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redhairedfeistynerd · 3 years

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A Very Bucky Thanksgiving

Bucky Barnes x reader, singledad!Bucky, Riley and Piper Barnes, Steve Rogers

Summary: This is the first year Bucky has invited someone special to join in on their Thanksgiving dinner.Will everything go smoothly?

Warnings: some swearing, some sly sexual conversation, teasing, some humour

Word Count: 3K +

A/N: I originally wrote this piece for Canadian Thanksgiving but here we are! I hope you enjoy another moment with the Barnes family.

For as long as his girls have been in this world, Bucky has been passionate about baking. He figures this came to fruition when his ex-wife started spending more time out of the house and preferred being away on business trips than building a life with him and their young girls. As their relationship slowly deteriorated, Bucky found solace in pastries, cookies, and breads. Navigating his way through forums and how-to videos online, searching for recipes like he once hunted for his latest mission.

His girls had requested their favourites for this last-minute weekend celebration. Pumpkin pie with maple cream, pumpkin walnut scones, and a new treat he was testing out today, pumpkin spiced doughnuts with maple salted glaze, and for his sweet lady friend; a pecan pie.

Bucky could smell the doughnuts before the time reached zero. The soft smell of cinnamon and sugar wafted through his two-story house, reaching him while he tidied up the bathroom from the girls attack on it early that same morning. Wiping down the counter, he flicked off the light, bounding down the stairs to the kitchen as the last seconds wound down on the timer. Oven mitt on, doughnuts pulled out of the oven (he was trying out a baked version this time) he had about an hour before the girls would burst in the front door after a day of shopping the holiday sales.

The weekend plans had changed at the last minute, his ex (Jackie) had cancelled on the girls again. The girls were to fly up to their mothers' cabin in Whistler, B.C. for a Canadian Thanksgiving but a last-minute job had come up and she chose that over her kids.

Bucky was not impressed by her choice. Riley rolled her eyes at the news and muttered “big surprise” when Bucky relayed the message to his youngest daughter.

Jackie always chose work before their daughters. Her new husband had more importance to her these days.

Her influencer status has skyrocketed after she left Bucky, leaving him high and dry to raise the girls. He didn't see it as an issue though, he loved his girls and if he had to do this on his own, then that's what he would set out to do. His Avengers status pushed away a few years before, he found that he was calling Steve a bit more during those earlier years. Sometimes he needs a break, to sit in a quiet room where Riley wasn't screaming at the top of her lungs, which would have Piper in tears. There was something magical about Uncle Steve though, maybe it was his rich voice, whispering sweet words to Riley to ease the screams to a low whimper. Maybe it was the way he sang the sweet songs of the 40s to stop the tears flowing from Piper's bright blue eyes. Whatever it was that Steve had, Bucky was extremely thankful for.

One of their first Thanksgivings without Jackie, had both girls sick with the stomach flu. He'd never seen anything as disgusting as what his young girls were dishing out.

Blood, wounds, and other violent memories had nothing on this. Who knew little people could cause THAT much mess?

Bucky was exhausted. Riley had finally fallen asleep on the couch and Piper was sprawled out in the master bedroom on his bed, resembling a starfish.

With one last swipe of the kitchen counter, Bucky tossed the rag in the laundry basket and released a sigh of completion. Turning on the hood fan, he turned off the track lights and walked towards his daughter who was now snoring lightly on the couch, when a soft knocking came from his front door. Puzzled, he turned away from his sleeping daughter and made his way to the entryway. He opened the door to Steve's smiling face.

"What are you..."

"Nat phoned and gave me the heads up that you were literally drowning in shit."

"Language," grumbled Bucky as he opened the door wider to let Steve in.

Steve chuckled and took a good look at Bucky. "Man, you're looking a little rough around the edges."

"You would too if you were knee deep in dirty laundry and had two goblins that were puking so much, they make that scene in the Exorcist look tame.

Steve scrunched his nose and tried to shake the memory of that scene out of his head. The previous year, Bucky had invited his old team over for a horror movie night while the girls were spending the night with their mom. Steve still hadn't forgiven Bucky for subjecting him to that movie. "Absolutely disgusting."

Bucky grunted and shut the door, Steve following him from the entryway and up the stairs to the kitchen.

"Here, Nat made some soup for you and the girls, if they are feeling up to eating it,” Steve said holding out the package.

“Oh ya, thanks. I’m sure the girls will appreciate their Aunty Nat making her famous soup,” he nods his head in thanks before muttering “hopefully it's not pea soup,” and walks across the kitchen.

Steve watches as Bucky tucks the soup away in the fridge, noticing how stringy his hair has become and when he looks his way, the dark circles are around his eyes. “Hey Buck, why don’t you leave the tidying up to me and you go take a shower, relax a bit.”

Bucky shuts the fridge door and looks at Steve. “Are you sure you want to clean up this cesspool?” He asks as his arms waving to point out the mess around the kitchen.

“Yes, I’m here to help you out, all right?” Bucky nods and pats Steve on the shoulder on his way up to the bathroom.

Steve manages to tidy up the first floor of the house, shift Riley from the couch to her bed, and fold a load of laundry. He’s pouring hot water into a mug when Bucky walks back in, looking like the shower did its job. “You want a cup of tea?” He asks Bucky when he sit down at the kitchen table.

“Please, a cup of something black so I can keep my eyes open for a bit longer. You feel like watching a funny movie? I feel like I need a good laugh after what this week has been like.”

“Sounds good, how about you go on down and put something on, I’ll bring the tea and some snacks for us,” Steve replies and pours a second mug full of water.

The men settle in and watch a classic comedy, quiet laughter sailing out of both of their mouths, trying to be quiet while the girls sleep. Steve decides on a second movie and they watch until they fall asleep on the couches.

Bucky wakes up, his stomach twisting, and the pain, THE PAIN. "You've got to be fucking kidding.” He lurches off the sectional and runs to the bathroom by the laundry room.

Steve wakes from the sounds of his friend slamming the bathroom door, the unmentionable sounds have Steve pulling his pillow over his head. When he moves it away several minutes later, all he hears is silence. Steve gets up from the couch and makes his way to the bathroom, gently knocking on the door. "Bucky? Are you alive in there?"

"Fucking kill me, please,” he begs and Steve hears his best friend heave again.

Steve camps out at the Barnes household during that Thanksgiving weekend. There is no turkey, no pumpkin pie, or a dysfunctional family fight. Everything is quiet as Bucky careens himself in his bedroom while Steve manages the rest of the household. He keeps the girls busy and out of Bucky’s hair for several days; visits to the ice cream shop and to the park near their home, keeps them smiling and giggling while their dad is at home, miserable in bed.

Steve sits back on the park bench and admires the colours changing all around him; the leaves sway from left to right, falling gently down to the ground. Piles of brown and yellow sit before him, raked into tidy piles. He gets and idea, something to cheer Bucky up the last few days of having the stomach flu. He calls the girls over and tells them his plan to make their dad smile. He makes a video of them, jumping in the leaves and throwing them around, their laughter warming his heart. When the girls have finished frolicking in the mounds of colourful leaves, he takes each other their hands in his and begins the walk back to the house. He’ll send the little video to Bucky in the morning when he heads out and back to work.

Bucky still smiles at the memory of that little video. He can now smile about his treacherous first Thanksgiving as a single dad but he made it up every year that followed; this year, he has to make up for what his ex has left behind. Riley is pressuring him to make her mom's famous stuffing (he laughs at this because this is a recipe that she took from a cookbook he had from his mom) Piper has decided that Bucky is THE WORST because he is going to kill an innocent turkey and all she wants is for him to save one (and yes, he does donate to a local farm that saves turkeys later in the week) and have it live the rest of its life, in their backyard. He notes that she will have a plate of vegetables tonight and he has no idea if that is sufficient enough for a teenage girl who that is 15.

“Cranberries sauce”

“Check!”

“Water chestnuts.”

“Check!”

“Wait, what the heck are water chestnuts for, Pop?”

Bucky is sitting on the kitchen floor sorting through the pantry and about to answer when he sees you creeping into the kitchen, hiding behind his oldest, about to scare her. Her arms wrap around Piper and she squeezes her tightly expelling a high-pitched squeak.

He will never get over how beautiful her smile is when her eyes meet his. His heart beats so fast that he’s afraid she will be able to see it pounding in his chest.

The flowers she is holding scream fall – oranges, yellows, and reds – the cute Chinese lanterns that she adores, wobble back and forth as she walks towards him. She reaches for him with her free hand and pulls him into a tight hug, whispering “you look extra handsome today, soldier.”

“He got his hair trimmed for you,” Riley shouts from the top of the stairs and watches as her father’s face turns as red as the Gerbera's in the bouquet. She snorts as she walks down the stairs at Bucky’s embarrassment and hops down the last few steps to pull y/n into a hug.

“Hi sweetness, I missed your smiling face,” Y/N says into Riley’s strawberry blond curls.

“Missed you too. Are you ready for your first Barnes Annual Canadian Thanksgiving?” Riley asks while rocking on her feet.

Y/N looks at her, “Is it any different from the other Thanksgiving I would be having?

“Well duh, this one if full of maple syrup, poutine, and never-ending skits by Bob and Doug Mackenzie!

Bucky bursts out laughing and poor Y/N is looking between the two of them, lost when it came to the last item. “Okay, okay, Ri, leave the poor woman alone. Here love, let me take those flowers and put them in a vase.” Bucky squeezes her waist gently, taking the colourful bouquet from her hands. She follows him to the cabinet housing the vase and sniffs the air.

“What’s is that smell? It’s so-

“Delicious?” Riley adds as she passes by Y/N and hops up onto a bar stool? “Your taste buds are in for an incredible treat. Dad is the best baker this city has!”

“Pretty sure I’m not hun, but thank you for boosting me up a bit.” Bucky’s cheeks changing in colour, somewhat embarrassed by his daughter's compliment.

“Oh, come on dad, that’s why all the moms are always swooning when you join the bake sales,” Piper chirps in.

“The moms swoon over your dad? I’m pretty sure that has more to do with his-” she’s cut off by Bucky shoving a Snickerdoodle in her mouth. Squinted her eyes at him and waving her finger as if she’s promising to get him back later. He can’t help but smirk and squeeze her side.

“Shhh, my sweet. Don’t be telling my girls how irresistible I am,” he whispers into her ear and kisses it.

Riley makes gagging sounds from behind her dad and Piper’s face turns red from the affection their father is showing Y/N. This is the not the first time they have seen their father with a woman but this specific woman has done something to their father. He’s smiling, he whistles while he bakes, and he’s happy.

Y/N turns to face Riley, “Oh kid, are we embarrassing you? Making you feel a little queasy inside?” She walks over to Bucky as he arranges the flowers in the vase and loudly kisses his cheek and laughs. “How about that Ri?”

“You’re the worst,” Riley chuckles and grabs the serving spoons to put on the table.

Bucky pulls Y/N into a hug and kisses her lightly on the lips. He can taste the Snickerdoodle and it makes him wish he could fully indulge but he restrains, knowing that tonight they’ll have time alone once the girls head to their rooms for the night. He brings his lips to her forehead before taking the flowers to the table and placing them in the centre.

“All right ladies, let’s get this show on the road!”

“Don’t you mean Barnes’, Assemble!” Piper asks with a smirk on her face. Bucky just shook his head, a big smile across his face.

“Tell me where you want me, Barnes,” Y/N said as she looked at Bucky, his smirk telling her that where he wanted her was not in the kitchen.

“Turkey is in the oven, that weird Tofurky thing is in there too, I need to add the water chestnuts to the beans, the pot of potatoes needs to boil, and in a bit, we can get the rest of the veggies going too. Who’s good with making gravy?”

“I hope you made stuffing for me that isn’t in that bird, dad,” Piper said, giving her dad one of her teenage looks.

Bucky slides a bowl across the counter to his oldest so she can see the stuffing he made; animal free. “It’s vegan sweetie, I hope you like it,” Bucky responds. “I found this recipe online, some popular blog.” He watches as she scoops a bit of the warm food in her mouth, and can’t help but chuckle when a groan of satisfaction spills out.

Y/N can’t help but take a scoop for herself, a squeal of delight escaping her mouth. “Shit, Barnsey, you’ve been holding back! Where have you been all my life?” She laughs and walks back over to him, wrapping her arms around him and going in for a quick kiss. “Let’s get this show on the road! All pots on boil!” She shouts and turns the last pot on.

The Barnes family and their first-time guest are indulging in their feast within an hour. Nothing but chewing and soft music can be heard at the table. It always amazes Bucky that it takes hours upon hours of work for this one evening and within minutes the food is gone. He’s thankful though; for his girls, for the life he now has, and for you. He wouldn’t change anything. One last scoop of mashed potatoes goes into his mouth and he places his fork down. “So, do you three want dessert now or do you want to digest a bit first?” Riley stands up from her seat and throws her hands in the air. “Roll out the cart of desserts for us to feast upon, father!”

All Bucky can do is laugh, she’s always been the dramatic one and he lives for these moments. “Riley, I haven’t said what I’m thankful for yet this evening but one of those things I’m thankful for the humour you provide in this family.”

“Aww Pops, I appreciate that but can you please just bring out the good stuff?” Riley’s blue eyes sparkle and Bucky pushes his chair in and heads back to the counter where he has the pies and other sugary treats. He brings the doughnuts and pumpkin pie with maple cream out first, leaving the girls to help themselves as he returns to the kitchen to cut Y/N a slice of pecan pie. He places a dollop of fresh whipped cream beside it and carries it to her, his face turns red when he places it before her stating, “I made this especially for you.” A look crosses her face and its one he has only recently seen. He thinks its adoration? Or could it be...love? He’s not sure if it’s either but whatever it is, he hopes she continues looking at him that way. He sits back down across from her and watches as she takes the first bite of pie. Her eyes close and he can see the sparkle in her eyeshadow as the light above bounces off of it. It feels like forever before he hears a sound of approval from her.

“Wow Barnes. I’m going to say this is almost as good as s-

“Well now, girls, how about you start cleaning up what you can and let Y/N finish up her pie.” He tries to pull back Piper’s chair and is met with resistance.

“No WAY, Pops. I want to hear all about how good this pie of yours is. Right, Riley?” Piper looks to her sister, eyebrow raised in hopes that her sister will join in on the teasing.”

“Hell no, I don’t want to hear about the crap these two get up to. Nu uh, NOPE,” she shouts and she grabs a few dishes from the table and heads to the sink to rinse them off.

Dishes away and the leftovers wrapped up, Bucky takes Y/N’s hand and walks with her to his room. Door closed and locked behind him, Bucky finally pulls his sweet lady as close to him as possible. “Happy Thanksgiving, baby.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Buck.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls him into a kiss. “Come on Barnsey, there’s one thing you haven’t warmed up yet this evening.”

“Oh, did I forget to warm up your pie because I can head back-

She quiets him with another kiss, deeper than the last. “You know damn well that’s not what I meant. Now, be good a good man and get ready for the real dessert.”

Bucky can’t help but curl up and laugh loudly. His girl knows all the ways to make him laugh and smile, tonight is no exception. With one pull, she is on top of him, where he wants her this evening; where he can be warm within and thankful for everything his life has brought him.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers #single dad bucky #bucky x you #redwrites

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jeaneybean · 5 years

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It’s hard to look good in front of mom when your friends are assholes

Nitahn’s really regretting allowing us to get on his wagon.

-While Vera is talking to Mama, Patchoili, and caravan leader three, Magnolia and Jake pop out of the Amulet. Jake asks where a bathroom is, Vera gestures towards the treeline and tells him not to flash his dick at everyone. Mama greets Magnolia “Ah, the famous Magnolia” because Nitahn had himself a lil crush at first. Talk for a bit, all while Vera gives Magnolia a look and is like ‘I have so much to tell you’. As soon as they’re out of earshot gives him a quick rundown. Looted the Granpire, got the fuck out of dodge, kind of had some weird questions in the previous town, laying low. There was a traveler funeral, Nitahn Danced, got pole danced on, another girl tried to buy him.

-”I already told them someone tried to buy you.” “Oh, Damn it!” One day Nitahn will stop expecting Vera to be anything but the goblin she is. Oz remarkst hat Nitahn would make a very pretty girl, with Nitahn telling him not to talk to his sisters. Jake bolts to go find said sisters and, when directed to a large caravan that has bone inlay in the wood and is greeted by an intimidating large woman, blurts out tha the doesn’t speak common and bolts. For the rest of the time with the caravan he doesn’t speak common. His only other two languages are Elven and Orcish. He can speak to Oz and Magnolia, much to Vera’s releif.

-Vera passes over the armor she’s been wearing to magnolia and Oz gives Jake the crossbow. Magnolia and Jake head into town where Magnolia gets rid of her old armor and finds herbs for Vera for her pregnancy, and Jake tries to grift people before doing his usual give people twice as much money schtick.

- “Are we riding ahead of your mother’s carvavan so she can come to our rescue if we get in something over our heads, or are we going behind and following in her hoofprints?” “Why are you this way.” Nitahn decides to go ahead of his mother’s caravan. They set out, Vera spotting Fyodora watching them go.

-Cue hours of both Vera and Oz, with the occasional piping in from Jake and Magnolia, being like ‘I can’t beleive you left her back there. She likes you. You like her.’ ‘It wouldn’t be right to take her without marrying her.’ ‘So get married. You’re young.’ ‘I barely know her!’ I barely knew my husband, and he’s the light of my life.’

-Nothing happens on the road, they make camp. Nothing happens. Good times.

-After Jake says something about Nitahn’s sister and they stop to about duke it out, a rider comes up from behind the caravan and looks for Nitahn. Fyodora has been kidnapped. Nitahn rages out and goes running. Vera drives the caravan and they’re acompnaied by Mama on horseback.

-Party heads back to Patchouli’s caravan to find out what’s happened. Someone knocked out guards, ripped the door off of Fyodora’s caravan, and took her in the middle o fthe night. Everyone blames Vlad.

-Magnolia stealthily zone of truth’s the tent so that no one can lie for four minutes. They get the truth out of Patcholi, which is that Fyodora is a human, but she comes from a clan of natural werewolves. Patchouli suspects she’s the daugher of the clanleader, who’s philandering ways are well known.

-Nitahn questions his mother about his own wolflike traits; the long canines and pointed teeth. She painfully admits that their line is similar to Fyodora’s, but much more diluted. One of her brothers is a natural werewolf, and they tested Nitahn around four to see if he was as well. Nitahn later will be surprised to know that ‘chain dance under the moon’ isn’t an actual festival.

-after having the donkeys rest they head out, Wolf-Wolf following Fyodora’s scent. It’s easy to follow after her scent, though along the way they find a pile of dead undead in the middle of the road. Nice.

-At one point in the travels Jake tries to convince both Oz and Vera that Nithan got Jasna pregnant. Vera counters with knowing that’s untrue, because pregnant women can tell if other women are pregnant. Jake has some doubt, but doesn’t know enough about pregnant women to argue with her. (A 15 bluff vs a 12 sense motive). He asks Vera where babies come from, to which she bluntly replies ‘sex’. He asks her what sex is, and she tells him ‘it’s when you rip off your penis and throw it at a woman to go fuck herself with.’ Jake asks Nitahn if that means his sisters have had a lot of dicks thrown at them.

-Fisticuffs time. Nitahn and Jake brawl, but since Nitahn is trained in unarmed combat he essentally gets two attacks for every one of Jake’s. While they do that Vera and Magnolia talk about baby stuff, with Vera admitting she has no idea what to name the kid and admits she’s miscarried before, so she has zero idea how to deal with what looks to be a full term pregnancy. Meanwhlie, Nitahn starts punching Jake with his own fist and demanding he stop hitting himself. When Oz tells Vera it’d be most dramatic, she starts the cart going and leaves them behind, making Nitahn and Jake jog to keep up and get on the caravan.

-Heading deeper into Vampire country the conversation is had on how to proceed. Vera says that if they keep calm and don’t do anything stupid, they’ll be fine. “So we’re locking jake up in the caravan though.”

-Session ends with the group entering a villiage and Wolf-Wolf looking confused.

#The idiots do a adventure

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asheva · 7 years

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A New Soul

What happens to her happens to him. But what if this worked for any strong physical sensation, not just pain? Alternatively, a certain changeling learns a lesson in love. Set during Roaming Charges May Apply.

Read it at my AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332195) or below.

The abandoned hallways of Arcadia Oaks High — eerie in the dappled darkness of a waning moon — were perfect for his jaunts. Sometimes, one just had to have a…change of scenery. Strickler relishes the sensations of his true form, feeling stronger than he had for days. His clawed feet make a pleasant clack on the worn vinyl as he stretches his legs to their full stride. It was risky exposing himself, given the chance of tardy cleaners or one of the teachers returning, but such was his mood tonight.

He brushes his steel mantle lightly, fingers testing each edge, carefully as not to cut, before selecting the sharpest of his knives. With a lazy flick, he lodges it in a nearby poster. The keen blade neatly cleaves the love-struck Romeo in half. How appropriate, given the current situation. He went to all the trouble of raising a powerful troll assassin and yet the boy still lived! While Strickler could appreciate Angor’s strategy of patient study — far superior to Bular’s brutish tactics — he strongly suspects the assassin was toying with him as well. Unhindered, the Trollhunter sought a dangerous path that spelt disaster for all changelings. Ignorant child! How could he hope to defeat Gunmar, Gunmar the Black, the greatest of all Gumm-Gumms? Yet the possibility remained, and with it the chance that the Nursery would fall. That was something Strickler could not allow. Sighing, he frees his knife from the wall.

Suddenly, without warning, the changeling is struck with a profound feeling of suffering. His blade clatters to the floor, and his knees sink with it. “W-What…” Strickler gasps, clutching his side. Beneath his hands, his muscles spasm in ways unfelt in this form. Had Angor finally found a way to harm him? Summoning his will through the Inferna Copula, Strickler commands a vision of the troll assassin. He is met by the sight of dripping tunnels and a dais made from piled flotsam. The sewers under Arcadia, if he had to guess. So that was where the troll took refuge. Through Angor’s eyes, he sees a half-carved golem figurine and the rhythmic dip of a sharp blade. The assassin is completely absorbed in his work. An attack on his ringbearer seemed unlikely, then. But what was the cause of the pain? In a burst of green, he shifts back into his human guise. The phantom feeling hits him harder, drawing his breath out in small huffs. He immediately recognises it as the desire to retch. Trollkind — for all the unpalatable “delicacies” they consumed — are rarely struck with nausea. This resilience extended, in part, to the half-breeds or Impure. Even in human form, Strickler was only mildly inconvenienced by the sensation. It should be impossible for this to debilitate him so, unless…

“The binding!” The changeling yelps, forcing himself to his feet. Shoes, not claws, resound, as he tears down the hall towards the staff carpark.

***

A few minutes, one squashed goblin, and several ignored traffic regulations later, Strickler pulls up outside the Lake residence. Neither the wrath of Gunmar nor a raging Gronka Morka could drive him from the car and to the house more quickly. Shifting from foot to foot, he raps on the door sharply. No answer. “Barbara!” Strickler cries out, hating the desperation that creeps into his voice. The binding of fates was a brilliant strategy to control the Trollhunter, but he could not shake the thought it was ill-considered. As he knew from experience, humans were incredibly vulnerable creatures. If someone wanted to strike him down, it would be as simple as harming the woman while she slept. Granted, the Trollhunter was in residence most nights, but even Jim’s budding fighting skills would not suffice. He is honestly surprised Angor had not thought of it. As expected, the assassin was already testing his bonds. Fortunately, the mental compulsions bound with the Inferna Copula were enough to prevent any deviation from the ringbearer’s command…for now.

Strickler knocks again, more forcefully this time, leaving small dints in the paintwork. Was she still at the clinic? No, Barbara mentioned she had the rest of the day off after a fortnight of double shifts. The silence worried him, yet he knew — by virtue of his continued existence — that she still lived. Finally, he hears a reply, although faint and strangled. “One moment…urgh!” The magical echoes of suffering strikes him through the bond. Breathing slowly, Strickler grabs the door frame to steady himself. It would do them both no good if he was vulnerable to attack. He hears her now, shuffling towards the entrance. The changeling quickly straightens as the lock clicks. Barbara, still dressed in her medical scrubs, peers out. Framed by the dark wood of the portal, she is as pale as Myrddin’s cursed daylight. The fine copper strands framing her face are slick with sweat. “W-Walter?” Barbara squints into the cult-de-sac, swaying slightly.

“I…uh…was in the neighbourhood.” It pains him to smile, but after centuries of disguise and deception, very little discomfort shows. He punctuates his greeting with a slight shrug, inwardly cursing his lack of a good excuse.

“This isn’t r-really a good time,” she rasps, coughing at the words. Bile burns at the back of his throat. How unpleasant.

“Barbara, you look dreadful!” Strickler delivers his lines as naturally as possible, eye twitching. He closes the distance in a stride, pushing the door open ever so slightly. His eyes flick behind her, scanning for unseen threats. “Please, let me give you some assistance. It’s the least I could do.” She holds his gaze with those soft doe-eyes, red-rimmed and bagged with exhaustion.

“What have I done to deserve you?” She smiles weakly at him. Her misplaced trust unsettles him, but any unnatural feelings are soon replaced by another wave of nausea.

“Here, allow me.” He proffers his arm. She tucks against him and together they stagger towards the lounge room. The lights are dimmed and soft pop plays from an old radio on the bookshelf. He sets her down on the lounge, shifting the cocoon of blankets already in residence to make room.

“Ugh, thanks,” Barbara groans as she rolls on to her side. The changeling tucks her up again, smoothing the blanket across her shoulders. There is a chipped coffee mug of wine by the lounge. A spicy-sweet Riesling if he was any judge. A bowl accompanies the mug, half-eaten, with the spoon sticking straight up in stiff gloop. “It’s not food poisoning,” Barbara mutters from under the blanket, “just a bad batch of mac and cheese.” She laughs weakly. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” He raises an eyebrow. To think, he, centuries-old changeling and leader of the Janus Order, could have been vicariously poisoned by cheesy pasta. Ever paranoid, Strickler checks the bowl for Trollish substances. Nomura may have been banished to the Darklands, but many of the Order still favoured her tactics. He finds nothing detectable, but the thought irks him.

Continuing his investigation in the kitchen, Strickler wades through a mire of dirty saucepans and stockpots. The blender, so conveniently and beautifully loud, dangles from the fridge by its cord. Still bubbling away on the hob, judging by its pungent tang, was the culprit. “Things have been crazy at the clinic,” she sighs, stretching out further. “I just wanted something comforting.” He sniffs the pot, immediately rebuking. There is a familiar odour. Fit for a troll, dare he say? It smelled of murkuun, the small balls of rat meat fermented in its own fat for several moons. Something he only tasted once — at knifepoint, in a Troll province under Capua — and never wishes to taste again. How a human could possibly recreate such a horror was beyond him. “Jim makes it look so easy.” Barbara sighs, sinking back into the lounge.

“And where is young Jim?” he inquires, although he already knows the answer. Ojos del Salado was an unforgiving realm and its overlord just as ruthless. With luck, the old volcano would deal with the changeling’s little problem.

“Still out camping,” she replies, sighing deeply. “I just don’t know anymore.” The changeling hums sympathetically, privately frowning. It would not be long before the Trollhunter exposed him, destroying Strickler’s budding relationship, or worse, broke Barbara’s heart. Put simply, it would be easier if the boy just vanished.

With Barbara having expelled most of the offending meal, Strickler figures she could use something to eat. The cupboards are well-stocked trove of exotic ingredients. Pickled ginger, saffron threads, Spanish cheese, to name a few. He should thank Young Atlas for that. Jim’s cooking was indeed superb: comforting, delightful, yet inventive. Much like the Trollhunter himself. A shame those skills would never flourish. The changeling settles on some battered soup tins from the bottom cupboard. It was unlikely anyone would miss these. Grimacing, he selects the most palatable of the bunch. The 'Cream of Chicken' squidges out in a solid, gelatinous, can-shaped lump. He hesitantly tastes it, gagging at the mush coating his tongue. Far too salty and artificial. Raiding the fridge, he finds some milk to dilute it. Now it smells…fairly edible. Changelings were voracious by nature, even at only a few decades old. While he had long since sublimated his needs to a human-like level, he could do with a good meal himself. Finally, he tops the steaming bowls with a few springs of freshly-snipped parsley. Not bad, for all its humble origins. The changeling was nothing if not good at disguising. As an afterthought, he throws the tins in the trash. Always hide the evidence. “Dinner is served,” he says with a wide smile, passing Barbara the soup bowl, “Just what the doctor ordered, I hear.” She chuckles lightly, then coughs as the air catches.

They eat in relative silence, save the soft clank and scrape of soup spoons. Strickler experimentally tries a spoonful of soup, then frowns as it fails to quench that persistent, annoying tickle in his throat. The binding was already becoming inconvenient. He watches her carefully over the rim of his bowl. She sips slowly at first, grimacing as broth irritates her raw throat. Yet, the nausea he sensed through the bond diminishes as she devours the soup. Soon, his dry, scratchy throat quietens. “Mmm. That was pretty good, Walt,” Barbara says, finishing the bowl. She runs a finger around the rim, “I feel… a lot better.” And he knows this to be the truth: their bond is quiescent now. She winks at him and the changeling could not help but beam. He feels…useful? No, that wasn’t quite it.

“Just something I threw together,” he replies, feigning modesty. Truthfully, her praise warms him, far more than the hot soup. He goes to takes her bowl, when a hand curls around outstretched arm, pulling him closer. Thrown off balance, his knees hit the edge of the lounge and he tumbles into her. Before he can right himself, her soft lips brush his, a gentle caress of appreciation.

CRACK! The bowl shatters under his preternatural strength. Barbara jumps at the sound and their noses bump together awkwardly, breaking whatever spell had overcome them. “Sh- sorry,” Barbara laughs uneasily, “I…better take that.”

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” his tongue intones automatically, while his mind reels with the kiss. He lets the bowl slip into her waiting hand, still stunned. Barbara shimmies out of the blanket and all but runs into the kitchen, cheeks burnished red. Strickler touches his lips, as if to ward off the sensation growing there. He had experienced kissing, lifetimes ago, but never like this. Never with the emotional sincerity that burns in his chest now. Gunmar take it, this was meant to happen the other way around. He was meant to be the one in control.

Unable to stop his steps, he follows her in the kitchen. Sauce and soup are splattered everywhere. Looking up, he can even see pasta shells plastered on the ceiling. Barbara is a tempest, a whirling flame of embarrassment. “Idiot, idiot...” she mutters under her breath as she aggressively stacks the dishes in the sink. Freed from its binding, her fiery locks lash like Medusa’s coils. Strickler pauses under the archway, unsure of what to do. This is still new to him — despite the advice he frequently gives. Uncertainty fades into resolve as he watches her unravel before his eyes. He spins her around, hands firm on her shoulders, stilling her movements. Barbara’s eyes widen like the proverbial deer-in-headlights.

“You are utterly enchanting,” he says, voice low and rough. The Morka take him for falling for this woman, this human. Someone who should have been a stepping stone, nothing more. All that frustration, that conflict, and, surprisingly, desire he compresses into a single, blistering kiss.

His hands are gentle but firm, his mouth consuming. Their teeth clash and in the heat of the kiss, he accidentally bites her lip. Pain spikes through the bond, mixed with something unfamiliar. Strickler scolds himself for his fervour, expecting Barbara to pull away. Surely humans didn’t enjoy that. If anything, the fierceness goads her on. Her fingers dig into his sides, pulling them both further over the counter top. Inspired, he bites gently, more of a nibble this time, and she melts against him. The taste of blood and bile is most unpleasant, but the thought enflames him. Trollkind are aggressive in their lovemaking: a play for dominance, with both sides feigning defeat to lure the other into overstepping. But that was not the human way, at least not normally. Yet a half-breed he was, and his warring natures certainly made things interesting. That being said, perhaps next time he would acquire breath mints.

That ridiculous thought wrenches him from his impassioned haze. He is suddenly aware of the precarious situation. Two adults — well, one human and a changeling — bent over a kitchen bench, necking like teenagers among pots and pans. His skin itches furiously. Tendons bound within corded muscles twitch, eager to stretch and change. Twin points of pressure bloom on his skull. Foolish, foolish! Strickler breaks the kiss, breathing hard. What in the Darklands was he thinking? Splayed in front of him is evidence of his zeal. Barbara’s glasses are askew, her lips dusky red and slightly parted. Her eyes, normally blue as the sky, are completely consumed by black pupils. The changeling can only imagine what he looks like. His front incisor aches, and he wonders if he had chipped it in his passion. He’d need to get that looked at. Truly a shame Gladysgro had been slain. She was an excellent dental hygienist. A cursory brush of his lips reveals a smear of red. He can still taste it, and that dances a little too close to his true heritage for his liking. It seems almost deviant. He was content to leave that for changelings like Nomura.

The silence is becoming uncomfortable. Was it too much? The unfamiliar feeling swells again through the bond. Stronger than before, as if duplicated. It wasn’t pain, but something equally as burning. Breathing out sharply, Barbara brushes the hair from her face. “I didn’t say stop.” She crosses her arms in a play of anger, but the impish smile betrays her.

“May I suggest somewhere more comfortable, then?” He suggests with a lopsided grin. His back was starting to twinge and, judging from the bond, Barbara’s was no better. Besides, benchtops were hardly romantic. He sweeps her into his arms, cautious this time, controlled, gentle.

“Hey!” She giggles, playfully hitting his side.

“Would you rather I leave you in kitchen? I do have several history papers to mark.” He deadpans while studying the nails on his free hand, knowing this will annoy her.

“Ass,” Barbara replies with no venom, allowing him to carry her to the lounge. She pushes him back lightly, making room for her to drape over him. Her weight, although light, compresses his chest. It is enough to remind him of stone hands and the first scorching crackle of his changeling magic. It is far too hot now. The cursed blankets twist underneath him, forming knots that dig deep into his spine. His hands stiffen, ghosting her side. Hers are on his shoulders, just resting, but they carry a weight of memories. An eldritch halo. The passage from dark to dark, and dark to light. Two worlds forever barred and only centuries of servitude to console him. He had only survived by adapting, by taking what he could control and bending it to his will. Making the best of a bad situation. Even his guise no longer felt unnatural. In fact, he hardly phased, unless the situation demanded it. Many of his ilk were disturbed by his interest in humanity. He would change their minds. He would rebuild the world for all his half-breed brethren. A chance for a life unfettered. And it starts with her, the woman tucked tightly against him. She is beautiful. Her scrubs have rucked up, exposing a creamy expanse of freckled skin, glowing with heated pleasure rather than illness. She is a radiant Aglaia, and he her supplicant. He surrenders to her, shoulders sinking back and brow softening. Truthfully, he had surrendered long ago.

She initiates a second time. A cautious kiss, a mere press that deepens into a flowing dance. Barbara softens him, tempers the fire inside. Her hands smooth his sides before settling at his nape. She twines her legs through his, not entrapping but encircling. He follows her movements, trying to learn the steps to their waltz. There is no set choreography, save a shared tenderness. They break rhythm, shift weight, dipping and spinning in tandem. Fuelled by their closeness, the bond fizzes with warm tendrils of energy. For a moment, there is no Trollhunter, no assassins, no Gunmar, no Order. But only for a moment. After some time, Barbara falls away from the dance with a gentle brush of her lips. Strickler opens his eyes slowly, afraid that this might have been some pixie-dream. “Oh, that was…” Barbara exhales, resting her head on his chest. Tentatively, he circles her in his arms.

“Exceedingly good?” He jokes, flashing a wry smile.

“I was going to say unexpected,” she huffs, butting him lightly. She looks away, shoulders tensing. “Was it? Good, I mean? I haven’t kis….”

“Barbara,” he interrupts, gently cupping her cheek. “Never apologise. That was perfect.” And this time, he truly means it. Not some lines he delivers to play a role, but an honest expression of emotion.

“You’re a good man, Walter." The words sting him. If only she knew. His keen ears pick up the chug and rattle of an old scooter down the street. So Jim had survived Gatto’s Keep. Hardly surprising, given the Trollhunter’s track record of near misses and lucky scrapes. Strickler had warned Angor not to underestimate the child, with good reason.

“I… should leave,” he says reluctantly. It would not do have the Trollhunter find them in a compromising position. Or perhaps it would? Changelings use any tactic to bring victory, and Strickler would do anything to unsettle his enemy. Besides, he enjoys tormenting the boy, if only to shake that idiotic innocence from his head. Gunmar would not be so forgiving. But lying here, content, in the arms of a woman he lo…strongly admired, Strickler couldn’t care less. And yet…

She hears the scooter as well, now idling in the drive. “Yeah…” Barbara sighs. They go about tidying their appearances, with minimal success. She re-ties her hair, finding her discarded glasses between two pans in the kitchen. Strickler fixes his sweater cuffs, straightens his jacket, which is hopelessly crumpled. Finally, he checks to see if his favourite pen is still inside the pocket. “Coffee? Tomorrow lunch?” Barbara asks as they reach the door.

“Sounds delightful.” He kisses her hand, a chaste reminder of the evening’s events. Heart warmed by the fire they kindled, he steps out into the chill of early evening. For the first time, he wonders if they have any future together. It is weak of him. There was still so much to achieve for his half-breed brethren. Yet, this, this is what he was fighting for.

And he would let nothing get in his way.

#trollhunters #stricklake #barbara lake #walter strickler

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esamastation · 7 years

Text

slow and abrupt change, 2

Graves runs a hand over his face, looking down to the images spread across his desk.

The whole Grindelwald debacle is more or less untangled now and he is vaguely ashamed of his department. Grindelwald was a powerful, brilliant wizard, true enough, and his act had been damn close to perfect. Those that had noticed anything amiss had been swiftly had their mind changed by the madman, and yet…

The longer he looks at the list of people who had noticed anything, the shorter it seems. The Goldstein sisters, a junior Auror who Graves hadn't even known the name of, only one of the entire team of obliviators – the executors. Picquery had refused to be mentally screened for manipulation, as was her right as the President, but judging by her expression at the time the answer was obvious.

It's a small wonder Grindelwald hadn't done more damage than he already had. Strange to think of it, but they were lucky the man had aimed to be subtle – until he didn't.

With his lone perfectly functioning hand, graves shifted the images around until he found the one they had of the obscurial – Credence Barebone. The boy stands hunched and awkward in dim light of the image, unmoving – a nomaj picture. He looks a little like a beaten animal. Apparently not far from the truth.

According to Auror Goldstein, there had been… a relationship.

Mercy Lewis, what a mess.

There's a knock on his office door and Graves glances up. "Come in," he calls and his secretary peeks in carefully.

"Um, sir – I'm about to head home for the night," Ms. Cole says carefully. "Is there something you need?"

Graves eyes her for a moment. He doesn't know her – Grindelwald had fired his original secretary and replaced her with someone far less competent. It's not Ms. Cole's fault – she'd only taken the job offered to her and she probably did best she could with it. But she was no Mrs. Lockwood.

"No, there's nothing," Graves says at last and looks down. "I expect I'll be heading out soon myself. You may go, Ms. Cole. Good night."

"Good night, sir," she pipes nervously and then ducks out of the office, banging it slightly in her haste to get away.

Graves smothers a sigh, shaking his head. It wasn't her fault, but he would have to get rid of her sooner or later and she probably knew it. The typing pool might have here, if she was good at it, but she was painfully unsuitable for him. Well. Another thing to consider later.

Standing up he starts putting the papers back into their folders, compiling everything slowly and methodically with one hand. He could have done it fast with a single flick of his wand, he knows, but doing it by hand gives him time to think. For a while he wonders if he should bring the folders home with him, to peruse later on, to give himself more time to wrap his head around the whole enormous mess of it…

But he's never brought his work home with him and he's not about to start now, no matter how much easier it would be to have that to distract himself.

So in the end Graves puts the folders away and locks his desk. He then spends a moment checking over his office – everything is in order here at least, Grindelwald had known better than to make a mess of his public appearance. He isn't sure if he appreciates it.

Silent, Graves locks his office and heads out, walking through the dark offices and towards the elevators. He'll walk tonight, he decides as he passes the fireplaces. Take his time with it, get used to being out and about again.

And if he's doing everything in his power avoid going home for as long as he can, well, that's his problem.

"Good evening, sir," Red greets him at the elevators. "Heading home?"

"Evening," Graves greets him and steps into the elevator. For a moment he entertains the thought of asking, did you notice anything. He swallows it, like he has swallowed it with every other person in MACUSA he's met since coming back as it were. "The first floor if you please, Red," he says instead and tries not to sway. Less than thirty steps and his knee is already starting to pound with pain.

"Right you are, sir," the goblin says and hits the right button.

Thankfully Red does him the courtesy of not bothering with small talk, and the elevator ride is blissfully free of social interaction. When the elevator pulls to a halt, the goblin merely opens the doors for him and simply bids him goodnight.

"Till tomorrow, Red," Graves says and limps out of the elevator.

He's been so late in the office that the forayer is almost empty and the few people there look like they're in hurry to head home. Few bid him wary good night, but no one stops to talk with him for which he is immensely grateful. The leg is quickly getting worse. Maybe walking wasn't such a good idea after all.

He's just about to head out when a voice tentatively calls, "Director Graves?" from somewhere to the side. Graves looks up with a slight frown and there is Mr. Scamander, sitting on one of the benches looking at the Salem Memorial.

"Mr. Scamander," Graves says slowly as he shifts his weight off the aching knee.. "You're up and about late."

"I could say the same about you," the man says and bounces to his feet. He's an awkward thing, Mr. Scamander, standing up a little hunched like he's trying to make himself small, never meeting anyone's eyes. "I, ah, I have something for you but I wasn't sure…" the man mumbles and then turns back to the bench.

Graves arches an eyebrow. It looks a little like the man had all but camped there – he has at least four notebooks out, and writing utensils – an actual quill, it's stem bent at an angle. The infamous suitcase is there too, of course, sitting on floor, looking almost innocent. "How long have you been waiting?" Graves asks. "If you had something for me, you could have had it brought to my office."

"Well, ah, the thing is –" Mr. Scamander mumbles and stacks up his notebooks, tucking them under his arm before shoving the quill and ink bottle in his coat pocket. He leaves a smear of ink across his fingers as he does it. "I really couldn't – and since they refused to let me in again, ah… It's just something I really should hand over in person. And explain. In length."

"Alright," Graves says slowly. "What is it then?"

Mr. Scamander looks up at him – at his tie – hesitantly. "The… swooping evil venom?"

Graves stares at him – and then he remembers. "Mr. Scamander – I was joking," he says slowly. Well, he had been half joking – wistfully joking, really. Would if he could, he might very well use something like that, and just… wipe away the last couple of months, just erase them from his memory. But he can't.

He's the Director of Magical Security, he can't just go tampering with his own mind. Especially not now.

"Oh," Scamander says and looks down, frowning uncertainly. "Ah, I… sometimes I can't tell," he murmurs and turns away. "Well, I guess I'll just…"

"Did you really prepare the venom for me just because I asked you to?" Graves asks curiously.

Scamander nods, obviously embarrassed. "It didn't cost me anything and sometimes being able to forget is one of the nicest things you can have," he says. "I certainly wouldn't judge someone for going for that option."

Well that's a telling statement. Especially in the light of the knowledge that the man had tested and experimented on himself with the damn stuff. "Right," Graves says slowly. "How often, exactly, have you used that stuff on yourself, Mr. Scamander?"

The man shakes his head, opening his suitcase and dropping his notebooks inside. Graves half expects to hear a clatter of them tumbling down the ladder – but there's nothing, and the magizoologist closes the suitcase again. "I haven't used it myself beyond testing it," Scamander says and takes the suitcase in hand. "But there have been people, and creatures, I dearly wish I could've given it to."

Graves nods slowly and Scamander fiddles with the suitcase nervously. "Well," the Brit says. "I'll… just be off your hair then. I'm sorry for the… the misunderstanding."

"Mr. Scamander, wait," Graves sighs before the man can head off. "I… appreciate the sentiment," he offers, because he honestly does. It's more than anyone else has given to him – better than all the empty platitudes and apologies. "I'm sorry I put you through such trouble."

"Oh, it wasn't trouble at all – I mean, I literally have this stuff just… lying around," Scamander says and then frowns at his suitcase like he's not sure if he should be saying it to the Director of MagSec. He clears his throat and glances up. "I suppose you're heading home then. Am I keeping you?"

Graves' fingers twitch and he's not entirely sure what about the words strikes the chord, home, or the earnest way Scamander speaks it with, but suddenly Graves wants nothing less than to go home. "No, I was… heading out to get a late dinner, actually," he lies and looks at the man. "Would you like to accompany me? My treat – as apology for misleading you."

Scamander startles at that and actually, astonishingly, meets his eyes. "Um, really?" he asks uncertainly.

"I am actually curious about the swooping evil venom," Graves offers. "Seeing that we have very few studies on it, I'd like to know what sort of… results have you had with it."

"Oh, well, I can definitely do that," Scamander says, still looking at him unsurely. But it's not the wary guilt that seems to permeate the entire MACUSA of late – it's more personal. Not a man who eats out a lot, it seems.

"Come on," Graves says and turns to leave. "I know just the place and it's not far."

"Alright," Scamander says and follows.

Eating out with Mr. Scamander turns out to be a both unusual and surprisingly pleasant experience. The man is a little uncertain with the setting, nervous with the other patrons and he all but flinches away from the waitress as she brings them the menus, but aside from that me makes decent enough dinner companion.

It turns out the reason Scamander isn't concerned about the borderline criminal misconducts of MACUSA and the whole Grindelwald debacle is because he leads frankly terrifying life. And, apparently, he met the swooping evil when it tried to devour his brain.

"Well, that's swooping evils for you, the name is a bit harsh but not without cause," the man says, fiddling with the menu. "That was when I got the inkling of the venom's effects too – she bit me, you see, and the effect was very fascinating. After I'd captured it I asked the locals about it and they had the most interesting stories."

Of having their brains almost eaten, Graves wonders dubiously while spreading the napkin over his lap. "I can imagine," he says, though his imagination is coming up with some gruesome pictures. "So you captured the creature and extracted it's venom?"

"Well not at first – I had to figure out alternative diet for her, as well as a habitat – well that in the end wasn't necessary, but regardless. It took some time before I came round to testing the venom," Scamander says and peers at the menu. "After that I worked on proper dilution. One to ten turned out to be about right."

"And the effect is permanent?" Graves asks.

"Has been so far," Scamander answers. "I wrote down all the memories I knew I'd lose, I even took them out and stored them in phials for a while – but without a pensive, they eventually faded. I haven't gotten them back – all though I have gained some peripheral recollections that were less unhappy."

"Unhappy?"

"The venom erases specifically bad memories," Scamander says and looks up. "That is the only reason I dared to even attempt it on an entire city – and as it is that solution was diluted even further, so it only covered only recent memories, over the last day or two."

Graves nods slowly, glancing over his menu and then setting it down. "Have you had any other side effects to it, aside from the memory loss?"

"Not that I know of," Scamander says and glances up. "You know, diluted even further and mixed properly with other agents, it might have dampening effect on bad, traumatic experiences. Not a total erasure but rather more natural… softening."

Graves frowns a little at that, looking at him – making the man quickly look down. How much had the man figured out, how much did he see? "You know you really shouldn't be tempting the Director of Magical Security to use untested, mind altering potions," he says, with some amusement.

"Probably not," Scamander agrees, embarrassed, and all but hides behind his menu.

Graves smiles a little at it. So sincere. "What else have you tested on yourself?" he asks with interest.

Scamander glances up and he looks a little flushed now. "Oh, little this and that," he says and then offers a smile. "But I probably shouldn't be talking about any of it to the Director of Magical Security either."

The waitress comes around again and they order – Graves going for order of tomato soup while Scamander orders roast beef.

The Brit then looks over the menu again and then shakes his head and sets it down. "Strange, to have dinner with no wine," he explains with a shrug.

"We could go to a speakeasy," Graves offers and smiles slightly at the face Scamander makes at the suggestion. "Perhaps not, then."

Scamander smiles sheepishly and then glances at him, at his arm in the slight. "May I ask why that hasn't been healed?" he asks quietly.

"It was," Graves says. "As much as it could be. The bones were… damaged rather badly," he says, by which he means that his arm was hanging on by a thread and couple days more and it would've had to be amputated. "There are limits to how far you can push a bone to heal with magic – rest the body has to do on it's own, or so the healers say."

"I suspected it was something like that," Scamander says, looking thoughtful. "Should you be working, with that level of injury?"

Graves' fingers curl into a fist before he can stop them, and quickly he relaxes his hand again. "My department is a mess," he says with a scowl. "The longer I wait the worse it will get. Better sort it out as quickly as we can so we can start dealing with the aftermath."

Scamander eyes his arm for a moment and then looks down. "I wish I could help."

"You're not even a citizen," Graves says and shakes his head. "There's no need for you to feel obligation. If anything, you've already gone above and beyond."

Scamander glances up at him, frowning a little. "You don't accept help from anyone, do you?"

Graves pauses at that, looking at him. Scamander holds his gaze for a moment before dropping his and Graves arches his eyebrow at him. "I don't ask for help, no. I'm a Director. I delegate," he says and straightens the front of his waistcoat a little.

He half expects the accusation, the not quite helpful note of well if you did then maybe you wouldn't get replaced so easily. No one had said it so far, but he keeps hearing it echoing in the back of his head, murmured in Grindelwald's smiling tones, oh Percival why would anyone notice? It's not as if anyone knows you…

The Brit says nothing of the sort, just looks at the table between them awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," Graves offers.

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't –" Scamander says and shakes his head, looking up. "It's not my place. I apologise."

Graves shakes his head and sighs. "No, it's… alright," he says and looks away, at the restaurant around it. It's not his favourite by far, but he enjoys the atmosphere of casualness it has. It's mostly a magical restaurant, but it's dressed up as nomaj one – most of the staff are squibs. It gives it a certain feel you can't quite get elsewhere.

Idly he wonders if Grindelwald ever came here, looking like him.

"Grindelwald kept me trapped in my own house," Graves says after a while, his voice low. "Days went by when I didn't even see him – only time he came around was to extract memories and to collect ingredients for his polyjuice potion. I fought him, I kept fighting him. I almost died several times… but he needed me alive."

Scamander gives him a wide eyed look and Graves grits his teeth, embarrassed. It's nothing he hasn't told before – he'd written it all down in his statement. But somehow it's different… to just tell it, rather than to report it. Shaking his head Graves looks down. "I can't stand the thought of going back into that house. Nothing's changed there, he didn't so much as smash a plate, but…"

But he can't breathe there anymore. The air chokes him.

"That's why I'm working," he says and then takes a breath and looks away – the waitress is there, with their plates.

Scamander looks wildly between him and the waitress who, sensing the atmosphere, smiles briefly at them as she sets the plates down. "Roast beef and tomato soup," she says. "I hope you enjoy your dinner."

"We will, thank you very much," Graves says, his voice a little rough, and then she's off and they got food between them to distract them.

Scamander fiddles with his fork and knife for a moment and then cuts into his beef. "Has anyone gone there with you?" he asks, piling the meat into his fork.

Graves glances up at him from his soup and then smiles wryly. "Mr. Scamander, are you asking me to take you home with me?" he asks, amused.

Scamander ducks his head a little, his face going a little red. "Well… yes. I am."

#fanfiction #fbawtft #original percival graves #newt scamander #gramander #au #newt x graves #graves x newt #torture aftermath

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redhairedfeistynerd · 3 years

Text

A Very Bucky Thanksgiving

Bucky Barnes x reader, singledad!Bucky, Riley and Piper Barnes, Steve Rogers

Summary: This is the first year Bucky has invited someone special to join in on their Thanksgiving dinner.Will everything go smoothly?

Warnings: some swearing, some sly sexual conversation