rings.
It clicks for Bucky quicker than it does for the others.
The bracelets are your wedding rings.
Bucky gasps, covering his mouth. Sam looks close to breaking the glass open and stealing it back. Peter simply grips your hand harder.
“I am going to get it back. I am going to get him back.”
~
     Sam’s got a set of balls for going toe-to-toe with the Director of the Museum. He’s already contacting Margot, lawyers, and museum directors who are known for returning human remains to descendants. Bucky watches you flash Sam a grateful smile, then move on to another exhibit with Peter right next to you.
He doesn’t want to leave Sam alone, but he clearly has it handled. Clearly. Bucky’s afraid that if he interrupts, Sam might backhand him.
So he ventures into a different part of the museum. Past the dinosaurs, past the stuffed exotic animals, past it all. He enters the room labeled “Recent History” and knows exactly what he’ll find.
The snap. The fall. The blip. The fight. The fallout. The reconstruction.
It’s weird reading about it. It’s weird watching people live a whole five years and not having any memory of it. This time, however, the memory loss wasn’t intentional.
The timeline of events is printed on the wall, spanning past all four corners and wrapping back to the front door. Bucky walks through the first year.
Chaos. Governments falling. Grief.
Year two dealt with more grief, but also radical change. World hunger lessened, borders opened, laws were changed.
Years three and four was more fixing, fixing, remembrance.
The final year—the fight, the return. Steve Rogers. Natalia Romanoff. Tony Stark.
He stares at the hyper-realistic painting of Steve on the wall, leading them all into battle. The shield broken, his lip bloodied, his hair unruly. The same expression Steve wore in all those back alley fights.
Bucky blinks back the tears and grimaces.  
It hits him violently. Seeing the timeline, seeing how it coincidentally ends with a painting of Steve—Tony is painted on the wall behind him—a brutal, fierce hit.
He’s been torturing himself. The timeline was basically a timeline of the years he lost, of the years Steve lived. And the second that timeline ended, Steve chose to go back to the beginning.
Bucky’s been torturing himself.  Love isn’t supposed to be torture.
He just witnessed the weight of your love when you held up your matching bracelet—your fucking wedding ring—and he’s been crying over this? Over something he never fucking had?
“The timeline wasn’t over, Steve. It wasn’t over for me.”
Bucky backs away, nearly tripping over a stroller, and heads for the entrance.
~
     Bucky stares over the expanse of the cliffside, hands fisting against his thighs. His lips wobble as he tries to think about anything else, anybody else, but his mind keeps conjuring images of Steve.
Bucky believed he had already gone through the anger phase and was basking in the mild glow of acceptance. But here he is, anger pooling in his chest and a metal arm that won’t stop whirring with the need to hit something.
The air is cold and the clouds are bringing in a thunderstorm. He wishes for a breeze of heat, the weather of New York—and it’s pissing him off. Can’t he escape that half of him that New York has in a vice?
It’s all hitting him at once.
Steve left when the world was thrown into another form of chaos.
Steve left when Bucky wanted nothing more than to finally relax.
Steve left when everything was finally good.
Steve left him with unanswered questions and a weird feeling in between each rib after telling him that everything would be okay.
And everything had been, all things considered. Bucky hasn’t put a gun in his mouth, no matter how much he’s imagined it. He’s been on dates, he’s fallen for someone new, and has made new friends. He got a goddamned cat, for crying out loud.
And Steve isn’t here to see him flourishing. All that fighting, all that angst and drama, all those empty praises Steve spit were all pointless if he wasn’t going to stick around long enough to see Bucky making the best of what he’s got.
He may be suffering with heartache and addiction, but he’s alive and that’s damn enough. His best friend left him for someone else, someone Steve knew for such little time. After growing up together, sharing each other’s dreams and breaths, saving each other’s lives for over a century, Steve still left him.
And Bucky Barnes is angry.
“Fuck!” Bucky screams, long and painful and thunderous. His scream echoes horrifically, like a ghost calling for their lost love, like a town screaming at a ship to stop before they crash land, like a man who’s finally breaking. He screams again, longer this time, until his lungs burn. He clenches his fists to his chest and screams again, unaware of your presence creeping up behind him.
He sobs with dry eyes and stares at the waves crashing down below. They’re hypnotic, enough to distract him.
After a moment, Bucky turns to you. The wind whips your hair around and nips at your cheeks, so Bucky focuses on that. You don’t look like you’re going to judge him, or even try to talk to him.
Instead, your chest heaves once, then twice, then you’re expelling a heart-wrenching scream over the same cliffside. A long scream too, one that rips through the fog and gives Bucky an inside look at five hundred years of history. But he knows you’re not screaming for it all. Just like him, you’re screaming for the love you lost. Anger, humiliation, and heartbreak are all mixed into that scream, he can tell. It matches his.
“I hate him,” Bucky says, glancing at you momentarily.
You don’t turn to him. Instead, you nod facing forward.
Then, like he knows it’s the thing you’re not verbally expressing, Bucky crumbles and sobs again. “No, I don’t.”
“They’re both gone, James. It’s up to us to move on.”
“You think I don’t want to?” Of course Bucky wants to move on, wants to think about Steve and not feel his heart crack. He feels all these things for you and it scares him—but there’s no guilt.
If he moves on, then Steve truly is gone. No matter how many times that reality slaps him in the face, moving on would seal it. But he doesn’t feel guilty about it. He thought he would. It pains him. He wants to move on. If skipping the pain was possible, he would move on in a heartbeat.
“I feel it too.” You reach over and grab at his fingers. You’re barely holding hands, but it’s the contact that’s enough. “But we owe it to them.”
“I don’t owe Steve anything.”
That declaration surprises the both of you. Abrupt declarations are always rooted in truth.
“Then we do it for ourselves instead.”
~
      You text Sam that you and Bucky took a taxi and are heading back to the house. He messages back saying him and Peter are going to grab some dinner.
You and Bucky had sat by that cliffside for an hour, freezing and teeth clattering. But you stayed.
Bucky’s angry at halting his own life, at a time he finally got it back, for something he can’t change.
You’re angry at living for ages, experiencing all there is to know, and not noticing that a part of your soul wasn’t at rest.
Or Ari’s soul. He did say you were bonded.
So it’s your soul, too.
Once your bones hurt and Bucky’s shoulder went stiff, you finally went home. You poured yourself some tea, Bucky already sipping his.
“The last time I slept with someone, it was to spite Steve.”
You sputter around the teacup. Bucky’s got that determined flare in his eyes, the one he gave you when he attempted to reassure you about the test results, the same one he gave you when he told you to come to him if you ever wanted to put another bullet in your mouth.
You tread lightly. “When was this?”
“France. 1945.”
You nod, a small urge for him to continue.
“I saw him with Peggy and I just…snapped. I went to the first bar I could find that wasn’t bombed and picked the prettiest girl. Went back to her place and fucked her as slowly as I could. I didn’t want to leave. First time she came, I used my mouth. The second time, she came when I was inside her. Third and fourth time? Same thing. I was with her for a total of four hours. And the second I left her, I broke down. It wasn’t her fault at all. It was me.” Bucky breathes, voice shaking. “I have been punishing myself all because Steve didn’t like me back?”
You swallow through the lump in your throat. Bucky didn’t tell you that story because he wanted to gloat—he hates himself for tearing himself apart.
“You have every right to be angry with him.”
“But I’m letting it control me.”
You can’t just say “then stop it”. What good would that do? Besides, you understand him completely. For decades, centuries, you have let your love for Ari guide (not control) you down paths in life. Whether they led you to good ones, or ones that destroyed you from the inside-out.
“Do you feel guilty about liking me?”
His head snaps upright. You’d be insulted if you didn’t already know he liked you back.
He reaches across the kitchen counter, gripping your chin between his thumb and index. He holds you still as he says, lowly, “All the times I have thought about being with someone new, I have felt guilty. Like I was betraying Steve. Like I was hurting myself. But then you—”
Your blood stops circulating.
“I look at you, and I don’t feel guilty. Not one bit. Not at all. I thought I did, but that’s because I was so used to feeling that way.”
Your breath brushes against the palm of Bucky’s flesh hand. He closes his eyes and fights the shiver that races up his spine.
He steps down from the barstool, the sunset lights cascading over his shoulders. “Everytime I think about being with you…I don’t think about Steve at all.”
He places himself in front of you, his toes touching yours, his brow connecting to yours as he leans down.
“I think about kissing you, and only you. Touching you until your whimpers turn into pleasurable screams. I think about your mouth on me and around me. Your hands pulling at my hair, my hands pulling at yours. I think about being between your legs, tasting you, drinking you in while you fist the mattress. I think about having you on your back and on your stomach, against the wall and on the fucking floor. You have no fucking idea how badly I need to be inside you. To fuck you, make love to you, cherish you. My body craves you. I want you, because I want you. And that about makes me so fucking happy, and so fucking terrified.”
You choke on an inhale. Bucky’s breath mixes with yours, hot and heavy between the small distance of your trembling lips. His hands skim your waist, barely touching as they work up and down. Little fires erupt, tingling and blistering your skin.
A voice in the back of your mind mockingly mutters, You’re a rebound. And he’s yours.
The thought extinguishes the moment Bucky’s lips connect with yours. Shocks begin at your fingertips, trail up your arms, to your neck, igniting something that has lay dormant for centuries.
It’s too much—too much.
The press of your lips becomes stronger, and once Bucky’s tongue slips out to kiss your bottom lip, you become languid. Wobbly and healed and so fucking high it has you pressing your upper half to him, for an overwhelming second, before you jump to hook your legs around his waist.
Bucky anticipates this. He holds you against him by gripping your ass, hot and cold hands squeezing with abandon. He walks you to your room, his breath mingling with yours, small pants escaping when your hands go up to his hair and pull.
He kicks the door closed and falls onto the bed, careful to not crush you. But his care is quickly scoffed at—your legs pull at him with a strength he hasn’t considered.
You’re enhanced. You can take it.
“This is it, Poppy.” The nickname bristles you. “You have to tell me now. You want to do this?”
His eyes are like crystals. Beautiful crystals that sparkle from the mere sight of you. You’ve seen them shine whenever he woke from one of his hangovers, whenever you boxed his dinner, whenever you opened the damn door. Now they sparkle similarly, but with an added honesty.
You run your thumb across his swollen lips, some of your pink lipstick passed on to him.
“I’m honestly surprised we haven’t before.”
Bucky chuckles, peppering kisses down your chin to the column between your collarbones. You arch into him.
“What makes you say that?”
You do your best to shrug while laying down. “I read too many novels.”
This time, Bucky can’t help but laugh louder. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him up to kiss him deeply. Same way as you do for him, Bucky opens up without protest.
“Do you want it soft and slow? Or hard and deep?”
You haven’t been fucked in years. Most of the people you’ve been with have been the slow and sensual type. Not that that’s bad—but fucked? That was over five hundred years ago.
“Hard and deep, James. I’m not fragile.”
Bucky growls, deep and low. The sound travels from your chest to your core.
Remove my clothing. Fucking remove my leggings, James.
As if he read your mind, Bucky keeps his lips on your neck as he rips your leggings down your thighs. Down, down, until he rips them off your bare feet.
“God,” Bucky rasps. His forehead comes to rest on your heaving chest.
“What?”
“The serum.”
You pull yourself up, resting on your elbows. “Are you okay?”
Bucky growls again, his hand gripping your outer thigh. “I can scent you.”
“Make me feel insecure right now and I’ll murder you. I can have the trees pull up their roots and they’ll feast on your decaying corpse for decades.”
He lifts his face to give you an incredulous look. His mouth parts, then snaps shut.
He shakes his head, a strangled laugh held tight. “You smell fucking incredible. And that threat almost made me come in my pants.”
Your shoulders drop in relief. As if to make his previous statement law, he pulls your underwear down with the same force he used when ripping off your leggings. The fabric leaves a burn on the skin of your thighs.
Bucky wastes no time. He dips his head, settles his hips on the bed, and slants his greedy tongue directly over your clit. You yelp, hips jacking upward and nearly punching Bucky in the face. But he’s quicker, and his metal arm holds you down.
Killing you slowly, drowning you in a pleasure that keeps your chest heaving and thighs trembling.
Bucky, for the life of him, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. The memories of decades ago float into his mind, providing him with the muscle memory of how to do this. Because if Bucky had to bet on something right now, it’d be that past Bucky Barnes definitely found the taste of pussy delectable.
He lays his tongue flat, providing that amazing pressure you seem to love, then he’s closing his lips around that same spot. Sucking, kissing, angling his tongue to the point he has you screaming.
That’s something Bucky missed too—the sound of a woman crying out from what his mouth can do. He wants to bottle up that beautiful sound you’re making and listen to it the next time he has his hand wrapped around his cock.
If he is lucky, if the Gods grant him a wish, then Bucky won’t have to use his own hand anymore. He might be able to listen to that perfect sound while he has you on his cock instead.
He nips at you, the feeling of his teeth sending you over the edge. The scream you expel turns into a grunt instead, then a squeal as Bucky continues lapping at you.
“James—James, fuck.”
“Come again,” he orders. He holds you down by the sides of your hips, bruising you with care. His flesh finger slips inside you, and that has you writhing.
It’s not enough. Bucky knows it isn’t enough. But he fucks you with his finger, working his way up to two, until his palm smacks against your mound with a squelching rhythm that has you near sobbing.
His metal hand snakes up your waist, past your stomach, and balls your sweater up into a tight fist. He pushes it up, up, balling it against your sternum. You deemed a bra unnecessary today considering the heavyweight sweater. Your breasts bunch underneath the pulled fabric, until the force of Bucky’s push has them reaching a limit. Once they’re presented to him, he sucks a nipple into his watering mouth.
The combination of his fast-moving hand and magnificent mouth is otherworldly. Bucky graduates to three fingers, the stretch welcoming but intense.
He has really big fingers. Three together is about the size of your largest vibrator. He forces them in, past your tight squeeze, past the astounding wetness, fucking you with such precision.
“Come for me,” he breathes. “You have no fucking idea how badly I want to fuck you.”
You can tell. If this is how he fucks you with his hands—
You erupt, hands sprawling over your head to grip at the sheets. Bucky kisses you, even as you scream, until you’re kissing him back feverishly.
He laments pulling his fingers from you, but that only invites the alternative.
Bucky quickly undresses, all the while watching you. You already look fucked-out, blissful and head hazy. The only sign of continuation he gets is when you pull the sweater over your head, baring everything for him.
He tries to catch his breath as you both study each other.  He knows he’s littered with scars and healed skin, slash marks and burns.
There, right where your heart is, is a puncture wound from that damned arrow. Bucky makes it his life mission to heal it with his kiss.
You knew he was sculpted. The amount of cardio this man does—fuck. Your eyes fall to below his waist. You bite your lip, taking his cock in. Definitely bigger than your sex toys.
He crawls back onto the bed, eyeing you with a gentle wariness. Like you’re going to change your mind. Second guess this—second guess him.
You pull him to you, latching your eager lips to his, and push whatever love you can into it. Laying a palm on his chest, you share your endless heartbeat.
Bucky grips you by the back of your neck and meets your eyes. “You want to know something?”
“What’s that?”
“If you were to tell me to go, I would beg on my knees to stay.”
Your breath catches. Bucky Barnes, the legendary Winter Soldier, the powerful White Wolf, begging to be yours?
Slow, excruciatingly slow, you drop your knees apart and open yourself to him.
Bucky breathes in slowly, most likely scenting you, and loses control.
Good. You want him to lose all of it.
He pushes you down until his chest meets yours, crushing you underneath his heat. He’s heavy, but it’s nothing to you. You might not have super strength, but you’re able to withstand weight.
Like a tree who houses its many inhabitants.
Bucky pushes into you with a low grunt, his teeth clenched together. Slipping in was so easy, so fucking glorious, he can’t fathom what it’ll be like to do it over and over.
You whine, moving your hips in a small circle. You’re adjusted, you’re great—if only Bucky would fucking move.
“Bucky,” you gasp, feeling him go impossibly deeper. So fucking thick and hot. “Fuck me until I beg you to stop.”
He fists your hair at the back of your head, and pulls your head down into the pillow, bearing your throat for him. With a bite, Bucky slips out until his cockhead remains, and slams back into you with a curse on his lips.
Bucky certainly fucks like he’s got a reason to. You know he feels something deep for you—he made that obvious—but you also know what else he’s sharing. His grief, his individuality, his personal control.
It’s something he was able to decide for himself without anyone else’s influence.
You’d let him fuck you stupid if he needed it.
Your legs lock around his waist, pulling him deeper with each harsh thrust. The force reaches something brilliant in your core, like Bucky’s fucking a tight coil to the point where it’s going to explode. Scratching an itch you couldn’t reach. Imprinting himself at your base.
Bucky grabs onto the headboard, and with that newfound steadying factor, he fucks that coil until your clenching around him, coming with an intensity that makes the veins in your throat expand.
God. You hope Peter and Sam are having a long dinner.
The thrusts have stopped. Coming down from the pleasure, your back falls down onto the mattress. Bucky looks down at you, his hands still braced against the headboard.
“Three times,” he gloats.
You breathe deeply, mouth dry. He grins, a wolfish one, and moves his hips slowly. You whimper, oversensitive.
“Make it easier on me,” you plead, glancing down to where Bucky’s moving inside you. The sight has you reeling, groaning in euphoria.
“How?”
The slide of his cock is so fucking filthy. So fucking flawless.
“Throw me down at the edge and do all the work yourself.”
His eyes go from regular black to some impractical, void black. “I’m already doing all the work.”
“If I wasn’t so floppy right now, I would flip you over and fuck you until you said sorry.”
Another sultry grin. “Promise?”
The Bucky Barnes of the 1940s seems to have made an appearance tonight.
“Before the others return, James. I’d rather you come inside me when they’re nowhere near.”
Come inside me.
That would turn any man feral. Bucky slips from you, missing your tight warmth immediately, and helps you to the end of the mattress. There, he pushes you down onto your stomach and shoves your thighs apart after placing a pillow beneath your hips. Your head hangs off the edge slightly, arms languid.
In this position, Bucky just about adopts the mindset of an alpha asshole. Coming inside you, gripping your hips for his enjoyment, fucking you relentless?
He’s already bitten you. He’s passed that alpha line a hell of a long time ago.
When your legs are spread as far as Bucky wants them, he covers you with his body and drives his hips forward, reaching brand new areas that already have you whimpering.
This position is one that’s going to kill him. He’s going to think about this feeling, the sight of your perfect ass, the sight of your cunt presented for him, for fucking ever.
Bucky moves his hands over yours, lacing his fingers through the tops of your fingers. He fucks you hard, fiercely, taking his cues from the squeeze of your cunt and your fingers in his.
There. There. There!
Your mouth parts in a silent scream, your saliva staining the sheets below. For the fourth time, Bucky draws an earth-shattering orgasm from the pits of your fucking soul.
He fucks you through it, the thickness of his cock bringing tears to your eyes. The delightful stretch, the perfect burn—if he doesn’t come in the next minute, you’re going to start vibrating.
“You are the best thing I have ever felt,” Bucky breathes in your ear. Goosebumps erupt down your neck. “The absolute best woman I have ever met.”
Something inside you breaks, leaking down each rib. His words hold so much meaning, so much gratitude, so much pain.
You sob as Bucky nears his end, spilling into you with a loud moan. He fucks through it, milking himself of everything he can. His spent leaks out of you, circling the girth of his cock. He continues, however, fucking it all back into you.
The primal words whisper through his head.
Mine.
When he finally finds the strength to remove himself, he lays beside you. His metal hand remains intermingled with yours. He taps his fingers, and you tap yours back.
Good. For a moment he thought you were dead.
“James.”
Bucky swallows, sweat drenched over his chest. “Poppy.”
You grin, half of your face still smooshed against the mattress. “You’re in charge of telling Sam and Peter why the fuck you’re sleeping in my room tonight.”
Bucky’s laugh rumbles through your chest, filling you with another kind of pleasure. A more innocent, dormant one.
Neither of you feel like this shouldn’t have happened.
Not once did you mourn what you have lost; not once did he mourn what he never had.
~
     Bucky wakes up around two in the morning. He feels the weight of something across his chest, warming his metal arm and tickling his hair. He glances down, marveling at the top of your head and the sound of your gentle snoring.
He smiles up at the ceiling, biting his bottom lip to keep from cheering. It’s immature—he wants to fist bump the air like a teenager who just got laid. And that’s part of it. He just got laid for the first time in a fucking long time, and he did it with someone he trusts, and who trusts him.
So excuse him for being a little immature about this. He lays for a while longer and thinks, “I deserve this. I deserve to be happy.”
The feeling of his dry throat has him rising carefully, folding your arms into your own chest so you're hugging yourself. He looks at you, desperately craving another round, but even he can’t get it up again tonight. But the sight of you in his t-shirt and panties?
He runs a finger along your hairline, pushing your baby hairs back only for them to bounce up again.
His heart clenches, and bleeds magnificently.
The kitchen is dark when he goes to fill a glass of water. He can vaguely see the outline of Peter’s body on the couch. The little fucker took the opportunity. Which means Sam and Peter most likely know where he was tonight. He hadn’t had time to tell them anything—you both fucked a couple times after the first round.
The realization has him cringing—but also wanting to punch the air again.
He drinks his glass, studies the trees outside, and wonders how the fuck he got so lucky with friends like these.
His ear tickles, so he scratches it against his shoulder. It tickles again, but this time he can faintly hear the unmistakable voice his mind couldn’t possibly conjure. Like a fairy, small and delicate, scared and in a panic.
“We can’t get in! But you can get out! Wake her up, wake her up, wake her up!”
Bucky hits the floor when he takes the first step.
~
     Something slithers across your exposed leg, raising the blankets and inviting in more cold. The black tendrils of shadow come from the cracks beneath the bedroom door, as if they entered through the front, through the living room, and down the long hallway. It’s silent, both dry and slimy, harmless and brutal.
One tug is all it takes to rip you out of bed and onto the hardwood floor. You yelp, immediately reaching down to pry it from your leg, but it’s intangible. Your fingers go directly through, scratching at your own skin. The tendrils pull, pull, and you’re yanked closer to the door. You dig your nails into the floor, clenching your teeth from the pain of it, and slap rapidly to make noise.
Your mouth won’t work. Something heavy wraps around your neck, choking you while at the same time breathing life. Your voice is rendered useless.
You slap and hit and rip shreds of wood from the doorframe as it yanks you through. Your ribs hurt from all the writhing, and as much as you try to prevent your chin from slamming down, each yank nearly causes your cheek to splinter the floor.
The tendrils pull you past Sam’s room, and you’re  banging, banging, snatching the wood of the frame until it breaks off. With that piece of wood, you stab it into the wall and keep it there, leaving a brutal slash that continues as you do.
Sam sprints from his room, looking both ways before he sees you on the floor. You lift your arm up, reaching for him, but the shadows are too quick.
“Guys! Guys!”
Bucky snaps awake, his eyes heavy and an awful ringing in his ears. Peter awakens the same way, groggy and slow. A lamp falls, wood cracks, the wind howls.
Then Bucky sees as the front door whips open from his place on the kitchen floor, and a horrible black shadow stands there, pulling you across the floor like you’re an escaped horse.
Bucky scrambles, his eyes burning, his head throbbing. Peter moves similarly, but he’s quicker—thank you, thank you, thank you, Bucky thanks whoever.
Sam’s yelling, demanding Bucky stand, demanding Peter to use his webs.
Why can’t he move quicker? He can’t run, can’t speak—it’s like he’s dreaming and he needs to get away but he runs in slow-motion, his feet swollen, his heart pounding.
Wake up, wake up, wake up! the sweet voice screams.
When your head passes through the front door, your screaming becomes audible. The porch squeaks, then snaps as your fists slam down into it. But the shadow is too strong, relentless, and it’s laughing as you struggle.
Your body meets grass and finally, fucking finally, the trees spring into action. As if they too were rendered useless until exposed to you.
Branches slither across the ground and reach you, wrapping themselves around your waist and below your armpits. You’re tugged in the opposite direction now, back to Sam and an incapacitated Bucky and Peter.
A tug-of-war ensues, bruising your body. But you endure it, you press your lips together and endure it. The house creaks as the roots beneath it flourish to the top and crawl to you.
Your eyes meet Bucky’s. His wide, frightened ones. He and Peter clamber down the front porch steps, seemingly understanding that their powers are pointless if on the property. The shadows still encompass the house—their minds.
Sam. Sam’s human. He wasn’t deemed a threat. He has a shield, he has a gun, but there’s no possible way he could stop the darkness.
A bandage of webs around your outstretched wrist aids your magic. Peter pulls, digging his heels into the ground, and shouts as the shadows snap back against him. But he doesn’t falter—he digs his heels in further, jaw clenched, and pulls through the blinding pain.
Bucky wraps his arms around Peter’s waist, pulling in the direction of the house. His head is still heavy, but he knows where he is and what’s happening.
Bucky refuses, absolutely fucking refuses, to lose you too.
He whips his right hand back and clasps Sam’s. Sam, digging the shield into the ground with his free arm looped through, is the last line of defense. You wrap branches around Sam’s waist to help hold him upright.
Something cracks.
Something cracks.
Something—
You shriek and thrash, your skin blistered hot from the amount of force from both sides. Your stomach stretches, pulled to its maximum. Your elbows pop. Your shoulders pop. Your knees. Your hips.
You’re being torn in half.
The trees, sensing this, begin to loosen. Through their grief, through their apologies, they loosen their grip until you’re dropped back down to earth. Instant relief overtakes you, swelling in your eyes. Bucky’s eyes meet yours once again, confused.
You fashion a wooden dagger as fast as you can, your face one massive apology to the three men trying to save your life, and slash through Peter’s web.
They catapult backward, all of them falling into a pile. Peter stands, runs, runs, runs.
The shadow leans over you, flipping you onto your back. It leans down, down, until a nasty humanoid figure finally reveals itself. Pale, chapped skin that threatens to fall from bone, bloodless thin lips, eyes as big as tennis balls and dark as night. Its sunken cheeks stretch into a malformed smile, revealing no teeth but smoke, smoke that reeks of the undead.
The shadows loom behind the demonic figure. You want the shadows, the shadows, the shadows. You’d do anything to bring the boring shadows back.
Its hands reach out, long and bony with nails longer than the bone itself. It runs a nail down your cheek, nicking your tender flesh. The cut opens, spilling into its scooped nail. It brings its nail to its mouth, and sucks.
“Dear Gods.”
Other words elude you. There’s no point in begging for your life. This was an Undead. An immortal whose soul had been bled dry, sold, or never replenished. They were mere folklore. Characters in stories made to scare children. Creatures made by witches, made by the Gods themselves, made to wreak havoc when called upon. They dragged their human prey down to the deepest trenches of Hell, where they tortured, raped, and tore them apart.
The cult. The goddamned Undead. This demon must have been  unleashed by the cult in demand of your blood.
You twist your neck as far as you can, forcing yourself to look away from its monstrous face.
Peter has stopped running. Thank the Gods he stopped. Like him, Bucky and Sam are frozen.
Noise resembling that of nails on a chalkboard bursts in your ears. Your ears bleed. One more look at the demon atop of you and you realize that’s its voice.
“The Immortal…The Bleeding Heart…The Forgotten…The Shield. All in one place.”
“What do you want?” Your voice shakes. Your stomach drops as it pushes its face down to yours, slowly, teasingly.
“Four is better than one.”
“Don’t you dare touch them.”
Smoke escapes its excuse of a smile.
“You will, undoubtedly, make an excellent feast, Mother Earth. I shall call you my Persephone.”
“Get away from her!”
Whether it hears the order or not, it shows no recognition. It wraps its bony arms around you, lifts you into its dark cloak, and vanishes into the night.
~
TAGLIST: @cloudyfeel​ @howlermonkey69​ @wintersgirl1917​ @aquariusbarnes​ @fandoms-writings​ @shirukitsune​ @goldylions​ @real-jane​ @mannien​ @sentimental-for-maneskin​ @dezthegeek @avengershoney @ginger-swag-rapunzel @natbarnes1917​ @cutechubbybunnyy @gabewerk
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witchychanel · 2 years
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Dating Druig Would Include...
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Since we all know Druig hates everyone but YOU…
He would be a very soft boyfriend, maybe softer than Steve
He would always call you gorgeous, beautiful, darling, sweetheart
He will always tell you that he loves you
Obviously “my beautiful, beautiful Y/N” 
You both comfort each other when you or him have nightmares
I think he would love to hug you the most from behind
I think that he would love to kiss you on the neck as he is hugging you from behind
He also loves to kiss your forehead and stare deeply into your eyes and just smile at you
You guys would have some serious make out sessions 
He loves to mf cuddle especially during the night
Druig loves to give you massages...he loves to feel the goosebumps on your skin as he gets lower down your back 
While you both lay in bed he loves to tell you stories
He loves dancing with you, he loves singing with you, he loves cooking with you, he loves giving you things
He always gives you flowers and makes you breakfast
If you want a pet you give him the puppy eyes and and keeping asking him until he finally says because he always gives in
Playing pranks on ikaris
Finding him being sassy towards others attractive for some reason
Whether you’re an eternal or an avenger he is never going to use his mind control on you *even though you used it on him… self defense of course(book)*
He loves you and he doesn't care who knows or who  hears...
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
°•°•°•°•°•°•🪐🌙🪐🌙🪐🌙🪐°•°•°•°•°•°•
I'm doing a part 2 but with a little SMUTT 🥵🥵🥵🥵🧎🏾‍♀️🧎🏾‍♀️🧎🏾‍♀️
Even a part 3 with my book AU
There are things that I wanted to mention but I am going to save them for other Druig headcannos
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witchychanel · 2 years
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Druig Headcanon’s
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Having Sex With Druig Would Include...
Dating Druing Would Include 
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ay0nha · 2 years
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Venus in Blue Jeans (II)
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Summary: After the events of stopping the Emergence, Druig decides to take some time for himself like the others allowed themselves to do only to find Venus. The only exciting thing about Venus was her name, otherwise, she was just another waitress in a diner somewhere that was really in the middle of nowhere. Yet, everything she does is mesmerizing in the eyes of the eye-glowing eternal (whether he realizes it or not).
(This is ignoring the actual end of the movie)
Pairing: Druig x POC!femme oc
Word Count: 2.1K?
A/N: Just wanted to say that I’m fully aware that Venus is Roman and Aphrodite is Greek and that the Eternals played off Greek mythology. Thank you to a hate anon for being mean about it :) Otherwise, IDK what this is and it was a draft I rushed to finish, so mind the grammar and lack of plot and cringy flirting. Btw my girl uses Cantu. Sponsor me Cantu.
Venus's head was killing her. She was working a double shift, which meant double the pain that radiated from the base of her skull to her lower back. One good stretch was needed, but the door continued to chime with more people coming in.
"Venus!"
She hated the way her name was being called every few minutes for the next thing. She was ready to snap. The customer service voice was getting old and her smile could only stretch so far.  As the day went on, it seemed like more people ditched their manners, taking pleasure in making her day worse.
Then, there was that incessant chime of the door again. All she needed was a deep breath to make it a bit more manageable, but whoever had entered brought the calmness she was chasing with them. Everyone seemed to calm down on their own accord, the loud environment became nothing more than a humming of white noise. It was him. He was the deep breath she was looking for.
She tried to hide her surge of energy as she told him, "Your usual spot is taken...That family over there is on some sort of cross-country road trip and they've just sat down...The children are just so sticky..."
She continued to ramble on as he watched her. Just the other day, she labeled him a regular. Regular. It was a new status for him. She was joking, of course, indulging in any conversation she could get with him as she was learning he was a man of few words. Always reserved, but welcoming. When Druig lost count of how many times he visited, he stopped questioning why he kept coming back. However, he knew it was the only time and place he could think, finding a place like that was rare.
"I can fit you at the counter, but I might have to talk your ear off," She offered with a kind look and he accepted without hesitation.
"I don't mind," He smiled as he sat down,  sliding into the stool of the seat. A few of the other regulars eyed him in his spot, not knowing who they challenged to a staring contest.
Before he had a chance to do anything about the glares, Venus called back to him as she placed the food down at another's table, "Your usual?"
Wordlessly, he nodded, ringing his fingers together. He was tempted to pick up the hanging apron from the wall. He noticed the patterns of the workers here and no one worked nearly as hard as she did. Naturally, it upset him. Especially when they were no-shows like they were today, but Venus always brushed off his worries saying it would be more money in her pocket.
With his new spot, he could finally see what she was reading behind the counter. Any chance she got, she'd open the book, eyes scanning the page quickly before marking her page to go back to work. He'd think she wouldn't really get much in, but not he could see how the book was marked up in the margins, words highlighted, and pages bookmarked. He could see now as he reached over to have the book in his hands that it was worn, clearly not the first time she'd ran over the words.
As Venus wrote down another order, her eyes unconsciously looked for Druig while she repeated the order back. However, she did a double-take realizing what was in his hands. She stuttered for a moment, debating on going over to stop him. ut he was gentle with it and respected its privacy. The book that was left open on her counter was now closed in his hands. She could see from across the room he held it gently, taking in the cover and waiting for her to come back.
"You read?"
"Surprisingly," He started looking up at Venus with honest eyes, "No."
He pushed the book back to her now that she was back behind the counter, happy he purposefully got caught with it.
"Well, now that you've touched it, you have to read it," She shrugged, clearing a few plates beside him.
It was a bold thing to say and they both knew that as he cocked his head to the side, already looking at her teasingly, "I have to?"
She shrugged as she felt his tone travel from her head down to her toes, "Yes."
---
The rain was unforgiving today and it matched Venus's mood. Usually, she loved days like this, it guaranteed a slow day. But she had gotten used to her visitor. Her eyes were trained on the door longer than usual. She had time to kill today, that was her excuse. She had gotten most of her tasks done just to keep her eyes off the door. However, the minute the familiar chime of the door, she dropped everything.
"I didn't think you'd show today," She let the words out to cover her sigh of relief. It was well into the night and without anyone coming in for hours, she was just a few minutes away from falling asleep on the job.
As Druig shook off some of the water he had taken in with him, he noticed her exhaustion instantly. With each step he started regretting showing up, he only added to her workload. He had started staying longer, lingering after he finished his meal. He kept to himself leaving any and everything sarcastic comments to himself. He was there to observe. She enjoyed being observed. Especially by him. Especially when she'd catch his eye trying to scurry and not be caught. Even now, as she set up a warm cup of coffee for him to sit at the counter across from her, he couldn't help but feel shy.
They were both quiet, tip-toeing around a new type of interaction. Druig watched her side profile as her eyes were taken off of him by a bright flash of lightning. He traced her features with his gaze, soaking in her demeanor of the night. From the moment she saw him, she was acting differently. She was calmer than usual. Even her body language was different, she was open.
She leaned over the counter to break their silence and look at the boy in front of her, "I love when it's like this."
She'd choose rain over sun any day. There was something so comforting to her about the inconsistency of rain. It was so inconsistently consistent.
"I like it too."
He felt comfortable with the rain. The way the humidity felt on his skin. He could sit here all night with the comfort of the rain, watching each droplet travel down the window panels. But thankfully he was pulled from his thoughts.
"I thought maybe you could try something different today," Venus started nervously. She wanted to get him talking more. In their encounters, she'd her enough of her own voice. So the minute her boss said that she'd baked something to add to their pastry counter, she knew it would be the next part to their night.
"Oh, yeah?" He asked, letting his smile happen. He was feeding off of her now.
"Yeah," She responded over another clap of thunder, pulling a fresh slice from the shelf.
He was in a talking mood and she wasn't going to let that go. She placed it in front of him with a stupid smile then pulled out a fresh fork for him to dig in. Druig never shied from food or snacks, but he wasn't always one for sweets. However, he was quick to accept it and more than happy to try it.
Venus watched him closely, trying to catch any quirk in his expression, but it stayed blank leading her to admit: "I've never actually tried it myself."
It was all he needed to hear to point the end of the fork towards her, inviting her to take a bite.
She tapped her nails against the counter in playful hesitation before taking the eating utensil out of his hand. He sat back, thoughtfully crossing his arms to watch her sink the fork back into the dense cake. His eyes weren't shy as he watched her full lips slide against the metal of the fork. She tried with all her might to copy that emotionless expression he held after his taste. She tried to focus on the stillness around them and the pitter-patter of the rain against the windows. But she burst with a quiet laugh, causing him to join in with her.
"God, that's awful," She continued to laugh despite the situation, putting a  hand to her mouth. She shook her head trying to think of how else to describe the cake. But nothing could describe how chalky and horrible it truly was.
Instead, she pulled his mug from beside her, pouring warm coffee into it to wash away the lingering taste.  She took a generous swig of it before pushing it toward Druig to finish. Any time their eyes connect, another small fit of laughter began. "I hope your plan for today wasn't to sell that cake," Druig chided.
"My plan," She matched his tone, just as humorously,"...was to eat this cake all day that way I didn't have to do actual work."
"What, you mean you get paid to stand around?" Druig humored her, acting like the numerous rude customers he'd seen her deal expertly with.
"Sadly, no," She matched his smile with a sigh, "Not only am I a waitress, but apparently I'm also a handyman."
His eyes trailed after her as she move away from him, so much so it caused him to spin in his stool and watch as she pushed randomly on the grungy jukebox. Druig wished he had the same ease with machines as Phastos did. He wasn't entirely useless with his hands, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to impress her. The thought alone was new for him. The desire to impress.
Before he could stop himself, he stepped in, "Mind if I take a crack at it?"
Her eyes flickered up from the machine up to him. She waved him over while backing away from the junk metal. He didn't know why, but he rubbed his hands together as if he was warming them. It was almost like a nervous tick as he crossed the space to stand next to her.
As she twisted her hair out of her face Druig caught a whiff of a very light scent of cocoa butter. They say smell is the strongest sense. Memory evoking even. But Druig couldn’t hold onto the fleeting feeling of deja vu he had as he moved to inspect the back of the machine.
"What is it that you do?" She asked from in front of him. He went into it with a confidence she wasn't expecting. As if he'd been around when the rusted metal was in its prime.
"Actually," He answered from behind the jukebox, peeking his head out to finish his response, "I'm looking for something new."
He was still in limbo, living his days out repetitively. He was a creature of habit, someone who had lived his life the same for as long as the celestials desired him to. Even now, in his so-called second, well third, chance he chose the comfort of routine. It wasn't hard to pick up the fact that Venus worked nearly every day. Always the early morning or late night shifts, with the rare lunch rush hour that was reserved for her double shifts. The days he went and she wasn't there, he didn't even bother to ask for her, let alone stay. The day would be spent waiting for the next.
"I mean if you manage to fix this I could put in a good word for you," She offered with furrowed eyebrows, trying to follow what exactly he was pressing and pushing, "A lot of men are looking for extra hands."
"Then the pressure is on," He joked easily.
The two were eating up this task. Taking their time in figuring it out. It was a mundane situation, nothing exciting happening other than the occasional thunder and occasional joking. It felt intensely natural and familiar.
Like jump-starting a car, he asked Venus to try turning it on a few times. It would play a record or two and then stop, needing to be turned off or unplugged and restarted before it continued to operate. After a few attempts, he realized that there were some parts that needed replacing. He wanted to extend his visits and now he had an excuse to. She said it herself, a man can only eat so many burgers. This was the low-hanging fruit and he was feeling greedy.
"We can pick up the parts and-
"Really, Druig?" A voice popped the very warm bubble the two others had created, "This is what you've been doing with your time off?"
Druig didn't even perk up at the voice, knowing sooner or later someone would be looking for him, "Kingo, I've missed you."
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ay0nha · 2 years
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Druig x POC!reader
I’ve yet to see any Druig x POC! reader....please tag me if you know of any!!! Idk if there are any out there and if I can’t find any....
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witchychanel · 2 years
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Phone Names
▪︎The Eternals▪︎
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Druig
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His phone: my beautiful beautiful Y/N 🥵
Your phone: Mister steal your food 🐿
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Makkari
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Her phone: My treasure 💍
Your Phone: speedy gonzoddess 🏃🏾‍♀️
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Ikaris
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His phone: my moon 🌙
Your Phone: my sunshine ☀️
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Ajak
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Her phone: mi amorrr (my lovee) 😻
Your phone: Mami sorry, mommy sorry 🛐
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Kingo
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His phone: the star of my life
Your Phone: my king-go
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Thena
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Her phone: my goddess
Your phone: my warrior goddess
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Gilgamesh
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His phone: my sweetheart
Your phone: sucker punch
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Sersi
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Her phone: darling 🥰
Your phone: bunny 🐇
☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆
Should I do Phastos and Sprite ??
Also Makkari's is named after speedy Gonzales.
And Druig is always eating 💀💀💀
•••°°°•••°°°•••°°°•••°°°•••°°°•••°°°
Who should I do next?
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witchychanel · 2 years
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Eternals
Preferences
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Phone Names
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witchychanel · 2 years
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I really wish people do their hw when writing Druig fics when talking about the genocide of Tenochtitlan. Because it did not take place in the Amazon.
It took place in Mexico.
Why Zoe said Amazon I will never know but it was in Mexico.
Which is some things I'm gonna be touching on in some Druig fics, when I do write for Latina readers.
As much as I love Druig....making them live in harmony...girl...naurr
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captainsimagines · 2 years
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dreaming in june || two
Summary: Alive for centuries, you’ve navigated this world in all its singularities, all its multitudes. You’ve avoided, intercepted, and learned the meaning of loss. At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.
Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader
Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals and iann dior ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National
Series / AO3 Link
(2/15)
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Warnings: mentions of genocide; canon-typical violence; mentions of blood and mild gore; tattoos?; past original male character introduction; discussions of infertility; death/resurrection; death by hanging; strong language; alcohol abuse — Please take these warnings seriously. I do not describe gory details, but it's still a lot.
Word Count: 9,400+
Author's Note: We still sad in here. But hey, gotta build a world! If this fic doesn’t show up because of any tags since the new update, I will also be posting this fic on AO3. My AO3 is @/byMoni. I do not have all my fanfics uploaded there for a reason, but it’s mainly the same masterlist. :) xxMoni
~
"History is violent. That's why they choose specific people to tell it."
~
1525 
     The trees sound different. They make this slight whistle noise, like a long melody that bumps off near the end, obstructed. But they speak kindly from what you hear, compliments and thank yous, and good nights. 
The air is fresher, too. There’s less people sharing the same area, less crowds, less everything. It’s a bittersweet reality, but it’s impossible not to notice. So you don’t revel in the feeling for much longer than you should. Too guilty. Druig says everyone will make this home soon enough. The word ‘home’ isn’t the right one, but you know what he means. 
When a home is lost, you must search for another. Another roof, another community, another feeling of normalcy. Anything. 
You shake your head, as if to do away with the sudden image of one man in particular, but it’s become increasingly difficult to do so. You long for the types of nightmares that are difficult to discern, where faces and names mash into an unrecognizable combination. At least those nightmares are easier to forget.
You slowly climb down from your favorite tree. It complains when you step on that wobbly branch, like you’re pulling on her ligaments, so you’ve made it a point to avoid it. You use the most sturdy branches, watching your palms and soles of your feet, until you’re back on the damp soil below. You pat its trunk gently, grinning as a vibrating hum greets your ears. 
The tribe is getting everything ready for tonight’s meal. The women are grinding the corn, the men are roasting the freshest vegetables they picked yesterday, and the children are running wild and lending a hand when told.
Druig hasn’t returned from his morning journey, but you don’t worry much. He mentioned how he was traveling farther than usual today. A neighboring tribe was offering their resources and were thinking of forming an alliance. They too were cast out of their land and traveled far. Druig says the more, the stronger. He promises he doesn’t mean war, just that more people helps our minds grow, our hearts to expand, and our community to flourish. 
It isn’t until after the meal that Druig returns, and he’s not alone. There are, maybe, sixty to seventy people following him. From their states of dress and language they are speaking, it’s obvious this tribe isn’t related to yours. But they walk with small smiles, bags thrown over their shoulders, children on hips. 
“They are good people,” Druig tells you privately, bowing his head. You glance outside your tent for another quick scan. The new guests are eating quietly. Their Chief oversees them, refusing a plate until all his people eat. 
“I am not disputing that,” you answer. Druig takes a moment, translating your words in his mind, then smiles. He catches a little sarcasm: you, of all people he knows, would never assume otherwise. 
Druig nods. “They only have one request.”
 Your eyebrows raise. “So soon?”
“It is a reasonable one. For them, at least,” Druig chuckles lowly and reaches for your hands. He holds them as he speaks. “They are for uniting our tribes. Their beliefs are much similar to ours. But they request a special union.”
“Ah, that kind of request.” 
It’s not a major surprise. As a princess, this has always been in your cards. You’re just happy it’s going to be with someone with similar beliefs, and not who your father was planning on. No matter how many times you tried to convince him that Spain was not a likely ally, he ignored the warnings. 
“You can always deny,” Druig clarifies. “The Chief’s son is near your age, slightly older, and I spoke with him on the journey back. His spirit sounds like yours.”
“Is he…?”
Druig shakes his head. No, he is not gifted like you. An ungifted paired with a gifted is a symbol of good luck, a healthy balance, a chance to obtain anything other than a perfect hundred percent. Druig looks pleased at the sound of your sigh of relief. 
“Shall I introduce you?” 
You breathe in deeply. “It is my duty.”
Before Druig steps out of the tent, he shoots you a determined stare. “You always have a choice.”
You only respond by nodding. Druig leaves you alone in the tent, head raised as he crosses over to the Chief and his son. You know you should restrain yourself, probably sit idly by and wait for their arrival, but the tension is making you go crazy. This is to be your husband, someone to share power with, share everything with. It’s mainly to unite the two tribes, to grow in number, to build a community where your culture isn’t abandoned or destroyed. Your main prospects back ‘home’ were minimal, some second cousins and Spanish generals, who your father was forcing upon you until his death. 
You shudder, the cool night air nipping at your cheeks. You don’t blame your father, not one bit — you genuinely believed the Spanish would back off as well. There were more of you than them, the council had a plan to expel them, and then it just… fell apart. 
There was so much chaos, so much blood, so much noise that you couldn’t concentrate. The wind was screaming at you to guide the people you had gathered one way, then the path closed, and it screamed at you to go another. You had met Druig only a few times before when he arrived years before the Spanish. He settled, became a friend and confidant, and never reached for the throne. His friends acted the same, but Druig was different. He promises, with all his being, that he has never influenced your mind or your father’s. And as weird as it sounds, he has a pout that makes you believe his word as sacred. 
Now, peeking through one of the tent’s flaps, you feel nothing but calmness. Because this isn’t some Spanish general who hasn’t bothered learning your language, or treating you with the respect bestowed upon you, or failing to promise peace — this man, who stands proud, who begins to strip his heavy layers, is perhaps one of the most beautiful men you have ever seen. And he jokes as he strips, nudging his friend’s shoulders as they tease him, speaking with and answering the children as they ask him what he is doing. He sheds his bottom layers, undergarments still on, and almost trips as he raises one leg. The Chief scolds him for being so clumsy, but Druig just smirks. The Chief’s son looks around to see if anyone caught his mistake, a nervous smile growing, and glances at your tent. He catches sight of half your face, smiles even wider, and then — well, that’s all you see before you quickly shut the flap and flush in your own embarrassment. 
A few more minutes pass before Druig enters first, leading the Chief and his son. The Chief bows his head, as do you. You hear a whistle, a little discomfort in your ears, and Druig breathes out low to signal he has finally finished connecting your mind with the new arrivals. It’s the only way you understand Druig and he understands you — it’s the only way he warned you beforehand what the Spanish were planning. 
“Princess,” the Chief starts, voice rumbling but with a controlled shake. He looks tired, but determined. You figure his voice shakes because of age only, not anything else. “I offer you my condolences. Although we suffer through similar situations, ours is nowhere near as brutal as what you and your people have experienced. Please, accept my gratitude for allowing my people to seek refuge here.”
The statement hurts because your pain does not outweigh anyone else’s. But you understand; you empathize. “We are all human. We have a common enemy, however. I am grateful you accepted our invitation.”
The Chief says nothing more, and instead instructs his son to step forward. His height overwhelms you — you reach the middle of his chest. 
He pauses, seemingly out of words as his mouth parts around no sound, a slight shuffle in his step. Finally, he clears his throat as if the words have suddenly settled on his tongue. 
“You are even more beautiful than Druig said. I’m glad to know he isn’t a liar.”
“And if he was? Would you risk the safety of your people, and mine, simply because I didn’t succeed with your expectations?”
He smiles slowly, wide, beautiful crinkles multiplying near his dark brown eyes. “Cunning, too.”
You feel yourself flushing, from your cheeks to your neck to your stomach. Druig and the Chief try to hide their smiles. 
“Princess,” he continues, bowing his head. “If you will have me, I will be honored to serve alongside you in protecting our people. Nothing would give me greater joy.”
The wind outside erupts in soft bristles, gleeful and excited. “May I?” you ask him, then the Chief. They both nod. You reach your left arm up slowly, fingertips at the ready and already tingling. The skin of his cheeks is warm and with enough concentration you can feel how fast his blood is pumping. You trace down to his chin, where his jawline is prominent and his chin dips slightly, a lovely dimple right in the middle. He had discarded most of his clothing before entering the tent, but he is still modest: the Chief explained that his son must present himself as he is, the way he was born. It allows for you to also feel his bare collarbones and shoulders, where his hair cascades even further down. Dark, with only a few waves, and there are sunspots on his broad shoulders. A hard worker. 
You rest your palm over his heart, closing your eyes to listen. His heartbeat, once erratic with nerves, has calmed almost immediately. That’s never happened before. 
He looks down, careful to not bend his neck, and whispers, ever so sweetly, “Sakari.”
His brown eyes meet yours when you open them. He’s nearly a foot taller, large and towering, but no one, not even the scariest creature on earth, could ever be so frightening when the dimple in his chin is as delicate as a lively willow. Your heart pumps off beat, and because your hand is still pressed on him, his does too.
“Sakari,” you repeat. He nods, as if he’s learning his own name for the first time too. Druig speaks within the back of your mind: Sweet… His name translates to ‘sweet’. 
Sakari stalls, a breath pushed from his chest. “You pronounce it… different.”
“I apologize—” you begin, but Sakari simply laughs.
“Please, say it again.”
“Sakari.”
“No, no. The end. You pronounce it strongly.”
You do. The soft R that falls from his lips is instead a stumbling D from yours. “Ari,” you say, and it sounds like ‘Ah-dee.’ 
“It is what you should call me,” Sakari, or now Ari, kindly insists. 
The wind howls with excitement. If you listen closely, you can hear gentle chants of approval. Even though Ari cannot hear them, it still embarrasses you. You clear your throat as an informal way of telling the outside to quiet down. “Ari,” you start, glancing at both the Chief and Druig before continuing. “I believe our union would benefit our people, as well as each other. I accept your proposal.”
A massive smile spreads across Ari’s face, but before you can marvel at it, he picks you up and twirls you in a giant embrace. You’re caught off guard, and you can vaguely hear the Chief scolding him, but you laugh loudly as you become a little dizzy. Ari puts you down, cheeks strained from his blushing. 
“I apologize,” he says, and wipes a quick hand over his face. “That was forward of me.”
“It is alright,” you mutter, flustered. There’s an awkward silence, like the Chief and Druig are third-and-fourth wheeling. Druig feels it and claps his hands together. 
“Excellent! Will tomorrow afternoon work well?” he asks.
It’s unspoken, but it works well. It works very well.
~
     “Ah!” 
It’s impossible not to scream as you jump from the cliff, hand intertwined with Ari’s and gripping tightly, even as you hit the water below. The two of you emerge already laughing, waterfall and everyone’s loud cheers piercing your ears. It’s a million rounds of congratulations and side ceremonies after the jump. It’s exhausting, but Ari’s so damn ecstatic and energetic as he makes his rounds to all your people that it’s plenty to boost your energy as well. 
It’s quite a magnificent feast: three different kinds of meats, freshly grown fruits and vegetables, and desserts made with fire. You smirk in your seat as you overhear some women speaking about how the vegetables weren’t supposed to be ready so soon, that it was practically impossible for them to taste this good. Druig chuckles beside you, but you know he’s also silently chastising you for rushing the harvest. 
So, what? The wedding was rushed. You needed food. Plain and simple. 
“Princess?”
The soft voice belongs to a girl who cannot be more than age ten. Her eyes are wide and dark, beautiful black hair brushed from her face and encased in a complicated braid. She wears a similar gown as all the other children — a comfortable nightgown of the sorts, but it’s more a ceremonial dress than for sleep. You hum low in response, turning to her with a bright smile. 
“I know we were told to make something for everyone to use,” she says, blushing, twiddling with an object behind her back. “But Ma told me that beautiful people always wear beautiful things. So we made this for you.”
She reveals the loveliest pair of bracelets you’ve ever seen. The beads are handcrafted, jade in color, and attached together with the thinnest of black rope. They must have been polished years before — they are so clear you can see the reflection of the fire pit in each bead. 
“The beads were Ma’s. But she does not wear them anymore.” Her small hand grabs yours from your lap and gently rolls the smallest of the bracelets onto your wrist. The beads are cold on your skin, and when you shake your wrist just a little they jingle the cutest tune. 
“I cannot accept this,” you say, but your bright smile is telling the little girl something completely different. 
“Ma said you would be happy. I am sorry you had to leave all of your jewelry behind when we left.”
You hadn’t really thought about it. You hadn’t really thought much about that night. You and your maids were barricaded in your bedroom and searching for a way out, not piling all your belongings into pouches. All you took with you were a few coins and a pair of earrings that you sold for seeds, clothing, and children’s shoes. 
“Thank you,” you whisper kindly. She smiles big, her two front teeth missing, and runs toward the fire pit, where Ari is conversing with his friends. She tugs at his long shirt, once and then twice, until Ari looks around before looking down. 
You imagine she gives him the same conversation. She slides the bracelet onto his wrist and cheers in place. You can’t help but laugh as he matches her excitement. Then next thing you know, Ari’s running to where you are seated. 
“Do we match?” is the first thing he proclaims, holding his wrist out, shaking it. You laugh and hold yours out as well, nodding with equal joy. 
“I have never gotten a gift before.”
Your heart clenches down on itself, banging hard against your sternum. You grip his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers until they start their own little, absent-minded dance. 
“What should we say it represents?” you ask. 
Ari purses his lips. “We can be common and say it represents love and family.”
You snort, “Too common.”
Ari laughs hard. “Or we can say it represents us as equals. Us as partners. To new beginnings.”
“Your first gift. It should be your choice.”
Ari smiles at that. He turns the bracelet over his wrist a few times, studying its intricate designs. He looks good in jewelry. Already you’re imagining him with earrings and a matching necklace. His wide chest would carry it beautifully. Finally, Ari bites his lip and nods. “I do not want to forget everything we left behind. We are all building a new life here. Together. But I do not want to forget everything we had. Who we were, who we left, who we lost.”
“So, remembrance? Memory?”
“A memorial.”
You hum. “These are quite pretty for a memorial. But a memorial sounds soooo serious,” you begin to tease, but Ari simply rolls his eyes and tugs you out from your seat. Before you can ask him what he’s doing, he grabs you around the waist, his front to your back, and twirls you around. Your legs flail helplessly. He doesn’t stop, not until you two make it back to the firepit, where you both collapse with equal dizziness and loud laughter. 
1526
     “Move it a little to the right.”
“Do I tell you how to hunt?”
“You are going to miss it.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know more than you, that is certain.”
Ari chuckles under his breath and resteadies his bow. His bracelet jingles a little as he does so. You instructed him to leave it in the tent before going hunting, afraid it’s quiet noise will still be audible to the toughest prey. Now you just watch as it slides up and down on his wide wrist. “I do not need to move it.”
You grin from ear to ear and watch as he also steadies his breathing. He looks so beautiful up in the trees — his hair has grown a few more inches since last year. The soft, orange glow of the rising sun brushes his cheeks and reflects off his skin. He’s glowing, figuratively and literally, and his fingers are so steady that you’re worried if he listens to your direction he’ll lose his grip. 
“Any day now.”
Ari huffs again, side-eyes you, focuses back on the elk, and in the very last second before he lets the arrow fly, he moves his bow a little to the right. The arrow hits the target. 
Ari clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”
You’re allowed to laugh loudly now — dinner for the next few days has been secured. Birds fly from their nests and squirrels race away from the noise. Ari stares wide-eyed but can’t contain his growing smile. 
Ari helps you down from the tree, catching you bridal-style once his own feet are planted on the soil. You don’t immediately jump from his arms, instead opting to let Ari carry you across the woods and to the dead elk. He sets you down, whistles, then bends to pat the elk’s stomach and smooth its fur. He thanks it, softly, and steps away when men arrive to carry it back to the tents. 
“You are lucky he got separated from his pack. They do not roam so closely to populated areas.”
“It is not luck. Poor circumstances,” Ari replies.
“It will feed everyone for days.”
“Would you like to take the next one?”
You scowl and Ari laughs. You don’t typically hunt. It’s not your thing, you don’t enjoy killing living beings, and your shot is a little rusty nowadays. 
“Do not worry then. I will take the next one… and the next one after that,” Ari teases, pulling you back into his warmth even after you shove him jokingly. He sets his bow to the strap hanging down his back and scoops your pinky finger with his. Intertwined, you walk back to your shared tent.
~
     “Acorns… No… Dirt.”
Ari bursts out laughing, rolling onto his back and tugging the blanket with him. He covers his eyes with both palms, shaking his head from side to side. 
His laugh cleanly constricts the naked confines of your beating heart, soothing it to wild extremes. It’s damn near poetic how calm you instantly feel when he releases that sound, or any noise he’s able to produce, really. Your heart pours gallons of blood into a pleasurable swell behind your ribs. Sometimes you wonder how they haven’t cracked from that pressure yet, all red and furious and delightful. 
Ari simply has to breathe and you surrender any and all inhibitions. 
“I do not know whether to be insulted or—”
“I would never insult you!”
“Dirt?” Ari repeats, belly laughs contagious. You roll onto your side and hide your face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. 
“Your eyes are the color of dirt. Am I not right?”
“I preferred the acorn comparison.”
You smile against his skin, embarrassed. “It is the closest color! When dirt is slightly wet—”
“Mud?” Ari exclaims, shocking you from the crook of his neck. He wrestles you until he gets the upper hand, 
“I would use every wonderful comparison in the world for your eyes,” Ari says as he dips down, slides his palm gently over your forehead and down, effectively telling you to shut your eyes. He kisses both your eyelids sweetly, grinning from ear to ear as you huff in annoyance. “To describe these cheeks,” he continues, pecking them softly as well. “Your ears.” Kiss. “Your neck.” Kiss, kiss. “Your nose.”
His kisses warmly tickle. He plants several more along both sides of your face, laughing along with you as you voiced your tiny discomfort. Finally, you shove him off until he freely goes. His hair was blocking your peripheral vision; the soft candlelight from outside is starting to fade but you can still hear some people having late dinner near the fire pit. The glow travels through the thin material of your tent, illuminating your tiny space. It’s one of your favorite things about this time of night: the glow always seems to paint Ari’s skin the softest orange, the most delicate red, the most intense purple. 
“Ari?”
“Yes, my love?”
You brace yourself before you ask, twiddling with your thumbs and focusing on the orange glow. “Do you want children?”
Ari smiles, a teasing twinkle in his eye. “Are you asking me if I would like to create life with you?”
“My grandmother cautioned me about it,” you admit, sitting up on your elbows. Ari furrows his eyebrows and turns fully toward you.
“About what?”
“Druig has not told you, has he?”
“Druig has not told me anything you have not told me.”
You hesitate. There’s always the possibility that Ari will take this badly, as your father did. He can side with the white demons who came onto your lands and preached this type of magic was witchcraft, ignoring the very fact their so-called savior has apparently healed the blind, turned water into wine, and walked over water. Ari can do everything you’re terrified of. Or, he can do as your mother did. He can see the natural beauty of such a power, one not many through your generations have been graced with, and work to understand it as it benefits both you, him, and anyone in need of help. So you swallow the hesitation, always prepared for the worst, and tell him. 
“I am one with the earth.”
Ari chuckles low, “We are all one with the earth.”
“Yes, in some ways. But I can hear her.”
His eyebrows scrunch up again. “You have a gift-gift?” He’s surprised but curious — he’s only heard the tales. Humans beings with magical abilities specifically chosen to help the earth and those who walk with her. It’s almost impossible to fully believe, but Ari, with all his child-like emotion and imagination, doesn’t believe you’d ever lie to him.  
You nod slowly, unsure of how to present the truth. Ari waits patiently, slightly tilting his head in a gesture that asks you to elaborate. It’s now or never really, and if you want to learn more about yourself and your power, it’ll be much easier to do it with Ari by your side, knowing all. 
You lift yourself until you’re sitting up, and breathe in gently. There’s space on the ground, and since the floors are dirt it will be simple to show him here, away from any prying eyes. The whole tribe didn’t have to know about your gift unless it was absolutely necessary — Druig had advised you of that. He says he has seen first-hand how humans react to gods and their power, and that it will bring you nothing but celebrity status that ultimately makes you an unwanted savior. 
Lifting your hand in the air, you softly move your fingers until you feel it spark within you — that whole sensation that lightly numbs your fingertips and makes your blood grow warmer. The veins of your hand protrude only little until discoloration takes over, long tattooed vines stemming from your cuticles, to your wrist, to the middle of your forearm, and so on. The swirls of each green vine reach the base of your neck. Then, in one fluid motion, you turn your hand over, palm out, and curl your fingers one-by-one. 
The ground rumbles, but it’s only detectable if one has their eyes locked on that certain spot. Brown roots expand quickly, turning a lighter brown until they begin adding height, turning green, extending their leaves and branches with every finger you curl. The plant mimics a small bush, not more than a new tree, but when you suddenly uncurl your index and swipe it up with the rest of your tattooed arm, the bush explodes with bright colors. 
Flowers. They’re closed, and then they’re not, and then they’re blooming. 
Ari sits wide-eyed, mouth slightly parted in shock. Once you pull your arm back into yourself, he watches as the green vines descend and loop into each other. It’s mesmerizing. You remember the look of absolute shock Druig and his friends had when you showed them, too. 
Ari sighs, reaches for your arm, scoots himself slower. His smile is slow forming, but as he cups his warm hands over your cheeks, you can feel his positive astonishment radiating. “A treasure.”
“It does not hurt anyone—”
He looks startled for a second. “Why would you assume I thought that?”
“My father did not take kindly to it.”
“With just a look and a dance of your wrist, you have created life,” Ari says, breathing out a powerful puff of air. His smile grows bigger. He removes his hands from your face until they’re simply hovering. “Mother Earth has chosen you to heal her.”
“Perhaps.” You reach for his hands, then hold them, overturned. Ari hooks his pinky with yours. “But my grandmother cautioned that my unique ability may prevent me from bringing life into this world naturally.”
“And I would not love you less if her caution proved a rightful warning.”
“You would still love me,” you say, but it comes out as more of a question. 
“There are children here who ask for our attention all hours of all day,” Ari smiles, swiping the pad of his thumb along your bottom lip as you chuckle. “There are children from elsewhere that we will stumble upon, in need of help, in need of a home.” He does the same swipe again, but this time for his own selfish enjoyment. “You are my home.”
1527
     “I was forced to learn. I do not find enjoyment in it.”
Ari sighs and goes to sit beside you, crossing his legs. He tilts his head down and tries to catch your eye from below but you won’t budge. He dips lower, his hair falling over his eyes but that doesn’t stop him. He dips lower and lower until his head falls into your lap. Your stomach flips cheerfully.
You can’t help the involuntary chuckle his sudden mass expels from you, and you find yourself instinctively running your fingers through his long hair. He hums deep in his throat from the feeling. 
Finally, after a few minutes of simply falling deeper into the calmness, you speak again. Timidly, but still. “Why do you want to do this?”
Ari shuffles a little in your lap. His eyes are closed as he responds. “Because dancing is not only a demon activity.”
You smirk and shake your head. “I meant,” you pause, taking a strand of his hair and twirling it around your index finger. “Why do you want to dance slowly with me? We have our own dancing and music.”
“You must understand I do not want to wash away our dances. I simply want to try this form of dancing with you.”
“It is not ours.”
Ari sighs and slowly rises from your lap. “You are not betraying anyone by swaying closely with me. It is our life. And if I want to hold you close and take two steps to the right, then back, and up, I will.”
You raise an eyebrow. 
“Besides,” Ari continues. “They probably stole this form of dancing from another anyway.”
You cover your mouth to stifle a loud laugh. Ari tries also considering it’s very late, but he stifles it by leaning into your body and nuzzling his face in your neck. 
“I will dance with you,” you say, grinning madly at how quickly Ari moves to stand the two of you up. He shuffles around trying to get into a proper position, holding his arms out like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s only seen this performed once and another as a still-drawing. 
“This hand here,” you instruct, placing his left hand around your waist. He wiggles his eyebrows jokingly, which earns him another laugh out of you. “And this one in mine.”
You place your right hand on his left shoulder. 
“Why am I allowed to touch you but you are not allowed to touch me?”
You shrug lightly. “I do not know. I believe your hand is supposed to be higher up on my back, though.” Ari catches your teasing tone and purposely lowers his hand until he gently palms the right side of your bottom. You wiggle away but he insists, palming harder. 
“Do you want to learn the dance or not?” you say in between laughter. He surrenders, muttering ‘okay, okay’, then forces his face to go serious. 
“A smile would suffice.”
Ari groans, “Start swaying!”
The two of you move opposite ways, realize your mistake, and end up crashing into each other. It continues like this for most of the night, until finally it becomes easier, less rushed, and natural. The two of you twirl dramatically and sway all across the tent, forcing each other to keep your laughter on a low volume and apologizing every few minutes for stepping on the other’s feet. Ari has to stop and pull his hair up when he begins to sweat, but he isn’t tiring. 
And he looks so happy. Truly, brilliantly, happy. 
~
    “I would not be asking you to do this if I did not need your help!” Druig exclaims, cheeks red. He’s scared. Worried. He hasn’t shown these emotions since Tenochtitlan was invaded; since he found you leading a small group of scared townspeople through the woods. 
“You are asking me to make friends with the enemy. To create a treaty in which they will not follow! You have seen this happen countless times before! Why are you asking me to do it again?”
Druig opens his mouth to yell again, but your words smack him senseless. He chokes on whatever words he was about to speak, seemingly second-guessing his whole argument. 
“You cannot expect me to go along with this.”
“I cannot influence them, Princess.”
“And why not? You did it before.”
“Because I cannot influence or change evil!” Druig explains, and looks to the skies. He’s biting his tongue now but you can see he’s struggling. “I cannot hold their minds for the rest of their lives. We can only lead them out and hope they do not interact with others who are less fortunate.”
“And why not just give them what they truly want?”
“Princess, you speak nonsense—”
“It is why they are at our borders. It is why they chose that night to attack. It is why they were screaming my name—”
Druig steps forward, determined, and holds your hands in his. He’s shaking, growing angrier by the second, but not at you. Never at you. Because of humanity in general. “I will protect you and our people until my last dying breath. You are one of the only good human beings in my thousands of years that I have come across. I will not lose you to their greed.”
His eyes are watering, frustrated tears threatening to topple over. You bite your bottom lip. “I am a witch.”
“You are not associated with any dark magic they claim you call upon.”
You bow your head in defeat. This is a conversation you’ve had multiple times, even before the collapse. You really only have two options: stay and hope these invaders honor the treaties set forth, or stay and fight to protect your new home. The invaders are getting closer, the trees have whispered their presence, and they know you are settled close. Druig believes they are waiting to attack. He’s past assuming they are nearing to negotiate. But the tribe has taken a vow of non-violence, so for the respect of your people, non-violent solutions have been explored first. 
But conversations with the Spanish have never not been bloody. “Druig… creating another treaty will do nothing.”
“Then we must fight.”
“With what army? With what weapons?”
“I can destroy them all. One look and I can make them turn their guns on each other.”
“And what comes next? Another army comes because this one did not write back to Europe. The more armies you destroy with your one look will make all of Europe see us as the evil ones. You Druig, as much as I see you right now, do not exist in their worlds. You are not real. They will blame us. Only us.” It’s the damning truth. It feels horrible sliding off your tongue. “We cannot win. We are millions strong but with their influence and their disgusting ideals they will prosper because they are the ones who write history.”
Druig clenches his teeth, jaw moving. He knows he should have had this conversation with the Chief present. Then it would be two against one. “So you are suggesting we run away.”
“We will lose a lot more of our people if we stay and fight.”
“Then use your power.”
You shake your head, stunned. “What about my power?”
“You can use it, no? You can overpower them and—”
“I have never used my power to hurt anyone,” you whisper, putting a bold emphasis on the word ‘never’.
Druig balls his fists by his sides. “These people are not ‘anyone’. You know this.”
He’s not wrong. But it’s true what you’ve said. You have never used your power more than necessary. You have never abused such a gift to take life away or to smother it. You don’t think you’d know how. “I do not even know if I can.”
“Then… Princess,” Druig pauses, rolling the restricted words over on his tongue. He doesn’t want to say it, but he must. “You stay and fight. No treaty. I will get everyone to safety.”
“And Ari.”
Druig nods, sure in his answer this time. “I will make sure he is safe with everyone else.”
“If I cannot do this...”
“I will return to your side. I promise.”
~
    “You must tell me. I cannot let you go alone and face something you will not tell me about!”
“Ari—”
“No. Do not say my name like that. Do not say my name so lovingly just to leave me in the end.” Ari’s eyes water with unshed tears, his hands shaking by his side. 
You’re soft-spoken as you continue. “I will never leave you so.”
“Then you must tell me where Druig is sending us. Why are you not coming with us?”
Druig promised he wouldn’t interfere with their minds. The next best thing was to influence the minds of everyone here, to guide them to temporary safety as you tried to convince the invaders that they had fled. Never once have you used your power for violence. But tonight, even if you feel sick to your stomach, you must try. “I have the power to stop them.”
Ari shakes his head, pouting hard. It creates these downward wrinkles by his mouth and goddamn do you love when they turn upward instead. “Fighting this enemy ? Again? Have you lost your mind?”
Your mouth parts with an unspeakable word. Slowly, all languages are starting to become hard. But you produce what you can. Your hands are also shaking. “I think so.”
“We do not have the weapons! We do not have enough people to go against them.”
“That is why Druig is leading you and everyone else away. They will not hurt me. I cannot get hurt so easily.”
Ari’s face contorts as if the air that has entered his lungs has just broken his ribs and he’s fighting to set them back into place. “You are asking me to turn my back on you. To leave you here where they will hurt you, but not so easily?”
“What matters is that our people are safe.”
“And do you not count?” Ari nearly exclaims, walking to you bravely. He goes to cup your cheeks, first hovering like he’s afraid you’d crumble under his touch. Finally, as if he desperately needs to feel the warmth of your flesh, he cups them fiercely. He holds you there, squishing harder on accident but with bold purpose. He shakes your head as he speaks. “Do not let me leave you.” He sucks in a harsh breath, his bottom lip trembling. “I would not bear it.”
He seems to crumble as your own tears fall quickly, soaking his fingers. A broken sob cracks in his throat. You feel your eyes swell, a blinding headache forming.
Even though it hurts to speak because of the tight coil choking you, you try your hardest to reassure him. “You will not travel far. Druig will return to help me. But he must lead everyone out safely first.”
“I will return with him.”
“Ari, please—”
He holds your face tighter, and with a plea doused in hopelessness, he rests his forehead on yours. “You cannot change my mind. I will return with Druig. I will always help you fight. You and me… we are only the beginning.”
You try to pull away, gripping his wrists to push him back, but he holds strong. “Do you hear me?”
Slowly, you nod against him. His nose nudges yours, equally as damp, then it nudges your cheek until he tilts his head down more, connecting his trembling lips with yours. “You wait for me, do you hear me? My dream, my spirit, my love — you hear me.”
He’s no longer asking: he’s confirming.
~
     “Alone at last!” 
As if luck is finally on your side, you managed to persuade the Chief without the use of Druig’s mind. You had promised that Druig’s magic would only ensure safe and orderly passage, and that he and Ari would remain unaffected. Reluctantly, the Chief agreed. And with a long, disappointed look, asked why your pride must outrank everyone else's. 
Your people are safe. You finally did it. Your people are safe. There are excited whispers being spread through the trees. Your people are safe. 
You turn to the man a few steps away from you, anger pouring through your expression as you clench your teeth hard. The nearby fire is starting to blister your skin. It’s tearing your heart out to witness yet another destruction of something you had taken so long to achieve. 
“Oh, you remember me! That’s good.”
Of course you remember him. 
You remember him as the man who arrived with thousands on various ships — Rodrigo Graciano. A mouthful of a name you had joked once. You remember him as the man that sweet-talked your mother and betrayed your father. You remember him as the man who threatened to destroy your life if you warned your father. You remember him as the man who stood on the steps of your home, watching as chaos ensued and a civilization of millions was torn to shreds, literally, in one night. 
The form of his hand around your mother’s throat. His boisterous laugh as he picked off the children. His wicked smile that turned too far out, unnatural in its upward state, when he watched you escape.
“Why must you destroy everything you come across?” you say, accent thick as you try to speak the language they had forced upon you. Without Druig’s powers, you’re forced to understand him only to the best of your ability. 
“Destroy?” Graciano yells, arms extended. He circles, turning in place as he jokingly marvels at his handiwork. “I have only led biblical revolutions. And those who fall in line realize that leading a civilized life is worthy of Heaven.”
You scoff, “You cannot honestly believe you would enter the kingdom of Heaven with your wickedness.”
He stops, startled. He takes a deep breath before he shouts, “You dare doubt God?”
“I doubt any man who dares speak for their God.”
He clenches his jaw, working it over as if he’s biting his tongue. Half of Graciano’s men merely watch, the other half setting fire to nearby tents. They’re angry; it’s obvious from the insults they’re spitting, as well as the actual spit they aim at the ground.
“Perhaps I will not kill you so quickly. You were promised to me long ago,” he says, glancing at your body. He clicks his tongue, motioning some of his men forward. 
That does it. You shoot out your hand, twisting your wrist harshly, until the nearby tree branches extend far enough to wrap around the legs of the men you can see. The branches carry them off the ground, some men taken by both their arms and legs. The ground rumbles furiously, roots sprouting and branches cracking. 
Graciano looks at the chaos behind him, eyes wide with fear. And just to rightfully scare the living hell out of him, you let the branches carry one of his men far above the ground, spread and at your mercy, until you quickly swipe your hand and let the branches tug at his limbs with full force. 
It’s the most brutal thing you’ve ever witnessed. It mirrors a horrid, ritualistic sacrifice. But the images are compiling to an unhealthy height. All you see are these men torturing your people. 
So you lift your palm again, the green imprints on your skin now reaching your left cheek, and allow the branches to wrap their necks, stab their spines, and pull until they break. Their screams are mere distant wails for you, as if figurative. 
“Witch…”
A sharp pain explodes in your chest. The trees abruptly stop, twisted in the position you left them. You look down slowly, confused, and see a wooden arrow pierced directly through your heart. The tip extends far beyond your skin, tainted red. You turn around and see Graciano standing there, a smile on his face but frightened nonetheless. He has your bow and arrow near his hip now. He must have escaped your peripheral as vengeance consumed you.
You reach up and wrap your small hand around the arrow, tugging it forward until it slips through the hole in your skin. It leaves a sickening, empty void in your chest. It almost mimics the feeling of having to vomit. Your head starts to feel heavy and your breaths are coming shorter. A scream abrupts somewhere near, a heart-wrenching one; a scream that makes your pierced heart beat one last time.
Shooting out your arm, the branches off to the side twist quickly and form into a bow instantaneously. The silky roots form the string. You snap the creation off the main tree, center your shot, and shoot the same tainted arrow at Graciano’s chest.
You’ve always been a good shot — you just don’t like to brag.
He falls before you do.  
~
     You awaken with a quick wince. There’s a stabbing pain in your chest and in your stomach. Your memories are scattered and the trees are no help — they’re frantic, screaming, boisterous in your ears. Your wrists pulse with pain as you lift yourself up, head swimming and vision cloudy. Your dress is wet; your cheek is wet; your hair is matted. Blinking doesn’t help as fast you would like it to. 
You sit up and palm at your chest, smoothing over the sore area with a grimace. You can’t hear anything from the nearby tents or down at the river. There’s nothing remotely signaling life besides the whistle of the trees. There aren’t even birds singing.
Something splatters on the top of your head. Then two more drops. Wet dress and wet cheeks — rain, crying. But the ground in the middle is dry and drops are still falling. Dirt and iron fill your nostrils. 
Turning upwards and over your shoulder, your lip starts to tremble. Your eyes fill with burning tears, squinting as if to shield you from what’s in the skies. 
His beautiful face droops a little; his eyes are lifeless, staring down at you, and his hair caresses his sunken cheeks. It couldn’t have been long, but it has been too long for him; the rope around his neck has already created a horrible purple imprint in his brown skin.
A gut-wrenching scream tears from the pit of your empty chest, along the sides of your dry throat, and roars through the land. You scream loud and deep, one right after the other, eyes burning with rapid tears. You make the massive mistake of inhaling a deep breath as it rocks your body upward, making you lift your head to more than just Ari’s direction. It’s a horrid circle, filled with hanging bodies, and you’re at the center of it. 
The ground rumbles: stray roots uproot in awkward directions, snapping and twirling through each other until they lay dormant at your feet. They try to cover you, as if to provide a blanket, but it startles you. Leaves fall from the trees, dying before they hit the floor. The roots poke and prod, pinching your soft flesh. With each scream you voice, more roots appear. You stare down at them once the horror shocks you enough to look away from the bodies. But you don’t know what’s worse: the sight of them hanging or the revelation that your dress is covered in blood rather than water, that your cheeks are smeared with it also. 
The ground shakes as one of the tallest trees falls just inches from you, growing silent as the others grow loud. They’re begging you to stop: it’s killing them. But it’s impossible — the sounds don’t stop. You can go on and on until your chest explodes, you can feel it. There’s no point at an end anymore anyway. You don’t want to reach for it. 
The hours pass, the screams fade, and the life around has started to turn orange and brown. 
You don’t get it. There’s no possible explanation as to why you’re still alive. And if this is the result, it must mean Ari did come back for you.
They did this on purpose. With malicious intent and cruel purpose. You call out for Druig even if your voice is ragged and raw. You palm at your chest again, searching for the bleeding wound you were sure you had. You felt it pierce skin, you felt it go through an artery, you felt each horrid indent along the wooden spine as you pulled it out. You scream Druig’s name louder but still, nothing. There’s no one left, no one around. Everyone who came back to help met their fates in this circle. It doesn’t warm your heart at all knowing Ari came back with extra help — in fact, it rips whatever remaining shreds are left. He could have ran, he could have saved himself, he could have lived. He was supposed to live long, see more magic than you would ever be able to conjure, raise children of his own — he was supposed to live. But he’s hanging over you with life drained from his eyes. His wonderful brown eyes. And you weren’t even awake to save him.
There’s nothing you can do now. Cut them down? Bury them and move on? This wasn’t just some other conquest — it never is, but that’s how history will tell it. The people who destroyed the lives of everyone you loved will twist the story and paint this as some unfortunate event. That’s exactly what history is: the Crusades, Christopher Columbus, the attacks on impoverished peoples, the genocide of people different from others. All of it, all that Druig has told you, has been twisted for the benefit of those doing the killing. History is violent. That’s why they choose specific people to tell it. 
You can’t control the whimpers you expel. Slowly, the roots shielding your body rest back on the ground. You nod at them, broken, and lay back down. 
Tucking your knees into your chest and your hands below your stained cheek, you allow the roots to cover you and press down. It’s a gentle pressure, but it’s efficient. Your breathing gets slower, all by your own account, until the earth swallows you in a mournful hug.
1600
     It’s silent. The trees aren’t making much noise. There are slight bristles of leaves and a few branches cracking, but it’s otherwise quiet. 
Your head feels incredibly heavy — pin pricks stab your temples and behind your eyes. It takes a moment to realize you’re face down with a lovely aroma digging into your nostrils. It’s still spring, it seems. 
The second you lift your head to the sky you regret it. The sudden memories come rushing back. What you will see, what you could have prevented, what shouldn’t have happened. 
But there’s nothing here. His beautiful body isn’t hanging from that tree. The ropes are gone. No one is here.
With a great deal of pain, you force yourself to stand. Your dress is ripped, practically shredded, and you’re covered in dirt. Your lips tremble as you try and prevent hyperventilating. 
“Ari?”
This doesn’t make sense. You just went to sleep. That’s all it was. You’ll walk back to the tents and hear music playing, you’ll see this week’s hunt cooking fresh, you’ll hear the joyful sound of conversation. 
And Ari will be in your tent, pricking himself with a sharp bone as he attempts to finish your sewing. He has to be. He’ll be there waiting, that wonderful smile on his face, a joke on the tip of his tongue, pinky finger intertwining with yours.
“Druig?”
But it’s too quiet. And the trees hum low, sorrowful. 
You look around again, just in case, before you swallow the lump in your throat and let the trees guide you to the nearest body of water.
2024
     The satchel across your shoulder is digging into the exposed skin near your neck. You move the strap outward repeatedly, curses muttered underneath a quiet breath. 
The world is quiet today. Which is a massive relief — this is the one century that’s been the loudest. You’d take French Revolutions and the Great Depression over aliens falling from the sky any day. And isn’t that a riot and a half? 
You pull your keys from the depths of your satchel, flinging them around your index finger. Thoughts of a hot bubble bath and a nice, warm meal are halted when you stop abruptly, staring down the massive lump taking a nap outside your door. You look up at the ceiling, curses muttered louder now, until you finally study the obstacle in your way. 
You look down at Bucky Barnes, who reeks of some vodka-champagne infusion, you can’t really tell, and sigh. It’s the third time this month. 
He looks messy, tired bags underneath his eyes, beard coming in thick again. But still, that fine line of his nose makes you take pity on him. You don’t understand why that is. You’ve just always wanted to run your finger down it. 
“James,” you say, and gently kick the front of your boot into his thigh. “Get up.”
Bucky groans, his closed eyes clenching even tighter. 
“James,” you repeat, digging your boot deeper. 
Here’s the thing about Bucky Barnes: once he’s out, he’s out. One sip of that Asgardian liquor and he’s not waking up until a crisp twenty-four hours later. He drank Thor’s “gift” the night Steve left, a week after to cope when it got a little too lonely, and a few times a few weeks ago. But he has a good reason, he swears — Sam got hurt on a mission and Bucky wasn’t allowed in the hospital room. Mismatched or outdated credentials, they said. So he was stuck obtaining information on Sam from other primary sources. He may have also hacked into the hospital’s system but that’s really not the point. He’s had a shitty few months, why blame him?
This time, however, well, you don’t really know what his reason is.
“Okay,” you sigh. You squeeze your feet between Bucky and the door, working the key in the lock as quickly as you can. Once the door unlocks, you push it open and step through before you lose balance. Bucky still hasn’t moved to stand, but he has started moaning. 
You work your jaw, annoyed, and give up. You set your things down on the nearby counter and go to lift the bulky obstacle at your doorway. Hooking your arms beneath his armpits is easy to do once you flip him onto his back. He’s hard to drag but you manage to pull him across the living area and to your couch. There, you bend your knees and lift his upper body onto the couch first, groaning in discomfort as his weight kills your lower back. Once Bucky looks semi-comfortable you lift his legs as well. His boots are a puzzle, however — Bucky ties his laces like he’s afraid the boots will magically fly off. The loops are insane, and it actually makes you chuckle quietly to yourself. 
The boots come off after a difficult five minutes. You set them to the side and go retrieve a blanket from the closet. Bucky’s feet poke out the end no matter how you arrange it: either half his chest is exposed or his feet. You choose to warm his chest. 
You bend down to your knees and brush strands of hair from his face. His hair is growing long again. It reaches his ears. 
“I’ll have coffee ready when you wake up.”
Slowly, you stand and continue your nightly routine like your next door neighbor isn’t sleeping off a hangover on your couch. But he isn’t just a regular neighbor, right? An Avenger. Retired, but it doesn’t change the weirdness of it. 
It gets annoying after a while when you have to play nurse to someone who doesn’t really talk to you all that much. But Sam has asked very nicely. And Sam Wilson was too much of a good man to refuse.
The sound of the shower doesn’t wake him up. Neither does the ruckus of the pots and pans in the kitchen. You make enough enchiladas for two people: slightly-fried tortillas, stripped chicken, salsa, chopped onions, and cheese all stacked in a square tray and popped into the oven. The grease that splattered onto the counter is an annoying clean, but it’s enough to occupy your mind. 
Once dinner is done, you serve yourself and get comfortable in the single chair beside the couch, knees tucked up so your feet warm up underneath you, television at the lowest volume. You should try waking Bucky up again. He probably drank that alien liquor on an empty stomach. 
But you decide against it. Last time Bucky wrapped his metal arm tightly around your neck and nearly flung you across the room. He almost drank himself dead afterward, even after you assured him you were okay. 
Instead, you turn off the lights and leave Bucky on the couch, his eyes fluttering aimlessly behind closed eyelids.
~
xxMoni
~
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~
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