[ credence clicks his tongue lightly when graves doesn't return the affection verbally but it's all right for now - he's letting his actions speak for him as usual, and in this instance it isn't misplaced at all.

still, he smiles at what his older lever does say. ] I'm no saint or god. You're worshiping at the altar of nothing more than a man. Does that suit you, Percival Graves? [ it's not a question because he knows it does: that every inch of graves is suited to worship him personally just as much as he's suited to do the complimentary worship of graves himself.

credence shifts how he stands, legs spreading just slightly where he has his feet planted so that he can watch him with lidded eyes and parted lips. he stretches out his neck too, breathing out a sigh that's clearly a quiet moan. ]

And I love it, holding that much power. Over myself, over what happens to me, over who gets to touch me, to love me.