Some people fitted their own bodies like a glove; some like a straightjacket. Credence knew to whose group he belonged.
Or thought he did, until he came to live with Mr Graves, who had filed a request for his integration to the magical world just before he was taken, and whose first measure after he was released was to renew it. Credence, still swirled and sickened by the dark vortex within himself, could only stand by and watch as Mr Graves fought for him - fought, he thought, like one of the black-and-white heroes in the film magazine he had once found in the street, half in a puddle, and brought home in his pile of pamphlets, to his later cost. They were tall and close-shaven, with their chin regal and their hair slicked back, and dark eyebrows that spelled fierce but fair, and Mr Graves was all that. He fought like an eagle ("like a Fireball," Mr Scamander's edition), and Credence gave him his entire trust again.
Even after they learnt to live under one roof, and he found that Mr Graves could simile too; could, once in a while, cook in his shirtsleeves and magic jazz music that wasn't sin here, his first vision stayed an imprint. There was the crimefighter and there was the nurturer, and they somehow slipped into one another, making one, whom Credence loved, but never canceling each other.
Perhaps like God and Jesus made one, too, although he hoped God would forgive him for turning Him into a Graves textbook.
Their first kiss struck a light to the heart of that paradox. He heard the authoritarian in Mr Graves's rough-spoken "Of course I want this", and the strong circle of his arms; but it was the carer who kissed back, who enflamed sensation in Credence's mouth with his and later coaxed Credence's tongue - your unruly member, Ma used to say - out of hiding and into sweet, intoxicating play.
They went slowly about the dangerous business of pleasure. Mr Graves wouldn't have it any other way, even though he was a widower, learnt in the turns and twists of the flesh - not all of them, he laughed, but some, yes - and walked Credence through them. Just as, in daylight, he would take Credence one step down into himself and teach him to release his secret well of magic. Often it felt the same - that this fund of wrong could glow with right under Mr Graves's patient, relentless guidance.
Magic fused out of his body, charm after charm, but it never blossomed so well as when Credence let go, leant back against Mr Graves in jubilant expectation and let him close his fingers around Credence's wrist or hold his arm up; made Credence close and open his eyes on command; exulting in his trust. In bed, too, Credence found that he liked it when Mr Graves ruled their times. They never did anything new before he was told about it and asked if he liked it, if he wanted it; and he always nodded with a secret frisson at the thought that Mr Graves would then take over.
His life with Mary Lou was still halfway to becoming his past. At times, he sneaked a glance down at his wrists and the naked inside of his arms, chafed crimson like his knees from rubbing against the sheets, and his unruly member twitched at the sight; but the redness troubled him. He remembered the other Mr Graves stroking it away, and then another stroke, hard, pushing his head aside with the force of it. And they merged, past and present, into a cloud of sensual anxiety.
"Are you all right?" Mr Graves would ask; caring, frowning; on the verge of troubled, and Credence would fight a spike of guilt. Mr Graves had made it clear that he wanted him to forget the past, and he was not doing right by Mr Graves in letting these thoughts in.
Days came and went; and nights - not all of them, but as many and as soon as Mr Graves could spare them - were all play. Credence was still one part bold, three parts nerves, and it may have been the nerves that, one evening when they were still on the big mahogany sofa, made him tickle the close-cropped nape of Mr Gaves's neck.
Next thing he knew, they were both at it, giving it full rein: he giggling, while Mr Graves laughed and tried to pinion him to the velvet belly of the sofa. It ended with him on his stomach, his upper end locked inside a firm arm-hold, his pajamas wriggled half down the curve of his buttocks. Then, he felt it - in his mind, before he felt it: the backward arch of Mr Graves's other arm, the fresh tickle of air to his naked skin, almost imperceptible, as Mr Graves's hand parted the air smartly, eagle-like; flew, landed; landed a firm crack across Credence's firm resonant flesh.
Touch came, hard upon sound; one sense gearing in while the other was still full-blown and quivering. He gasped, every nerve called out while more of him grew and quivered, pressed against the sofa's belly. It was too much, and the too-much it tore a cry out of him,.
He didn't know why the sound, or what the feeling, reddening within him on the stroke of that instant. But it burned, hotter than any pleasure; and Credence still remembered when he had burnt from a touch there. It had been leather, thin and venomous as a snake. It hadn't been skin, and it had whistled; its white-hot intensity worse than any pain before. But burn is burn, and so he knew what he felt now had to be shame, and buried his face in the velvet cushions accordingly.
Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (1/2)
Or thought he did, until he came to live with Mr Graves, who had filed a request for his integration to the magical world just before he was taken, and whose first measure after he was released was to renew it. Credence, still swirled and sickened by the dark vortex within himself, could only stand by and watch as Mr Graves fought for him - fought, he thought, like one of the black-and-white heroes in the film magazine he had once found in the street, half in a puddle, and brought home in his pile of pamphlets, to his later cost. They were tall and close-shaven, with their chin regal and their hair slicked back, and dark eyebrows that spelled fierce but fair, and Mr Graves was all that. He fought like an eagle ("like a Fireball," Mr Scamander's edition), and Credence gave him his entire trust again.
Even after they learnt to live under one roof, and he found that Mr Graves could simile too; could, once in a while, cook in his shirtsleeves and magic jazz music that wasn't sin here, his first vision stayed an imprint. There was the crimefighter and there was the nurturer, and they somehow slipped into one another, making one, whom Credence loved, but never canceling each other.
Perhaps like God and Jesus made one, too, although he hoped God would forgive him for turning Him into a Graves textbook.
Their first kiss struck a light to the heart of that paradox. He heard the authoritarian in Mr Graves's rough-spoken "Of course I want this", and the strong circle of his arms; but it was the carer who kissed back, who enflamed sensation in Credence's mouth with his and later coaxed Credence's tongue - your unruly member, Ma used to say - out of hiding and into sweet, intoxicating play.
They went slowly about the dangerous business of pleasure. Mr Graves wouldn't have it any other way, even though he was a widower, learnt in the turns and twists of the flesh - not all of them, he laughed, but some, yes - and walked Credence through them. Just as, in daylight, he would take Credence one step down into himself and teach him to release his secret well of magic. Often it felt the same - that this fund of wrong could glow with right under Mr Graves's patient, relentless guidance.
Magic fused out of his body, charm after charm, but it never blossomed so well as when Credence let go, leant back against Mr Graves in jubilant expectation and let him close his fingers around Credence's wrist or hold his arm up; made Credence close and open his eyes on command; exulting in his trust. In bed, too, Credence found that he liked it when Mr Graves ruled their times. They never did anything new before he was told about it and asked if he liked it, if he wanted it; and he always nodded with a secret frisson at the thought that Mr Graves would then take over.
His life with Mary Lou was still halfway to becoming his past. At times, he sneaked a glance down at his wrists and the naked inside of his arms, chafed crimson like his knees from rubbing against the sheets, and his unruly member twitched at the sight; but the redness troubled him. He remembered the other Mr Graves stroking it away, and then another stroke, hard, pushing his head aside with the force of it. And they merged, past and present, into a cloud of sensual anxiety.
"Are you all right?" Mr Graves would ask; caring, frowning; on the verge of troubled, and Credence would fight a spike of guilt. Mr Graves had made it clear that he wanted him to forget the past, and he was not doing right by Mr Graves in letting these thoughts in.
Days came and went; and nights - not all of them, but as many and as soon as Mr Graves could spare them - were all play. Credence was still one part bold, three parts nerves, and it may have been the nerves that, one evening when they were still on the big mahogany sofa, made him tickle the close-cropped nape of Mr Gaves's neck.
Next thing he knew, they were both at it, giving it full rein: he giggling, while Mr Graves laughed and tried to pinion him to the velvet belly of the sofa. It ended with him on his stomach, his upper end locked inside a firm arm-hold, his pajamas wriggled half down the curve of his buttocks. Then, he felt it - in his mind, before he felt it: the backward arch of Mr Graves's other arm, the fresh tickle of air to his naked skin, almost imperceptible, as Mr Graves's hand parted the air smartly, eagle-like; flew, landed; landed a firm crack across Credence's firm resonant flesh.
Touch came, hard upon sound; one sense gearing in while the other was still full-blown and quivering. He gasped, every nerve called out while more of him grew and quivered, pressed against the sofa's belly. It was too much, and the too-much it tore a cry out of him,.
He didn't know why the sound, or what the feeling, reddening within him on the stroke of that instant. But it burned, hotter than any pleasure; and Credence still remembered when he had burnt from a touch there. It had been leather, thin and venomous as a snake. It hadn't been skin, and it had whistled; its white-hot intensity worse than any pain before. But burn is burn, and so he knew what he felt now had to be shame, and buried his face in the velvet cushions accordingly.