[Nettlekettle (morwrach on A03) here, sharing a scene from my Work-In-Progress fic: an AU where Credence is a taxidermist who can communicate with the spirits of dead animals, and Graves is a lonely widower who works for the Government. ❤ More TBC!].
The exterior of the shop is old-fashioned and austere: tall windows of smoky glass with ‘Bared Bones: Taxidermists since 1890’ picked out in gold lettering. Tall potted palms are just visible through the window. Graves sucks in a steadying breath and pushes open the door, tucking the lumpy brown paper parcel more firmly under his arm. The bell peals out from the back of the door, chiming out tunefully. To his mild dismay, it’s the birdlike Chastity Barebone who comes to the desk, neat and severe in a lace-collared dress. The sharpness leaves her gaze as she recognises him, and her expression softens a little as she says quietly ”Mr Graves! We weren’t expecting you. Credence is in the back”
She draws back the velvet curtain behind the desk, and Graves gratefully ducks through the doorway behind it. He half expects her to follow, but he’s left alone to walk quietly down the dusty corridor lined with shelves of boxes and uninhabited glass domes.
The studio smells of lavender and preservatives and the vaguest hint of something unpleasantly organic – like the background odour of a butcher’s shop. Credence is leaning over a workbench, the skin of a large tawny owl spread out in front of him. He’s stroking one of the soft feathers with a gentle fingertip as Graves approaches, and the sight gives him a little pang in his chest. Credence’s black hair is tied up in his usual ponytail, a single escaped lock tracing the line of his perfect jaw. Graves feels like he could stand here forever, in this fragile moment, but then Credence looks up owlishly, and his brain kicks into gear.
“Mr Graves!” he says brightly, wiping his fingers on his apron.
Graves steps closer, and the words escape his mouth before he has a chance to think things through – “I’ve brought you a new friend.”
He feels panicked and mortified once the words have left his mouth. Why did he have to go and say it like that?! Either way, there’s no way back now, not with Credence looking so bright-eyed and interested. He proffers the brown paper parcel and their fingers brush just so as Credence takes it from him. Credence unwraps the lumpy parcel so slowly that Graves can feel his heart beating in this throat. The young man gives a delighted little gasp as he peels the second layer of paper away to reveal the dead fox with his muddy paws.
”Percy,” he says a little brokenly, before cradling the fox in his arms like a baby, and stroking its ears, pressed close to his chest. ”Hello there,” he says softly, pressing a tiny kiss to the top of the fox’s head, which Graves is sure he should find revolting but is instead somehow intensely adorable.
Credence finally tears his gaze away from the dead creature in his arms and lifts his face to meet Graves’ gaze. He’s smiling so widely, and his eyes are positively shining. He’s never looked so happy – or so beautiful. and Graves’ heart feels like it’s bursting.
”Thank-you, Percy, thank-you!”Credence is saying, over and over, with a hint of tears in his voice. He tentatively stretches a tender hand out in Graves’ direction, and then seems to think better of it, and move it back to his side. If only he knew how badly his visitor yearns for that touch which he bestows so freely upon the dead.
*big pleading eyes* Credence Barebone x Percival Graves, No 5? <3
Here you go. Actual, genuine non-pirate fic. Madness. Hopefully it feels kind of right, because I just threw myself at it and hoped for the best. You dragged me off my hill of existential pirate regrets for these soft magical beans! It made for an interesting break, at least. :D <3
5. ‘There’s blood on my/your hands.’
“Shit. Fuck.”
Credence stopped outside the door to the bathroom, frozen mid-stride, his eyes wide with concern. He was still getting used to the sound of frequent and colourful cursing, the likes of which he had never been exposed to before, but which appeared to be the punctuation scattered generously throughout Percival Graves’s life outside of work. A stubborn remnant of his army days, he had said. A bad habit he enjoyed too much to be overly concerned with discarding. Those particular curse words, however, had sounded sharp and pained, and so leaning towards the half open door, Credence peered inside.
“There’s blood on your hands!” The words left his mouth almost unbidden. Graves was standing in front of the sink, on the edge of which lay a straight razor, half-coated with shaving cream, and he was craning his neck to see the full length of his jawline in the mirror. His fingertips were hovering inches from his skin, bright red blood smeared across them, and as he turned around at the sound of the exclamation, Credence saw the corresponding streak of red on the sharp corner of his jaw.
“This damned tremor,” Graves said with a sigh, eyes on his fingers as he clenched and unclenched them. “It’s a, uh…recent acquirement. I should have just used my wand; it’s quicker and cleaner anyway, but stubbornness got the better of me, I suppose. It used to be relaxing, shaving by hand the old fashioned way.” He smiled in a way that Credence imagined was intended to be reassuring, but his eyes didn’t quite convince.
If there was one thing Credence knew how to do better than any other, it was to see the truth behind the masks people wore. Seeing such things could mean the difference between safely tiptoeing his way across eggshells or blundering headfirst into cruelties masquerading as kindness. Luckily for him, the real Graves had thus far been much easier to read than the woman who had called herself a mother, or the man who had worn Graves’s face as a true mask, and he had as yet proven himself to be hiding no false motives nor designs on insidious cruelty. Which is why Credence felt emboldened enough to step forwards into the doorway and ask, “Would you like me to help?”
Graves looked surprised, considering for a moment before he smiled and said, “Well, that depends. Can you offer a more steady hand than mine?”
He held said hand out flat in front of him, and Credence saw the way his fingers twitched gently of their own accord. The blood was already drying dark under his fingernails. It was, Credence thought, a fragile moment of freely offered vulnerability, the significance of which he did not fail to recognise despite the quiet confidence with which Graves always infused his words.
Credence held his own hand out, mirroring, his fingers perfectly still. “All it takes is the result of a few smudged psalms,” he said softly, “to acquire a steady hand. Ma thought safety razors were a ‘wasteful luxury’, but she hated to be reminded that I was no longer a child, so I know how to use one of those.” He gestured to the straight razor on the edge of the sink.
Graves raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Alright then,” he said, and he settled himself on the edge of the bathtub, hands in his lap, and waited silently for Credence to come closer.
It was easy sometimes to leap in and offer help where it seemed polite, or where possessing the requisite skills made one feel obliged, but those moments were often followed by sudden realisations of the things that the act of helping would actually require. Physical closeness, in this instance, and the touch of skin on skin. Credence lingered in the doorway, overtaken by that realisation, until he saw Graves’s hands fidgeting minutely, his left thumbnail picking the blood out from under his right. It was a small movement, perfectly unremarkable, and yet once again it seemed to Credence to be such a very vulnerable and human thing that it made him feel stronger, and braver; less like a boy in the shadow of a giant, and more like a man in the company of an equal and a friend.
He took a breath and crossed the threshold. Graves watched him silently as he picked up the razor, rinsing it off in the lukewarm water pooled in the sink. The right side of Graves’s face was clean, aside from the drying smear of blood still present, but the left side, around his mouth, and under his jaw were still white with foam. He had a small towel slung over his left shoulder, and Credence reached for it, managing to pull it free with only the barest brush of his fingers against the warm fabric of the well-worn shirt beneath it. He suppressed a shiver.
More than once in his years of leafleting on street corners, Credence had found himself standing outside the wide windows of one particular barbershop. He had observed out of the corner of his eye as men in sharp suits relaxed in comfortable looking chairs, tended to by immaculately groomed barbers who worked with precise flourishes and unbroken focus. Credence found that it was, perhaps surprisingly, the barbers of whom he was more envious than the customers. They worked quietly, confidently, and largely unobserved. The customers simply sat there, eyes closed more often than not, their minds clearly elsewhere and their formidable facades made unintimidating by thick white beards of foam. There was a great shifting of power when strong men lay themselves out in such open vulnerability, eyes closed and blades to their throats, and Credence had marvelled at it.
And now here he was. Blade in one hand, towel draped over the back of the other, mimicking what he had observed through the barbershop window. Graves looked down at the towel and smiled and Credence might have blushed, except he saw nothing but genuine fondness creeping over Graves’s face and he felt compelled to smile in return.
“Look that way, please,” he said softly, nodding his head to his left, Graves’s right, as his fingers came up to hover under Graves’s chin.
Graves turned his head obligingly, though his gaze remained on Credence, peering out from under his dark lashes in a way that seemed deliberately provocative. He was still wearing a hint of that smile and it set a swarm of butterflies fluttering around Credence’s stomach.
“Eyes too,” he murmured, nerves making him feel unexpectedly brave, and Graves chuckled softly as he looked away.
Credence took another deep breath and held it as he finally reached out and laid his fingers on Graves’s warm cheekbone. He lifted his thumb upwards, gently pulling the skin taut, and he began to shave.
In the echoing quiet of the bathroom, the rasp of the razor against stubble was loud, and Credence felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the sound washed over him. Slowly, he worked his way down Graves’s cheek towards his jaw, and forward from his sideburn to the corner of his mouth, in short, measured strokes, wiping the foam on the towel as he went. The more smooth skin he revealed, the more confident and relaxed he felt, and the fluttering feeling of nervousness dissipated as he focused on his task. He even almost forgot just how close they were to one another, despite their legs occasionally brushing as he moved and his fingers sliding gently over damp skin, feeling for missed bristles. It was difficult to forget their closeness entirely though, no matter how focused he was, when he was reminded every time Graves swallowed and his throat moved, or his fingers twitched in his lap, drawing Credence’s gaze downwards away from his face.
Finishing his left cheek, Credence considered for a moment where he ought to go next. Chin and top lip seemed like the logical answer, but that would put him in such very close proximity to Graves’s mouth, and the queasy nerves rebuilding inside him thought that perhaps that was best saved for last.
“Look up,” he said, and Graves silently complied. If he thought anything of the conspicuous white goatee that still remained, he said nothing about it.
Credence placed his fingers low on Graves’s throat, carefully drawing the skin taut and once again setting about removing the stubble with light, deft strokes of the blade. He took his time around Graves’s adam’s apple, afraid of cutting him if he should swallow unexpectedly, but his hand remained steady and sure, and with half a dozen rasping passes of the razor the jut of skin was left smooth and unblemished. Unthinkingly, he swept his thumb over it, the soft glide of skin satisfying and the warmth a comforting counterbalance to the coolness of his own skin. Graves lowered his chin, eyes on Credence’s, and their closeness was suddenly inescapably apparent. Credence thought he might be able to count Graves’s eyelashes from here, if he only chose to do so. Hundreds and hundreds of them, by the looks of it.
Saying nothing, Credence slipped his fingers under Graves’s chin, his thumb below the corner of his mouth, and he set about shaving the skin there. He kept his eyes fixed on the razor, but he felt a flush creeping up to his ears with the weight of Graves’s gaze on him. His intense self-awareness was tempered, however, by the odd sense of power he felt with having the ability to pivot Graves’s face in any direction with the barest tug of his fingers. He was so pliant under his ministrations; anything intimidating about him instantly unmade. It was just as Credence had imagined it through the wide, warm windows of that barbershop.
Chin smooth and clean, there was no option but to turn to the final task: that white faux-moustache. Credence stood looking at it for just a little too long, and he saw Graves’s lips begin to curl on one side.
“Unless I’m going to be cultivating a dashing lip adornment like Clark Gable then that’ll have to go too,” Graves said, gesturing towards his lip.
“Who’s Clark Gable? Another wizard?” Credence said curiously.
Graves laughed and said, “No. Nevermind,” with a gentle shake of his head. “Come on. I won’t bite,” he added, when Credence remained still and silent.
Credence’s skin felt suddenly warm and prickly, but he resisted the urge to tug at his collar. With a deep inhale that he did not bother to hide, he bridged the gap between them again and placed his thumb on Graves’s top lip. Graves froze, his eyebrow alone moving, creeping up towards his hairline.
Ignoring that look, and the soft brush of Graves’s every exhale on his hand, Credence swept the razor over the final stretch of skin until it too was smooth, and when he pulled back he watched the way Graves’s lip stuck to his thumb for just a moment as he lifted it away.
“Thank you,” Graves said, plucking the towel from Credence’s arm and turning it over to dry his face with the clean side, giving him a convenient moment to look elsewhere. He twisted to drape the towel over the edge of the bathtub next to him as Credence lay the razor back on the edge of the sink.
“Oh, wait,” Credence said suddenly, catching sight of the browning smear of blood still present on Graves’s jaw. He picked up the towel again, dipped the corner in the now cool water in the sink, and gently wiped the blood away, before patting the skin dry.
“Thank you,” Graves said again, more softly. Pulling his wand from his pocket, he murmured, “Scourgify,” and placed the newly clean and fluffy looking towel back on the rail.
“You’re welcome. I’m always happy to help,” Credence replied, and he truly meant it.
“You’re a dear thing,” Graves said, so quietly that the words were almost inaudible. He slid his wand back into his pocket and stood, his hand making an abortive little movement in Credence’s direction, before he pulled it back to settle at his side.
Credence smiled at him and turned to leave, but feeling one more mad rush of courage, he reached across the space between them with his own hand and brushed the back of his little finger across Graves’s knuckles. He didn’t quite dare to look at Graves’s face as he did so, but he heard the intake of breath and felt the warm brush of fingers that twitched towards him in response, and Credence’s smile only grew wider as he pulled away and left the bathroom, his heart hammering as though he had done battle with a great foe and won. And considering the ever brighter outlook of this hard-won new future of his, perhaps that wasn’t such an inaccurate analogy after all. Credence Barebone: vanquisher of formidable odds. He rather liked the sound of that.
Okay so he’s a high school math teacher, except he gets hired first as a substitute teacher, but he connects well with the students (also like the majority of them have a Crush on him), and the other teachers like him, so he gets offered a full-time position.
The kind of teacher to have literally everything in his drawer; paper towels, bandages, a first aid kit, tampons and pads, extra pencils and erasers; literally everything his students might need that fits in a drawer.
Promotes drinking water, never seen without a water bottle.
Encourages the students to ask questions and try to explain everything clearly, constantly reconnecting to other things so that the students will get the basics.
Probably rumoured to be in at least one relationship with a student of age or another teacher because he’s so hot.
Would definitely get married without telling anyone, and then one day a student spots a wedding band on his finger and it turns out that he was together with the quiet school librarian Credence all along.
So I was watching the purge election year (movie about one night a year where all crime is legal) and I sort of want to do an rp where Credence is thrown out onto the street on the night of the purge and ends up stumbling into the territory of a gang and is almost killed but Graves (head of the gang?) spares his life, IF credecne with sleep with him
If you ship our favourite American Auror and obscurial boy, and enjoy seeing them in a healthy relationship, as well as don’t mind going through multiple tags to find relevant fanworks/headcanons to reblog, then please message us!
Quiet people have the loudest minds, Percy thought as he watched Credence sit in front of their fireplace. Dark eyes were staring into the flames, seemingly captivated by their movement. Percy wished that he could know what occupied Credence’s mind, especially as the enchanted knitting needles had stopped knitting; they had continued after Credence put them down as they were meant to do. For the knitting to completely stop, it had to be something serious.
He didn’t dare ask.
Percy thumbed the book resting on his lap, considered if he would be able to immerse himself in the Muggle murder mystery once more or if he should go into the kitchen to make them tea. Credence took the options away from him by carefully pulling on his sleeve.
“Yes?” Percy asked, an encouraging smile on his lips.
“You knew my name,” Credence said, the words quiet but clear enough to not be a mumble. “The first time we met, you already knew my name.”
“The stars told me your name,” Percy explained. “And I knew I had to find you.”
He could tell that Credence was doubtful, but he patiently waited for the next question to be asked or for the subject to be dropped; whatever Credence chose, he would comply with.
“The stars?” Credence repeated at last.
“Have I told you about divination?” Percy asked. Credence shook his head slightly, the locks of his hair moving softly across his forehead at the movement.
Percy marked his place in the book and put it aside. He took Credence’s hand and entwined their fingers as he started explaining divination, and how he had been taught by a young centaur how to read the stars.
