not that he thinks of it that way, like–ugh– a kink. no. just a sweet sort of fondness that flows up in him, warm and golden, at the thought of credence fed. a compulsion of the father in him that never was, he thinks. Credence, the son he never had.
But then things start to get decidedly unfatherly quick; he’s gotten into the habit of giving just a little extra to Credence, spooning him bigger helpings of porridge or chutney or soup, tucking more pieces of bread beside his dinner plate than beneath his own, treating him to rich, sweet trifles more often than can be excused. Credence struggles to keep up– but then comes the praise.
The food is rich, tough on a stomach so thoroughly used to scarcity (lean gruel, meat on good days) and, early on, there arrives an awkward disconnect between how much food Graves lays out for Credence and how much he can actually eat. Meals start ending in shuttered silence, then tears, as Credence pushes away his plate and thickly apologizes because I’m sorry, sir, it’s too much– I can’t–
Once, he didn’t even have time for words, already too busy rushing to the bathroom, having eaten himself sick.
Graves starts rewarding every mouthful. Just the father in him, he assures himself as he coos at Credence for every bite taken past his limit. each thumbful of messy sauce tucked back into Credence’s mouth by Grave’s hand, reached across their plentiful table. It’s easy for things to migrate quickly to feeding– Graves doesn’t want to think about how his groin and stomach heat pleasurably at the thought of knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that all the sustenance in Credence’s body comes from him, his hand– and stomach rubbing; his boy is so good, and there’s always a way to coax in another mouthful, especially when he’s perched on Grave’s lap, praised for each bite delivered to his mouth, gently massaged through the cramping pain.
Soon, when he reaches for that pale expanse of skin, Graves starts to feel a little extra there, too. Credence arcs from rail-thin through average and straight to– chubby. There’s no other word for this. His hair has grown out by now, curling soft and dark as midnight at the nape of his neck, and Graves can’t help but reel in wonderment at his boy, this thing grown deliciously soft around the edges, cherubic-looking, peached and plump. A young man that mewls to suck on the fingers that feed him during the short hours between meals, never quite sated, and a far cry from the haunted skeleton in too-short pants he once was.
((It’s no wonder feeding Credence in a different way becomes so easy, so logical. One night after dinner, Credence whines that he’s still hungry, that he needs for more, and before Graves can think, he’s pushing Credence off his lap and unzipping his fly– Selfless parental compulsion Grave’s rationalizes, spent once, again, on Credence’s tongue, fed to that greedy stomach in every way possible. A few inches further than that, even.
(1820; a quiet, closed-off boulevard behind the industrial district in Dunwall.)
A series of bangs and
cracks filled the air, echoing off the cobbled street and darkened windows. With three flashes of intense, blinding blue light and the sound of the Void
tearing open, a rail car emerged from thin air, coursing down the rails lining
the street, dusted in frost and setting the rails alight in its wake.
Its like had not been
seen in Dunwall before: warm, amber-coloured wooden panels concealed blue whale
oil tanks; it was finished not with dark industrial Gristolean steel but
instead brightly polished copper favoured in Serkonos; and was covered in
enough circuitry and tubing to make a dozen arc pylons.
The anachronistic rail
car rolled to a stop and a bearded man in an orange vest-and-hood outfit jumped out.
(His clothes were very much out of place.)
A beggars peered fearfully at this apparition. “It runs on whale
oil!” exclaimed the man happily, to no-one in particular.
Corvo turned to the
other passengers in the rail car. “Do you want to come along for this one? he
Emily smiled and shook
her head. “I’m good right here.” She indicated the sleeping form on her lap.
Corvo strolled over to
a building and around a corner, then climbed into a water tank and then to a
rooftop. He looked around to make sure he hadn’t been followed, then Blinked
across an alley, down two flights of stairs, and onto another rooftop. Finally
he stopped outside a closed and shuttered bakery. He knocked on the door
politely. “Delilah Kaldwin?”
A dark-haired young woman
peered out of a floury window, then opened a delivery hatch and poked her pointy
nose into the street. “Er, nope. No Kaldwins here. My name’s Copperspoon, sir.”
“Oh, my mistake. Well,
thanks anyway!” Corvo replied. He was halfway back to the car when he stopped
mid-stride, clapped a massive hand to his forehead, and exclaimed “of COURSE
she would say that!” He hurried back to the bakery, calling on Dark Vision as he did so, but it was clearly empty but for a few friendly rats, a side door left swinging open to the street. Peering inside, floury foorpints and emptied
strongboxes suggested a hasty getaway. Corvo sighed, shook his head in
disbelief and trudged back to the car.
“Did you manage to
catch her?” asked Emily.
“No. No, Emily, I
didn’t. I think you were right. I was going
to offer Delilah a scholarship to the Tyvian Academy of Philosophy, get her out
of the way. Perhaps our presence here is what causes her to leave Dunwall in the first place. – But I think the timeline can’t be changed, not in such a huge,
“Oh, I don’t know
father. We managed to save Alexi.” Emily patted the captain on the head for
“Yes. Yes I suppose
you’re right. Might there still be hope for Jessamine, then? I mean, you know the Tower
grounds as well as me. There are no rails laid within a hundred yards of that
wretched gazebo and we need to be in and out as fast as possible to avoid being
detected and do as little damage as possible to the timeline.”
“Well that’s the thing, father, I forgot to tell you in the excitement of picking up Alexi,” Emily produced a thick sheaf of blueprints from her coat and waved
them. “I have more upgrades for this time machine.”
“So what you’re saying
is, this machine will be able to lay rails as fast as it travels?”
“Rails? Oh by no means, father. No. Where we’re
going, we don’t need-“ she equipped a pair of sunglasses “rails.”
Wait RWBY is being infested by SJW? When did that happen and am I going to have to distance myself from the show now?
As early as the whole dance arc thing.
People were railing into Jaune because HOW DARE HE KEEP TRYING TO ASK THIS GIRL OUT WHEN HE’S NEVER ABLE TO PROVE THAT HE LIKES HER FOR MORE THAN HER MONEY.
No really, why is Jaune constantly getting the shaft and nobody mentioning the fact that Weiss just automatially assumes he’s a gold digger instead of actually bothering to communicate?
Why is everyone treating him like he’s making a damn shrine out of her used panties like a stalker when both of them deserve blame?
And then they made some dumbass claim about him being a hypocrite with his discussion with Neptune that they were “treating Weiss like a prize” because Neptune said “She’s all yours.”
When anyone with AN ACTUAL WORKING BRAINSTEM knows he meant “I’ve lost my nerve and you seem to be romantically interested in this girl, so I don’t wish to interfere.”
And they made some stupid claim Jaune was being a “hypocrite” over something in his conversation with Neptune. I don’t remember what their idiotic reasoning for it was, but the actual answer is that he was telling Neptune that because he was learning from his own mistakes.
And they threw a fit over it since Jaune and Neptune were voiced by the writers of the show for some reason I don’t remember.
Basically they just love to treat Jaune like dirt over the absolute stupidest reasons.
But the DUMBEST reasoning of all is when they claim he’s “rewarded for his mistakes” or “never has to suffer.”
Tell me, is the constant guilt and fear of losing his team’s trust over lying his way into combat school a “reward?”
Was Cardin using that to blackmail him a “reward?”
Was getting his ass briefly beat by an Ursa a “reward?”
Was the realization of his poor treatment of Pyrrha a “reward?”
Was the mockery he got over the dress and keeping his promise a “reward?”
Oh and I’m sure once his family shows up and asks “where the hell have you been and why do you have the family sword?”, he’ll get PLENTY “rewarded” then.
And why the fuck should characters always have to have like, life-injury level “suffering” anyway?
Especially when they’ve really done nothing to deserve that.
And of course there’s the imbeciles who missed the whole point of the White Fang and think they have every right to steal, murder and blow shit up because of oppression.
They honestly think that will have the faunus be more accepted, and they say it won’t backfire horribly at all.
Did you guys somehow miss the fact that Blake abandoned them because of that attitude?
Do you not remembere Tukson got MURDERED because he abandoned them?
Do you not remember that they fucked up so much stuff for Weiss’s family and killed so many people they knew that her Dad went nuts and took it all out on her, and IT’S A MIRACLE SHE WASN’T EVEN MORE RACIST BECAUSE OF THAT?
Hatred does nothing except breed more hatred, and I REALLY hope they hammer that in volume 3 because it’s a lesson all of you sorely need to hear.
Beyond that it’s the usual SJW shit like
>harassing cosplayers for dressing up as characters who don’t match their skin tone,
>throwing a fit over artists drawing characters “Wrong”,
>attaching stupid, fetishizing, and 99.9% unlikely headcanons to characters, treating them as fact, and then calling you a bigot when you don’t agree
>constant cries of “queerbaiting” aka “how dare the writers not make my ship canon”
And shit like that.
Basically every big name fan except Kuma, Matthemammothrider, and the pure cinnamon roll that is dashingicecream believes this shit and doesn’t like being told they’re horrifically wrong.