Wizarding World One Shots (Discontinued)

credence barebone x Percival graves/grindelwald

Mr. Graves wakes him up with a kiss. Wet lips, a slide of tongue, a hint of teeth. Down there, it feels so intense -- much more intense than a kiss to his mouth. Credence bites into the pillow in front of him -- a failed attempt to mask the desperate sounds he makes. Mr. Graves' big hands envelope his buttocks, thumbs parting his cheeks. The man must be really into it, burying his face in that place between Credence's legs. That insistent tongue seeks entry, prodding and prodding until Credence feels it tickling him inside. He hides against the sheets, makes his hips stop rutting. He's sore, but the intrusion feels so good.

And then the tongue is gone. Mr. Graves crawls up and drapes himself over Credence's back, kisses the boy's shoulders and the back of his neck, a thick arm winding its way around a willowy chest.

"You awake, baby?"

That husky voice, that deep rumble Credence almost feels traversing his spine -- they don't do much help to ease his breathing.

Mr. Graves drags the pillow from under the boy and tosses it to the side. Credence must have made a pathetic noise because it makes the man chuckle, a small quake against his back.

"Quiet, aren't we? Won't I get a 'good morning'?"

Credence can feel his face grow hot. This man, teasing him with his words and with his -- his cock. That warm member currently sliding up and down his cleft, pausing every once in a while to nudge against his entrance.

Credence remembers last night when he was nearly split in two. That cock twitching and throbbing deep inside him, stretching his rim thin, filling his belly until it bulged like a small balloon.

A callused hand caresses its way to his stomach.

"Can you feel that, baby?" And, as if reading his mind, "I reckon there's still a lot of my seed in there."

The man presses down on a spot that makes Credence gasp. He hears a squelch, feels a trickle of something leak out of his hole.

"Boy... you make me feel crazy, you know that?"

Credence freezes.

This thing, they've talked about this. Many times since that first night, they've talked about this. Mr. Graves is always contrite in the aftermath, and he has been reasonable. The man himself scoured the back alleys of New York to get what he needs to "kill" this unknown thing that sometimes takes over his body, his face. It was a dark day when they realized they could only put it to sleep, not kill it. But still, things are better than it was before.

"Mr. Graves?"

The man gives no response. He mouths against Credence's nape, that wandering hand dipping lower and that hard cock pressing and pressing in.

Credence squirms under him, a sense of urgency making itself known.

"Mr. Graves! Your medicine, please..."

The man stills, and Credence holds his breath. It's a delicate point -- sometimes things go well and Mr. Graves responds, does the right thing. Sometimes... sometimes...

Good thing Credence's childhood has inured him to this somewhat.

He doesn't move as the seconds seem to tick by.

A soft sigh. "I'm sorry, baby."

Mr. Graves peels himself off the boy and trudges to the nightstand. The medicine is kept there, an innocuous-looking bottle. He has to take a dose daily but sometimes he forgets.

Credence rolls to his back. It's almost midday, he thinks, bright sunlight peeking from between the curtains. It's a rare day off for Mr. Graves to stay late in bed. They could go to the museum later, probably. Maybe the park, if the weather stays nice.

The bed dips as Mr. Graves lies down beside him, head propped up with a hand. He looks at Credence with a sad smile, a crinkle between his eyebrows. He brings his other hand to the boy's face, a soft touch to his cheek, his lips. It glides down to his chest, where a heart beats. A thumb catches on a nipple but it doesn't stay there long. The man follows the path of his hand with his eyes, that still sad smile almost breaking Credence's heart.

Credence catches the hand with his own and holds it to his heart.

"It's OK. We're OK."

He brings Mr. Graves' hand to his mouth and laves his fingers with spit.

"Credence, you know I'll never hurt you."

He nods and brings that wet hand to his hole.

This time, Mr. Graves takes care to prepare him. They make love a-plenty, but Credence's body is like a shy flower that the man has to coax in order to bloom.

Fingers slide out of him as Mr. Graves shifts, kisses his eyelids, his nose, his chin, his ear, his lips. Credence wraps his arms around the man's neck, tilts his head back and takes these little kisses. He shows his trust with his body. Mr. Graves will never hurt him... unless he asks.

This cock. The first time Credence had it inside him, it hurt. But now it feels like love, like safety. Mr. Graves pushes in gently, and the boy feels the entire length of him as it claims him, purges that memory of hurt and that foreign thing that took on Mr. Graves' face.

They hardly blink now, like this. Their eyes lock on each other through every thrust, every shift in angle, every whispered endearment, every gasp and moan. If there's something Credence can thank that thing for, it's this -- pushing him and Mr. Graves to this intimacy.

"Mr. Graves, p- please!"

Mr. Graves grunts as he comes. Credence feels the wet warmth inside him like a blessing as he spends between their bodies.

"Baby... you're mine, right?" the man whispers to his ear as their breaths slow down.

The thought makes Credence whimper. "Yes, please, I'm yours."

"Good."

The man places a kiss on Credence's temple and pulls out slowly, his cock wet and limp-heavy. The boy winces as a gush of hot seed trickles out of him.

"I'm going to make us breakfast. You stay right here." The wink that follows make Credence blush as he nods.

He lies there as he catalogues his body. A couple of bite marks, hand-shaped bruises on his hips, a stretched muscle here and there, slight rashes around his neck, his mouth and his hole where Mr. Graves' beard loves to scratch him so.

Credence's eyes stray to the nightstand. He hopes and prays -- as much as he still believes in the god he knows from his childhood -- that the medicine will always work. If not for his sake, then for Mr. Graves, who always looks so burdened with guilt and self-blame when he sees Credence the morning after littered with marks more sinister than what he has now. Marked and discarded, debauched and covered in seed, spit and whatever else.

Credence heaves himself up from bed. He frets in the quiet of the room as he makes himself clench so as not to spill anything onto the floor.