“…And look at your nose,” Castiel murmurs, his index finger gently outlining the bridge. “Your perfect little nose. Your ears. Your lips. And your fingers.” Cas touches the mini appendages. His heart is so full, he isn’t sure there’s enough space for all the love filling up his every nook and cranny. “You’re a miracle, Marie—I barely know you and I’d already move Heaven and Earth to see you safe. How did you do that?”
Fast asleep, Marie lays on her Papa’s chest, breathing deeply. She’s a marvel.
“You’re so loved,” he breathes. “Not even a week into this world and you are the most loved person I have ever met. I don’t even—I don’t even know how it’s possible to love you so much; I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone other that your Daddy, but here we are. Heaven, you’re beautiful.”
“Hey. You sweet-talkin’ her?”
Though Cas is startled at first, his expression quickly melts into a gooey smile. Fresh from the shower, Dean stands near the left bedside table, towel wrapped around his waist and hair spiked and damp. He’s lovely. “Something like that… she’s perfect, isn’t she? She’s the most perfect little human being to ever exist.”
Dean hums with a grin of his own. “Sounds like you’re in love, Cas.”
Dean crawls up on the bed, holding the cloth around his waist as he bites his lip. “With the most gorgeous thing in the universe? Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty smitten.” He punctuates the thought with a soft kiss to Marie’s bare back before moving towards Cas. “Kinda crazy about her Papa, too.”
They share a soft kiss, Dean sliding off the mattress to put on a pair of boxers and quickly dry himself off. He then slips back under the covers and cuddles his little family to his side. “I love you,” he mumbles, placing his palm over Marie’s diapered backside.
Cas leans in for another kiss and Dean is happy to oblige. “I love you, too.”
Graves is an auror, a junior just started but already making a name for himself. He falls in love with Newt (slowly, all at once, always and without ever being able to stop) but is waiting to propose until he gets promoted and can offer Newt more than just a ramshackle apartment and a meagre junior’s pay.
Newt doesn’t care. To Newt, marriage is a promise to face life’s trials together, he’d say yes if Graves proposed with a piece of string to wind round his finger. But it matters to Graves and so Graves waits; he won’t be a junior for long, and he’s almost saved enough to move to a real house with a real garden for Newts creatures and all the little things Graves feels that Newt deserves.
Newt still winds a glowing length of spell-thread around his ring finger from Graves’ wand, and Graves still ties off the enchantment and anchors it to their love, because this is their life and their life is made of little gestures and gentle touches and strawberry-sweet kisses in the golden sun.
Newt finds Credence as a small child, tiny and underfed, cowering in the hate sickened squalor of Mary Lou Barebone’s brutish care. When he takes Credence away, it has nothing to do with the angry wisps of obscurus that is developing within him and everything to do with the way he reaches for Newt’s hand with something like fear and something like hope and something like a little boy in need of help.
He brings Credence home to the overfilled, cramped apartment that he shares with Graves, pushing stacks of books out of the way and emptying out a trunk of old clothes to transfigure it into a bed. Credence sits on the edge of his desk and swings his legs and Newt narrates the book he’s writing, stopping to explain every other sentence what dragons are, how they use magic to twist the air currents and help them fly, how many eggs they have in a clutch - eggs, does Credence want eggs for lunch? Egg in shell with buttered soldiers to dip in the yolk?
Credence ducks his head and nods shyly behind his fringe, not used to being asked his opinion. And not really sure what buttered soldiers are either, but if Mr Newt made it, then he knows he’ll like it. Because Mr Newt is like that and Credence loves Mr Newt.
And this could be the story. Graves could come home and find Newt waiting with big eyes and that hopeful, excited, slightly guilty expression that says he’s found a new stray. Graves could sigh and say, what have you rescued now, and, just tell me it won’t eat the roof again, and when Newt beckons Credence in Credence could hide behind the door and refuse to come out.
He’s shy, Newt could say, and take Graves by the hand to lead him into the kitchen. Credence - Credence, this is Graves, he won’t hurt you. I promise he won’t. Newt could bend down, lift Credence up under the arms and balance him on his hip. He’d stay behind the door for now and say, Do you want to meet him? and he’d wait until Credence, solemnly slow and with great deliberation, nods.
When Newt emerges, Credence in his arms and joy on his face, Graves could be there to feel his breath catch in his throat and his life reshape and resettle into husband and father and dad.
This could be the story.
This is not the story.
Graves is away this week, this one week of all weeks he’s the unlucky junior sent to shadow Picquery at the ICW conference in Nairobi. Graves is away, and when Grindelwald follows the trail of the obscurus he was tracking and prowls closer to Credence and closer to Newt - well. Graves is away.
Picquery gets tipped off that Graves is being investigated for treason. He’s just a junior. He’s good at what he does, one of the most promising they’ve had for a long time, but she has no particular reason to suspect the investigation is false. By the time she returns, enough evidence has been uncovered that Graves is arrested the moment his feet touch the ground. He’s led away, not even told what it is he’s done, not given any chance to protest or deny - how can he deny? That’s his face been used to commit crimes, his voice recorded plotting in the dark, how can he deny that? What reason would anyone have for impersonating a junior auror? What defence could Graves ever provide?
The wizarding prison of America is deep in the swamps of Louisiana, guarded by ghosts and spirits and crocodile gods. Graves shivers against the rain that seeps into his cell and kicks off the grasping letiche that haunt the prison for easy prey. He waits. He counts the days in scratch marks on the wall. He runs his sentence down, counting another day, another week, another month another year - and every day a little bit more of him dies.
He counts his sentence to the last day.
He counts his sentence beyond the last day when he’s days, weeks, months overdue for release.
He counts the days since food was last left by the rusted metal grate that marks the entrance to his cell.
He counts and counts and counts until he’s counted the days, the patterns, the flares of magic through the runic wards -
He should have been released over a year ago by the time he breaks out, but then, he should never have been arrested to begin with.
(yes, I will continue this one. Consider this part one.)
Just a little Malec/Madzie thing that ended up running away from me! I kinda wish this was a Malec/Lightwood Siblings + Clary plot later this season! Let me know if you want more!
They found Iris Rouse a few days later, out in some dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere. It was a tall black shape, blocking out the already hidden winter sun against the colorless sky, the shadows cast by its hulking form looming over them as they stood and gazed up at it, a chilling air settling itself around them. The house was made of dark wood, rotted to holes in places from disuse, with its open windows creaking in the wind and what sounded like ravens cawing deep within. Alec shuddered as he remembered all the women Iris must have trapped here, the children…
‘Queerness,’ to me, isn’t just about being L, G, B, or T. It’s about finding new models for relationships, for gender, for love, for life. I consider it more of a political word than a sexual one. It applies to my self-expression, it applies to my friendships, and it applies to my son’s new family. When my best female friends surprised me with a baby shower in a bar and gave me gifts that I could use after my son was born, that was queer. When they camped out in the hospital during my labor to welcome Leo to the world, that was queer. And when the same woman who went to kissing parties with me later held me while I sobbed after saying goodbye to my son, that, too, was queer.
Everyone who knows me is going to be spammed with cat photos forever because I adopted my second fur baby yesterday!! We think he’s a little ragdoll crossed with who knows what and his name is Burrito. He came from the spca and he melts my heart