BEAUTIFUL CENTURIES ; d.
part two ; centuries we don’t have
pairing(s): druig x asgardian!reader
warnings: maybe some mild spoilers for the eternals (i really don’t think i actually have any spoilers, but i just want to be safe), a timeline that’s all over the place because i’m mixing the comics and mcu dates
a/n: so… ya girl watched the eternals last night… and yes, druig and makkari did basically grab me by the throat. They’ve probably become the sole reason im reviving my actual writing on this tumblr, so any of yall who want makkari and/or druig fics, feel free to send them in <3
The first time you meet Druig, you would hardly call yourself beautiful.
That isn’t to say you don’t deem yourself attractive, of course - it’s just that there’s a dismembered Deviant lying at your feet, and you suspect that maybe some of the blood and gore extended beyond the lower half of your armor. So one can imagine your surprise when the train of your thoughts in the aftermath of the battle are interjected by a low, “Hello, beautiful one.”
You turn around.
If you were a poet, perhaps this would be the moment to inspire your works for the centuries to come. The moment you lock eyes with the man in red and black standing across the field, the way his lips tilt upwards when he knows you’ve seen him, the startled laugh that escapes you when the words beautiful one register.
But you are not a poet. You are simply an Asgardian - and he is Druig, the Eternal.
You hadn’t seen him during the battle, but from you know of the Eternals (admittedly, not too much), you understand that it doesn’t diminish his strengths towards the group. Five fighters, five thinkers is a mantra often heard amongst them.
“You are Druig,” you say, stepping over what you think used to be a Deviant arm.
“You know me.” By now, his smile has settled into more of a… smirk. Mischievous. Teasing. Amused? Either way, it holds until you are within a breadth of him and your weapon is sheathed at your side. “But I don’t know you,” he continues, and then there it is again. “Beautiful one. You came with the Asgardian king?”
By now, you understand that your king is already making himself known to the matriarch of the Eternals herself. In a way, the woman reminded you of your queen, raised and borne of witches, warm as the sun but cunning as a snake.
“I did,” you confirm. When you tell him your name, you find yourself revelling in the way it feels in the air between the two of you as he says it - the way the syllables roll off his tongue.
Beautiful, beautiful one.
The second time you encounter Druig, he presents you with one of Idunn’s golden apples. To this day, you still have no idea how he acquired such a thing, although you suspect it may have something to do with the friendship he’d been able to maintain with Loki over the centuries.
“Hello, beautiful one.” This time, you don’t startle at the sound of his voice - although it is much closer than the first time, spoken at a low murmur right by your ear that you can still hear clear as day, even with all the revelries taking place in the tavern you’re both in. You turn your head just slightly and there he is.
“Hello, Druig.” This time, you’re out of your armor, and he dons local-wear in shades of black and grey fitting him in a way that does make your mouth run dry for a moment. You still indulge him in the best smile that you can, even as you take a sip from the mug of ale beside you. “How kind it is for an Eternal to grace a mere warrior with his presence.” It’s all in good jest. It always is.
He tuts anyway, reaching into his robes for… something, even as his eyes never leave your face. “I think we’ll have none of that now. Besides, I hear you’re moving up in the world, babysitting that prince of yours.” When you dig an elbow into his side for that comment, he only laughs again. “Guarding,” he corrects.
“That’s more like it,” you affirm, stopping to raise your mug as Thor makes another rambunctious announcement for cheers. Teenagers. By the time you’re back to focusing on Druig, the hand that had been withdrawn into his robes is back out, presenting you with a perfectly round, perfectly golden, apple. The startled laugh that you let out isn’t unlike the one you’d given him during your first meeting, and you accept the offer with a slightly reserved glee. “And how did you acquire this?” you ask him, admiring the apple in your eye and pressing your lips to it before taking a bite.
“Does it make me the apple of your eye?” The one-liner is enough to get you to choke on the apple for a moment, and Druig graciously allows you the dignity of a recovery before he continues. “It is said that those apples are the source of the Asgardians’ immortal youth and beauty. Is that true?”
You quirk an eyebrow at him as you take another bite, humming contemplatively. “Is this your way of saying you’d like me to be more beautiful?”
“Oh, beautiful one, never.” He even puts a hand over where his heart would be. “I don’t think I could handle that.”
“Mmm. That wasn’t a bad save on your end, Druig.” You catch the way his gaze flickers from the apple, then to your lips. You hold the apple out to him. “Would you like to try a bite, then?”
When he doesn’t say anything, you shake it lightly in front of his face. “This isn’t an offer made lightly.” it’s enough to break him out of his trance, because he smirks again and settles into his seat more comfortably, giving you a slight nod but grasping your wrist when you try to hold the apple out to him.
That’s not how I want to taste it.
It’s the first time you hear him in your head - and really, you shouldn’t be so startled. It’s not as if you don’t know the things he can do, haven’t seen him bring human conflicts to a standstill with a mere thought. And you can feel him in your head, too, sometimes, never prodding, never prying, just… there.
You like it, you think.
So does he.
Before he can close the distance between the two of you - before you can invite him to bridge the gap, you hear Thor call your name with a raucous laugh, mug raised to the heavens, inviting with a “Come drink with us!”
To Druig, you offer a shrug and an impish grin of your own, rising from your seat and offering him a bow as you make to leave. “Duty calls, then.” Rather than look upset, he just plucks the apple from your hands, eyes never leaving yours while he takes a generous bite.
Then one of the Warriors Three has you by the arm, the same time that you see one of the other Eternals bids Druig to rise - Kingo, you recognize, and he says something to Druig that has him scowling and shrugging his grip off as his cheeks redden slightly.
You feel his gaze on you for the rest of the night.
By now, this isn’t even the third encounter you’ve had with Druig - not even the fourth, the fifth, even the hundredth. You lose track by now, centuries blurring together. Centuries of Heimdall keeping a watchful eye out, telling you where Druig has landed himself, where to go when he opens the Bifrost for you. Centuries of meetings (hardly clandestine) as Thor distracts his father from the fact that his loyal bodyguard is almost nowhere in sight, of Loki conjuring mirages of you that get better by the decade, of Lady Sif and her Warriors Three making false alibis for you, of your queen giving you a knowing look whenever she passes you by.
You know how you must look, trekking through the Amazon rainforest and into the now-familiar encampment. You pay no heed to the stares that some of the men and women pin you with as you pass, don’t think twice about the golden glow in their eyes that flashes and passes.
When you reach the building at the opposite end of the encampment, you don;t even enter. Part of you isn’t even sure you have the energy to open the doors, so you just settle at the foot of the wooden doors and lean against one.
The door to your left opens not a minute later, and in your peripheral vision, you see Druig standing there, clad in dark pants and a sleeveless grey top. He crouches next to you, bumping his shoulder against yours affectionately, and you pretend like that will be enough to make you keel over, swaying to the side in a dramatic motion.
“Oh, stop that.” When he steadies you, there’s no real bite to it. “And not even a hello for me, beautiful one?” You sigh, as though burdened greatly.
“Hello.” He presses his forehead against yours and you smile a smile that feels more real than anything you’ve mustered over the past few days. You feel him squeeze your arm, and you don’t tense, but when his hand goes over a fresh injury over your ribs that has not healed, it earns him a loud “ow” and a slap to the shoulder. “You’re a fiend,” you start.
“You’ve been in battle,” he says, and truly, your lover is brilliant. Astounding. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“Only in my heart,” you jest, and it partially works because you see his lips quirk up before he settles back in a more serious expression. He waits for you to continue, and he doesn’t even need to use his abilities to know that there is more on your mind that you want to say. “We lost,” you begin to say, and his eyebrows shoot up, because he knows you and you never lose a battle. There have been so many fights to be fought, and none to lose.
“The Dark Elves,” you manage to continue, and the two words sit heavy in your throat, like they’re trying to choke you before you can finish what you want to say. “Queen Frigga was killed. So was Prince Loki.” And despite what your king says, despite the terrible things Loki did, he was still a prince of Asgard. From children to adolescence and to adulthood, you’d watched them both grow, sometimes alongside Druig, sometimes not.
Druig, who doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer words of empty comfort, who can feel what you feel in this moment, who looks at you now the way he looks at his humans sometimes - worried for them, wanting to interfere, wanting to keep them safe. So you press a hand to his cheek, opening your mind and heart to him, smiling as he leans into your touch.
I’ll be okay.
You will mourn. You will move forward. He, too, knows this.
You feel Druig before you see him. You know his touch in your mind - have known it for eons, could feel and recognize it across the span of time and space.
My beautiful, beautiful lover.
The words are whispered into the embrace of your mind, softly becoming you to turn and look. You do so, only after you’ve set the crate of harvested and fished goods on the trunk of Valkyrie’s truck. The sight of Druig standing at the end of the pier, the ocean wind and spray whipping strands of his hair out of his face, has you holding your arms out for him.
You laugh when he reaches you and he pulls you into an embrace, one that literally sweeps you off your feet. “Beautiful one,” he says, and you can hear the laughter in his voice as he presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Did you miss me?”
“Did you miss me?” you counter, pulling back just enough that you’re able to get a look at his face. Eight years apart should be inconsequential to the two of you, who are fated to live for millennia, but it feels like an eternity of a lifetime. “I didn’t know you could venture out of that forest of yours, beautiful Druig.”
“Only for you,” he says, always quick with a retort. Witty or otherwise. “I even had to pack a jacket.”
“Yes, you did,” you agree, finally taking note of the studded black leather that he dons. Running a hand over one of the studs has you shooting him a very amused look, and he retaliates with a tug to the knitted sleeve of your new sweater.
“I see that you’ve taken up the fisherman chic. Is that the fashion of New Asgard? I’ll be sure to dress more appropriately for the occasion next time.”
“Cheeky.” You’re only partially aware to the knowing look that Valkyrie gives the two of you before she is driving back to town, the two of you left to privacy. “Come on, you,” you add, linking your arm with his as you begin to lead him away from the water and up to one of the hills overlooking the town.
“How is Thor?” he asks you, and though it’s been many years since you were called to the duty of watching over the prince - no, now the king - of Asgard, your heart aches for the boy you watched grow into the man of loss you know today.
“Not the same,” you tell Druig, your footsteps coming to a stop as he moves himself in front of you, facing you. He keeps your hand clasped in his as he moves it over his chest, and you can feel the beat of his heart even through the jacket he wears. “He lost - we lost - nothing is the same.”
It’s hard to put into words, you think. You think of the person you were when you first met Druig, think of the naivety of that youth. You wonder what it is like for him now, to see the edges of that person chipped and worn away, eroded by the winds of love and loss.
When he brushes a strand of your hair out of your eyes, when he presses his forehead against yours, you feel some of those broken edges start to knit together again.
I should have been there.
I’m sorry I’m rooted to Earth.
“You’re here now,” your murmur, your eyes still closed. “You’re always here when I need you.” For that, he presses a kiss to your forehead before stepping back. He makes sure not to let go of your hand.
“I have something for you, you know.” His other hand is already reaching into his pocket.
“Should I be worried?” you ask, only in slight jest. “Your gifts are wonderful, really, but you do like to play things on the mischievous side-” Your words die in your throat when you see the golden apple he produces for you, glittering in the sun that’s starting to break through the clouds. “Oh. Oh, Druig.”
“You won’t demand the ways I acquired it for you?”
“You’d just evade the question - oh, Druig.” As he presses it into your palm, you have to breathe in sharply and blink back the stinging in your eyes. He shrugs a little, trying to play it nonchalant, even as you have to press your face into his shoulder so you can compose yourself without looking at him.
“People on Earth like to do this with a ring,” he says, suddenly, voice slightly louder to be heard above the wind. “A gold on. I thought-” you feel him shift his weight, and you squeeze his arm to steady him. “I thought this would be better.”
“Do you have a question you must ask of me?” Finally, you lift your head to look at him. “Beautiful Druig.”
“You’re the beautiful one,” is his automatic response, and the word, the endearment, has always been so natural. On the battleground. In a tavern. The past, and the present. This gift that he’s given you.
He is Druig, the Eternal. And he calls you beautiful, because he loves you.
3K notes · View notes