fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme | Prompt Post #2

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Prompt Post #2

ROUND 2

Seeing as we've reached 4,000 comments in Round 1, it's time to make a new one. Same (lack of) rules apply. Gentle reminder to everyone to refrain from posting extremely long prompts, though. While no word limit will be imposed, take note that it is very unlikely for someone to fulfill your prompt if your prompt alone is already several paragraphs long and containing a number of specifications.

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[abuse cw] Credence has suffered through years and years of Mary Lou beating him with his belt, obviously very unpleasant to him. So then why, when Mr Graves spanks him with his hand, does it feel kind of... good? Credence is confused by this, if not angsty and conflicted (well if I enjoy this then maybe I deserved being beaten, etc.) Maybe Graves notices and helps Credence to talk through his feelings? Wherever you want to take it, as long as Credence discovers he enjoys consensual spankings and struggles to understand himself.

Some people fitted their own bodies like a glove; some like a straightjacket. Credence knew to whose group he belonged.

Or thought he did, until he came to live with Mr Graves, who had filed a request for his integration to the magical world just before he was taken, and whose first measure after he was released was to renew it. Credence, still swirled and sickened by the dark vortex within himself, could only stand by and watch as Mr Graves fought for him - fought, he thought, like one of the black-and-white heroes in the film magazine he had once found in the street, half in a puddle, and brought home in his pile of pamphlets, to his later cost. They were tall and close-shaven, with their chin regal and their hair slicked back, and dark eyebrows that spelled fierce but fair, and Mr Graves was all that. He fought like an eagle ("like a Fireball," Mr Scamander's edition), and Credence gave him his entire trust again.

Even after they learnt to live under one roof, and he found that Mr Graves could simile too; could, once in a while, cook in his shirtsleeves and magic jazz music that wasn't sin here, his first vision stayed an imprint. There was the crimefighter and there was the nurturer, and they somehow slipped into one another, making one, whom Credence loved, but never canceling each other.

Perhaps like God and Jesus made one, too, although he hoped God would forgive him for turning Him into a Graves textbook.

Their first kiss struck a light to the heart of that paradox. He heard the authoritarian in Mr Graves's rough-spoken "Of course I want this", and the strong circle of his arms; but it was the carer who kissed back, who enflamed sensation in Credence's mouth with his and later coaxed Credence's tongue - your unruly member, Ma used to say - out of hiding and into sweet, intoxicating play.

They went slowly about the dangerous business of pleasure. Mr Graves wouldn't have it any other way, even though he was a widower, learnt in the turns and twists of the flesh - not all of them, he laughed, but some, yes - and walked Credence through them. Just as, in daylight, he would take Credence one step down into himself and teach him to release his secret well of magic. Often it felt the same - that this fund of wrong could glow with right under Mr Graves's patient, relentless guidance.

Magic fused out of his body, charm after charm, but it never blossomed so well as when Credence let go, leant back against Mr Graves in jubilant expectation and let him close his fingers around Credence's wrist or hold his arm up; made Credence close and open his eyes on command; exulting in his trust. In bed, too, Credence found that he liked it when Mr Graves ruled their times. They never did anything new before he was told about it and asked if he liked it, if he wanted it; and he always nodded with a secret frisson at the thought that Mr Graves would then take over.

His life with Mary Lou was still halfway to becoming his past. At times, he sneaked a glance down at his wrists and the naked inside of his arms, chafed crimson like his knees from rubbing against the sheets, and his unruly member twitched at the sight; but the redness troubled him. He remembered the other Mr Graves stroking it away, and then another stroke, hard, pushing his head aside with the force of it. And they merged, past and present, into a cloud of sensual anxiety.

"Are you all right?" Mr Graves would ask; caring, frowning; on the verge of troubled, and Credence would fight a spike of guilt. Mr Graves had made it clear that he wanted him to forget the past, and he was not doing right by Mr Graves in letting these thoughts in.

Days came and went; and nights - not all of them, but as many and as soon as Mr Graves could spare them - were all play. Credence was still one part bold, three parts nerves, and it may have been the nerves that, one evening when they were still on the big mahogany sofa, made him tickle the close-cropped nape of Mr Gaves's neck.

Next thing he knew, they were both at it, giving it full rein: he giggling, while Mr Graves laughed and tried to pinion him to the velvet belly of the sofa. It ended with him on his stomach, his upper end locked inside a firm arm-hold, his pajamas wriggled half down the curve of his buttocks. Then, he felt it - in his mind, before he felt it: the backward arch of Mr Graves's other arm, the fresh tickle of air to his naked skin, almost imperceptible, as Mr Graves's hand parted the air smartly, eagle-like; flew, landed; landed a firm crack across Credence's firm resonant flesh.

Touch came, hard upon sound; one sense gearing in while the other was still full-blown and quivering. He gasped, every nerve called out while more of him grew and quivered, pressed against the sofa's belly. It was too much, and the too-much it tore a cry out of him,.

He didn't know why the sound, or what the feeling, reddening within him on the stroke of that instant. But it burned, hotter than any pleasure; and Credence still remembered when he had burnt from a touch there. It had been leather, thin and venomous as a snake. It hadn't been skin, and it had whistled; its white-hot intensity worse than any pain before. But burn is burn, and so he knew what he felt now had to be shame, and buried his face in the velvet cushions accordingly.

OP here, and yesssss. I love they way you describe Credence's conflicted feelings, how he doesn't understand his own intuition, and how he just assumes the feeling this gives him is shame--the writing style really fits with the sort of sensory and emotional confusion he's experiencing. Looking forward to the next part!

Glad you like it, nonny. Great prompt you gave us. Travelling today, so I will try and post next part tonight or tomorrow.

Shame it was, then. Had to be. Shivering, remembered protocol, Credence buried his face in the velvet cushion and resigned himself to what came after you’ve gone too far.

He started at the slow wamth that was the next touch, Mr Graves’s growl above him, enveloping as his palm enveloped Credence’s lower cheeks, gathering and spreading them gently until the burn was spread equally over their surface. "You little scamp," Mr Graves was saying, and Credence’s member gave a shy leap under him. He willed it not to; his face suffused with the red of memory-shame.

It had never been like that with Ma. He hadn’t been hard and wanting, none of the times she’d had him take off his clothes first and lectured him about humility, severely, while his wilting dick showed him how to retract into the little-boy space that was his proper place. Now he waited for the ghost whispers to solidify again, for disobedient and discipline to usher in the next cut of – but no, only the light tattoo of Mr Graves’s over the warm surface of his too-slim rump, raising new prickles of pleasure. Wrong, wrong. He was not supposed to feel like this, not when – "You need the belt, sir!" he cried, a plea to be set right as his face begins to melt under the burn.

The next sound almost by-passed him in his misery: Mr Graves’s intake of breath, biting on a curse as his fingers stilled. The next moment was fumbly, empty; the pressure on Credence’s shoulders gone, leaving him even more miserable (a failure), until he feels his couchfellow again, kneeling on the rug next to him, one hand on his shoulder.

"…Credence?"

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry," he sobbed from the heart. "Just, can you not use your hand? I’ll take it all, I swear, and I’ll never offend you again. Just, please. It won’t feel so good if it’s not your hand."

"Mercy Lewis," Mr Graves muttered, and for the first time since their first encounter on a dark church porch, under a dusky six o’clock sky, he sounded utterly and unwizardly lost.

Credence tried to explain, but it all spilled out in a mess. Silence, then.

"Acushla, will you look at me?"

(He had thought it a spell, before Mr Graves told him about his Irish ancestors and the old-Irish endearment that had crossed the line with the ship bearing his grandparents. Pulse of my heart. Like Newt Scamander’s case, the little word was bigger on the inside – big enough to pull Credence’s head just a fraction away from the cushions.)

"Good," Mr Graves approved. He let Credence peer at him, at his smile, before he said, "Do I look angry to you?"

"…No." A little hoarse, but no longer wet. Mr Graves’s smile grew, as if his face was lit up from the inside.

"No. Not angry, Credence. How could I be, when I’m so glad, knowing this feels good to you – that my hand can bring you joy. Although it was very inconsiderate of me – but never mind that. It did feel good?"

"Yes, but…" Credence propped himself up on an arm and Mr Graves leant a bit forward, so the next words could be spoken from lips to lips, "How can it be? Ma always said a whipping was the Good Lord’s given rule to chasten a child."

The answer was low and savage – for real, unlike the mock-growl that had – Credence now realized – been a sheer play of tone, like the play of Mr Graves’s hand. "That hag told you wrong. And I would never beat a child, Credence. No more than I’d take a child to my bed. This, young man–." Mr Graves sighed a little, but the smile had gone to his dark eyes, glistening like the dark sweet cherry in Madam Picquery’s cocktail glass, that always stood on her desk. " – is called spanking, and the line between the two is as wide as the line between No-Maj and Maj."

Credence felt his lips tug up. "Well, it felt like magic."

"…Really?" The answer was a hum of breath.

Credence touched his lips to the hum, the lover’s joy, before he whispered, "Give it to me again."

"Credence." Graves was kissing him back; a warm, needy trail down his cheek, to the soft little dip behind his ear. "Credence, you have to be sure."

"Please." The excitement was back, the straining for more – more sensation, more learning. More magic.

He felt Graves shift next to him, rise to his feet, and fumbled up in his wake. They stood, Credence vertical again, both breathing hard, both determined. "The man I take to my bed," Graves murmured, "and over my knee is my partner. My equal. He says one word, the magic stops. Got it?"

Credence caught the hint at their very first lesson and flashed it back, understanding. "Finite."

"Good." And Graves, sitting down, spoke his own word under his breath. The candlelight flickered and dim, leaving precedence to the fireglow to bathe the space where Graves sat, his parted legs, the sharp pat of his hand to his thigh. "You’re riding my lap, young man."

[A!A: OK, this took a bit longer than I thought. One erotic spanking coming up! Promise!]

Credence looked down at the enticing lap, his heart nearly knocking itself out. Slowly, deliberately, he moved to where the hand was now raised in invitation and took it. His was tugged forward, and he let the force field shift between them; put one knee on the couch and heard it creak voluptously as he climbed it to take his proper place, spread out across Mr Graves’s legs. They closed again under him, leaving him in no doubt of his own arousal as it arched up in him, in his cock, nearly suffocated between the press of Mr Graves’s strong thighs and his own weight.

His pajama tops were at half-mast again, and he was expecting Mr Graves to pull them off all the way. Instead, Mr Graves slipped a hand under him and pulled at the cottony fabric, tucking it up and between Credence’s legs so that it clung accordingly to the rise of his buttocks. It pulled into the crack between, sheathing and exposing them in their fleshly existence, it made them vulnerably there and a show piece in their own right, a moment before Mr Graves’s hand went back in play. Slap. Slap. Light, light, medium light, a firm tap of fingertips to each hemisphere. The burn, which had abated, stirred up again – almost, but not quite; rather, it felt like Mr Graves’s hand was stealing a peck or two, or twenty.

Then it stopped altogether and a man was moulding himself to the long span of Crendence's back, his voice much too teasing for his age. "Finite?"

"No!" Vibrant with indignation, and he knew without turning his head that Graves was grinning. Credence slid his hips up in retaliation; cried out as the heat flared through his lap-trapped cock. "Please," he stammered. "Please, please, take them off!"

The next sensation was fingernails, dragged slowly, almost pensively over the curve of his left cheek. It called more nerves, never acknowledged, to triumphant life. "I think I will," Percival Graves said "Ah, look at this gorgeous pink number. I want to see it all."

And the precise-gestured hands tugged his pajama down, inch after dawning inch of skin, blushing and avid for – "More," Credence said plaintively, eyes closed, and, when no more came, "Percival, damnit!"

He was too far gone to register the curse or the breach of protocol, only Percival Graves’s chuckle before he was tossed back into position, Graves’s arm circling him iron-like as he took the upper hand again. This time, there was no teasing; no respite between the neat, expert cracks of Graves’s palm sealing itself to his backside, flat-handed, curve-fingered, right, left, under, between – the shock precipitated into a sharper, electrifying jolt – until the heat came from every angle. Credence found that the slaps were jouncing his whole frame back and fro, their stoked-up pace stoking up the fever until his body flung restraint aside and took over, rocked itself into that hospitable lap, fast, fast, oblivious to the softer friction of Graves’s hand, urging his sensitized flesh.

Once more, twice, before all the heat converged to squeeze a long, hard coda of ecstasy from him.

"…Finite," he remembered to say after a while, and frowned at the answering burst of laughter.

"You don’t actually need to say it after, acushla."

"…Oh." Credence relaxed into his haze; felt somebody start disentangling the two of them and held his hand out, reluctant to break contact. He felt warm and sated; soaring, but happily so, as if he’d been puzzled out rather than blown apart. Graves’s thumb stroked a line across his fingers, followed by his lips.

"Just stay as you are, and I’ll Apparate us straight in bed. How do you feel?"

"Hmm. Warm. Tingly?"

Graves laughed again, the sound now familiar, a piece of the puzzle. It lasted the next jot of time, before they were in bed, in each other’s arms, Credence’s pajamas tucked up once again in place. "Thank you," he murmured groggily.

The next kiss was for his forehead, now released from its bowl-cut gaol. "You liked it?"

"Hmm." Credence sank further into the sleepy, pacified throb of his own body. "Sh’d do’t again.

"Good. Then perhaps, one day, if you feel up to it" – low-voiced words, to be heard at the listener’s will, but stamped with the determination that was another Graves standard – "you can return the favor. "

Credence’s eyes opened in the dark, his heart suddenly awake to the blank and unspoken cheque of trust. He struggled to answer; but sleep was too strong, and the low, rhythmical sound of their breaths catching up with each other another. Or perhaps there was no need for words. Only his face, burrowing against Percival’s chest; only the night-blue peace owning them, another promise of one day.

OP here. This is all I could've wanted from this prompt and more. The mood was so good--going from tense to sexy to lighthearted at the end (and boy, I never thought I'd want to see Credence spanking Graves, but now I do). Their relationship is so trusting and sweet. And their reactions seem true to life. Thank you so much for writing, I love it and will be re-reading it for sure :)

Thanks, and for such a great prompt. It has been a while since my last spanking fic.:)

I had not planned that reciprocal punchline, I swear, but somehow it just wrote itself... I am always a bit weary of the unbalance of power when it comes to Graves/Credence, so this might explain that. And, who knows? After a long and stressful day at MACUSA, it might be just what the Healer ordered...

I will post a cleaned-up version on Ao3 tomorrow and link back to it.

Cleaned up and (very slightly) revised version on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9166819

Link in the above comment

Um, YES YES YES. This was all so good and all the little details and you have such a great handle on both their voices!

Author!Anon, you're a gentleperson and a scholar. This was wonderful

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Prompt Post #2

Credence/Graves, spanking (& angst?)

Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (1/2)

Re: Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (1/2)

Re: Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (1/2)

Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (2/3)

Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (3/3)

Re: Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (3/3)

Re: Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (3/3)

Re: Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (3/3)

Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover - on AO3

Re: Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (3/3)

Re: Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (3/3)