#in the mood to show things but not in the form of badly lit photos

[abutterflyobsession]

I don't want to post pictures of my drawings I want to hand you my sketchbook so you can flip through it and say things like 'these are nice colors' or 'I like the wiggles' until you come to a page and start choking back giggles until I look at it and say 'oh yeah, that one turned out kinda funky' which gives you permission to laugh and for the rest of the day we joke back and forth about the malformed doodle

[boobidabooski]

Sunday Afternoon

I’m still figuring out how to use this app so please bear with me. I’m also a weeee bit rusty cause I haven’t written in awhile. I hope you enjoy though! :)

Format might be a little wonky? :/

Summary: Harry cheated and tries to save the relationship.

Voicemail to Harry on Saturday, 4:36 PM: “Hey. Was wondering if you’d wanna come over and cuddle for a little? Really hoping you’ll get back to me, love you.

Voicemail from Harry on Sunday, 3:02 AM: “I’m so sorry, y/n. Jus’ atta lil’ get together with my friends. I shoulda called sooner but ‘twas hectic. I love you.”

Sunday Afternoon

I play the slurred voicemail for Harry after he had arrived to my apartment, showing him how he left me hanging for the whole night. I sent him a, “We need to talk,” text that everyone in a relationship always dreads. A tight line forms across his lips when the voicemail is done playing and he just looks at me with sorry eyes

“M’sorry love, I really am.” Harry says, trying to get me to look at him. But I can’t. I felt so hurt after being left alone like that for so long without any explanation or make up for it. But then I did get my explanation a little bit after I woke up today. A cheeky little post on Instagram made by a petite blonde girl named Ainsley. She had tagged him in a photo of him with his arm across her shoulders. A carefree smile plastered on both of their rosy faces. Rosy cheeks caused by the alcohol of course.

I pull up the picture, shoving it to Harry’s chest and letting him take a look as I go to sit on the small sofa placed against the wall of my tiny living room. I watch him swallow hard. My heart starts to fall a little knowing something did in fact happen between him and this woman that night. “Wanna explain to me why you’re all over a woman who isn’t your girlfriend?” I ask sternly but picking at my nails nervous for the answer I will receive.

“She’s just a good friend, baby. I promise. Nothing’s goin on between us.” He’s lying to me. And he knows I can tell. I’ve picked up on Harry’s telltales these past few months. He rocks back and forth a little on his feet when he lies to me. He picks at his bottom lip with his index and thumb when he’s nervous, and he’s doing both right now.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I say through clenched teeth knowing that my harshness will get to him. His head snaps up from the phone and he looks at me with confusion. He had been leaving me for hours on end with no explanation a lot recently. No calls or text messages to tell me he was safe. No I love you’s in response to mine.

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry. You’ve been ignoring me. Leaving me for hours on end. I don’t get texts from you anymore. I have no explanation for anything.” He still hasn’t said anything. He’s lost in thought, pondering on what he should say. He lets out a little sigh and looks away from me, remorse evident on his face. And that’s when my heart begins to beat rapidly against my chest. I can feel the pit forming in my stomach and my body begins to feel shaky.

“I kissed her.”

His words replay in my head. Seeping into me and making my already breaking heart shatter into a million pieces. Pieces that can’t be picked up and glued back together. His words are the only thought I have right now.

His words permanent in my mind like a tattoo. How could he do this to me after all the I love you’s? All of the little moments that made me feel euphoric just thinking about them. Tears start to stain my cheeks and my breathing is shaky. There’s a fire lit inside my body. Not the kind that was ignited from a kiss or a small touch that makes you feel all warm and giddy. The feeling that he had once made me feel. No. It was an angry, searing heat. He lied to me. He gave me false hope.

“I’ve done nothing to wrong you, Harry. I’ve done nothing but love you. Through everything. Why?” Those words sting the back of my throat. He can tell I’m starting to choke up and his eyes too start to well up with tears. I want to give in. I want so badly to just take him into my arms and run my fingers through his unruly hair. I want to wipe the tears from his beautiful green eyes. I want to tell him I love him. But I can’t.

“You did this. Why do you get to cry?” I seethe. His words, “I kissed her,” play over and over in my mind. I bury my face in my hands, trying to rid my mind of those awful words. I knew he’d hurt me. Why am I so surprised about this? I wasn’t expecting this forever love, but I also wasn’t expecting him to hurt me like he did.

“I-I don’t get to cry. I don’t deserve you. I fucked up. Royally.” He stutters through his words. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something every now and then but then he shuts it again, knowing there is no right words to say. There will never be any right words to say. Nothing he can say will take away this heart wrenching pain.

More tears stream down his cheeks. He looks away, wiping his face every time more fall. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. It makes this whole situation so much worse. “I don’t know why I did it. Commitment issues? Fear? I don’t know..” He trails off in thought and I scoff at the pitiful attempt to explain why he would do something so cruel to someone he claims to love so much. He doesn’t get to cry, and he certainly doesn’t deserve me. What he does deserve is the guilt gnawing at him. He deserves that fiery regret. He deserves the pain that I will inflict on him when I tell him I will never love him again. I can’t love him again. Not after he kissed another woman when he promised he was mine. But who knows if he’ll even care.

“There’s no more to say and you can’t take back what you did. S’all just a waste now.” I whisper the last part, knowing he would’ve heard the pain in my voice if I had said it normally. “No-no, y/n, don’t say it’s a waste. It’s not a waste. I love you. I love you more than anything. It was one stupid, drunken kiss. She meant nothing!” His voice breaks more and more as he tries to salvage this broken relationship.

He starts to pace around the small apartment running his ring clad fingers through his hair. The dim lights add to the somber mood, but it also helps. Not being able to see every pained expression on his face. Him not being able to see mine as well.

“I can fix this. S’all gonna be okay. I love you, baby. Let me try, please.” He says coming to the couch and kneeling, cupping my tear soaked face. I grab his warm hands and put them at his sides. He looks down and sniffles. Whimpers escape my lips at the sight of him being in pain. But I shouldn’t feel sorry for him.

“You can’t fix it. It’s done and over with. A drunk mind speaks a sober heart after all.” He looks up at me with a somber expression. Tears keep spilling out of his eyes like a never ending river. I close my eyes, stopping myself from wiping the sadness off of his face.

“But I love you. So so much. It was so stupid of me. Please.” He whispers. He grabs my hands and kisses them. He starts kissing my knuckles and up my arms. Leaving a trail of tears and wet kisses all the way up to my jawline. “We’ve only kissed once and it was a quick peck. She’s out of my life completely. I only want you.” His soft lips move against my burning skin as he says that and I allow a whimper to escape.

“I feel like you should leave,” I say just above a whisper. He looks up at me, eyes wide. “No. No, I can’t. Y/n, I want to fix this. I need to fix this. I need you. I can’t lose you.”

“But you can’t!” I exclaim, taking his hands in mine and shaking them for emphasis. “You obviously wanted her a little bit! I know you love me, I do know that. It’s very evident. But not enough to keep me. And you made that quite clear.”

“I don’t know what happened! I wasn’t sober and it just happened. It meant nothing!” He breaks.

“I can’t do this right now. I just...I can’t. I can’t even think straight. I need time to calm down. And to really consider if you mean what you’re saying right now. I can’t just forgive you like that. As much as I want to because I love you more than anything. But I can’t.” I start to sob. “You have to give me time. M’not in the right headspace to make a decision right now.”

He only nods and stands up, readying himself to pack his things to stay somewhere alone. Or so I hope. He huffs and sniffles from time to time while gathering his things and I try my hardest to ignore him.

“You know I love you. So much.” He sighs.

“I know.”

[mercedesbarnes]

Bring It To You

Summary: After a string of sleepless nights, Bucky doesn’t join in on a group bonding activity and you try your best to cheer him up.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,409

Warnings: floof

A/N: This is my submission for Caro’s Game of Prompts! Thank you for organizing, and congratulations on your milestones @sanjariti ily 💗 💗 

Engrossed in a new book, you were curled up in your favourite armchair, devouring the words on the page as your eyes flicked rapidly from one side of the page to the other.  The author was fantastic at keeping you engaged, so much so that you didn’t hear Steve until he tapped your shoulder.

“Hey, you alive?” Steve asked, taking the seat beside you to slip on his shoes.

“Yeah, did you say something?” you replied while finishing up the sentence and marking your page with a bookmark.  

“I asked if you were coming to Coney Island?” A group bonding activity, he called it when he told you yesterday.  “We’re leaving kinda now.”  

“Of course, I’m ready to go!”

“Well, you almost had me fooled,” he mumbled, staring at your very not-moving body.

“Do I detect sass, Rogers?”

“Nooo.”

You good-naturedly shoved the part of his arm you could reach. Cold ice cream, exhilarating rides, and the overall loud atmosphere of the park had you excited, plus you were going with all your favourite people.

“Can’t wait for the wind in my hair,” you grinned at him.

“And the bugs in your teeth,” Steve finished, moving to his left shoe.  

“Exactly. We need to get a before and after photo.”

“Why, cause it’s Thor’s first time on a ride?”

“Yup. His hair’s going to go crazy from the wind. I bet he’ll tie it up into a high bun and we can’t let that memory go undocumented.”

“I’ll bet on that,” Steve said, looking past you. “Good afternoon, Buck.”

Bucky had wandered into the common room at the sound of your voices, looking rumpled and like he was in desperate need of a bed, despite having probably come from his room. 

“Afternoon,” he mumbled, heading straight for the nearest armchair and collapsing into it.

“Are you up for Coney Island? We’re probably going to stay for fireworks.”

Bucky shifted under both of your gazes. Ever observant, Steve leaned on his knees with his hands clasped, squinting a bit as he scrutinized his friend’s behaviour.

“Not in the mood?”

He gave a non-committal shrug then leaned his head back to close his eyes. Steve nodded slightly and unfolded himself to stand up. He patted his best friend’s shoulder as comfort and to show he understood that Bucky needed a chill day instead of being surrounded by the suffocating crowds of the park.

“Y/N, I’ll be downstairs, come when you’re ready.”

“Alright,” you said, setting your book on the table and glancing at the brunet, who now had his forearm draped over his face.  “Hey, Bucky.”

The arm fell away to flop on his lap and when he rolled his head to look your way you recognized the deep, dark rings under Bucky’s eyes.

“Hi,” he rasped, a forced smile following his words. “Are you leaving now?”

“Yeah…” you said, but suddenly that didn’t seem like the right answer anymore. Seeing Bucky so down like this, it dimmed the excitement you had felt when you first heard about the Coney Island idea.  If one of your favourite people was going to be left in the lonely tower, it wouldn’t truly be a team activity. Nor would it be a group photo.

“Coney Island’s fun. You’ll like it,” he said, closing his eyes again.  His words, tinged with fatigue and hints of nostalgia, had your mind gears turning. Did he want to go?  

You asked him, and he rolled his head no. “I didn’t sleep well the past few days, I’d rather stay in.”

You had to pass Bucky on your way out, and he grasped your wrist, stopping you with a more genuine smile. “Have a good time, Y/N.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later, Bucky.”   

So. It sounded like he liked Coney Island, but a lack of sleep was keeping him from joining the team on their trip. Surely this was a simple fix. Your mind was racing as fast as the elevator descended the many floors, and when you reached the ground, the ding of the opening doors was like a lightbulb over your head.

You jogged over to the waiting group and tapped Steve on the shoulder.

“I have an idea.”

Two hours later, you strode into the airy Avengers tower lobby towards the elevators, an opaque shopping bag of items awkwardly bumping against your leg when you stopped to press the button. Chewing on your lip, you allowed yourself to consider the thought that had to potential to punch a hole in your otherwise flawless plan.

If you were Bucky, where would you be?

Just because he hadn't wanted to come to Coney Island there was no guarantee that he would be in the tower. Bucky could have gone for a walk by himself, or for a motorcycle exploration, actions he often did when in a mood like this. New York was big. He could be anywhere.

You snapped your fingers when you remembered the reason why he liked to do those things when in a funk. They were a distraction. A change of pace. Something in the tower had this power: movies.  

When you arrived at the 22nd floor, you made straight for the theatre, pulling open the star-decorated door with a bright smile. It was a cozy room, the luxurious floor-to-ceiling screen drawing the eye immediately as the automatic lights flickered on. The gold walls were offset by rows of four classic red recliners.  In the front one there was a recliner on each end, and a bed-like cushion between the drink holder adorned armrests, replacing the two middle chairs; being the best seat in the house you expected to see Bucky splayed out there in the middle of a film.

It was empty.

The screen’s reflection of this emptiness mirrored the feeling you experienced. You really thought he’d be in there, but apparently the ghost soldier lived up to the name. He did, after all, evade discovery for years. A crease forming between your brows, you wracked your brain for another spot. He could be in his room, maybe, or the gym. Those are distractions too. With the locations in mind you backed out of the cinema and let the door swing shut as you made sure the bag avoided getting caught in the hinges.

“Y/N?”

You spun quickly to see the subject of your thoughts standing down the hall.

Bucky was in his navy sweater and black jogger pants, and with the dark circles, his hair ruffled and hunched shoulders, his body language screamed exhausted. Still, he managed to appear on edge, thanks to his eyes that were alight with attention. Bucky had snuck up on you, his footsteps far too similar to a cat’s. Virtually noiseless. If he hadn’t the habit of doing this on a regular basis you would’ve been startled, however you felt welcome relief flooding through your veins.

“Hey! I was looking for you.”

“You were?” Bucky said while stepping closer, and you couldn't ignore the wary undertone in his question, or the way his eyes traced over your face, searching for something, anything that would tell him why you were here, if you were injured. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“No, no, everything's fine, Bucky, they're all at Coney Island,” you assured him, placing a hand on his chest to stop him from going past you to the emergency phone found on every floor. Occupational hazard. The mind always goes to the worst possible scenario first.

You felt his breaths relax under your fingers, his body doing so too. He took a couple steps to the side to lean nonchalantly against the wall, but to you it looked like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“But you’re not there.”

“I changed my mind.“

You didn’t want to reveal your surprise here so you left it at that. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth as he nodded slightly, blue eyes boring into your own and making you feel like, somehow, he had been prepared for this vague answer.

“How are you?” you asked softly, fiddling with the bag’s handles to resist the urge to just go to him and hug all of his tiredness away.

Bucky exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “M’okay. Just tired.”

You nodded in understanding. When sleep evaded you, it meant exhaustion not only the following day, but the ones after as well. For someone like Bucky who was prone to multiple sleepless nights in a row, you couldn't even imagine how he was feeling. But you did know you wanted to make ‘just tired’ a little more tolerable. Cue your plan.

“What were you up to?”

Bucky shrugged, lifting an eyebrow to match. “Not much, really.”  His sight wandered around the room like it was going to tell him what he could do before it landed on you again. “Came up here for a movie.”

So you weren’t completely off base with your movie idea. “You’re going through Sam’s recommendation list.”

“Yeah.” He paused, considering you as if he was trying to work up the courage to make a decision. “Do you, um, wanna join?”

“Sure.” His hands were calloused and big and your heart jumped when your fingers slipped between his to tug him gently off the wall. He was so warm and if you had the power, you so badly wanted him to be happy. He deserved to be happy.  

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand, choosing to use his free one to open the door for you. “You still haven't really told me why you're back.”

“I have something for you,” you explained, entering the room and choosing the bed seat at the front of the theatre. Reluctantly you let go of Bucky to lean back against the pillows and make yourself comfortable, crossing your legs at the ankle.

“Oh?” He glanced at the bag, curious.

“C’mon, get comfortable.”

You patted the space beside you and he sat close, his shoulder brushing against yours, copying your leg position and watching as you began to unpack everything you brought. As you placed each thing on the cushions it was crossed off of your mental list.  

Two Nathan’s Famous hot dogs

An extra large bag of popcorn

Postcards showcasing the roller coasters, the background lit up by a rainbow of exploding fireworks

Seashells in all shapes and shades

A previously empty plastic water bottle, now filled with sand

Bucky’s brows traveled higher with each item, and he picked a postcard and turned it over to stare at the smiley face you had drawn on the back. Looking up, he asked quietly, “What’s all this?”

“You didn’t want to go to Coney Island, so I brought Coney Island to you,” you said simply, tossing the empty bag to the chair on your right to then turn back to Bucky.

“Ice cream’s in the fridge, if you want some now I can go...”

They always say that the eyes are the window to the soul. That you can see a person’s emotional state just by examining them. Here, right now, the way the goodness in Bucky’s soul was completely exposed to you when it usually was locked away and hidden from everyone--it was a testament to that statement. Gratefulness was radiating out in blue waves, spreading to every line of Bucky’s handsome face and you found yourself unable to finish your sentence.  

He blinked as a gentle smile grew on his pink lips. “You did this for me?”

“Yeah. You were feeling down,” you explained, shifting to face him fully and witness that masterpiece of a smile. “I thought this could cheer you up since you didn’t want to go out.”

“It’s amazing,” he said in that grateful tone, eyes flickering between your own like he was trying to memorize them. To see what was in your soul, perhaps. “You’re amazing.”

Having Bucky look at you like this was making your heart play a game of rapid jump rope. You’ve never been so close to him. “I am?”

“Yeah.”

You stared, until your brain stopped spinning enough to say hug him. Opening your arms with a lopsided smile that Bucky returned, you took care not to knock over anything as you both leaned in. His arms, one around your middle and one over your shoulder, had your head resting in the crook of his neck.  It was exactly how you imagined, how you wanted to hug him earlier. Soft. Comfortable. Relaxing.

“I love this makeshift Coney Island,” he whispered, “thank you.”

“Anytime, Bucky. I hope it helps.”

“It does. A lot,” he said, releasing you and picking up a hot dog,  “I’m starving.”

“Dig in!”

You munched while searching for the movie that would continue this night's theme, a movie called The Pick Up Artist that was supposedly set in the amusement park.

After moving everything to the floor, you and Bucky spread out on the bed-chair, pressed up next to each other and accidentally brushing hands when you reached for the popcorn bag. Always sending mini-fireworks, like the ones featured on the postcards, up your arm. It happened a couple more times before you slipped your hand into his and surreptitiously squeezed it; bigger fireworks exploded in your chest when he did it back.

Neither of you needed the Coney Island fireworks; they were happening just fine on their own here in the tower.

"Hey, Y/N," Bucky murmured near your ear as the characters came into view, "does the main guy look a lot like Tony or is it just me."

You gasped.  "He does, woah."  The resemblance was uncanny, and you made a mental note to talk to Tony about his secret acting career. 

Not long past the halfway point you noticed Bucky’s head fall onto your shoulder before he jerked awake with a start, and he stared bleary eyed at you, the screen, then back to you.

“Sleep, Buck. You need it.”

He didn’t respond other than to drape himself across the whole piece of furniture, head in your lap and immediately dozing off with a small smile. Your fingers started to mindlessly braid small sections of his hair before undoing them and fiddling again.  You spent the rest of the night in such a position, watching movies and not doing much, but enjoying it immensely.  

Chill nights, Coney Island--they’re not mutually exclusive, and together they cheer up even the most tired of supersoldiers.  

Tags (open!): @wndas-romanoff , @bootypoppinbarnes , @fxckmebuck , @langinator , @seeyainanothalifebrotha , @canumoveyourseatup-no , @secondstartotheright-imagines , @the-renaissance , @miraisnotavailable , @winchesterandpie , @whyisbuckyso , @supernatural-girl97 , @aekr , @stevnsbucks , @engineeringgirlcve , @rotisserierogers , @buckys-fossil

[convndrums]

here the FAWK she ( the semi-finished masterlist of all my characters ) is ! took way too long but hopefully as you proceed to click on the linque below you’ll know why smh but yep ! i’ll be adding their pages on my account when i’m done with them soon i hope and maybe come back with a bunch of connections for each character but for now this is all i got & smash this like or im me for plots i’d love to get on those finally xx

reintroducing amanda wheeler;  intro & info page.

queen of irony. rich post- faux country gal who’s a loud homosexual and writes hetero fics/has an indie het smut for the absolute shits and giggles. dates a married woman she’s utterly in love with and will pull the life support cord for. said to be possessed by a possessed flapper. cute and knows it even though she looks like a republican. socially open & everywhere. morally grey.

reintroducing imogen yates; intro & info page. ( tw violence )

the grey area between your mom friend and your drunk aunt. happily vegan & owns a vegan restaurant called the fork, alt. the vegan cult’s lair. won’t kill you, but will convince you she really wants to. local brat tamer. minds her business via minding others. clashed head-first into nature’s very own reset button: amnesia. used to be satan and traumatized everyone. disgustingly active and accomplishing.

reintroducing ethan holland; intro & info page. ( tw suicide )

he is a sk8r boi, she said see ya later boy ( and meant it. they’re dating now. hey lourdes ! ) a nice person, so nice he doesn’t realize how fake he sounds/is. a certified headass. previously a bully/bully enabler, current guilty fuck. #torn. does the most for his loved ones. doesn’t remember his own birthday. googled foot fetishes once. trolls stan twitter with his fake selena gomez stan account when tumblr crashes. burned a sue of cide note with his name scribbled on it.

reintroducing sebastian miller; intro & info page ( tw violence )

kazimer sokolov whom. russian ex-cult member well-adjusted into a mundane life via lies, a fake canadian accent he’s ‘trying to get rid of’, being a twilight saga aficionado and a dickwad, a lame record store and a tumblr blog to keep himself sane by maintaining a general aesthetic and shitting on people and every discourse out there. knives/books sniffer. allegedly fucked a moose. probably kinkshames as a way to deal with his own “kinks” aka please keep the dead bodies away. ( im kidding i swear but [redacted] )

reintroducing prudence zima; intro & info page ( tw death )

parents died in a fire when she was two months old and it shows. idolizes avril lavigne & her favorite movie is lords of dogtown for aesthetics references. dude. social leech or effortless networker ? both. remains in her lane regardless. cry-types probably. here for a good time, not a long time. steals your stash and smokes you out with it. avid dick connoisseur. minimum effort lifestyle. either on her way to become a manager of some one hit wonder band that finds it’s demise in a freak accident, a drug dealer or god forbid, a guidance counselor; depends. mild cool girl syndrome. 

reintroducing jennifer meade; intro & info page ( tw death, violence and abuse )

bi/pussy muncher and proud misandrist, first and foremost. remembers killing her brother very fondly. the one girl in a room to call when you want to kill a bug and you’re relieved until she kills it with her bare hand. tops. unstable & chaotic evil, respectively. the ginger devil. biased and has her minion whom she invests a great deal of her time in brain washing and obsessing over. supposedly here to make amends but that’s not happening any time soon.

reintroducing margot williams; intro & info page ( tw mental illness )

deserves better. very gay. all her friends are heathens xtra, take it slow. corrects typos in the gc. a nerdy editorial assistant daydreaming about publishing houses instead of the magazine she works for. lowkey shy and she’s angry about it. goes off if she must. jacks off to #knowledge and yuri anime. helps with homework and essays and takes the kids out. deadpan because we’re original but she swears it’s just the face & unresolved trauma. stans her therapist. unofficial older sister.

reintroducing chandler accardi; intro ( re-written ) & info page

needs to do better. dropped out of college for culinary school then dropped out of that too. was engaged to an absolute goddess he ultimately wronged ( with her damn best friend, bitch disgostin* ) and got kicked out to the curb. currently residing in the couch of his sister until things are resolved. thot-by-default & annoying. has like three ( 3 ) redeeming qualities. has never been told to shut up and it shows. works at buzzfeed.

reintroducing abel gautier; intro & info page

french and “confused”. lives a minimalist n’ expensive life. if american psycho & french kiss were the same movie. wine sniffer. the devil bakes croissants. will watch you die. takes grudges to the afterlife. gets attached but either ruins it or ruins it to spare everyone, himself included. falls in love a lot but knows how to calm the fuck down. very giving, fortunately. manipulative but isn’t too wild about bending everything to his will. 

reintroducing simini gale; intro & info page ( tw abuse, violence & mental illness )

token white actress & character in rosie’s show. [ britney vc ] its me.... against dissociation. a loud mess with an intense mental state and anger issues dulled out by her prescribed meds and whatever pill she got in the bottom of her manager’s purse. dependent and distraught about it. grocery shopping for garbage food and attending comedy stand up shows half drunk as a hobby. stable ? where. very nice and super flighty. heels are hot. wishes she could fight someone without feeling the urge to actually fight someone. 

reintroducing calvin o’shea; intro & info page ( tw mental illness )

it’s not just the depression more than the incredible self hatred. walks into rooms with his bad energy, grumpy mood and cunty attitude. graduated college just to shut his dad up. wants to die harder than edward cullen. just doesn’t give a shit. has a baby named freddie mercury ( also known as the antichrist, with alanis, his mortal literal enemy whom he absolutely despises and will not hesitate to put his dick back in again lbr ) who will probably grow up to talk shit about his parents whom he also mentioned in his tell-all book on ellen. works at his family’s bookstore that sucks the life energy out of college students nearing a mental breakdown.

reintroducing isabel pavia; intro & info page ( tw drug use )

contemporary dances her feelings away. too ambitious for her own good but knows what she’s doing. in a goth ass secret society ( here ) a.k.a her new found purpose. knows everything eventually. oddly trustworthy. doesn’t know what speaking loudly is, let alone yelling. loves the moon & has that moon app. had to take painkillers when she twisted her ankle very badly and would take them for a while for stress and performance reasons, but has stopped. a quiet angel. 

reintroducing anastasia zeller; intro & info page

ambitious/multi-talented asshole. horror trash & an emotional/mental maze which translates well into her weird works on no sleep reddit and current horror comedy podcast. ( click here for info ). needs a therapist according to a friend, whom she dropped for saying that. will bite your head off. obsessed with her works to an unhealthy point. would love to establish a company and stuff out of it and is working on that. healthy relationships are a semi-foreign concept.

reintroducing morgan booker; intro & info page ( tw death )

vape-curious and takes photos of ghost towns and abandoned-everythings because #vision. had a roadtrip phase like the fake deep idiot he is. morally grey. genuinely here for a good laugh and spreading joy in the form of hover-friendships and taking lit candids of his friends. knows shit and comes off as a creep sometimes but does he really care. knows your mom’s name. lives in a disused hospital bc he’s marinating on that aesthetic. 

reintroducing bowie harmon; intro & info page ( tw drug use & abuse )

part of a duo in a web series as the anxious n’ cackling mess. showcases her depressión & anxieté by her colorful wigs n’ new hair dyes. painful receptionist at a tattoo parlor. recovering addict who advocates for drug use. thinks tattooing a ruler on someone’s dick one day would be the peak of her accomplishments as a tattoo artist. daily bad decisions. “ it’s complicated. ” when asked about literally any relationship she has with anyone in her life. traumas include her failed singing career. an ex viner-by-association.

reintroducing shaheen bin baz; intro & info page ( tw violence & mental illness )

the physical deception of going through hell in a short amount of time with zero mental durability to begin with during midterms. trigger-anxious. will shoot your toes off your foot if caught off guard. aided in criminal operations with the brilliance of his mind in codes. would not mind dying. seasons your food. waters his crops in his balcony garden. the grey area between a super laidback dude and a crackhead with violent tendencies. nearing a mental breakdown probably. 

reintroducing minka abbott-santos; intro & info page ( tw abuse )

defeats the evil stepmom stereotype one breath at a time. the human embodiment of a deer. gothic angel. alarmingly gets black swan. type to wake up to her staring at you from an armchair across the room, but lovingly, with a book she was reading in hand and two hot cups of tea; she was waiting to start the day with you. spooky until you get to know her and even more spookier when she’s ( note: calmly ) pissed but that’s extremely rare. gentle voice, soul and everything.

reintroducing reuben faulkner; intro & info page ( tw abuse & violence  )

rekt hell prince. lived in an amish community with his family until he got kidnapped away from home when he was seven into an awful living situation. doesn’t remember if the gas leak that happened five years later and killed everyone was his doing or not. knows where his real family is after months of tracking them down but. blood kink under investigation. shady bouncer at a shady club. has issues he has no care or time to diminish. fights for the shits and giggles. leaves texts at read. leaves you alone for your own good and his own sanity. 

reintroducing alexandra turunen;  info page

wants to do everything and be everything and doesn’t know what to do with herself ( read: post-graduation identity crisis ) currently investing in a motorcycle for no reason. essentially jobless. a “retired” kathryn merteuil who “outgrew” her cunning ways since highschool but really only found new socially destructive interests. appears to be self-possessed but she’s #shaken. doesn’t care about how well she presents herself anymore after getting rejected by four universities and refusing to accept her father’s offer to pull some strings to get her in one. sleeps a lot. 

reintroducing giuseppe del vecchio;  info page ( tw death & drug use  )

goes by pepe because well. son of italian oil peeps & is extra. said to be in a cult when all he’s in is this extra ass dining club that does the most for initiation ceremonies. ready to fall in love with you. goes to the king’s college in london and studies business & changes his minor way too often for everyone’s liking. into everything and will be down to do whatever. faux deep. mischievous shit. incredibly unbiased. had his rawrk n’ roll phase that died along with someone in a club literally. still has it but he knows god now & less drugs.

reintroducing kelian scott;  info page ( tw death & drug use  )

a father/father figure who tries™. runs a mechanic shop/chop shop because bad decisions and dire needs ( had his son to send to school and his daughter who passed away due to a disease he couldn’t afford to treat even after turning his shop into a chop shop. his wife then left him ). stares into the distance. wants the best for the kids but one of them is a junkie ( he doesn’t know yet ) and the other -- his niece -- is an orphan he’s worried about. thinks ahead 24/7. needs to pull out of this dull n’ depressing daily routine he has fallen into like the basic ass divorced dad he is. 

reintroducing sal presley;  info page

smexy trace & fingerprint detective. talks. the perfect illusion to bring home to your parents and friends. gets shit done which is both a good thing and a bad thing. looks calm, collected n’ well-rested but isn’t. his actual name is salvatore but no. knows how to mix drinks and more; used to showcase his multi-talented ass to make his ( currently ex ) fiancée look good now just himself. was engaged three times; two of those times with the same person. obsessive; gets into his job a little too intensely for no reason but #justice and maybe something else whom knows. loses sleep at least two nights a week as a habit at this point. has an extended family back home he misses occasionally. wishes he could calm down truly. 

[dontyoudarestiles]

Graves

If Graves were a kinder man, he would’ve taken the boy to hospital that day he found him adrift on the seashore. He would’ve gotten Credence a proper doctor, found him a linen-pressed bed, and been done with the whole thing.

If Graves were a less selfish man, he would’ve driven the boy down to his own office himself to fill out a missing person’s form and inquiry papers. Would’ve asked his lieutenants and old colleagues from his Dublin days about missing white boys with dark eyes, darker hair, and skin like the moon.

If Graves were a better man, he would’ve gotten on the phone with Social Protection, would’ve reported a missing, potentially underage boy found nude and trembling on the beach, would’ve reported signs of abuse.

But instead, he swoops in himself and carries the boy into his home, into his life, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like he’s not purposefully making the lad dependent on him. And no, Credence has never complained, never once expressed a desire to leave, but that doesn’t mean the situation is in any shape or form okay . With a growing sense of guilt, Graves realizes more and more the many ways he’s been taking advantage. He’s imposing himself on this lovely young thing, making himself an indispensable source of comfort and shelter and love. Every kind word, every gentle caress and loving glance, is a lock clicked on the boy’s door. And Graves doesn’t even hold the keys anymore.

And even if he did, he’s come to realise that he doesn’t want the boy to leave, impossibly, selfishly. And the boy never asks, only smiles and claws out a place for himself in the vast emptiness of Graves’ life, fills up the room with brightness and silent laughter.

...

Graves goes back to work after four days. Four days of holding the sweet, lithe body close and safe, four days of chasing the boy’s lurid nightmares away, of feeling the gentle trembles calm under his patient touch, of letting the boy tuck his pale face against Percival’s throat, of spooning sweet porridge and soup into the little plush mouth.

To have to go and sit in the grey-lit station, a fat pile of paperwork lumped on his desk, and hear the grappling of petty thieves and vandals being wrestled into the holding cells is a horrid, cruel torture that sets his teeth on edge and makes him pace and snarl like a tiger in a cage.

He wants to be at home with his boy, his sweet lovely boy, tucked up nice and warm and safe within Graves’ arms. Because four days is too short a time to know someone so completely and even now Graves knows the boy was kind and gentle and sharp of mind.

He found him hiding in the bedroom once, he remembers.

Graves loves his bedroom, and so does Credence apparently. Graves can’t blame him. It’s warm and dark and just this side of small to be recognized as more cozy than cramped. There’s a large window with a soft, cushioned alcove across the room facing the bed, a little bench piled high with pillows and blankets.

Graves found Credence sat in front of the wide, bay window the third day, when he was supposed to be eating lunch. There was a frantic chirping, the loud flap of wings, and it only took Graves a few moments to realize that a little bird’s frail feet had frozen to the wrought iron frame of the window.

Graves was about to make his way forward, to do what, he doesn’t know even now, but then Credence leant in, wrapped a slim, gentle hand around the bird’s plump body, and breathed low and warm. It was such an ingenious little move that Graves stopped and stared for a moment. He watched the boy melt the ice with his hot, sweet breath, and eventually Credence pried the little feet from the metal and turned to Graves with bright, happy eyes.

Look what I did!

The bird meeped in the boy’s careful grip, and Credence turned to the window and carefully let go. There was a sharp flutter of wings, a goodbye chirrup, and the fat little body disappeared into the distance, leaving behind a fluff of feather on the windowsill and a soft smile on Credence’s lips.

Graves finds himself smiling at the memory, but blinks and Abernathy, one of his subordinates, is gaping at him like he’s seen the good lord’s face in a potato crisp.

“What exactly are you looking at, Abernathy?” Graves snaps, sharper than he’d intended, and the shrimpish man stutters out something and scampers away like a spooked mouse.

“You’re in a good mood,” Tina says over lunch a bit later. She’s skeptical, and Graves thinks irritably that she’s a better detective than Chief Inspector Picquery gives her credit for.

“What about it?” Graves mutters, the smile that had been hovering at the corners of his mouth vanishing. He’d been imagining Credence this morning, sat up on the bathroom sink, chin and jaw smeared with foaming shaving cream and giggling at the rasp of the straight-edge shaver which Graves drew ever so cautiously across his jawline. Tina’s voice was a cruel break to the memory.

“You’re never in a good mood.” Tina picks at her salad, tone factual.

“I beg your pardon,” but Graves isn’t as offended as he’d like to pretend to be. He is in a good mood. Imagining his boy waiting at home for him, fiddling around with Graves’ da’s old radio, bouncing around in his longish sleep-shirt. It makes Graves’ ribcage swell, but not painfully—warm and brimming, happy.

“Well, I’m not complaining.” Tina smirks now. “You’re less likely to go off on the secretaries when you’re getting laid.”

Graves sputters—”Is that anyway to talk to your superior, Goldstein?”—but inside he’s grinning. It’s a good day.

He’s productive despite all of the distractions, and queerly it is the thought of Credence waiting, swinging his socked feet from the kitchen bar that has Graves finishing up much more paperwork than he’d thought he’d accomplish in a day. He’s able to leave early because of it, and decides for a quick stop at one of the grocery stores, thinking about picking up more milk and eggs. But instead, he finds himself perusing a techie shop front, full to bursting of sleek television screens.

Graves has never worried much about his lack of a television. He has never put much stock in that form of entertainment, though he knows his officers adore popular dramatic programs on Friday nights and Sunday mornings, coming in on Monday chattering about who cheated on who and who was brutally murdered and such and such. But now he finds himself fretting in front of an entertainment shop when he should be grocery shopping, because Credence gets bored quite easily, bright, feline eyes going blank and dazed on some middle distance Graves can’t see.

He eventually pulls himself, and finds his way to the market. He gets what he needs and heads home, the newest TV model still sat in the shop, and he’s glad of it because when he opens the door of the house, Credence comes bounding up to him, grinning, Shakespeare’s Hamlet clutched between his fists.

The boy gestures wildly at the cover, panting, but then stops and just beams and there’s a hard, sticky lump in Graves’ throat, looking down at this sweet-eyed boy. The version he’s holding was Graves’ father’s copy, the only book the old man had ever read that was written by an Englishman.

“That was my Da’s,” he says, clearing his throat roughly, and he sees a worried expression forming on Credence’s face, darkening the smooth brow and thinning the soft lips. “Don’t worry. He would’ve liked you having it.” He would’ve liked Credence period, Graves finds himself thinking, would've liked the mystery and strange kindness of him. “I could read it aloud, if yeh’d like,” he finds himself offering for some unknown reason. He knows the boy can read and write, seen it with his own eyes, but finds he wants to do everything he can for Credence.

And it’s worth it to see the pretty, plainly joyful smile twisting those pink lips, making those dark eyes shine.

“C’mon, love. Let me put the milk away and I’ll tell you all about the Dane.”

... Queenie’s the one who tells him about the man in the bakery. Queenie’s a sweet girl, chicly curled hair and bright eyes, and she’s sharp as a knife too—one of the many reasons Jacob’s lucky to have her. So when she sees a tall, strange Nordic man showing her patrons photos of a pale-faced boy and asking after his runaway “son”, she feels a creeping suspicion curling in her gut. When Graves comes into the shop Saturday morning, searching the shelves for the lemon tarts he knows Credence likes the best, Queenie tells him all about it. “It was strange, you know,” she mutters lowly to him. “I hope it’s not true, the poor lad.” Graves' skin crawls with nerves. “What made you nervous?” he asked, tone suddenly serious and businesslike.

Queenie’s got good instincts. He remembers vividly when Siobhan O’Hare got engaged to some Dublin slicker last July. Queenie had called him a cheat, and two weeks later Siobhan’s mother had found the scrub in bed with one of the Langer girls. If Queenie thought this man was bad news, Graves was inclined to believe her. Queenie hesitates for a second. She’s the lovely type of person who doesn’t like to speak badly of people she doesn’t know, but she eventually talks, instincts winning out over courtesy. “I don’t mean to be rude or anythin’, but he was a bit weird, the man. Some sort of thick accent, tall. Well-dressed. And there was something wrong with his eyes, you know?”

“His eyes?” Graves prompted, more and more ill at ease.

“Something missing. Something—wrong. I dunno how to explain it.” Queenie fiddles with her apron, frowning at a muffin whose top is the slightest bit lopsided. “Wonder why he thinks his son would run all the way up here, middle of nowhere.” “What did the boy in the photo look like?” She shrugs. “Waifish, dark hair, pale skin.” She blinks gold-spun lashes. “He looked sad.” Spine icing up, Graves manages to calm himself enough to buy the pastries and walk home at a normal rate. He doesn’t burst out into a sprint the moment he sees the swell of his hill, but it’s a near thing. He nearly wrenches the door off its hinges, though, and Credence is startled enough to nearly fall off the living room couch. He can see the question in Credence’s face— “What’s wrong, what happened?”—but he can’t physically do anything other than crowd Credence up against the couch and just press their foreheads together. He twitches, then gives in, grabs the boy by the waist, slides his nose down Credence’s cheek to his neck, and just breathes. Graves remembers when he first found the boy washed up on the shore, cold and pale and faded. He thought the boy was a ghost, a faerie from one of the old legends, flickering on the twilight. He thought if he dared to touch him, his hand would find mist and magic. Now, he can’t think that anymore, because Credence is warm and soft and solid underneath Graves' hands and arms. The boy doesn’t tremble or whimper, only makes a soft, confused noise, a little hum in his throat that Graves can feel under his lips. He presses three quick kisses, gentle and fond, up the boy’s neck and jaw, before pulling back, cupping the boy’s cheek with a large, warm palm, can’t help himself because the boy is safe and here. Credence is flushed and confused, but pleased, smiling brightly, and Graves can’t help himself. “Sorry,” Graves whispers, and then dips in for another kiss. This time his mouth touches smooth, soft lips instead of the silk of Credence’s neck, and the boy shudders, clutching at Graves' shoulders as they trade heat and warmth, and a weight loosens in Graves' chest, unfurling into something hot and sweet and beautiful. The boy’s new at this, lips clumsy and unsure and his hands flutter in the air, hesitant to touch, but his inexperience only makes Graves growl, low and pleased in his throat. He cups the boy’s crystal-line jaw, feels the impossibly smooth skin, trails his thumbs over the arch of the jugular. There’s a quick, thrilling slide of tongue, the catch of teeth, and Graves has to pull away, panting like he's just run twelve kilometers, because if he doesn’t stop, he’ll consume . And he just wanted to hold the boy, wanted to gather the boy lovingly in his arms so the world wouldn’t be able to rip him away, and now, without planning it, he can taste the sweet on his lips, the ghost of the boy hot against his side.

“Credence,” he murmurs, and the boy looks up with limpid eyes, shy and delighted. He gives a little huff and nuzzles into Graves’ chest, arms trapped between them. He fingers Graves’ tie, pressing his swollen lips to the fabric, and Graves’ heart plays a tap dance on his third rib.

“Oh lord,” Graves murmurs, stunned. “Oh—I didn’t plan that.” He pulls away, bereft at the lack of Credence’s warmth, and his heart hurts at Credence’s soft noise of protest. “No—I—it was my fault, something happened today at the bakery.”

Credence stands there, stunned. Graves draws back, paces, rakes his hands through his hair. Credence blinks, makes a little questioning sound. What happened?

“Queenie—the baker I go to—she said a strange man had come round, asking after his son. He had a picture.” Graves can’t look at Credence, doesn’t want to see the happy light in his eyes at the news that his father’s come for him. Doesn’t want him to leave. “Is—did you run away from home, Credence?”

The boy doesn’t answer, and Graves looks up, and—

The boy’s stricken, healthy color leaching from his skin as he pales. Graves sees the tears well up silently, watches as they roll down trembling cheeks and drip off the sharp jaw and dampen the boy’s jumper, and automatically he reaches out, but the boy flinches back.

“Credence,” Graves fumbles.

Credence gets small, his shoulders hunch, and Graves wonders frantically whether the boy is going to shatter.

“Credence, please, what is it?” Graves had never wished so much that Credence could speak as he does now. He glances around frantically, finds the pad of paper and pen on the writing desk. “Please.”

The boy swallows, sniffles, but takes the paper.

Are you going to give me back?

“Back?” Graves’ mind whirls. “To—to the man?”

Credence nods, doesn’t look up.

“Remember what I said. No matter what, you’re welcome here.” Graves takes two steps forward, silently cheers when the boy doesn’t back away. He opens his arms, reaches out. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Credence. Not in my house.”

The boy lifts his chin, swipes roughly at his wet eyes, but doesn’t move yet. He scribbles something down instead.

Promise?

“Always,” Graves whispers, the tiny word in the middle of the paper cracking his heart, and the boy rushes into him, crumpling, sobbing and hiccuping loudly. “Oh, baby. Baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—Come here, let’s—” He picks the boy up by the soft thighs, lets the boy nuzzle into his neck in a parody of the loving embrace they had entwined in only ten minutes prior. He adjusts his grip, and then sits on the couch, the boy clinging to him, a trembling, warm mess on his lap, terrified. And this isn’t right, can’t be right. No teenager in their right mind should be so petrified at the idea of their father coming for them, no young person should sob and tremble and flinch at the very idea.

“Is that man your father, Credence? The one looking for you?” Graves whispers, and he feels the boy shake his head in the negative, curls tickling his chin. “Who is he?”

The boy shifts, finds his pen.

A bad man.

“What did he do?” Graves can feel a beast awakening in his chest, a feral animal dripping from the maw, teeth snapping and clawing at the ground. Fury makes his jaw stiff, but he’s careful to keep his grip on the boy’s waist firm, but careful. “What did he do to you, Credence?”

Credence looks up at him with dark eyes and doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move to reach for his pen. Graves remembers vividly the dark, splotched bruises on the boy’s hips and thighs, remembers him naked and trembling on the beach.

Graves is one of the few men in the local Garda who is certified to carry a gun, and for good reason. He doesn’t like guns, never has. Has met one too many egomaniacs with god complexes because they had a finger wrapped round a factory-made trigger. He respects the power a gun has. He has never, ever felt the urge to kill someone unthreatened and unprovoked, never had any sort of temptation to threaten or degrade.

Until now.

Now, his eyes shine red and his breath gets thick and heavy in his chest. Now, he finds himself struggling to not pin Credence to the couch and blanket his weight over the boy, protective and feral as a mother bear, the world unable to pry him away from the sliver of boy he guarded. Now, he finds his own fist curling in on themselves, teeth gritting against each other, and he can see in his mind Credence’s faceless tormentor crushed and broken from Graves’ bare hands.

The only thing that jerks him out of his bloodlust is the feeling of Credence shifting closer, slim fingers sliding up to twine at the hair at the back of his neck. He pulls back a bit, just to see the boy’s face.

“You’re so beautiful,” Graves says aloud, feels his own eyes water hotly as he cups the soft, rosy cheek. “How could anyone ever hurt you?”

The boy doesn’t answer, just dips his head, holds Graves tighter, and Graves thinks about thick, clotted blood and the spatter of gunfire.

…

Credence

He can’t go back, he refuses to go back.

When Graves comes home, feral-eyed and hungry-mouthed, swoops down and presses his lips to Credence’s, Credence thinks he might swoon. He feels lost, feels stardust swoop through his veins, leave grit of glitter to ache in his chest and swell in his fingers. He clings to the man as long as he can, but then.

Then Graves retreats and he says something about a strange man, looking for Credence. And Credence knows the witch has come back for him, will take him. And he looks at Graves, looks at his uncertain face and his beautiful eyes and his darkened brow and Credence thinks he would let himself drown in the murky depths of the sea, his own home turned against him, before he gives up this lifetime with Mr Graves.

He knows it.

…

Graves

The man is taller than Graves originally expected, thick ashy hair carefully combed away from the pointed, lupine face. He’s dressed finely, sleek dark suit with a pale silver tie, but it is his eyes that draws Graves’ stare—they are flat and dull and Graves can’t help but compare them to a slow-gliding shark circling a stranded swimmer. Patient and watchful one moment, murderous and terrifying the next.

The man smiles. He has a cruel mouth. The lips look thin and soft, but the eyeteeth are wolfish, long and needle-sharp. “Yes, how may I help you?” His voice is thick and heavy, the Baltic salting the slanted vowels and clicking consonants, and Graves knows this is the man that Queenie spoke of. The bad man.

Graves takes out his badge, allows the man a look at his identification. “Inspector Percival Graves, district Garda.”

The man blinks down at the badge and says, “Ah.” He reaches out for a handshake. “Gellert, Gellert Grindelwald. May I ask why the sudden visit?”

Graves smiles tightly, keeps his grip light and unthreatening. A heavy, cold ring digs into his palm. “A few concerned folk downtown have let me know you’ve a missing son.” The lie leaves his mouth smooth as butter. “Wanted to ask if yeh wished to file an official report with the authorities.”

The eyes go flinty and sharp, and then the predator subsides. The hairs on the back of Graves’ neck stand. “It’s nothing.” The man’s dismissive, and he has some charm, Graves can see that. But it is an empty charm, empty words and empty eyes. “Just a bit of family business, I wouldn’t want to trouble any of your fine officers.” Another depthless smile.

“With all due respect, sir, if a child is in danger, it’s the Garda’s responsibility to put out a missing minor’s report,” Graves says, affecting sternness.

“Ah, yes, no it is nothing like that.” Grindelwald waves him off. “I would offer an invitation in, but I was in the middle of something just before you came. Perhaps we could have this conversation at a later date?”

Graves looks at him and his expression must’ve been extremely skeptical, because the man laughs deeply and says, “No, no, of course. You take safety very seriously here in Ireland, yes. I understand.”

He opens his room’s door, and Percival is ushered into a dim-lit sleeping/sitting area, a rumpled bed shoved in the corner, a couch shoved in its opposite. Nothing sinister or out of place, a dirtied coffee mug set out on a coaster, a wrinkled shirt hung on a hanger on the curtain rung. A pile of musty, old-spined tomes draws Graves’ eye, but he can’t make out the titles on the back, even though they glint brightly and embossed. Some sort of Cyrillic alphabet, entirely foreign to him.

Grindelwald clears a small chair and a desk off for Graves, but Graves declines to sit. “I won’t stay for long, won’t want to inconvenience yeh.”

Grindelwald smiles humorlessly. “Of course, of course.”

“If there’s any light yeh could share on the situation, maybe?” Graves prompts after a tense, awkward silence.

Grindelwald draws a quick, sharp breath, dusts off the tops of his pants. “Yes, yes. Hmm. Where to begin.” He taps his mouth with his middle finger, a habit it looks like. “To clear some things up, no, my son isn’t a minor.”

(Inside, Graves lets out a long, relieved sigh he does not want to address).

Grindelwald continues, oblivious, “He’s not missing. He’s left, after a very heated argument. Our opinions differ greatly on some things, you see, and it’s created a large rift between us.” Grindelwald moves to the kitchenette, trailing long fingers over the miniscule counter. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, meets Graves’ gaze head on. “I am here looking for him, yes, but my son is an adult. I have no legal holding over him. I cannot force him to come home with me. But I wish to talk sense with him. To apologize, and get on with our lives.” He licks his lips, a small wet flicker, perches on a stool. “I’ve heard rumors among his friends that he’s found refuge in a little Irish town named Perth. And so here I am. Still searching.”

Graves blinks. “And you’re sure there’s nothing you want to be done in search of your son?”

Grindelwald dips his head politely. “Ah, no thank you. It is a kind offer, but a misplaced one. He will come to me when he is ready to make amends.”

Graves moves his lips in the small image of a smile. “Ah, alright. Just lettin’ you know, Perth’s a small town. Size of a shoebox, nearly. If your son was hiding here somewhere, people would know, trust me. Strangers aren’t common, not in Perth.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Grindelwald nods. “But I’m sure he’s here. I can feel it.”

“Just one more thing, Mr Grindelwald, before I leave,” Graves says, adjusting the lapels of his coat, careful to not look the man in the eye. “Do you have a current picture? Of the boy?”

Grindelwald smiles, reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a small, battered leather wallet and flips it open. Graves cranes his neck, takes a quick peek—no credit cards, strangely, or pictures of family that he can see, just a glossy Polaroid slightly bent at the edges.

“Here,” the man reaches out, and Graves grasps it, brings it close to his eyes to see.

A pale, wane Credence, but the same age. Sunken cheeks and puffy mouth, lovely, knobby knees bared in cut-off shorts, slim arms vulnerable and bared in a black tank. He’s sitting on some sort of porch-step, and it would’ve looked like any other suburban teenager lounging in a friendly neighborhood had Graves not seen the eyes. The boy looks terrified, eyes blown and wild, mouth open the slightest bit as if he were about to yell. And there is a kind of vagueness to the whole scene, the background too cloudy, the clothes the boy’s wearing too sharp, as if the photo had been modified somehow, tampered with.

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll recognize him now,” Graves says faintly instead of any of these things, already slipping out the door. He barely manages to hand the photo back, barely manages to return Grindelwald’s unnerving smile. “I’ll—I’ll notify you if I hear anything.”

A few more smiles and thank yous and have a good days, and Graves begins to wander his way down the drive.

“Oh, before you go, officer,” Grindelwald stands in the doorway, watching as Graves stumbles his way to his patrol car. “My son’s name—it’s Credence. Credence Grindelwald.” Graves sits for a good few minutes in a grocery shop parking lot after that, an accented voice rattling in his head, I can feel it.