Prompt Post #1

[fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme]

 ROUND 1

FUCK IT WE'LL FIGURE OUT SPECIFICS LATER

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Original!Graves/Female!Credence A Blushing Bride

[(Anonymous)]

They get married for whatever reason and Female!Credence has to wade through all the awful internalized sexism she was taught (good girls don't want or enjoy it, they lie there while their husband does his duty) and her fear that he'll hurt her (men only want one thing, etc etc) while Graves just wants to give her a great wedding night and good marriage.

Bonus points for her fearing over 'sin' while Graves points out he's her husband now, it's not a sin.

Extra bonus if she had no idea that oral was even a thing (she knows the basics but that's it).

Re: Original!Graves/Female!Credence A Blushing Bride

[(Anonymous)]

Oh my god you're right, lady Credence would basically be Carrie. And Mary Lou would be as awful as Carrie's mom, damn.

fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence)

[(Anonymous)]

Credence doesn't cry on her wedding day because this, she has been assured, is the best of all possible outcomes for her. She has not been sentenced to death. No one is going to study her; no one is going to cut pieces out of her until there is nothing left to cut. She isn't even going to jail. She's only going to be looked after. She will be let out of the little room where she has lived during the Senate committee hearings (still a bigger room than she had in the church, and she has it all to herself) and brought out into the wider world. But there are conditions.

"It's a very old form of magic," Miss Goldstein explains to her. "It used to be part of wedding vows, in some parts of the wizarding world, but it hasn't been common in a couple of centuries." Miss Goldstein is so kind, so gentle, and trying so hard not to let Credence know how angry she is. Credence wants to tell her that it's alright -- that she knows Miss Goldstein isn't angry with her. But those aren't the words that seem most important to say.

"I'm going to be married?" Credence says instead.

"It doesn't have to be a legal marriage," Miss Goldstein says. Credence hears herself make a small, horrified sound and tries to smother it under her hands. "It can just be the spell, and that's it."

"I don't want to be some kind of --" (fallen woman, gutter trash, devil's whore) "-- burden to anyone."

"Oh, Credence," Miss Goldstein says. She sounds very tired and very sad. "You won't be, I promise."

"Please," Credence says. "I want it to be legitimate."

Miss Goldstein sighs. "I'll talk to him about it. We're supposed to do the spell later today, but if this is how you want to do it, I'm sure we can make it work." She reaches over and takes one of Credence's hands. "If you're sure." Credence nods.

Miss Goldstein goes away and comes back with a wedding dress and another woman, who she introduces as her sister. The dress is old-fashioned, and Miss Goldstein's sister ('call me Queenie, I'm not anyone official') offers to remake it in a more modern style. Credence refuses. She likes that the dress has a high neck, long sleeves, a skirt that hangs to the floor. Miss Queenie has to extend it a little (Credence has always been too tall for a girl) and take it in a little (Credence has always been too thin in general). She pins Credence's hair back as best she can, but her hair has never been tame or obedient.

"I know you're worried," Miss Queenie says. "You know it's not going to hurt, right? It's a safe spell. Safe as houses." It wouldn't be so bad if it did hurt, Credence thinks; she knows how to smother the pain and keep moving. It's not the spell she's worried about. Miss Queenie looks at Credence sympathetically, and then pleadingly over at her sister.

"You really don't have to get married," Miss Goldstein says, frowning. "I want to be clear about that. The spell will work without it."

"If this is part of marriage for witches, and I'm going to be a witch, then I should be married," Credence says. It's the only thing she feels sure of.

She feels less sure as they lead her through the halls. It's evening and the building is mostly empty, but the few people left stop to stare. Credence is veiled, but they're magic. They must know that she's the Obscurial (the freak) who killed two people and nearly exposed them to the world. She ducks her head and clasps her hands and hopes her husband will take pity on her and hide her away from his world instead of making her join it. Magic was all she wanted, when it was her way out, but now -- now it only seems a different kind of prison. A trap more readily made to hold her.

"We're your witnesses," Miss Queenie says. "Usually there'd be a witness from the groom's side, but he didn't have time to get anyone here." He's ashamed of her already, Credence thinks, and who wouldn't be? Miss Queenie says, "oh, honey, no" but Credence doesn't need the reassurance because she's grateful either way.

She is less grateful when she sees her husband-to-be.

Credence knows, of course, that this isn't the man who tricked her, who used her. She has seen him at the committee hearings. (And that also means he isn't the man who cradled her face so gently, who healed her hands so tenderly, who offered her the only kindness she had known in so long.) His face is familiar but he is not, and that makes her afraid. Still, she steps into the circle drawn on the floor. Old-fashioned magic, Miss Goldstein had said. It looks more like the drawings in her ma's pamphlets than anything else she has seen so far. Arcane symbols, candles, the sweet-sharp-bitter smell of burning herbs.

The president is there, too, just outside the circle. The officiant, Credence realizes, dressed in her robes of office. Not a minister. It's hardly the strangest thing in recent memory. Stranger, perhaps, for the fact that Madam Picquery had almost had her killed, but Credence can forgive that act of violence. Credence has all but been forgiven for greater crimes herself.

Credence joins hands with Mr. Graves. There is a great deal of talk in what might be Latin, but she doesn't know what any of it means. Ma never went in for Catholic nonsense. Madam Picquery prompts Credence when to say yes, which she is allowed to do in English. When it's all over, Mr. Graves lets go of her hands. He doesn't lift her veil. He doesn't kiss her. Madam Picquery wishes her well with all due solemnity, and Miss Queenie hugs her. Miss Goldstein does, too.

"If you need anything, let me know," she says. Credence nods. Then Mr. Graves puts his hand on her shoulder. His first sentence speaking as a husband to his wife lacks some of the tenderness that one might hope for.

"We should go to my office," he says. Maybe, Credence thinks, he wants to kiss her for the first time in private. Maybe he means to have her there, if she's not worthy of the marriage-bed --

"If you do any of the things she's thinking about, there'll be hell to pay," Miss Queenie says. Credence is mortified, which Miss Queenie must also know.

"The only thing I intend to do with Miss Barebone tonight is paperwork," Mr. Graves says.

"Mrs. Graves," Miss Goldstein corrects him. "You'll be doing paperwork with Mrs. Graves."

"So I will," Mr. Graves says. He takes his hand off Credence's shoulder and starts for the door without a glance back. She follows. The halls now are emptier still. And his office is quiet, quiet, quiet when he shuts the door behind them. She stands in the middle of the room and tries not to touch anything.

"You can take that off, you know," Mr. Graves says. Credence's heart flutters, but she no longer feels like something is trying to claw its way from between her ribs. Her fear is -- smaller. No less present, but less of a presence.

"My dress?" she says, and her voice is very small.

"Your veil," Mr. Graves says a little sharply. "There are no prying eyes here, Credence."

His voice sounds the same, saying her name.

She draws the veil back. She expects him to look at her appraisingly, to decide whether he thinks she'll be worth the trouble, but he doesn't. Perhaps he has already decided, one way or the other.

True to his word, he beckons her over to the chair behind his desk. She sits. He stands beside her, signing document after document and indicating where she should do the same. Maiden name; married name. Credence Graves is a portentous name. She has trouble with the quill pen he gives her at first, so he offers her a plain cartridge pen, which she accepts with some embarrassment. She should be able to adjust to such a simple and un-magical change. Sometime around the tenth form, when her new name has ceased to look like anything but a collection of letters, she gathers the courage for a question.

"May I call you Percival?" she says. He looks over at her, surprised.

"Of course. I hope I haven't overstepped in calling you Credence."

"No," Credence says, looking back down at the paper in front of her. "Not at all."

"You're going to have to live with me," Percival says. "There's no way around it." He suddenly sounds exhausted.

"Of course," Credence says. "I'm your wife."

"You are indeed," he says. "Not exactly what I thought I'd be signing up for, I admit, but here we are." Credence is seized with fear so suddenly she almost chokes on it. He didn't want this, he doesn't want her, but she's his to do with as he likes.

"Please," she says, horror-struck. "Don't cast me aside." She clenches her hands into fists and squeezes her eyes shut. She is a bubble about to burst.

"Credence," he says in slow, careful tones. "I need you to calm down for me. Take a deep breath."

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence)

[(Anonymous)]

Ahhhh I'm so excited someone is filling this. SO GOOD ALREADY.

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence)

[(Anonymous)]

Oooh, this is a good start. I love all the little details and Tina and Queenie being there for Credence.

fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

(Sorry, I forgot to put "part 1" on the first part! But here is some more sad weird marriage stuff. And I threw in a little Carrie reference toward the end, because that other anon had a point!)
___

Credence listens, because she has to, because this is important -- to prove that she can be good for him. She breathes in.

It's enough to bring her back, to remind her that she has a body. That she's not smoke and ember. She opens her eyes, gasping.

"I know this has been stressful for you," Percival says, sounding tired again. "And it seems like there's a conversation we should have, but I'd rather not have it here." He straightens up and offers her his arm. "Shall we?" Credence stands and takes his arm. She isn't sure whether to fit herself against his side or stand as far off as she can. He doesn't want her, so she shouldn't stand too close; they are to become as one flesh, and she ought to get used to the solid heat of his body. She settles for something in-between. They take the elevator down and walk out through the lobby. It's fully night now. No one looks at them. They're on the sidewalk, and then (darkness, pressure; apparating?) on a different sidewalk.

"You don't even have a coat," he observes suddenly. "Christ, what was I thinking?" He shrugs off his overcoat and drapes it around her shoulders. She doesn't comment on his taking the Lord's name in vain. Impious or not, she has no right to reprimand him. "I would have used the Floo network, but I didn't want to risk you getting lost," he explains, unlocking the door. Then he does something with his wand around the doorframe. "We'll have to get you added to the family register," he says, talking more to himself. "That will make adjusting the wards easier." Credence only understands the most rudimentary elements of magic. She has nothing to add, no comments to make, but he looks to her anyway.

"Alright," she says.

"You'll have to meet my family for that," he goes on, still working on the door. "I'll see about getting in contact with them tomorrow."

"You don't have to," Credence says. "If you'd rather not, I mean." She cringes. "Sorry."

"The sooner the better," he says briskly. The door finally swings open, and he waves her in. The entryway is dark. It might be any house in one of the nicer neighborhoods. Credence realizes that she has no idea where they are. She isn't especially alarmed by the thought. There are more immediate, more alarming things to be dealt with.

The lamps flicker to life. "I want to go to bed," Credence says, and hates herself for sounding childish. But she just wants to get it over with.

"In a few minutes," Percival says. "I promise." He rakes a hand back through his brilliantined hair and some of it falls loose around his face. "Would you like to sit down? There's a sitting room through there." He nods to a doorway on the right. She goes, and the wood in the fireplace sparks suddenly into flame. The walls are papered over with maps and moving pictures. Webs of lines draw and redraw themselves. "Casework," he says, following her astonished gaze.

Credence perches on the edge of the couch and looks up at him. He sits down in a chair across from her.

"First thing's first: what did you feel during the ceremony?" he says. This isn't any of the things she thought he might say.

"Nothing," she says after a moment's consideration.

"I felt like I was getting hit in the chest with an anvil," Percival says bluntly. "Some of that is because your magic lacks control and took a volatile form. But some of it has to do with sheer power. You're a very powerful witch, or you will be. What you lack is technique. Raw power like that can be dangerous, even when it doesn't take the form that yours has." He leans forward intently. "What I volunteered to do was key my magic into yours, to help you maintain control while you learn. It's not a one-way street: most magic attuned to me will be attuned to you. To put it in no-maj terms, it's like we're broadcasting on the same frequency." Credence nods, though she doesn't entirely understand the comparison. "The main exception to that is blood magic, which is mostly illegal. I have a dispensation to use some kinds, which is why the wards on this house were difficult to navigate."

"Blood magic," Credence echoes. She remembers the sermons: stolen infants bled out, their fat mashed to paste for ointments.

"It's not as sinister as it sounds," Percival assures her. "Usually." He reaches across to her, and she holds out her hand to meet his. "I understand your desire for respectability, especially given your circumstances. I don't want you to worry that this is keeping me from fulfilling any lifelong dreams of wedded bliss." Credence's hand in his starts to shake. "If I had any prior attachments, I would have bowed out," he goes on. "As it is, my job takes most of my time and attention. I don't want you to think this has to prevent you from having your own life, too."

Credence pulls her hand back and clasps it in her other hand to stop it trembling. "I won't take much of your time," she says. "I'll look after the house."

"Credence, I don't want you as my housekeeper," he says, sounding aggrieved. She flinches.

"No," she says. "Of course." She can do what she likes, he seems to say, within reason. But they are man and wife.

"You're tired," he observes. She nods, grateful that she at least will not be kept waiting in dread. "I'll show you to your room." He'll want his own space, of course. That makes sense. It seems terrible, like a shameful secret, that one of them will have to visit the other in the night, but this is his house. He can arrange things however he wants to.

Credence's room is probably very large and probably very beautiful, but she only lights one lamp. Enough to see the buttons on her dress. Enough to see the bed. She can worry about the rest in daylight. The dress gives her some difficulty, but she is careful with it. She doesn't know whose it is. They will want it back, even if it's now too long and too narrow. She stands in her slip and shivers. Should she open the wardrobe? Will there be a nightgown inside? That seems like too much to expect. She slides under the covers and feels too exposed even there.

She waits. And waits. There is no knock at the door, no footsteps in the dark. He isn't coming. So, then, she's meant to go to him. She hopes he won't be angry with her for taking so long to realize.

All the lights in Percival's room are off. She walks unsteadily forward in the dark, arms outstretched, until her hand touches a bedpost. A soft light blooms from the other side of the bed.

"Credence," Percival says, in the same careful tone he had used when she felt like she was about to fly apart. "What are you doing?"

Credence doesn't cry on her wedding day, but she does cry on her wedding night. Helpless, confused tears. She was born to Eve's weakness, Eve's sin, but lust has never been her great temptation. She has been covetous, disobedient, wrathful. (The closest she came to lust was with her Mr. Graves, the impostor, and even then she couldn't imagine wanting to take any greater liberty than a kiss.) She can't rely on her wickedness to guide her, and she's too unprincipled to to her duty otherwise. She sobs and turns her face away. Percival won't want her now that he's seen her, thin and scarred as she is.

But, against all odds, he reaches for her. Just one hand, outstretched, as he had done downstairs in the sitting room. "What's wrong?" he says.

She gathers courage from his invitation. Credence takes his hand and surges forward. She kisses him, feeling bold and ashamed. He cups her face in his hands and draws back. "I think there's another conversation we should have."

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Author-anon here, just wanted to add this comment: Percival's internal monologue throughout this whole thing is pretty much "I am so tired and I guess I'm married" interspersed with occasional [KILL BILL SIRENS]

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 2/?)

[j_gabrielle]

I have a mighty need to read more and I hope you will continue soon, because this is brilliant is what it is xx

OP Here

[(Anonymous)]

Author anon ilysm!!! This is amazing, so much more than I dared hope for and it is so so so good. You're the best (also I am dying at her thoughts about GrindelGraves. Well I'm dying at all of it. This is the best Monday surprise there could ever be <3)

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

OMG, these poor two! I'm full of hope for them, although Mary Lou certainly left her imprint on Credence. But in a way, that she fell for GrindelGraves and that it aroused something in her is almost... felix culpa? (On his side, I mean. No fault of hers.)

Aaargh I want to bundle the two of them in a counterpane, give them hot cocoa and tell them everything will be all right! Although Percival should work a bit more on the sweet nothings. "I felt like I was getting hit in the chest with an anvil", forsooth.

fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

(No well-intentioned married sex in this part, but I promise it's coming soon.)
___

"Whatever he told you that you had to do, it wasn't true," Percival says, and he still sounds tired but there's something urgent in his voice now. "You understand that, don't you?" It takes Credence a moment to make sense of what he means. He must be talking about her Mr. Graves (Grindelwald, more properly, but it's hard for her to call him that in the privacy of her own mind).

"I tried," she says. She blinks rapidly, swallows thickly, suppresses the rest of the tears threatening to slip out. "I tried to find the child for him, only there wasn't any child, it was me." Percival takes his hands from her face and it feels like a punishment. But his hands are busy elsewhere: he turns on a lamp on the bedside table. He pats the comforter.

"Come on, sit down," he says. His gaze skips down her body but doesn't linger anywhere. "If you'd like to put on something else -- if it would make you more comfortable --"

"I don't have anything else," she says. The clothes she wore at the hearings had been given to her and weren't properly hers. She hadn't thought to ask if she could take them with her. She hadn't thought about much, there at the end, except the fact that she was going to be married to a stranger. And then that stranger had turned out to have a face she knew, and she had even more things to think about. The clothes she had been given out of charity are still in that little room she left.

He frowns but doesn't ask her to explain. He stands and crosses to an unfamiliar door. Credence fleetingly thinks that he'll leave her there, but the door opens into a closet. He comes back with a robe.

"If you'd be more comfortable," he says again. Credence takes it because she thinks it might make him more comfortable. She sits on her husband's bed, wearing her husband's robe. She doesn't know where any of this is going. She knows where she had expected it to go (heat and crushing weight, harsh little grunts and pants of breath, pain and tearing and just a little blood). But her husband sits beside her in gray pajamas and his demands are not demands of the flesh.

Percival takes a deep breath, lets it out, and starts again. "At the hearings, you testified about your interactions with Grindelwald." He waits for her to say something and she doesn't. They were both there. There's nothing to confirm. "I understand that there are some things you might not have wanted to say. Things you might have been ashamed to share." Credence feels suddenly cold. He doesn't say it like an accusation, but it might as well be that.

"He didn't ever ask me to do anything else," Credence says. I would have done anything, if he'd asked is what she doesn't say. She would have debased herself for her Mr. Graves. She would have let him do any of the terrible things to her that her mother said witches did, or that she knew men did to women they didn't care for. She would have been damned for him. (She almost was anyway.)

"Credence," Percival says, and she's starting to hate the way her name sounds when he says it. Not so like her Mr. Graves after all -- too careful, like he's speaking to a frightened animal instead of a person. "Are you in love with him?"

"No," she says, and she means it. "I was. I'm not anymore." Percival sighs. Relieved, undoubtedly. "I don't think he felt anything for me," she says. The words are hollowing her out, but she keeps talking. "I think he only liked that I depended on him." It's an understatement. He was the axis around which her whole world turned, for a while.

"That's a very astute observation," Percival says. Credence is surprised to find that he isn't mocking her. "I think that sense of control gives him a lot of satisfaction. To provide hope and then take it away." He takes another deep breath, holds it, lets it out. "He kept me somewhere that looked like part of a house where I spent a lot of time as a child. It wasn't the same house, or even made specifically to look like it, but it was close enough that I would sometimes think the footsteps on the stairs might be my sister coming to find me." He laughs, and it's a grim, unpleasant sound. "Of course, I wasn't entirely in my right mind at the time."

"Oh," Credence says. The way he says it makes her think that it isn't something he had to share with a room full of people. It had been something private and therefore precious. She doesn't know what to do with the information except guard it, hide it in the empty spaces her own admission left behind. And then, because she can think of nothing else, she says, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says. He rubs a hand across his eyes. "This is -- I shouldn't be asking this, but it's late, and I don't want any more misunderstandings. Do you see him when you look at me?"

The answer is yes. Of course the answer is yes. But there's more to understanding than just seeing. Credence was named for belief, for faith. She can look at Percival and see someone else, but still understand that he isn't the same. So Credence meets his eyes and says "no" and means it.

"You didn't insist on marrying me because of that connection," he says. It doesn't sound like a question. More like he's reassuring himself.

"No," she says again, for good measure. In the spirit of full disclosure, she adds, "I didn't even know it was you. Just that I was going to be half-married to someone, and that I wanted it to be real."

He looks over at her, stricken. "What?" he says. Credence looks back blankly. "No one told you any details?" She shakes her head.

"It's not as though I could have refused," she says. Percival goes very still. This could be the calm before a storm, Credence thinks, and braces herself, but he doesn't move toward her.

"I thought you wanted protection," he says after a long pause. "Respectability."

"I do," she says, before he's done saying the words. She's less afraid of what he might do to her and more afraid of what he might refuse to do on her behalf. "I do. Please."

"I thought that's why you wanted a legal marriage instead of just the spell," Percival says. "You didn't have a choice about the spell, but the rest --" He shakes his head. "And it wasn't to take advantage of my family name, because you didn't know. You probably don't even know much about my family."

Reminded of her ignorance, Credence drops Percival's gaze. She looks down at her hands.

"Why did you ask for this, Credence?" he says.

Because marriage is permanent, for better or for worse; because it means she can't be as easily used and cast aside. Because marriage means duties and obligations but those in turn can be used as leverage. Because marriage is an agreement, if not usually an equal partnership, instead of a criminal sentence. Because ma always said that a good wife could make a husband better, not through shrewish insistence on her own way but through an example of piety.

All of those reasons are true. They're not the one she gives.

"Because it seemed like my only chance for a future," Credence says, and that's true, too. "It seemed like the only way to make something real that I could keep." She reaches out blindly for him, still unwilling to look at him and see pity or disdain. (Pity is more likely; disdain belongs to the other Mr. Graves. The impostor.) He takes her hand in his. "I still want it to be real."

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

I full on squealed when I saw this had an update

*bites fingernails in anticipation*

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

OH CREDENCE. I just want to give her all the hugs!

Okay, not true. I want other things. Like to read more of this totally fantastic story. <3

OP here

[(Anonymous)]

Ohhhh the details, that's what gets me most. The house where Graves was kept, his caution and Credence sweetie, what your mom told you is....
Ilu man. You're the best

fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

(This part is a little shorter than previous installments -- kind of a bridge between the last part's emotional conversation and the next part's emotional boning. I know, I keep promising you guys cunnilingus and not delivering. Soon, though!)
___

"What would that mean for you?" Percival says. "What would make it real?"

"I'll want what you want," she says, because that's how this is supposed to go.

"No," he says. Credence feels herself flinch. She tries not to stay tense: better to be pliant than have apprehension mistaken for resistance. "That's not an answer," he says. He sounds almost apologetic. His thumb moves in slow circles over the back of her hand -- trying to soothe her, maybe. She shouldn't need soothing, but she likes that he wants to try.

"I don't know what you want to hear," Credence says. Her voice has thinned out to a whisper. "I promised to be obedient, but you haven't told me what to do."

"When did you promise that?" Percival says.

"When I married you," she says. She risks a glance over at him. "Didn't I?"

"You didn't," he says. "And you should have received a thorough outline of the ceremony, besides being told whose care you were being entrusted to." He's not angry with her, but he is angry, or at least frustrated. He might vent his frustration on the source or he might not want to wait that long. Credence wants to believe the best of her husband, who has been good to her so far, but she knows the way anger can be redirected. Ma's punishments were always harsher when a sermon hadn't gone well. It's worse if you are the one who has done wrong, though, so Credence has other worries.

"Please don't reprimand Miss Goldstein," Credence says. Miss Goldstein is something like a friend to her. "I didn't think to ask the questions I should have."

"Miss Goldstein?" He looks taken aback. "She was only there for moral support. You seemed to trust her, and she thought it might help. Someone else was supposed to meet with you in a more official capacity." Credence shakes her head. There had been no one. Some people hate her, and they have good enough reasons. Better than the reasons she was hated before she killed anyone, at least. She can't completely blame them for avoiding her. "Your case has been badly mishandled, and I'm sorry for that."

"What did I say?" Credence says. "What were my vows?" She thinks again of her ma's sermons: books signed in blood, forfeiting souls for earthly power. She might have said yes to anything without knowing.

"You promised to share my hearth and my cup," Percival says. "My bread and my power and --" he stops short. "We did keep to the traditional vows, because you wanted a legal marriage, but it's all symbolic language."

"What else did I promise?" Credence says. She's afraid that the answer will be something terrible, but hopes that it might be the key to winning him over. He might choose not to ask for the thing he wants most.

"You promised to share my bed," Percival says.

Credence squeezes her eyes shut. Of course it's that, it always comes back to the base desires of the flesh. Even among witches and wizards, who have all the wonders of creation at their fingertips: what they crave is mastery. She knew that already, had felt it in a different form. And, after all, she has nothing else to offer him in return for his guidance and protection. She is unschooled in magic and useless in his society. She could keep house for him, but he has already said he doesn't want that. There must be spells that could accomplish the same work in half the time. But there may not be spells that can replace a warm body, or the satisfaction of another person's submission.

"I won't hold you to that," Percival is saying. "I assumed from the start that this arrangement would be more pragmatic."

"No," Credence says. Her voice is still faint. "I will, I will." She opens her eyes and brings their joined hands toward her. She takes his hand in both of hers and turns it, kissing his palm. "Let me be your wife."

"You are my wife," he says. He doesn't strike her; he doesn't pull away. "That can mean whatever you want it to."

"Let me give you this," she says. It's all I have to give, she doesn't say. She brings his hand to rest at her waist. This is as far as she can go. He will have to be bold for her now. If he can be bold, she can be good. They can manage it together.

"This isn't a good idea," Percival says. He leans toward her, and Credence keeps still. "It might even be a bad one."

The robe's belt comes loose at the same moment Percival's lips brush hers, and she feels doubly exposed, though he has seen her in her slip already. The kiss is neither hesitant nor demanding. It suggests more confidence in the course of action than his words did. Credence lets him lay her out on the bed like a sacrifice with his robe spread out around her. Better to let him guide her. Better to be soft and yielding than to let him know how nervous she is, even now. Her husband is a kind man and maybe a good one. He might still hurt her because that's the way of things.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Percival says against her neck. Credence nods and then turns her face away. She has already decided she will deny him nothing.

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Such a good story! Seriously. The story and characterizations are so delicate that I think in someone else's hands would have failed. But you're capturing what feels genuine and is completely real in how humans act. Like you maintain a great balance between the emotional tone while still having a story go forward. So good! Cant wait for the latest update!

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Echoing all of above anon's commentary, and adding that you have me nervous on both their behalf now! (This is a compliment - and, like Credence, I believe. That you will see the poor dears safely through their night.) But Percival is so kind and patient, never condescending, and Credence so brave and resilient when it comes to the "other Mr Graves" that I can only cheer them on - and you!

OP Here

[(Anonymous)]

I'm beginning to think I must have saved a bundle of orphans in a past life to deserve something this awesome. I love the wedding vow culture clash (ofc they'd be different, why wouldn't they?) and how careful he is and how brave Credence is in spite of all she's suffered. Also I want to fill this with lines that killed me, but I'm gonna restrain myself to "He might vent his frustration on the source or he might not want to wait that long" "If he can be bold, she can be good. They can manage it together." and "Her husband is a kind man and maybe a good one."

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 4/?)

[j_gabrielle]

Darling, you have slain me xx

fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 5/6ish)

[(Anonymous)]

(Sorry for the delay again. Some unexpected holiday-related obligations came up. Hopefully cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, and a little bit of overstimulated sexual crying are sufficient recompense.)
___

He kisses the long line of her throat, the too-prominent jut of her collarbone, the flat plane between her breasts. He pushes her slip up, and she shifts to accommodate him until the fabric is bunched under her arms.

"Is this alright?" he says, and she nods again. The worst of her is still hidden: her arms, in the sleeves of his robe. Her back and the backs of her thighs, pressed against the mattress. He can't see her scars. Her nakedness is less shameful than it could be. She's still too thin and unwomanly, but there's nothing to be done about that.

Credence knows, because she isn't blind or stupid, that most modern fashions are designed with straight figures like hers in mind. She knows some women wear girdles or bind their chests to achieve that shape. But she was never given anything fashionable to wear. Buying new clothes was an unnecessary expense, and moreover, attention to appearance over virtue encouraged vanity. The defining trait of womanhood isn't supposed to be mere prettiness.

(Of course, a married woman should make herself pleasing to her husband. But that's not defined entirely by appearance, either. Men want more than a pretty doll to look at from a distance. Practical matters -- efficient housekeeping, meek obedience -- would go further toward that goal.)

The defining trait of womanhood is supposed to be motherhood. When Sarah could not at first bear a son for Abraham, she found someone else who could, because she understood that duty. Credence knows that she is not built for the task. Her hips are too narrow for birth, her breasts too small to provide for a child. She has long been aware of this, and ashamed of it, but it never seemed quite so terrible until now. Credence hadn't thought she would be married. She thought, if she was careful enough and observant enough, she might learn enough to continue her ma's work. Not the preaching (Credence's voice is too soft to draw crowds), but the ministering to the poor. She could look after children even if she would never have her own. God would show her a way to fulfill her purpose.

Percival doesn't seem repulsed by her ill-formed body, but he might also be trying to spare her feelings. He has his own duty to fulfill as a husband. It might still be duty that makes him rub a thumb over the peak of her nipple (an unexpected but not unpleasant sensation). He does this a few times and then applies his mouth to the same place. Credence shivers a little, though she feels too warm. Too warm and too wet in a way that makes her want to squeeze her legs together. She doesn't -- that would defeat the purpose. Credence closes her eyes when his hands reach her thighs. She has to remind herself to be pliant, not to tense or resist. It will be easier that way, and over with sooner.

All those thoughts slip out of her head like water through a sieve when Percival kisses her between her legs. The next thing she knows, she's pushed herself halfway to a sitting position, and her eyes are open. He looks up at her, startled.

"What --" she starts to say, but she doesn't have a whole question ready.

"Do you want me to stop?" he says.

"No," Credence says. Her voice is high, cracking, a little hysterical. "No, you can, I just. I didn't." Didn't expect that, didn't even know that was something people did.

She knows it can go the other way around. She's seen it out of the corner of her eye, happening in alleyways in neighborhoods where the younger children weren't allowed to go. Even when she and Chastity had gone to those parts of the city to spread the word, they always went together, and never stayed long. She knows that women (or sometimes boys) will get on their knees to service men. It always seemed like a base, low act; something unclean and unpleasant. But, oh, if it feels like this for men, she can imagine why they would pay for it. Or maybe it's the sanctity of marriage and the relative safety of her husband's bed that elevate the act to something she could revere instead of revile.

Credence never really thought to learn the shape of herself. She avoided touching between her legs except as necessary, when she bled. She feels as though she's learning it all now. Percival's lips and tongue are teaching her where she is raw and where she is tender. Let him devour me, she thinks, drowning in the flood of sensation. She is coming apart, but not like an explosion: like a wave breaking, falling back to become part of the sea again.

She comes back to herself a little, after that, but not quite enough to feel embarrassed by her own wantonness. Not enough to be embarrassed by how easily he slides a finger into her. This, combined with the continued wet heat of his mouth on her, is almost enough to undo her again. Almost, but not quite. She brushes back the hair falling over his face, and he looks up. He also pulls back, which is really the last thing she wants.

"It's fine," she says before he can ask. It's more than fine. The sight of his slick mouth sends a hot thrill through her.

It's fine when he slides a second finger into her, too, but past that point, she starts to worry. The third finger brings with it an uncomfortable stretch. She feels herself clench around his fingers convulsively, involuntarily. It doesn't hurt, exactly. But it's strange, and brings her further back from the delirious haze of pleasure she had lost herself to. It brings her back enough for her to start to feel ashamed. She resents her body for accepting so much (so easily, so greedily). Percival curls his fingers a little, sucking gently at somewhere above where her body is too open around them. Pleasure overtakes her again, but suddenly this time. Credence shudders. She feels limp, wrung-out, overtaxed.

Percival withdraws his fingers slowly. "We don't have to do anything else," he says. It feels like a rejection, or at least a concession she doesn't want him to have to make.

"Please," Credence says. "Please." You've given me so much, she'd like to say; let me give you something in return. She reaches out to him. For a moment she thinks he won't come to her. But he only pulls away for long enough to strip efficiently out of his pajamas, and then spreads himself over her like a blanket. (Like a shield.) Here, too, he is careful: he braces his forearms on either side of her, so as not to smother her with his weight.

"If you're sure," he says. His face is very close to hers. Credence only has to nod. She can feel him hard against her thigh, and then he reaches down, and she can feel him hard inside her. He rocks into her slowly, steadily. It's another slightly uncomfortable stretch. It stops short of pain, though. Credence hears herself making small, choked-off sounds. Percival kisses her wetly, his mouth open against hers.

"I want to look at you," he says. His voice is rough, his breathing heavy, but there's no threat there. "Afterward. When I can appreciate it."

Credence sobs. It's all too much. Percival stops moving and she clutches at his shoulders to keep him from pulling away. He takes pity on her and doesn't ask if he should stop, or if she's alright. Maybe he knows she couldn't answer him in words. He reaches down again to hitch one of her legs up higher, open her wider around him. He cants his hips, driving in deeper, and Credence cries out loudly enough to startle them both. She turns her head to catch his lips in another kiss. She gasps into his mouth, blinking through more tears. Percival murmurs something she can't quite make out. She hopes it's a spell that will keep them suspended in this moment, twined together and perfectly in sync.

It isn't, after all, though they do manage another few minutes before he finishes. Percival pulls out and pulls away and Credence doesn't make any move to cover herself, though she's cold without his body on top of her. She lets him pull off the robe and her slip. There is no need and no room for shame before him now, with his seed drying on her thighs. He looks at her. She looks back. It's enough, for the time being.

Percival sweeps their discarded clothes to the floor with a wave of his hand and bundles her under the covers. He fits himself in close behind her. Credence sleeps in her husband's house, in her husband's bed, and feels like she deserves the privilege.

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 5/6ish)

[(Anonymous)]

Ahhhhh I love this story so much I am heartbroken there will only be one(ish) more part! But also this was great, and you are great. *hugs them both*

Re: fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 5/6ish)

[j_gabrielle]

Oh, this is gloriously beautiful. My heart swells at the way you write x

OP here

[(Anonymous)]

<3333333333333333333333333 I don't even have words. But I'm so happy for these two. And you're the best 5evah.

fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 6/6)

[(Anonymous)]

(There will be a little bonus content/epilogue after this, so this is not totally the end, but it's the end of what I had originally planned to write for this prompt! Thanks to everyone for sticking with me and for your kind comments.)
___

Credence wakes with no concept of how much time has passed. She has a moment of silent panic (naked, in a unfamiliar room, with someone moving beside her) before remembering where she is. She turns to look at Percival, who is pulling his pajamas back on.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says. "I don't sleep well."

"It's fine," Credence says.

"Separate rooms might still be better," he says. "I get up when I can't sleep." She understands now that he isn't saying it as an excuse to push her away. He doesn't want to inconvenience her. And it's strange, having someone consider her comfort that way. She thought it would always be the other way around.

"Where do you go?" Credence says.

"Downstairs," he says. "To the sitting room, to look over case files. Or to the dining room. I rarely have guests. It may as well be a study." He seems faintly embarrassed by the admission. Credence sees nothing shameful about being solitary and self-sufficient, but she has always been too dependent on others. She may lack perspective. "You can stay here. I can use the spare room, if I go back to bed. Or -- your room, now. If you don't mind."

"It's your house," Credence says very reasonably. "You can sleep wherever you want to."

"Our house," Percival says. "If we're sharing the hearth, we might as well share the rest." He looks uncomfortable. He seems less masterful now. It might be the late hour, or the fact that Credence is no longer desperately anxious. She isn't sure what will be expected of her but she knows it won't be anything terrible.

"Then we can share the bed," Credence says. She starts to get up.

"You can go back to sleep," Percival says. "I'm not going to be doing anything loud."

"I think I might like to wash up," Credence says. She feels a little sore, which is perversely satisfying, but the stickiness that accompanies that feeling is more annoying than anything else.

"Oh," Percival says. "Of course. I'll just be in the dining room, if you need anything."

Credence leaves her slip on the floor and wraps herself in the robe again. She doesn't run herself a bath, because bathing past midnight seems ridiculous. She scrubs at her thighs with a washcloth until the skin there is pink. Her hand wanders higher, tentative, but she doesn't linger between her legs. There's no blood. She still wonders if she did something wrong. There's supposed to be blood the first time. Anything else means a bride is impure. Used goods, unfit for any respectable connections. No one has touched Credence before, though, not like this. Men on the street grabbed at her sometimes -- at her waist, her hair, the hem of her skirt. But she was good at slipping through their fingers. None of them ever put their hands on bare skin. Still, there might be something else. Some other failing.

She walks downstairs. The wood under her feet is strangely warm. More magic, she thinks. It's all around her. The thought isn't frightening; it's a comfort. She doesn't feel like she belongs here, not yet, but she feels like she could. It's different than when she was in government custody. The magic here is not calculated to contain her, but to embrace her. Or to embrace Percival, anyway, and didn't he say that was the same thing?

Half of the dining room table is covered in paper in tidy piles. Percival sits on that side, writing something. He's using a cartridge pen instead of a quill: another small comfort. Something familiar. A point of connection.

"What are you writing?" Credence says. Percival startles and then seems to force himself back into stillness.

"A letter," he says. "To my sister. She's the head of the family, and she'll want to meet you as soon as her schedule allows."

"Is she very busy?" Credence says.

"She seems to be," Percival says. There is a splatter of ink across the page where he had tensed suddenly. He sets the sheet of paper aside and reaches for a new, blank one. "She'll make time for this, though." His hands are steady until they aren't. His tone is level until it isn't. He recovers quickly, but already she has seen something beyond what she was given to expect. Maybe, she thinks, this is why he prefers to be alone. So that no one sees the moments where he falters and becomes something other than what they trust to be constant.

Credence sits across from him. "May I write to my sister, too?" she says. "Or is that not allowed?" He looks over at her. "I know you make people forget, sometimes. I won't send her anything if she doesn't know who I am." That's a terrible thought. Modesty, who Credence had fed and guided and tended when she was sick, not remembering any of it. But it might be better, too. If she could forget all her time with Credence and Chastity and ma, go back to her old family or find a new and better one. Modesty might be happier.

"She won't remember the end," Percival says. "None of the magic. She'll know that Mary Lou Barebone and Chastity Barebone died in a church collapse. She'll know she hasn't seen you since then. But everything before that is fair game." He's not being as careful with her now. He's speaking plainly, as he did at the hearings.

"I understand if I can't see her," Credence says. "With the need for -- secrecy." Separateness, more properly, but secrecy is what they call it. "But I'd like to tell her that I'm married, and ask if she's being looked after."

"There shouldn't be any problem with that," Percival says. "And you should be able to meet with her, as long as there isn't any magic being done."

"Thank you," Credence says.

"You don't have to thank me for everything, Credence," Percival says. Credence takes a blank sheet of paper and pointedly (boldly) does not ask permission or say thank you. She writes a note in her neatest handwriting. Her neatest handwriting, incidentally, was unacceptable to ma, because it was printing rather than cursive. Her cursive is nearly illegible. But when she would print (in small, neat, even letters), ma would rap her across the knuckles and make her write it out in cursive instead. And then, when it was invariably messy, Chastity would have to do it over again. Another mark against her.

No one is keeping score now.

Her note to Modesty says that she is married and thinks she will be happy. That's all she can think of to say, besides asking if Modesty is likewise well and happy. She doesn't know how to address the envelope, and decides to save that problem for when it's properly morning.

"I'm going back to bed," Credence says. When she looks up, Percival is looking back at her. He has already finished his letter.

"I'll go with you," he says. If he wants to have her again, she won't refuse him. But she doesn't think he will. This is about something else. Their vows to share their space and their possessions and their lives, maybe. When they reach the bedroom door upstairs, he says, "I didn't think of carrying you over the threshold."

"It might have startled me," Credence admits, and he smiles. They settle back into bed, side by side. In the dark, she finds the courage to whisper, "I had never. Before."

He sighs. "Credence, please don't take this the wrong way, but that was very apparent to me."

"I just wanted to tell you," she says. "Since I... since I didn't bleed at all." Next to her, in the dark, Percival settles into another calculated stillness.

"Not everyone does," he says. And then, after another moment, "Does it bother you that it wasn't my first time?"

"No," Credence says immediately. She doesn't even have to think about it.

"I've had other lovers," he says. "Men and women." This gives her pause. It doesn't change anything, though.

"I don't mind." Without those unknown other people in his bed, he might have hurt her. He might not have known how to avoid it.

"Then please believe me when I say that your inexperience is not what makes you valuable." His hand finds hers under the covers.

"What is?" Credence says.

"Everything else," Percival says. Credence turns her head to look at him. There isn't much to see, in the dark. Impulsively, she kisses him on the cheek. She feels him smile. There is a kind of understanding between them. In the morning, she will wake to her first day as Credence Graves. The name no longer seems like an ill omen.

addendum to fill: "nomenclature" (original!Graves/fem!Credence) 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

(I'm sorry for the nearly-year lapse here! It hasn't been a great year for me, but I realized I had a fair bit of this written from months ago, and it's not doing any good just sitting in my drafts. I'm not sure when I'll get around to finishing it completely. In theory, this is the first of some little additions to this fic that fall outside the scope of the fill proper. "nomenclature" is a vignette from Percival's perspective. There's a lot of exposition and talk about wizard law? IDK, my dudes.)
___

He still sees her veins run black sometimes, mainly through the thin skin on the inside of her narrow wrists. But it has somewhere to go now. Channeled out through her wand, or his. (Hers is willow, his is ebony. Neither wand can tell the difference between them.) Her magic will never be quite right -- there's something poisoned in it. But there's something in him that has long since turned strange, too. Something that runs too deep to be cut out. They share the strangeness between them.

That was supposed to be the beginning and the end of it. A precautionary measure. Most of the committee agreed that Credence Barebone had acted without intent to harm and moreover under conditions of extreme stress. She couldn't be held entirely responsible. She was, however, a liability. That was undeniable, and unanimously agreed on. Sentencing took three days in a closed session. There were compelling arguments both for and against leniency.

Both sides were using the case to make a point: the legal precedent set could potentially call Rappaport's Law into question. There was an increasing push to amend the law to allow for greater cooperation with No-Maj agencies in times of crisis. The main argument on that side of the debate was that would have been much easier to contain the Obscurus without drawing so much attention if No-Maj authorities could have been called upon to cooperate. (Percival agreed on this count in principle, though he hadn't been present to witness the debacle for obvious reasons.) On the other hand, Rappaport's Law had been in place for over a century. Most modern policies had been designed around it. No one wanted the instability that a comprehensive restructuring of the legal system would require in the short term, especially in such a precarious political climate.

Picquery abstained from voting on sentencing.

"I will personally see the committee's decision carried out," she said. "But I believe that casting my vote could unduly influence the final decision." It was a fair point, but Percival knew the game well enough to know that wasn't her only reason. To take a stand one way or the other would have caused her to lose support and courted further unpopularity. She could hardly afford that, given recent events.

(Years later, after she's out of public office, she tells him she would have voted for a much harsher sentence if she thought it wouldn't risk her career. She also tells him that she's glad she abstained. For Credence's sake, and for his.)

Ultimately, mercy won the day. Then it was a matter of how to most efficiently keep her magic usable but under control, and who would step up and take responsibility for her during the five-year probationary period that formed part of the final ruling. The first person to volunteer was an elderly congressman from Maryland. Credence could live with his family, he said, and get proper magical socialization along with education. But there was the matter of his own health and ability to consider: could he really hope to reign in the power of an Obscurial capable of wreaking immense damage if she lost control again? Then an academic from Oregon put herself forth as a candidate. There could be no doubt as to her capability as a witch or as a teacher. Rather than focusing on integrating Credence Barebone into the community, she proposed to teach the young woman in near-complete seclusion in a remote part of the state, as an extra precaution in case of any magical breaches. More people were in favor of her plan, but Picquery broke her neutral stance to comment on it.

"The entire point is to avoid a repeat occurrence," she said. "If you don't have faith in your ability to prevent one, I hardly think you're prepared for the responsibility."

That was the point at which Percival volunteered. Displacing her completely from the city in which she had lived her entire life could cause unnecessary stress, he argued. And, if she felt more secure moving elsewhere, that was also a decision he could accommodate: his sister had property in upstate New York, and there was family property in rural New Hampshire where she could reside. On the practical side of things, there could be no doubt as to his own abilities.

Except, naturally, there was.

Percival had been thoroughly and aggressively cleared of any cooperation with or abetting of Gellert Grindelwald. He had been allowed to resume his former duties as Director of Magical Security. He wouldn't have been sitting on the committee otherwise. But the fact that anyone had been able to get the best of him apparently overrode a lifetime's worth of hard work and accomplishments. If Grindelwald had been powerful enough to subdue him, but not powerful enough to subdue the Obscurus, several people asked, how could he possibly hope to succeed in an emergency where a more accomplished wizard had failed?

He wasn't a politician, but he had enough rhetorical training to point out the flaws in their objections. False equivalencies, failing to take the power of context and circumstance into account. He also cautioned them, in a roundabout way, to be wary of giving Grindelwald too much credit. It was one thing to keep from underestimating an enemy of the state and another to imagine him as nearly omnipotent in order to avoid having to correct their own security measures. This argument didn't ingratiate him to anyone, but most of the committee saw the logic behind it. He was chosen to take responsibility for Credence Barebone for a non-negotiable period of five years, at which point her case could be reassessed.

(There were other reasons he volunteered himself for the task, too -- ones he doesn't even tell himself until he's devoted to Credence for sweeter reasons. The fact that he felt some affinity for her during her testimony, for one. He knew what it was to feel more like a thing than a person. They had both been worn down to the marrow by the same uncaring hand. And he felt responsible, in a way. If he had been more cautious, if Grindelwald hadn't had the opportunity to wear his face, things might have been easier for her. Might have been easier for both of them. It was easier knowing that he was the cause of his own suffering than suspecting he was the cause of someone else's.)