“I’ll leave you to it,” Grindelwald said. Mocking laughter trailed behind him as he vanished back up the stairs.

Graves barely heard him over the sudden, volcanic rush of heat thrumming through his veins. He made a mental note to follow up with the Department of Potions Enforcement, once he was done cleaning up Grindelwald’s mess. He’d never tried desiderata, not having any particular need for it in the past. He was certain the sudden rush of want couldn’t be legal.

Assuming Grindelwald had brewed it correctly. Accepting a potion from a genocidal fanatic had not been one of the smartest moves he’d made lately.

The Barebone boy whimpered, face tilted up towards Graves like a flower in the sun.

Right. Focus on the boy, he told himself.

“I’ve got you,” Graves said again, because the Barebone boy seemed to like the reassurance. Credence, he reminded himself. If he was going to fuck Credence, they ought to be on a first name basis. Credence looked up at Graves with dazed, dark eyes. He was trembling, Graves realized. Worse still, he was still braced for a hit. He expected to be hurt.

“Fuck,” said Graves. What Grindelwald wanted was monstrous. Grindelwald was a monster, the sort of dark creature Graves had spent his whole life fighting.

That was the problem with monsters, though. When you spent your whole life fighting them, sometimes their darkness got ahold of you, and a monster you became.

This, Graves thought, would make him a monster.

“I’m sorry,” Credence said automatically, fear cutting through his arousal.

“Hush,” Graves told him. “I wasn’t swearing at you, I was swearing at me.” He considered Credence. Maybe it was the desiderata, but he thought the Barebone boy was surprisingly lovely, now that he could feel the heat from Credence’s skin. He traced over the high, sharp curve of Credence’s cheekbone with one thumb and pressed a chaste, careful kiss to Credence’s forehead. He wasn’t sure why he did it, except that it seemed right to. It was a benediction, or maybe an apology, and it felt right enough that he pressed another kiss to Credence’s nose, to both cheekbones, to his mouth. Credence tried to kiss him back, clumsy and unsure and so terribly eager to please.

Graves kissed him again, careful and gentle and coaxing. He swallowed down the soft, half-bitten back noises of pleasure Credence made and let his kisses turn a little bit harder, a little bit deeper. It had been some time since he’d kissed anyone like this, and he doubted Credence ever had at all.

He liked the sight of Credence’s mouth, gone pink and swollen from kissing. He liked the way Credence chased his kisses, leaning in like he couldn’t bear not being touched. He wasn’t sure if that was him or the desiderata. Graves had always enjoyed taking his time with his lovers, learning what they liked, what would make them fall apart beneath his touch.

Graves decided it didn’t matter. He’d promised Credence pleasure. He’d give it, the same way he would to any other lover.

Grindelwald had taken his name, his face, his rank. He didn’t get to take this, too.

He pressed a little harder and almost fell on top of Credence when his bad leg gave out beneath him.

“Shit! Sorry,” he said, looking down at Credence’s startled face. “Bastard got me with a slashing hex. My leg’s still healing.”

“Does it hurt?” asked Credence.

“Not right now.” Graves pulled back. “The bed would be more comfortable, though.”

All the fear he’d worked so hard to dispel came back. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”

Graves winced and levered himself up off the floor. “You don’t need to call me that,” he said. “Or you could, if you like,” he corrected, backtracking hastily at Credence’s alarmed expression. “I only meant, you can call me Percival, if you want to. I wouldn’t mind. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I – yes, sir,” Credence managed.

Graves sat down on the bed, stretching his still-healing leg out with a groan.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Credence asked, hands outstretched like he wanted to touch Graves and wasn’t sure he could.

There were welts on his hands, Graves realized. Quite a few of them, some fresh and some nearly healed. A switch, maybe. His gaze dropped to the thin belt Credence wore around his ill-fitting trousers.

No. Not a switch. A belt.

Someone had hurt him, repeatedly, with his own belt, and he was still worried for Graves? What a heart he had, to endure such things and still remain kind.

“Nothing hurt while you were kissing me,” he said, catching Credence’s hands with his own. It was difficult to cast healing charms behind Grindelwald’s anti-magic wards, but Graves had been Seraphina Picquery’s rival at Ilvermorny. Just because something was difficult didn’t mean it was impossible. It just made mastering the ability all the sweeter.

Credence gasped as his wounds faded and leaned down to kiss him. Graves tugged him down onto the bed, pressing him back onto the thin mattress. He pressed kisses against the curve of Credence’s jaw, down the vulnerable column of his throat.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me if I do something you don’t like, or if it hurts. I want you to feel good.”

“I do,” Credence said.

“Good,” said Graves. He let himself get lost in kissing Credence again, striping away both of their shirts and trousers and Credence’s union suit as he did so. He liked the way Credence mewled when he pinched his nipples; he didn’t want to hurt Credence, but a little pain sometimes added spice the to the pleasure. He wondered what Credence would do once Graves got his mouth on his cock.

The answer, it turned out, was keen high in the back of his throat and come, suddenly and without warning.

“Sorry,” Credence gasped, throwing one arm over his face. Even now, when he ought to have been boneless and sated, he was still trying to hide. Still trying to keep from being hurt again.

“Don’t be,” Graves rumbled, wiping his mouth on his discarded shirt. “You did exactly what you were supposed to.” He pressed a kiss against the too-bony curve of Credence’s hip and worked his way back up again, determined to make Credence come again and again, until he was pleasure-soaked and not even the memory of pain disturbed him. Young as Credence was, it wouldn’t take much to bring him to the brink again.

“I want you to feel good,” he said, palming Credence’s softening cock. “Let me make you feel good.”

His own erection throbbed. He was distantly aware of the desiderata burning through him. Part of him wanted to shove Credence down, get the boy beneath him and fuck into him until the desiderata burned itself out. It would be so easy –

– It would be monstrous. More monstrous than what Graves was already doing.

Graves told himself that it didn’t matter, so long as Credence felt good. He would offer pleasure rather than pain now, and make reparations later, once he was free.

He let Credence thrust against his thigh, trading kisses back and forth while the pleasure built. The movement jarred his bad leg, and Graves clung to the pain to keep from coming too soon.

“I want,” he said, stripping out of his union suit and then turning his attention to Credence.

“Mr. Graves?” Credence sounded dazed, half out of his mind on endorphins and desiderata.

“I want you,” Graves admitted, stroking a hand down Credence’s knobby spine, coming to rest, possessive, on Credence’s ass.

“Take me,” Credence said. “Please. I want it. I want you.”

“You’ve got me,” Graves assured him, kissing Credence to stop the frantic flow of words.

He hadn’t used the lubricating spells in longer than Graves cared to admit. His career left him little time for any romantic entanglements beyond five minutes with his own right hand, and even that had been sporadic. The spell still came easily, wandless and wordless. (There were, Graves felt, fewer things that derailed one’s plans for the evening than having to get one’s wand out for spells of this nature. It was almost better to proceed the way the No-Maj’s did, and open your partner up by touch. Not all wizards cared for such practices, but Graves had always found it terribly intimate.)

“What was that?” Credence asked.

“Spell to make things easier,” Graves told him. “Not everyone likes this. Tell me if you don’t.” He circled his thumb around the newly slick heat of Credence’s hole, keeping the pressure steady until Credence’s body let him in.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Credence didn’t like being penetrated. He could hardly get Credence with child if he didn’t. Maybe he could Credence just open enough for the head of his cock. Graves could make himself come – it wasn’t going to take much, at this point – and hope that was enough.

“Oh,” Credence said, sounding startled. He wiggled, taking Graves’ thumb all the way in. “That’s – strange. But good?” He wiggled again.

“Fuck,” Graves swore. “You’re going to be the death of me.” He pulled his thumb free and pressed in with his index finger instead. Credence moaned at the stretch, dropping his head to Graves’ shoulder and gasping breathily against his skin.

Graves pressed a second finger in, curling his fingers and searching for the spot that would make Credence fall apart.

“Oh, merciful God,” Credence said, when he found it. “Please. Please, I need –”

“I know,” Graves soothed him, keeping an iron grip on his control. Credence was hot and tight inside; too tight. If he took the boy now, it would hurt. He pressed a third finger in, working Credence open. “You’re doing so well. Just a little bit more.”

He wanted – oh, how he wanted – to line the head of his cock up and lose himself in that tight, slick heat. That was probably the desiderata, which definitely needed to be re-classed as a restricted potion. Graves shoved the impulse down. He had the determination and the will to master wandless spellcasting. He could master this too.

“Please,” Credence begged.

“I’ve got you,” Graves said again, sliding his fingers free. He pushed inside in slow increments, pulling back and rocking ever-so-slightly forward, opening Credence up with his cock.

Credence moaned.

Graves froze, trying to determine if that had been a moan of pain or pleasure. “Do you need me to stop?”

“N-no,” Credence managed. “Don’t stop, please.”

Graves kissed the corner of his mouth. “Tell me if you change your mind,” he commanded. He tilted his hips, sliding a little farther in. He went back to opening Credence up in carefully, and he couldn’t help the triumphant noise he made when he was finally, gloriously, all the way inside.

“How do you feel?” he asked, almost trembling with the effort it took to not lose himself and rut wildly into Credence.

Credence bit his lip and said nothing.

“Credence?” Graves asked, feeling the first prickles of alarm.

“I feel – sinful,” blurted Credence. “Sodomy is a sin, but it feels so right, having you inside of me. And I – I like it.”

Right. The No-Maj’s were ridiculously invested in their religions. The awful Second Salem woman liked to carry on about sin and evil and witchcraft. Graves had never paid her much mind, but it was obvious that Credence believed her poison.

“There’s no shame in that,” Graves said firmly, drawing back so he had the leverage to fuck Credence properly. “There’s no sin in enjoying this, or the way I make you feel. I’m enjoying it. You feel so good around me. You’re so hot, so tight, it’s almost unbearable.” It was hard to stop the flow of words once he’d gotten started. “Look at you,” Graves said. “You’re taking me so well. You look absolutely perfect, stretched around my cock, breathless and squirming with pleasure.” He adjusted the angle of his thrusts, trying to find Credence’s prostate.

Credence yelped when he found it, sounding startled and a little overwhelmed. “Oh! Oh, god.”

“That’s it,” Graves crooned. “Let me make you feel good. Let me watch you fall apart, that’s it, darling, please.” He was so close, but he didn’t want to come before Credence did. He had to make Credence feel good. He'd promised.

“Let go,” he begged. “I’ve got you.” He worked one hand between them so he could stroke Credence’s cock. Credence spilled into his waiting palm with a breathless shout that might have been Graves’ name.

Graves managed half a dozen more thrusts before he slammed in deep and came with a shout of triumph. He collapsed onto the narrow cot, tugging Credence against his chest to avoid crushing the boy with his weight. The desiderata was sated now, so it was much easier to focus on the boy in his arms.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and made himself ask. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Credence said, sounding dazed.

“That’s – I’m glad,” Graves said. He stroked his hand down Credence’s side, coming to rest on his belly. “The Graves name is yours, should a child come of this. We may not be one of Europe’s pureblood lines, but the Graves name is well-respected here. I’ll protect you both, from this day until my last, I swear it.”

“Thank you,” Credence said, but the words sounded more like a question.

Graves cursed inwardly. Credence was right to question him. How could he protect anyone, prisoner that he was? He’d grown too accustomed to the respect the Graves name garnered. He had no right to Credence’s trust.

“Get some sleep,” Graves advised, going through the messy business of separating from Credence and getting them both cleaned up. “I’ll keep watch.”

“I could help,” Credence volunteered instantly.

Graves cupped the boy’s head in his hand, skritching the short hairs at the base of his neck. “There’s no need,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Credence sighed and went boneless beneath him. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”