Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9190334.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fantastic_Beasts_and_Where_to_Find_Them_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Credence_Barebone/Percival_Graves_|_Gellert_Grindelwald
  Character:
      Mary_Lou_Barebone, Credence_Barebone, Percival_Graves_|_Gellert
      Grindelwald
  Additional Tags:
      Religious_Guilt, Verbal_Humiliation, Verbal_Abuse, Credences_kink_is
      kinkshaming, Kink_Shaming, Christianity, Religion, Masturbation, Cock
      Slapping, Submission
  Collections:
      Fantastic_Beasts_Kink_Meme_Collection_(Non-Anon)
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-04 Words: 2767
****** My Whole Existence is Flawed ******
by Fidelius
Summary
     He knows that his actions cause God to look away from him.
     He knows. But he can't stop.
     (Inspired by this prompt over on the fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.)
Notes
     This fic was inspired by the fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.
     The title is from the song Closer_-_Nine_Inch_Nails.
     Big thanks to my betas WritersAreLiars and MoMoMomma.
See the end of the work for more notes
                                     One:

The first time he’d been young. Barely out of short pants, and still…. It had
happened. He’d woken up in his thin bed, his similarly thin body tight with
longing he couldn’t quite grasp, to find… his privates. Rigid and swollen. He’d
been worried something was wrong. Worried that the witches Mother spoke of had
finally gotten him. That they’d cursed him.
Determined to take the issue to Mother, because she would know what to do, he’d
climbed out of his bed and walked—and oh! But it was hard to walk like that—to
her room. His nightshirt tented out in front of him and his privates, so hard
now that it was starting to ache, almost led the way.
He’d knocked on her door and waited. The wall clock made it clear that he was
interrupting her prayer time. Credence counted the ticks of the clock as he
waited. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each tick was another second that the torturous curse
ran through his body, centering on his privates. The fabric of his nightshirt
was rough against him as he shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Mother to
finish her prayers and see to his distress.
The shift of fabric against him was agonizing and yet, somehow, it left
flutters of something good in his belly. His nightshirt was damp were his
thickness brushed against it. He could feel that same dampness at this tip, in
that very same place he peed from, and Credence couldn’t help but wonder if the
damp was urine.
He didn’t think about the ticking of the clock in the hall or notice that the
quiet murmur of Mother’s prayers had ended. All he noticed was the dampness
there at the tip of his alarmingly swollen and fevered privates, and as he
noticed it, the throbbing that centered there seemed to kick up a notch.
Credence couldn’t help himself. He had to touch it. Had to see if the wetness
on the fabric of his nightshirt was perhaps a sign of his curse lessening.
Lifting the front of his nightshirt, Credence exposed himself, hard and
trembling, to the cool air of the hallway just as Mother opened her bedroom
door to see who had knocked and for what reason.
She’s gasped, her face filled with a cold anger that Credence would come to
know well over the years, and struck him. Not on the face or on his hands like
she was want to do when he was wicked. No. She struck him there.
Her words drowned out his cries of ‘no’ and ‘the curse’ and ‘Mother, please’.
Filthy child.
Disgusting pervert.
You’re no child of mine.
She struck him, her cold hand nearly searing his rigid flesh.
The feeling of her hand on him, brutal as the words she screamed at him,
lingered in him for years.


                                     Two:

He learned, not long after that moment in the hallway outside Mother’s room,
that he wasn’t cursed. At least, not by witches. If anyone or anything had
cursed him, it was God. Cruel and harsh, not unlike Mother, God had cursed him
and every other man and boy on the planet with that same stiffness that had
caused Credence to wake in a panic that morning.
He knew better now. He’d learned. From Blue movies shown in seedy areas of the
city - not that he’d seen any. He just knew of them from the hawkers that
called him pretty… and from the other Second Salem boys.
He wasn’t cursed. It was biology. His body, wrong and perverse as it was, was
readying him to help create life.
As if an abomination like him could create life. He knew what Mother would say
if she could hear his thoughts. She’d call him a devil. She’d tell him he was a
blasphemer.
Laying there in bed in that state ofperversion, contemplating creating life.
Credence felt himself get thicker there. In his private area. He knew what to
do now to make it go down. He’d overheard the other older boys talk about it.
He knew that to make the stiffness go away he had to touch it. He didn’t like
to put his hands on himself when he was like that, though. Because it was
filthy. Because once, just once, he’d been touched there and it had hurt and
felt…
Credence pressed his face into his pillow and whimpered, his hips dragging
along the rough fabric of his nightshirt.
It felt good. He liked how his penis felt when it was trapped beneath him. How
it felt as it slid, damp at the tip, back and forth against the fabric. It
hurt, but it also felt amazing. And he couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of
it.
Of course, you can’t, you disgusting boy.
Mother wasn’t in the room with him, but he heard her all the same. She was
there in his head. With him always. Mother was in his head and saw all of his
perversions. She witnessed all of his filthy thoughts and desires, whether he
wanted her to or not.
Look at you, rutting against your bed. You’re disgusting, Credence. Nothing
more than a filthy animal. No better than that whore of Satan who spawned you.
Credence moved his hips faster, his privates thick and hot between his hips and
the bed. He pressed himself down harder into the mattress, Mother’s words in
his mind as waves of pleasure erupted from his middle.
Perverted boy.


                                    Three:

It was dark and chilly but he wasn’t allowed back inside until he’s done his
duty. He had six more pamphlets to hand out before he could go in for his
supper. He knew the rules would be enforced. The scars on his hands an ever
present testament to that.
“Pardon me, do you have a moment to talk about the New Salem Philanthropic
Society, Sir?”
The man sneered as he looked at Credence. Lips curled up as though Credence was
something unseemly, ruining what most would call a handsome face.
“Disgusting urchin. Where are your parents? Does filth like you even have
parents?”
The questions were asked even as he marched away from Credence and his
outstretched pamphlet. His words, though, struck true.
Credence felt himself thickening in his trousers. He felt that hot stirring in
his belly that always meant his stiffness would be coming on soon. Dropping the
pamphlets, he turned and walked to the alleyway he typically used to drain his
bladder.
He’s correct, Credence. You are filth.
He couldn’t get his hands into his trousers fast enough. Credence knew he
needed friction. He needed something to make this problem go away.
You’re going to abuse yourself here, in the street, in front of God and
everyone, Credence. You’re disgusting.
He could hear her, but she wasn’t alone. The man was there too. His handsome
face sneering as Credence gripped himself through his underthings.
Disgusting wretch. You’re an abomination.


                                     Four:

The man... Mister Graves. He’d said to call him Mister Graves. Mister Graves
was… he was.
Beautiful.
Handsome in a way that Credence knew he wasn’t supposed to notice. If using
magic made one an abomination, what could lusting after a man do? Credence
wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. He was more than certain that he didn’t want
to want Mister Graves like he did. Not when it was so wrong. More than wrong.
It was deviant. Disgusting. An affront to all that was good and pure.
Mother had made that clear to them all when she’d seen two of the children
holding hands. Two boys, barely older than he’d been when the stiffness had
first come. Some things were so wrong that even God couldn’t look upon you any
longer.
Magic.
Deviance.
Self-abuse.
Credence was all the things that God couldn’t stand. Wouldn’t look on with
favor.
God will punish you, Credence. He will punish you for your deviance. He will
destroy you because you are an abomination. You are an affront to Him.
The scars on his hands weren’t as rough as he’d like. They’ were raised, but
smooth. They felt wonderful as they slid along the hot, slick flesh of his
privates. Credence wanted the scars to make him throb and ache, same as his
sheets and his nightshirt did. He wanted them to bring him the smallest measure
of pain, because when it hurt he knew that his self-abuse really caught God’s
attention. Really did separate him from the likes of Mother and Mister Graves.
How dare you think of me while you do that? How dare you think of meat allyou
pathetic deviant. Look at him.
Credence thinks, just for a moment, that Mother is truly there in the room and
not just in his head. But then he hears something else. Something deeper.
Something that makes his hand move faster down where his hand shouldn’t have
been in the first place.
I see him, Mary Lou. He’s a filthy degenerate. Nothing more than a disgusting
pervert. I’d call him an abomination but I don’t think that even they’d want to
have anything to do with a deviant pervert like your son.
His pleasure began to peak at the sound of Mister Graves’ voice in his mind.
Calling him what he is.
Degenerate. Pervert. Deviant.
It’s Mother’s final words, though, along with his jagged thumbnail scraping at
that place where he was so very wet, that pushed him over.
He’s not my son.


                                     Five:

With each passing day, he became more of a deviant. More of a disappointment to
Mother and God.
The hawkers had been out, their faces hidden in shadow as they bid him closer,
beckoning him towards the back rooms where Blue movies were shown to anyone
with a few pennies to spare. Credence had money now. Mister Graves had given it
to him. Mister Graves had given him many things. Money. Trust. Patience. Hope.
And in a few seconds, Credence had traded nearly all of it for the chance to
see… deviance.
He knew now, though, what more he’d been wanting. What more he could do and
think of, there in his slim bed, when the lights were out and Mother and his
sisters were sound asleep. When no one but God could see him.
His nightshirt discarded, left on the floor like so much trash, Credence
pressed his face into his pillow and slipped his fingers into the furrow
between his cheeks. His fingers were slick with some grease he’d stolen from
the kitchen.
Look at you, Credence. Your self-abuse has led you down a dark path. Deviance.
Stealing. You’re a disgusting pervert. God has turned His eyes from you.
Credence’s breath hitched as he slid one slick fingertip against his most
private, his most filthy, place. He wanted someone to see him, and that person
wasn’t God.
Oh, I see you, Credence. I see your filth. I’ve seen it since I first laid eyes
on you. You’re wrong. Unholy. You’re sick with deviance and sin. You reek of
it.
His hands worked in tandem as Mother and Mister Graves took turns speaking.
Their cruel words a litany of delicious pain. He was desperate, his secret
place and his penis slick and needy. He needed Mister Graves here, in his room,
witnessing his deviance. How could he press through his own darkness and come
out on the other side, into the light of God’s love, if Mister Graves didn’t
accept the confession of everything about him that was sick, wrong, and unholy?
It doesn’t matter what you do, Credence. You’re a disgusting abomination. A
deviant. A perverse thing that no one could love. Not even God.
He only had the one finger inside as he sobbed into his pillow, his privates
gushing into his other hand as Mother and Mister Graves told him over and over
again how much of an affront he was.


                                 And One More:

The mirror on the wall is large. So large, in fact, that Percival uses it to
check himself before he leaves the apartment.
“Look at yourself.”
He doesn’t want to, but how can he not? He’s been given a direct command.
Percival doesn’t abuse him, not like Mother used to, but he’s still in charge.
Still the one who controls Credence’s life.
His reply, mumbled as it is, comes as he opens his eyes to focus on the view in
front of him, “Yes, Mister Graves.”
He’s naked. His flesh on display for God and everyone. Hands, still scared yet
smooth, hang open beside his thighs. His penis hard and thic-.
“Touch your cock, Credence.”
He’s not supposed to call it anything but that: his cock. He’s not a child and
"penis” and “privates” are clinical and juvenile according to Mister Graves.
“Yes, Mister Graves.”
Learning to take himself in hand in front of someone had been difficult. Self-
abuse is something secret and shameful. Mother hadn’t had to tell him that
much. He’d learned it without being told. Self-abuse isn’t something one rolled
out for company. Company deserves the best of what one has to offer, at least
according to Mother.
But Mother isn’t there because Credence had killed her. It doesn’t matter what
she thought or said. She’s so far gone that she isn’t even in his head anymore.
Neither is Mister Graves for that matter. Mister Graves who has saved him,
stepping out of his head and into his life.
“You like touching your cock, don’t you, Credence?”
He knows what Mister Graves wants. Not just an affirmative. No. He wants
Credence to say it.
“I love touching my cock, Mister Graves.”
Mister Graves stands just out of sight of the mirror’s reflective surface.
That’s how they like it. Credence in front of the mirror, doing as he is bid,
while Mister Graves watches and speaks to him as he had so many times before,
back when it was only in his head.
Only now Mister Graves’ voice fills the room just as it fills Credence’s mind
and heart.
“Of course you do, you’re nothing more than a perverted deviant. Your entire
life is controlled by the whims of your cock. Look at you. Standing there,
naked and aching. God can’t see you like this, Credence. Your life is an
affront to him. You were born an abomination and you live on as perverse
filth.”
He knows it’s coming. Knows that the pain, that pain that had mingled with his
first pleasure so long ago at Mother’s hand, is coming. There’s no sound in the
few seconds before it happens, only the ticking of the clock on the nightstand.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And then pain. Delicious, horrible pain as Mister Graves deigns to touch him,
slapping him there. On his cock. His privates. His penis.
Over and over again the slaps rain down. Those thick fingers that so often
soothe him bring pain so stark it makes Credence see spots.
“You deserve this,” Mister Graves’ voice is there, in his ear. Soft as his hand
is harsh. “You’re a disgusting affront. A pervert. A murderer. God will never
look on you again, Credence, because you have been cast out. Your sin is so
great that you will never know forgiveness. Not from God. Not from anyone.”
Mister Graves grips him then. His palm dry against the abused flesh of
Credence’s cock.
“Abomination. Filth. Deviant. You are so many disgusting things, Credence. So
many filthy things. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mister Graves,” Credence gasps, his abused cock dripping as pleasure
swells in his belly.
“Tell me what you are.”
“Abomination.”
He is close.
“What else?” Mister Graves’ hand moves quicker still, and Credence has no
choice but to watch himself in the mirror even as he fights to keep himself
upright under the onslaught of delicious torture.
“Deviant. Murderer. Affront to God.”
Mister Graves squeezes him just then, his nails digging into the shaft of
Credence’s cock, “What else?”
Thick, white ropes of release hit the mirror in front of him, painting his
deviance on its surface for God and everyone to see.
“Yours.”
Soft lips touch his cheek as the hand on his cock gentles, “That’s right,
Credence. You’re mine. Forever.”
Mister Graves disappears and Percival, the man who loves him more than the sum
of all the wrongness inside, is there. Soft and sweet as Mister Graves is
cruel.
In that moment, just like so many others since he’d silenced Mother, he knows
that he’ll be fine. God never has to look upon him because Percival Graves is
there and he’ll never stop.
End Notes
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