#there is nothing you can say about this child of salemites

[sicilivnwitch]

*for @chaxtic-evil post limoncello—

[aethelar]

Your count of Monte Cristo is killing meeeee. It's so good and so angsty :(( what's happening with newt?!? Newton my boi y r u like dis. Save your babies and smooch percival, not grigri :(

@townseleven replied to your post “So: The Count of Monte Cristo AU. Last we saw him, Graves clawed his…”

okay so I guess the question I have now is who are the Goldsteins in this au??

Count of Monte Cristo: Interlude

It went like this:

Newt was an author. He hadn’t yet published his first book but the drafts were almost done - notebooks of scribbles arrayed in something approaching order, messy field sketches inked on clean boards and waiting to be painted. He fell in love with Graves, too fast and too breathlessly and too impatient to wait. In the middle of the night he laughed and said, You could propose with a piece of string and you know I’ll say yes.

In the middle of another night he was jolted out of his editing by a frantic rattle at his window.

Help, the patronus said in Tina’s voice. It’s wings beat furiously to keep it hovering in place for a second before it wheeled round, trilling for him to follow. Newt grabbed his wand and threw a coat over his striped pyjamas but he was halfway down the street before he noticed he was barefoot. By the time he made it to the church his feet were painfully numb and the rest of him wasn’t far behind; the coat was warm but the thin flannel under it was not.

“Hey,” he said, shrugging his coat off anyway and wrapping it round Credence’s huddled form. “Hey, it’s ok. Let’s get you somewhere warm, shall we?”

Credence stared up at him, eyes wide behind the bruises and shoulders hunched in defence. He didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t, not for a while still, and Newt would sit on the table with him and swing his legs and teach him what he knew of makaton sign - this is hungry, Credence, you’re allowed to tell me if you’re hungry and I always want to know. This is eat and this is want and this is no, and I promise never to get angry if you tell me no, ok? And watch, Credence, this is a fun one - you say snail like this. Look, see the eye stalks? It uses them to smell with.

But Credence didn’t know makaton when Newt first held out his hand and asked permission to take him away; he stared at the strange man shivering in his pyjamas and he huddled back in the coat that was nicer than anything he’d ever been given and he squinted at the man’s gentle smile as though he could see the truth of the universe hiding behind it.

Eventually, solemnly slow and with great deliberation, he nodded. He left the church balanced on the man’s hip with his arm a steady weight against his back and by the time they slipped through Mr Newt’s front door and into his cluttered apartment he’d decided: Mr Newt was nice, and Credence loved him.

Newt gave him warm milk and warm blankets, transfigured a trunk into a bed and nudged aside a napping niffler to make space for the pillows. He tucked Credence in and stayed close but he didn’t drop a kiss on his forehead, not yet. Trust took time to build and as much as Credence liked him, Newt knew better than to push.

“You’re a good man, Newt,” Queenie said, peering through the fire at Credence’s sleeping form. “Sorry to bring you into this.”

“Don’t be daft,” Newt told her. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Besides, I could hardly leave him there. I don’t think he even had a proper bed, and he’s skinnier than a mooncalf. What happened?”

She pulled a face. “I don’t know all of it, Tina’s been keeping quiet. She’s been trying to get him out of that house for weeks though; his mum’s a Salemite and with Credence’s magic…” Newt’s stomach turned. He didn’t need Queenie to explain. “The department’s been blocking her though, saying it’s nothing do with the aurors and she’ll get fired if she keeps interfering.”

“Fired?” he repeated, shocked. His gaze flicked over to Credence and he fought the urge to tuck the blanket in tighter around him in the transfigured trunk-bed. Inaction was one thing, but to actively try to prevent Tina from helping a child who needed it - that couldn’t be right.

Queenie nodded miserably. “Weird things been going on at work. Even I notice it and I just bring them coffee. Graves not say anything to you?”

“Not outright - he doesn’t want me to worry. I thought he was just stressed about the ICW conference.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll ask him when he gets back. Maybe we can help.”

“Don’t you dare, Scamander,” Queenie scolds. “He’ll have enough sprung on him with being a dad all of a sudden, don’t go dragging him into our mess as well, you hear? Tina and I are fine, and we’ll be finer if we know that Credence is safe with you.”

Newt’s laugh was only slightly strangled, a quiet huff of breath careful not to wake Credence. “A dad,” he repeated. “God Queenie, I can’t wait for him to come home. He’ll love him, I know he will - a dad.” He smiled helplessly, and as alarming as Queenie’s news was it was impossible to stay worried when he thought of Graves. “He’ll be a dad, Queenie. Me and Graves, we’ll be the best parents. I promise.”

“I know you will,” Queenie said, confident and fond. She tilted her head and blew a kiss, and the fire flared green and died down to a settled glow. Newt gave into the urge to add another gentle warming charm to Credence’s blanket and flipped his notebook open to a new page to work out a shopping trip for the morning.

“A dad,” he whispered to himself as his pencil scratched over the paper. The niffler crawled up to his lap, nosing under his pyjama top and curling up in the warmth there. “Guess I’m mum for real now,” he told her, running a gentle hand down her back. “Mummy Newt and Daddy Graves. I can’t believe - he’ll be so happy.”

The news came three days later. Percival Graves was being arrested for treason. MACUSA had reason to believe that he or his associates would pose a threat to Newt and were assigning him a permanent guard until the situation could be resolved.

“Gellert Grindelwald,” the man at the door introduced himself. He smiled, polite and slightly lopsided, and held out a hand for Newt to shake. “I know this is difficult for you both,” he said, “but I’m here for anything you need.”

[brightlyburning1]

the gentleness that comes (2/?)

Percival Graves, retired dominant sex surrogate, is drawn back into the world of surrogacy as a favor to Newt Scamander. Newt's patient, one Credence Barebone, is recovering from his sheltered and abusive upbringing - after nearly burning down half the town in his escape. As Percival helps guide Credence through discovering his submissive side, he finds himself falling for the younger man - but those feelings must be hidden, lest he betray everything his profession stands for.

Here is chapter two! Or, if you prefer, you can read it on AO3, here .

"Percival!" Newt calls from the window of his battered Mini Cooper, waving, as though Percival doesn't possess ears to hear. Newt's auburn hair is as riotous as ever - unlike Theseus, who had kept his hair military-short until it fell out, and then there was no reason to care.

'Stop. Stop thinking about that.'

Percival hefts his briefcase, jogs down the steps, and crams himself into the passenger seat of the Mini, dislodging a stuffed iguana with a nametag proclaiming it 'Pickett.'

"Afternoon, Newt," he starts to say, only for thick drool to land on the shoulder of his gray Henley. Fuck, he quite likes this shirt.

"Afternoon, don't mind Dougal-" Newt steers the Mini, which is putting up an alarming racket, out into traffic and eastbound.

"Newt," Percival says, fishing a wet wipe out of his briefcase and scrubbing at the stain, "you have met Dougal, yes? He's not the sort of creature one 'doesn't mind.'"

The Irish wolfhound in question groans into Percival's ear from the backseat as Percival reaches back to scratch behind his ears, knuckles brushing the stiff red vest proclaiming him a therapy animal.

"Did you see the NDA?" Newt merges at unreasonable speed, one-handed, the other hand occupied with a mug of tea.

"It's intense." Which is a low-key word, all things considered; the NDA had been nearly half an inch thick. "How dangerous is he?"

"Who, Credence? Not at all."

Percival raises an eyebrow. The footage had blared across the country: flames consuming the Second Salem compound in the dead of night; Mary Lou Barebone, in a nightgown from her wrists to her ankles, trying to turn away the fire department; Mary Lou threatening them with God's vengeance and Grindelwald’s, her new spouse, and considering the rumors of his wealth and power, Grindelwald's vengeance may well have been worse; coughing children, malnourished and flinching, stumbling into the floodlights; a small girl, eyes wild and rolling in a soot-stained face, writhing in the firefighters' grips and howling for Credence, Credence, Credence.

At last, out of the roiling clouds of smoke, a firefighter, stumbling, her arms cradling thin limbs that stank of gasoline, a slack and blue-tinged face. The firefighter falling. The girl, Modesty Barebone, breaking free, running to shelter in the shadow of Credence's body beneath the flames.

"You're saying this about a man who nearly set the National Forest on fire." Though, to be fair, Percival would probably have done the same, had he grown up among the Second Salemites: rigid, unyielding, utterly joyless and practical in the worst sort of way.

"Yes." Newt takes an off-ramp down into a quiet residential neighborhood, the Mini Cooper jolting when it leaves the ramp. "But there is a great difference between a man who does terrible things to escape and one who does them to harm."

"I'm aware, Newt. My cop training hasn't left me yet." To say nothing of Theseus, who had spent a good three week stretch emotionally savaging everyone around him, trying to escape their attention and affection, trying to spare them the loss.

Newt grins in the corner of Percival's gaze and drains the tea. "Apologies." A stoplight; the Mini Cooper, idling. Newt turns to stare Percival full in the face, and that in itself is so rare as to have Percival's full attention. "Credence had no homicidal intent or thoughts of violence."

"Then why burn it down? My contacts in the department weren't willing to share much." Not that they, technically, are ever supposed to share the details of an ongoing investigation, but this level of secrecy is unusual.  

Newt turns, gray-blue gaze sliding away from Percival, and accelerates. "Credence and the children at this Second Salem compound fell through every crack in every system: Department of Children and Families, the police, the schools, the hospitals. DCF’s foster system was overloaded, so someone like Mary Lou, willing to take in as many as they gave, seemed a godsend, and she sailed through the approval process. Add in waivers for medical care due to personal beliefs, waivers for public education due to religious beliefs, the fact that the congregation moved whenever the law became too involved, the fear of crossing Grindelwald-"

Gellert Grindelwald, the city's wealthiest property developer, half the buildings they pass by built by or owned by him. Makes sense, in this small city, not to cross such a man - Percival met him at a gala honoring the police force, and even at that first meeting felt queasy in his presence.

"At various points over the past nineteen years," Newt turns the car towards Kowalski's Bakery, "the children's social workers were called out to do wellness checks. Citizens concerned by how Mary Lou used the kids for canvassing called the police. Credence, himself, at one point after he presented as a sub, called the police. Just like every time the authorities checked on Second Salem, Mary Lou steered the conversation, placated the fears, and got them back off the property. Then she went after Credence with a whip."

God. Nineteen years of waiting for help to come, of dreaming of escape, only to see it slip through your fingers every time. No wonder the young man struggles with trust, if all he's received from authority figures is suffering or ignorance; no wonder he apparently yearns for someone to help him feel safe.

"Was Mary Lou's animosity towards him purely based on his submissive status?"

"No, though it intensified after he presented, and when his sister Modesty presented as a dominant, Credence had to get attention from the authorities before Modesty also came in for abuse." Newt swallows visibly, eyes bleak, and Dougal lays his mournful head on Newt's shoulder. "Or before Modesty was sent off to some other Second Salem congregation to be separated from her brother's 'foul perversions.' Time was short. Help was short. He made the best choice he could, given what he knew."

A choice that landed Credence in jail while they processed the crime scene, the children scattered to various therapeutic foster homes, and now has him waiting to be called up as a witness in the ongoing criminal trials of Grindelwald and Mary Lou.

"So once they released him from jail, that's when you met him?"

Newt parks in front of Kowalski's bakery, unbuckles himself, and fishes in the piles in the backseat for his satchel. "Yeah; seems like poor recompense for nineteen years of suffering due to willful blindness, but DCF is paying for all of his and the other witnesses' treatment and reintegration into society. Tina knows one of the children's new caseworkers, and since Tina likes to talk up her sub-" he ducks his head, grinning, a flush staining his cheeks and traveling down his neck, beneath the thin blue leather collar, "-I wound up a consultant."

It takes a moment for them to all extricate themselves from the backseat, but eventually Percival and Newt and Dougal are all free on the sidewalk before Kowalski's, Newt completely ignorant of the black fur covering nearly every inch of his corduroys.

"And since Credence said he wanted to explore his sexuality, I got in touch with Seraphina, and-" Newt gestures at their surroundings, "-we're here."

"Anything I should know?" Percival follows Newt into the building and up the staircase. Dougal's tail whacking into his knees as they climb.

"Not that you would, but don't treat him like he's stupid or a child; he's quite clever, really, just sheltered. He probably won't offer a handshake, so you're better off waiting to see if he initiates. Other than that, can't think of much for a first meeting."

Newt stops before the door above Kowalski's - a deep green, the paint peeling about the edges - and knocks, three fast raps.

A shadow moves behind the peephole, and Percival squares his shoulders, settling into his skin again, projecting calm confidence. The click of locks, and he looks Credence Barebone full in the face.

He's practiced at hiding his initial reactions to clients - he's had to be, when he's worked with clients who are quadriplegic, dying, all types of bodies and abilities - but even then he has to swallow down the rumble building in his chest.

Credence Barebone is exquisite, there's no other word for it - and Percival is lucky to have him first, to teach him what he needs to know to be safe, because he will have suitors aplenty. Feline eyes, near-liquid in their darkness, that flicker over him and Newt and Dougal, then drop in silent submission, eyelashes the color of soot falling upon knife-sharp cheekbones, their paleness begging for a thumb's caress. The cut of his black hair does him no favors, but given time and patience, those thick strands could be made beautiful. The breadth of his shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist where one's hand could rest-

"Hello, Newt, Dougal," Credence says, his voice low, hoarse, as if he rarely speaks. "And you-?" His gaze flicks up to Percival, who offers a faint smile.

"Percival Graves, the surrogate partner." He doesn't offer a hand, and Credence makes no attempt. "Pleasure."

"Oh-" it's more an indrawn breath than a word, and Credence seems to hunch into himself, as if to hide, but his gaze looks Percival over from feet to head, the barest hint of a flush stealing across his cheeks. Anxious, no doubt, but not frightened - Percival can work with that.

Credence steps back for the three visitors to enter the apartment. It's Spartan, to say the least, but not surprising; he likely never had much, and what furniture he has must have been provided by DCF or the police department. The couch Credence gestures for them to sit on is an unflattering shade of beige, and Credence perches at the edge of a rickety kitchen chair. He clasps his hands together, a subtle tremor drawing Percival's attention to the faint red of a scar tracing over the side of one palm.

"Shall we go ahead and get started? I've explained some of what Credence can expect from me in our relationship, but I'm sure there's still some questions he might have." Newt unclips Dougal's leash and busies himself removing paperwork from his satchel.

Percival holds Credence's gaze, searching for signs of panic or confusion. "So, you've met Newt. He's the therapist, and I'm the licensed dominant surrogate partner. Together with you, we form what's called the therapeutic triangle; what that means is that we all agree when to move forward in treatment, when to end therapy - unless you decide to end the contract - and how to help you achieve your goals. First and foremost, your safety and confidentiality is paramount; nothing will be shared outside the therapeutic triangle, and nothing occurs without your permission."

A muscle flickers in Credence's jaw, and Dougal pads over to shove his head between Credence's hands, breaking apart the anxious twist of fingers. Another glimpse, then, of terrible scars, hidden quickly in Dougal's dark fur, and Percival's chest aches with pity.

"How long will it take?" Credence's gaze flickers to Newt, who's looking through notes. "For me to meet my goals?" His fingers dig into Dougal's fur, thumbs stroking over the dog's ears.

Newt waves for Percival to keep going, so he does. "It's different for each client, but the standard is that the client meets with the therapist for one or two hours a week and the surrogate for one or two hours a week, separately. Most clients I've worked with have felt able to end the relationship and try dating after about thirty weeks."

"Speaking of which!" Newt flips to a sheet in Credence's file, his spidery handwriting spilling over the page. "Have your goals remained the same? Not feeling afraid of your orientation, being able to communicate needs and boundaries, being able to submit?"

"Yes, please," Credence says, his voice near-trembling, Dougal patient as his fingers twine into his fur.

That soft 'please,' those eyes flickering shy glances at Percival's hands, his briefcase - this young man will make some dominant proud one day.

They schedule the sessions, and Newt takes over for a bit, discussing Credence's progress with mindfulness practices, meditation: the standard routine for someone beginning surrogate therapy.

"Here's the contract attesting to the boundaries I have." Percival draws it from his briefcase and hands it over along with a pen. "There's my work phone number; if while you're working on an assignment for Newt or myself, you have questions or concerns, you can text me there. You have a phone?"

"Yes," Credence says, his lips almost shaping the 'sir.' Oh, he's a sweet young man, so obviously in need, so easily hurt; thank God for Newt and Tina, who recognized his vulnerability and connected him to people who would not use it against him.

"The rest is standard; you won't see me outside of our scheduled sessions, and once our therapeutic relationship is over, you won't try to seek me out further, as my job is not only to model the beginning and middle of a good relationship, but also its ending."

Credence reads the contract slowly, mouthing the words to himself, a furrow setting in his brow that Percival could smooth away with a thumb, a kiss. He nods as he finishes, then signs at the bottom, passing it back to Percival. Their fingers brush, and Credence swallows, a faint tremor shaking him.

"Now, as this is mostly about introductions and paperwork, our time is almost up." Newt breaks the sudden connection, stuffing papers back into his satchel. "Percival, you have an assignment for him, correct?"

Percival turns and pulls the last things out from his briefcase: two dice and a thin black leather band. He places them on the coffee table, amused and affectionate when Credence's attention goes to the simple cuff, naked need passing across his face.

"This one is simple. At some point before I see you next, I want you to spend half an hour or so with the dice and the cuff. You don't have to put the cuff on if you are uncomfortable; simply have it near you. One die lists sensations, such as scratching, tapping, et cetera. The other lists body parts. I want you to use the dice and explore how you react to the sensations you give yourself: what you enjoy and what you don't. Please write down any strong reactions. Additionally, I want you to write down the thoughts that come into your mind when you look at the cuff or wear it, if you feel ready for that. Understood?"

Credence nods. "All right. Thank you."

"No need," Percival says, standing. They make their goodbyes, Credence again offering no handshake, and he and Newt and Dougal leave the apartment.

Driving away, he looks into the rear view mirror, and spots a pale face in the window above Kowalski's, two dark feline eyes, and in Credence's hands, a thin black leather band.