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villainsimpqueen · 4 months ago

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Exiled to Taken.

Varang × Exhiled Na'vi reader.

18+ only account! Minors will be blocked.

“You are to stay on the outside of the clan until we decide what to do with you.” The Tsahik hissed, holding back her enraged mate the Olo'eyktan from slashing more and more of your face.

Your glares stares of shock, horror, disgust and engagement in their eyes as they made chattering noises of mixed emotions rang in your still ringing ears.

A hiss left your lips as your shaky fingers moved into the messy salve, it was not like one made from the healers of your clan, it was runny and still somehow goopy and it stung more than soothe as you tried applying it to the festering wounds that adorn your face,neck and chest. Whimpers leave you as you apply the goop around your left eye, your good eye watering as you feel your bad eye twitch moving under the layers of slashed open skin. You couldn't even open it anymore, the blood and infection festering over your eye sealing it shut.

Your salty tears for your good eye would not provide comfort as they would drip down over a slashed cheek. Your mind was not with you now, drifting away from you perhaps to ease the pain or to feed into the guilt you felt.

You had to show them where it was, the forbidden grounds.

You laughed alongside your friends as you all leapt from trees and flora. Teasing each other as you all perched among the canopy and looking down at the forbidden grounds. Where the trees change to look twisted and brittled, fog seeming to waver up to the sky.

“Is it really beyond there? The swamps?” the Olo'eyktan and Tsahíks only son spoke as he turned to you.

You smiled and nodded.

“Yes, this is the only area I found that had such a vast dead forest.” You told him it seemed amazing to him and the other four friends.

“Let's go to it, the swamps!” One spoke, a daughter of a wise healer under the Tsahík wing.

“Yea! Let's see if my Pa's stories are real.”

Your ears slicked back, tail curling behind you as you looked at them warily.

“I said I'd show you guys the area, Not go inside of it. It's forbidden for a reason.”

They had teased you, calling you scared, you felt pressured and so you agreed.

Your friends and yourself trespassed from lush green thriving forest to foggy deathly grounds. You stuck close to the Olo'eyktan son, recently deemed a warrior among the clan unlike yourself who had followed in your parents path of weavers.

You wish you had turned back, insisted on getting the elders if they did not follow you back to the clan, but you didn't, you encouraged them, and entertained them by going into the dead forest with them and breaking the last band of warning into the swamp lands. At first it had been fun, your small group leaping around on sunken logs, kicking amongst the murky waters. It had been beautiful, the slightly misty fog light and the sun glittering down on green waters. Insects fluttering around as were the flying animals that make peaceful calls.

Your group's eyes on everything except the waters.

Except the shadows.

Except the fog that was growing denser and denser around your group.

It was the first calling cries that had alerted your group's ears making the hair on your scalps raise and skin to cover in bumps. Tails freezing and ducking between legs as everyones heads moved around to find who, or what was screaming.

chilling calls echoing above your group's heads in the trees, a flash of black and red.

A wail echoing deep into the swamp lands and yet sounded so close to your groups.

the tension was thick, another flash of red above your head caught all of your attention, ot was the wrong thing you all should've paid attention too, for something launched out of the water snatching on of your friends making you all scream, your last sighting of the healers daughter was her pained face of agony before she was dragged down into the waters, it was then the remaining group took off scattering in directions, you had followed your Olo'eyktans son, leaping from log to log as you both could hear the screams of your remaining friends until they screamed no more.

You had gotten ahead of the Olo'eyktan son, stumbling back onto more mushy yet firmer land and fumbled back to the dead forest.

You heard your name screamed in pain and turned to see a figure who had a glinting blade rushing across the Olo'eyktan sons neck, their face covered in tangles of hair too bright glowing red eyes like the markings over their body glowing at you as they dragged your friend into the swampy waters vanishing under the swamps waters surface.

You cried, as you ran back to your clan tail between your legs as you fumbled through the flora and vines. You didn't see the thanators until you were screaming under them, feeling their claws and teeth.

your screams had alerted nearby hunters who had come to your aid, your panic state getting the better of you.

“I killed them, I killed them!” You had sobbed and heaved, concerning the hunters you were questioned and you fumbled out your friends names.

Two hunters tried to calm you as the others dragged you back to the clan, to the Olo'eyktan and Tsahík, to your people.

It was when you had shakily told them of what happened, the news of the Olo'eyktan and Tsahík son dying, the others children dying, because you led them to the forbidden grounds is when the Olo'eyktan had stuck you harshly across the face with a bladed hand.

If it was not for your Tsahík immediately getting him under control and ordering you to leave you were sure he would have broke the law of your clan,

To not kill another.

You had found temporary shelter in trees that were away from your clan, on the outskirts, a hollowed out trunk where you tried to make a home.

At first at your temporary banishment until word was truly given that you were exiled to be sent to the Nga whenua pakoko. Where you would be surrounded by nothing, lands so bare that all there was was constant heat and sands.

The place where all clans exiled their disgraces or evil banished to, where it was only Ewyas graces if they survived.

You could only pray your Tsahík would spare you from such a fate. Allowing you to live near your clan within your homelands.

to not let you struggle in those lands where no one knows if the exile even survived once their feet began to burn on blistering sands.

The goop stinging your arms and chest was enough pain you could handle as you yelped and curled onto the flooring of your rickety hollowed trunk. Your breathing rapid as your vision hazed.

would you even survive until their decision?

You had no one from the clan try to visit you, not even your parents or younger cousins.

It was like the clan already deemed you as an Exile before the Olo'eyktan and Tsahík final words of such a choice.

It had been many moons and sun rising since you had been to your clan, been with any of your people for so much as a conversation and you were too scared to go and beg for help with the infection.

The memories of how they looked at you burned into your mind filled you with too much fear to go back, to even ask for help.

So you suffered on your own and look where that got you.

Festering infections inflamed and oozing from all your wounds. Your skin starting to pale and form seeping boils among the slashed and torn skin that was seeping puss.

Tears rolled from your good eye as you keened out a small noise of pain.

The smell of roasting meat in the air makes your stomach tighten and churn.

It's been so long since you had a proper meal, settling to the small things you could foraged under the hazy sight of one eye, even resorting to eating the more untasteful crawlers that shared home in the hollowed out tree trunk with you.

You cried silently as you struggled to crawl to the entrance of your hallow, you couldn't go on much longer like this.

You needed to beg for help, for healing.

Each movement made your head lighter and lighter and by the time you had half of your body hanging out of the hollow trying to get up, the dizziness took its toll fully.

Your ears ringing loudly, your sense of smell sharpening and it started to fade at once. Your jaw trembling and locking up as your vision narrowed to a tight tunnel before all the black spots merged into one spot, your aching body trembles before growing heavy and you're forced into a lethargic state falling limp and unconscious falling out of the tree hollow down many feet until crashing into the forest floor where your body would spasm due to the unconscious state it was in and lack of airflow going to your brain and lungs.

When you came two you felt hands on your arms, your legs being dragged through the forest floor and flora. Your head felt so heavy you couldn't lift it, a pained whine left your lips as one of the hands squeezed too harshly on your mangled arm.

ears fluttering as you picked up distant voices, hope soared through you.

your clan must've found you, perhaps hunters who saw your state and were bringing you back for help.

Your good eye welled with tears, you felt such relief that you couldn't care about the rough treatment you were being given.

The air filled with the smell of roasting meat and smoke.

They must have had something very big to celebrate, and part of your heart ached that you were not allowed to participate, but you pushed it away, not allowing it to tarnish your gratefulness for your clan's help.

Then one of the men holding you spoke, causing you to pause, it did not sound like anyone you knew. And their words.

“Varang we found a survivor.”

confusion and then concern filled you, you tried lifting your heavy head but even such small movement caused the spotting vision and dizziness from making you stop. Your head movement moves towards you causing your heart to twitch to every soft footstep on the forest floor. It wasn't till a hand came to your view, long sharp black nails curling as the person's fingers found place under your chin and lifted your head.

A small hiss leaves you as your head pounded making you squint your good eye into a glare before blinking to focus your sight once again.

Your hazy vision sharpened and your stomach churned as your blood ran cold.

You didn't focus on the person in front of you,no.

The sight behind them is what had your full horrified attention.

Your clan was being burned to the ground.

Bodies of clan members everywhere slain.

Imposters moving along, walking over or on them as they started taking things and items that once belonged to the living.

The sight made your chest heave in hyperventilation as your eye took in more and more of what atrocities had been caused on your people.

The smell of roasting meat that had once made you so hungry now made you want to vomit.

A inhale from the person in front of you barely caught your attention, it was until another hand found a way to caress your cheek making your eye leave the sights of horrors and to the person in front of you.

A woman.

Her hair in braids that led down to a chestal crest of more braids and charms. Her face adorned with a headpiece that fanned out making you focus on her delicate and yet fierce features, lips painted a black and her bright yellow gleaming eyes focused on your wide and yet filled with something…Something you could not determine but whatever it was shot a chill down your spine and caused your guts to churn as your skin prickled.

Your instincts froze, a side ro run fight and flee and yet, her hand felt so warm, so comforting and instead of acting in flinching away to run, you leaned into her palm. The need for touch and socialization after being isolated for so long has dominated your rational thinking.

“Perfection.” She whispered as her eyes narrowed down on your mauled body.

“You will be mine.” and she demanded it, and she got exactly what she demanded and oddly the demand made your heart flutter as your mind swirled and vision began to fade to black once more, your body too weak for all of the excitement.

All you could smell was smoke, and when you opened your eyes to see a misty gray you believed you were surrounded by smoke. A groan leaves you as you feel the stiffness of your body pushing up to sit up from laying on your back a series of chimes of your back popping and cracking making another groan leave you as you force your eyes open.

Your vision blurry and you move your hands to rub at them feeling a slight soreness in your bad eye as you blinked them open. You tensed waiting for pain in your mauled body only to feel a foggy confusion when none came to you. It took a long moment before you realized you had your full vision back, you were seeing from both of your eyes instead of your one.

You moved your hands quickly to your face feeling rigid but healed skin. Your eyes would move to your once mauled arms and hands to find gruesome but healed scars that angrily wrapped or sliced amongst your arms, hands to your chest to find rough but healed skin.

Tears brimmed your eyes as you thought your clan had found you and healed you, as hazy memories of being held so warmly infected your mind. You had sprung up ignoring the dizziness that came from jumping up and ran from surely the healer's hut to go tell your clan of your gratefulness.

But you ran out to the unknown, seeing nothing but smoke and endless sky made your breath pause and your chest tighten as your eyes took in the sights of Na'vi who were not of your people. You stumbled backwards the way you came as you took in their appearances. Some wore masks to hide their face but all had been stained with red markings, symbols or pain some of it even looked like dried blood.

Some had what seemed like trophies of the dead worn across them in sashes, jewelry, as if pride of taking the limbs of those they surely must have killed.

The most disturbing was to see how many did not have any of their kurus.

Your stomach churn as sickness filled and you fumbled back into the healer hut you had rushed out of so quickly stumbling over various items causing clatter to emerge, your eyes widening as you fell. Ears frantically flinched as you heard footsteps, it wasn't long before the beading that was the healing huts dooring was moved aside and a woman had entered. Your memories pinging redflags as you looked up at her bright yellow eyes.

They were familiar

But you couldn't yet pace it despite how badly your mind throbbed to remember.

“You are awake.” She spoke, her tongue thicker than anyone from your clan, and yet it was so calming, soft and luring like her appearance. Luring but enough to strike fear into your racing heart. She moved towards you and you stumbled back, ears clicking backwards and bared your teeth and fangs hissing at her. Yet she only watched her lips twitching as if amused at your actions as she continued forward defeated by your warning.

“You healed rather strongly.” She spoke once again her voice almost luring you into a state of peace and as you blinked she was suddenly in front of you, her clawed hand moved quicker than you had time to process and a sharp pain seared through the back of your head causing you to let out an anguished growl as she snatched your head backwards by your kuru.

“I am glad to see that you are indeed a fighter.” She spoke her eyes, having a glint that terrified me as she squeezed your kuru, yanking your face so much closer to hers as she leaned towards yours.

“Dare to fight against me again, beautiful one and I'll make you wish you hadn't been so strong to fight against Your great mothers coddling arms.”

And you didn't, never again.

As after all like she had Demanded, you were hers.

rather you liked it or not.

#avatar way of water fanfics #avatar way of water #Avatar 2 #Avatar 3 #avatar fanfiction #Varang x reader #Varang #Avatar Varang #x reader #james cameron avatar #18+ fanfic

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bluejaywuzhere · 2 months ago

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Collisions of Then and Now

For the Flufftober prompts: Days 4, 11, 13, 14, 18, 28, Alt 1, Alt 2, and Alt 3: Market Day; Ingredients & Spells; Attic, Cellar, Hidden Room; Fantasy AU/Mundane AU; Bewitched; Lucky Charm; “I’ve got you”; Rainy Day; “Wait, you love me?” - “I always have”

- - - - - - - - -

James Buchanan Barnes hadn't always been of the magical world. He had been normal, once. Before the war, before Hydra, before ice, he’d been a normal young man in a normal village with a normal best friend and housemate.

Well, he supposed his housemate wasn't the most normal. Stevie had always had health problems, and despite his best efforts, it’d been hard on him and his mother’s finances. When Ms. Sarah passed (bless her soul) and Stevie needed help with managing the house, Bucky moved in to help his buddy out. Yeah, sure maybe it wasn’t the most normal of situations, but it worked for them and they were happy. And then their kingdom of America declared war and everything got a lot more complicated.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky said he’d volunteered (that was a lie. The royal guard had threatened his sister). He said he was fighting for his kingdom (that was also a lie. He was fighting for his sister. He was fighting for Stevie. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn't give a damn about America). He said he’d be back soon (he hadn't meant that to be a lie. It was).

- - - - - - - - -

His entire troop was captured by the other side, instead of being slaughtered (at the time, he was thankful. But later, Bucky decided he would have preferred death to the hell they put him through).

- - - - - - - - -

It was a league of witches, witches who called themselves Hydra. They were experimenting with spells and potions and runes, combining all three into dangerous magics that they hoped would help achieve immortality (and if not immortality, enough power to win the war). Bucky became a test subject (it felt like they were pumping lava into his veins sometimes, turning his skin inside out other times, and some of the worst times it felt like all the warmth was being leeched from his insides. He wasn’t surprised that everyone died, he was only surprised that he had survived).

- - - - - - - - -

Steve (brilliant, wonderful, idiotic Steve) rescued him. Steve had signed up for an American experimental program and had become extremely strong and fast and tall and healthy. Steve had barged into Hydra’s little lair and stolen Bucky away. Steve, who used to be fifty pounds soaking wet and couldn't run more than six feet before wheezing. (Stevie, who made the most fantastic paintings and had the biggest heart ever for such a tiny body. Stevie, who fought guys three times his size in back alleys, on the justification that “he was attacking her, Bucky” and “he can’t just say that about the men who’re out there dying for us”). Steve, who their kingdom called Captain and lauded with glory, who didn't care beyond the muscle and blonde hair, who girls fawned over and littered with kisses. Steve, who meant no more to America than a glorified weapon. (Steve, who Bucky knew better than himself and who he would die for a thousand times).

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky didn't know it, but Hydra had stuck magic inside him. America had done the same with Steve. Magic that would keep him alive. Through tortures, through swords, through ice.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky fell. Hydra found him. And this time, they made sure that he could never resist them again.

- - - - - - - - -

Seventy years. They kept him spelled him, tested things on him, and made him a murderer. He was their puppet for seventy years.

- - - - - - - - -

Stevie saved him. Stevie always saved him (true love broke the most powerful of curses).

- - - - - - - - -

After everything was said and done, Bucky left America. He established his own little hut in the forest, bought spellbooks, and tried to make a living for himself. After a few years, Stevie hesitantly showed up on his doorstep. Bucky, like always, welcomed him with open arms. It was five years before anything disturbed them again.

- - - - - - - - -

After almost a decade of practicing magic (or well, ninety-something years if you counted the mindless Hydra puppet years, which Bucky did not), Bucky Barnes was getting used to being a witch. And he humbly considered himself to be fairly decent at it. So, when a traveler asked for a luck charm, Bucky deemed it an easy request to answer.

“Steve, we’re out of yarrow again!” Bucky yells over his shoulder, frowning at the empty space where the dried yellow flowers were supposed to be.

Steve pokes his head through the wide open doorway separating the kitchen and the sitting room, furrowing his brows as Bucky rifles through the cupboards.

“You sure? I swear we just bought some three suns ago.”

Bucky sighs and shakes his head, his grown-out hair swishing strangely around his face.

“Yeah, I did! Where’s it all gone?” He complains. Steve thinks for a moment, walking into the kitchen and resting his big blonde head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Well, if we’re really out, then the market is open until sunset tonight. You have a deadline, right?”

Bucky groans, thunking his temple against Steve’s head. “Yes.” He grumbles, turning his face into Steve’s fair hair. Bucky distantly notes that it smells faintly of grass and fresh linen. “I have seven suns as of today. It takes two to brew the potion, and then it has to soak for three. ‘M already cutting it close as is.”

Steve smiles into Bucky’s shoulder before pulling away, reaching around Bucky’s head to close the open cabinet.

“Well then, you better get to it, Mr. Magic Man.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and swats Steve’s shoulder, nodding towards the door.

“You gonna come with me?” He demands, and his acerbic tone would have sounded terse and harsh to anyone else, but Steve knows it was simply Bucky’s way of hiding (whatever it was that it was hiding). Steve beams at him and whacks his shoulder as he passes. “Of course! I need to get some more sorrel anyway. I’ll grab the umbrella.”

- - - - - - - - -

One accomplishment of Hydra’s experiments with Bucky was diluting the effects of what Hyrda dubbed ‘wasser-seele-korrosion,’ literally, ‘water-soul-corrosion’. A common consequence of gaining witch powers was that fresh or running water would erode one’s core of magic, destroying them from the inside out. Hydra’s efforts to reverse the side effects were not entirely successful, but they did manage to reduce the fatalistic nature of water to witches: instead of the water eating away at one’s soul, it would eat away at one’s skin. Thus, instead of killing the subject, it would merely cause them unbearable pain. Needless to say, Hydra saw this as an outstanding breakthrough and tested it on a live subject at the first opportunity. Specifically, the super-enhanced, bewitched live subject they had helpfully in custody.

- - - - - - - - -

When in the process of changing, Bucky resolutely avoided the mirrors. After nearly a decade of being free from Hydra’s control, he still wasn’t able to look at his patchwork of scars without feeling sick. Especially his arm- god, every time he caught even a flash of metal, he had to stop and breathe for a moment.

- - - - - - - - -

In another one of their experiments, Hydra had turned his left arm into solid metal. They spelled it to feel normal, to move like normal, to feel no different than his arm made of flesh and blood and bone, disregarding the fact that they had irreversibly transformed skin and muscle into steel. They then made him use that arm to spatter blood and crush bone.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky takes a breath and pulls off his shirt, flinching as sunlight glints off the metal. He closes his eyes and breathes, feeling the air in his lungs and the wooden flooring beneath his feet. He pulls on a new shirt, the feeling of his fingers scraping over his pockmarked back sending shivers of revulsion down his spine. Eyes still closed, he grabs a glove to fit over his metal hand. Only once the entirety of his left arm, from his shoulder to his fingertips, is covered, only then does he open his eyes and breathe freely. No panic attacks, then. A good day.

- - - - - - - - -

Steve smiles brightly when Bucky emerges. If he notices Bucky’s shaking shoulders and the way he grasps Steve’s arm a little too tight, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, Steve starts chattering about his paintings. Bucky knows that Steve mostly paints for himself, but he’s recently received his first commission, which he’s working on now. Steve talks about the difficulty of certain pieces and how hard it is to get the colors right, but also about how good it‘s turning out. Bucky relaxes bit by bit at the sound of Steve’s voice. Warm, familiar, soothing, and above all else, safe. Then Steve says something that makes Bucky tune back in sharply:

“Hey, do you mind if I draw you sometime?” Bucky shoots him a sharp look, mind whirling. Steve just gazes at him, expression open, honest. Bucky doesn't know what to say. He’s… he’s thought about Steve drawing him. He’s always squashed that thought down though, because… well, that’s not really something friends do. And Bucky‘s long since buried any hope of being anything more than friends with Steve.

“You want me to… you want to draw me?” Bucky hedges, still eyeing Steve for, well, he doesn't know what he’s expecting. Steve doesn’t seem like he’s joking, or playing some kind of prank, but Bucky can't quite believe the words coming out of his best friend’s mouth (best friend, that’s what Steve is, dammit, and that's all he’s ever going to be, Bucky has to keep reminding himself). Steve is still smiling, oblivious to Bucky’s overthinking.

“Yeah! You have a very pretty face. I’ve wanted to draw it for a long time, but I wanted to be able to do it justice. Now, I think I can draw you right.” Steve says sheepishly, and well, how can Bucky say no to that?

- - - - - - - - -

The market is surprisingly busy, considering it’s past mid-sun and barely halfway through the lunar cycle. It is always busy on a full or new moon, or solstice, or at night, but to be this busy in the sunlight on no remarkable moon is… odd. Bucky finds himself uneasy. Something’s wrong. Steve feels it too. There’s something different in the air, and it’s making them both nervous. Instead of splitting up like they usually would, by unconscious and mutual agreement, they stick together. Bucky pays for the yarrow with quick hands and a strained smile, every hair on the back of his neck sticking straight up. When he bids hasty farewells to the yarrow seller and looks around anxiously, he accidentally locks eyes with a strangely familiar-looking guy across the square. Bucky has a moment to wonder where he’s seen him before, and then Steve brightens and hurries over, beckoning Bucky to follow him.

“Sam!” Steve whisper-yells and the guy nods tersely, glancing around.

“Oh yeah, I remember you,” Bucky realizes, finally remembering glowing red wings that appear and disappear at will. Sam nods hello, then turns back to Steve.

“America’s rounding up anyone magic. Everyone, actually. The king sent out the whole royal army, they’re sweeping every house within a three-sun journey. Word on the street is that we’re all gonna be killed. Be careful.” Sam warned. Steve nods seriously, sharing a nervous glance with Bucky.

“We’ll be careful. You be safe too, okay?” He asks, and Sam smiles. “Hey, I’m not the one with a damn metal arm, for Christ’s sake.”

Bucky tries not to flinch, Steve takes his hand, and Sam notices. “You two take care of each other now.” He says, a not-so-subtle smirk tugging at his lips. Steve, for some reason, blushes. As they leave the market, Bucky’s mind lingers on it because what the hell was that?

- - - - - - - - -

It’s a long walk back to their hut: Bucky chose a pretty secluded spot deep in the woods, which is a little inconvenient for trips to and from the market, but it’s rather protected. They have plenty of time before the soldiers get there. Nevertheless, Steve and Bucky begin preparations. There have been raids in the past, usually lawless flash mobs with torches and pitchforks. Not much danger if one knows a simple concealing spell. But the king's royal army would be a much more formidable force. Their armor is constructed to see through enchantments and their blades are sharpened to slice through any conjured barriers. No, against this foe, Bucky and Steve have but three options: they can either stay and pretend to be nothing more than simple peasants (difficult, considering they’re a fair distance from the nearest village and Bucky has a solid metal arm), they can abandon their home and flee into the woods until the guards move on (problem is, neither of them wants to leave), or they can split up, with Bucky hiding in the woods and Steve staying behind to watch the house (no way in hell). After too much time spent deliberating, Bucky finally sighs.

“Steve, there's nothing for it. We're gonna have to jump ship.”

“Buck, we can't just leave. Our lives are here, we have to stay and fight.” Steve, unsurprisingly, is being stubborn, but Bucky’s made up his mind.

“No, Steve, listen. I can hide the magic stuff. We can pack a bag each, fill ‘em with what we can’t leave behind, and we can go.” Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Bucky presses on, reaching out and gripping his arm.

“Steve, Stevie listen to me. We can leave the house. The house doesn't matter, what matters is that we don't lose each other again, okay? That's what's important.”

And well, Steve can’t seem to argue against that.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky’s in the middle of transfiguring the cauldron when a rough thunk-thunk-thunk sounds at the door. Bucky knows that noise. It’s armor on wood. It’s the royal guard, hours early. Some bastard must’ve let slip about the witch in the woods, and now the royal army is seconds away from knocking down Bucky’s front door and he’s not ready, they aren’t supposed to be here yet, why are they here-

“Breathe,” Steve’s voice cuts through Bucky’s panicked spiraling, and he blinks, suddenly staring into Stevie’s blue blue eyes.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay. We need to go, Buck,” He says, calm and sweet as molasses candy on a Sunday morning. “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Come on Buck, that’s it. One foot in front of the other.” Steve gently leads Bucky over to the back door, snagging both their bags as he goes and quietly turns the handle, slipping out into the wild as the soldiers finally break down the front door.

- - - - - - - - -

There’s a tree hollow that they’ve hidden in before. When the nightmares were too much, when the walls were closing in, when Bucky found himself awake at night, he’d make his way out to the little tree hollow and let nature lull him to sleep. Crickets and frogs drowned out the venomous spells that slithered around in his mind, and he could finally close his eyes peacefully. He often awoke in Steve’s arms, the blonde curled protectively around him even in sleep.

That tree hollow is where Steve and Bucky hide, trusting good old-fashioned vines and leaves to artfully hide the entrance from view. They crouch there for what feels like hours, still as stone and hardly daring to breathe as soldiers clomp and stomp and yell and grumble, searching the undergrowth for the duo, at times mere inches from the witches in question. And when the soldiers finally, finally leave, the heavens open wide and dump the heaviest rainstorm of the season. Safe to say, Steve and Bucky aren’t going anywhere.

- - - - - - - - -

Bucky keeps pale blue eyes fixed on the deluge outside, hugging his knees to his chest and leaning his head on Steve’s solid shoulder. He knows Steve well enough to know that the blonde is very nervous about the sound of hammering raindrops against wood. They’re both more cautious of rain nowadays. Bucky doesn’t know what to do to help though, so he drops his soft brown head on Steve’s shoulder and breathes.

“You know I’m shit at emotions and stuff, but I’m here, okay Stevie? I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve sighs but relaxes minutely and rests his head on top of Bucky’s.

“I know. Thanks, Buck,”

- - - - - - - - -

Two days later, the house is more or less completely fixed, the royal army has moved on to bully some other witch, and Steve and Bucky are finally getting back to some semblance of normal. Then Bucky remembers the lucky charm he was supposed to make for the traveler and groans.

“Steve, do you remember if we stored that yarrow?”

- - - - - - - - -

“Buck, could you grab the crushed buttercup for me?”

“Stevie, pass the hare fur.”

“Sweetheart, I needed oregano, not mint.”

“Ooh, hand me the goldenrod, doll,”

- - - - - - - - -

Miraculously, they brew the potion, soak the charm, and have the package ready in time for the traveler to pick it up.

Honestly, Bucky doesn't know how they did it. But hey, the traveler paid up generously (enough money for Bucky to get a nice new pack of paints for Stevie’s birthday), so Bucky wasn't about to complain over a job well done.

After the whole soldier fiasco is over and the potion is delivered, Bucky decides to be productive and make a little hidey-hole in the cellar. When Steve comes down with a drink, a cool rag, and a few questions, he gives answers.

“Don’t like seeing you scared. We can just hide down here next time bad guy come a-knocking.” Bucky mentions flippantly, wiping dirt off his forehead.

Steve feels a tender warmth welling up in his chest, and he can’t contain a smile. “I love you, Buck.”

They both freeze.

It's the first time it’s been said out loud.

Bucky’s heart is pounding too loudly in his throat, and he coughs, trying to dislodge it from where it’s very stubbornly hanging out by his vocal cords.

“Wait, you- you love me?” He asks, his voice hoarse and crackly, scarcely believing what he’s hearing.

Steve swallows, and for a terrifying moment, he can’t speak. Everything freezes, his lungs seize up and his mouth won’t move. Bucky’s face shifts. He suddenly looks… frightened. Scared. No, terrified. It’s that heart-wrenching look that snaps Steve out of his frozen trance. He has to say something, anything to get that awful expression off Bucky’s face. “I- yes. God yes. Of course I love you, Buck. I always have.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, a blinding smile illuminates Bucky’s face. It's one of those rare, precious smiles that Steve treasures, hoards like valuable gold. Bucky’s sky-light eyes crinkle at the corners, his lips curl up, his skin turns a lovely shade of pink, and he smiles, brighter than the sun, moon, and all the stars in the sky.

Steve would kill to keep seeing that smile.

Bucky strides forward and grasps Steve’s head between his two hands, one flesh one metal, and presses their foreheads together. Steve closes his eyes, breathing in the orangy smell of Bucky’s soap, the slight tang of iron from his arm, the mildewy odor of the basement, and the woody, earthy scent of his magic that seeps from his being. Bucky’s flesh hand grazes against Steve’s jaw, and the blonde half-opens his eyes to find Bucky gazing at him, open, curious, hesitant, eager. He gently tugs Steve’s chin just a hair closer, then stops.

Steve glances down at Bucky’s lips, red as an apple skin and half-parted. A most tempting invitation; one that Steve cannot find a single reason to refuse.

- - - - - - - - -

A few truths of the universe:

One: Bucky Barnes has been, is, and will always be weak for Steve Rogers.

Two: Steve Rogers has been, is, and always will be weak for Bucky Barnes.

And three: strengths and weaknesses are often one and the same when it comes to Bucky and Steve.

- - - - - - - - -

Soon, the walls of Steve’s art studio are covered with Bucky’s face, in acrylic, in watercolor, in pencil, in charcoal, pale blue and chestnut, lashes, lips, eyes and a little quirk of a smile.

Steve is in Bucky’s arms, and in Bucky’s bed and in Bucky’s heart.

And he stays there.

- - - - - - - - -

Thank you for reading!

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