— ᴛᴇɴᴇʙʀᴀᴇ. (ap)

tho i have zero interest in that scene and am more grateful for the extended shot in which everything in the vicinity caved and compressed under the sheer magnitude of credence’s power

along w this shady ass shit

me except i have spent too much money on a twd convention rather than giving in and writing maggie

cHINHANDS @ THIS. OH MYY~

credence shelters his gaze lest his dark eyes accidentally meet graves’.  and it is as if credence believes graves can see through him, as if graves knows what crude temptations lurk in credence’s thoughts.  at the very thought, graves can only smile, marginally charmed at the possibility.  graves can do no such thing ( without the power of magic anyway ), but the way credence continues to skirt around him is both provocative yet exasperating.  graves does not surrender; his eyes remain where they always will.  he looks at nothing but credence.  

he loves him overwhelmed.

“we are imperfect creatures,” he responds, tone somber as if he reflects upon percival graves’ nonexistent crimes with silent remorse.  he does not believe in god; he believes in atonement, but he does not want it.  “do you believe in god, credence?”  it’s almost tempting to ask credence what troubles him so deeply.  what is he so frightened of?  tell graves, credence.  graves yearns to beckon him to confess endlessly to graves and graves alone.  how he would gently stroke the base of the boy’s neck between thumb and forefinger, coaxing vice after vice to spill from his pliable lips.  graves would listen, always and forever.  “he always forgives.”  

the server interrupts graves, damn them.  

graves is impatient, eager to claim credence’s voice all to himself.  nobody deserves the privilege.  he is keen on making their server disappear.  due to his disguised haste, he does not ask credence a second time what he would like to order, but instead, he begins to rattle off menu item after menu item.  the roast chicken, the glazed ham, the mashed potatoes, extra greens.  greens after greens, tea and milk and root beer too.  he does not look at their server once until the very end.  what for?  this isn’t for them.

“that’ll be all,” he smiles politely, the expression does not touch his eyes.  it drops the second they’re finally gone.  and his attention belongs to credence again.  “what can i say?” he teases with mirth, fully aware of credence’s lie.

“i’m starved.”

Beneath his gaze, Credence seems to unravel. He's helpless to the way the curve of Graves' mouth incites so many unspoken promises, the way Graves' words reel him in: they sigh heat against his skin that catches under his collar, as if the man in question were sitting right beside him, taking him in, and it is only in a remarkable effort of self-discipline that he suppresses the pang of hunger that threatens to wash away his resistance and drags his gaze away from Graves’ lips, screwing his eyes up. Starved, it echoes in his head, sending frisson after frisson of warmth through his blood. A man like Graves doesn't starve. Not from hunger.

Not in the way Credence starves.

The thought makes him recall his mother and the stern remarks that cut deeper than any stroke of her belt could. What would she say if she saw him like this; short of breath and barely held together, his pulse ratcheting.

She would never forgive you, the smarting and stinging welts on his palms remind him, and Credence wrings them as if to silence their calling.

"Mr. Graves, I don't--", he tries not to whimper, but it's futile. The words die in his throat, and Credence's eyes dart with helpless abandon, searching Graves' features for answers. He doesn't know what to make of his invitations, of Graves' kind gestures and clever tongue that has him hanging onto his every word like a lifeline. If he were to spill his secrets, there would be nothing left of him -- nothing noteworthy . Nothing interesting. 

And yet, he yearns for forgiveness. Yearns for it so much that when his wounded palms close around the wooden edge of the table, his head tips back enough to reveal the desperation in his eyes.

so sweaty,,,,,, u come around here often???? ;)))))

           { ♫ };; ——                   The woman frowned a little, but did as the boy ordered.                   Emerald irises looked up at him with concern. It was obvious                 Maka cared for others, even if she was in the Slytherin school.                 Perhaps she could help him become less tense with her. After               all, she would never plan on hurting anyone.                                 ❝Sorry- natural reaction. Are you sure                                you’re okay?❞

Was he sure? The logical answer was yes -- after all, brushing off his misery was as much of a natural reaction to him as her instinct to protect others was. But even as he tried to articulate his distress, the words stuck to the roof of his mouth as if glued to it, and Credence merely nodded in their stead, swallowing.

          Leniency’s head lifted as Credence walked through the door. At least he had expected it to be Credence merely based on how late it was; he usually finished his duty and came home at this time. “Credence, ’s that you?” Len asked, shielding his eyes from the bright light that came from the front door until it vanished with the closing of the door. “Ma’s gone to bed for a while. Said she didn’t wish to be disturbed.”

Frozen, Credence's hand remained on the wood of the door. It wasn't his mother's voice that had addressed him, as was usually the case upon his late return, but the undercurrent of fear was ever-present in his hushed tone when he faced his foster sibling.

"It's me," he murmured, eyes darting up the stairs. For a moment, the sound of shuffling paper was all that permeated the silence as he lingered by the entrance, the tension in the air heavy with guilt broken only when Credence finally moved to slide the pamphlets he had failed to distribute carefully under a freshly printed stack before he could think better of it.