Prompt Post #1

[fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme]

 ROUND 1

FUCK IT WE'LL FIGURE OUT SPECIFICS LATER

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MINIFILL Re: Mary Lou / Credence rectal temperature

[(Anonymous)]

Credence wakes out of a nightmare of screams and darkness and rushing wind, his heart pounding and his skin clammy with sweat. He knows that he hasn't truly just fallen from the air to slam into the mattress, because that is not possible, but for a long, terrible moment he can barely remember his own name, and he could almost swear that...but it was a dream. It had to be a dream. A thrilling, terrible dream.

He stares blankly up at the crack in the mildewed ceiling for a long moment and tries to gentle his breathing, then gets shakily to his feet and pads barefoot to his mother's room.

He stares at the door uncertainly before knocking; Momma doesn't like to be disturbed. But Credence can't stop trembling. It's been bad before, but never this bad. Not since before the orphanage, before the fire...

He knocks on the door, and sways where he stands, clutching at the wall for balance. He wants...Credence doesn't quite know what he wants, that he might hope to get: a kind word, a gentle touch, a warm blanket tucked in by a loving hand; a bowl of chicken soup; a lullaby. Credence wants somebody who loves him to tell him it will all be alright again, and make him believe it. His heart feels like a fist squeezing tight in his chest.

"Momma?" He rasps, half-afraid to wake her but still painfully hopeful. He's so tired, and his head is still spinning...

"Credence?"

He blinks open heavy-lidded eyes that he can't recall closing and stares stupidly into her familiar face. Its angles and planes look strange and ghostly in the moonlight. He really must be coming down with a fever.

"Momma, I..."

"I'm not your mother," she snaps, and he flinches.

"Sorry - I'm sorry. I - I think I'm sick, ma'am," he says. "I feel all wrong."

She eyes him narrowly for a moment, then beckons him into her room. It smells of carbolic soap and the sachets of dried lavender she uses to sweeten the laundry.

"We'll see about that," she says, crouching down and fishing around under the bed. Credence stares at the unexpected curves of her bottom tightly outlined by the thick white fabric of her nightgown, then squeezes his eyes closed, scandal curdling his blood. He is going to burn in hell.

"Here." Credence is feeling faint again when he opens his eyes; he feels like he could float right up to the ceiling, like he could dissolve into air. It takes him a moment or two to make sense of what he's looking at; then he opens his mouth meekly for the thermometer, but his Momma shakes her head.

He doesn't understand. "...what?"

"Bend over."

"...what?"

"Bend over, Credence."

Credence knows his eyes are like saucers and his face is frozen; he can feel himself going still and small, hoping to be somehow unseen. He swallows. Momma's face is dangerous; disobedience is unthinkable, and so Credence bends over, baffled but desperately placating.

His shock when she briskly flips his nightshirt up and exposes his goosepimpled buttocks to the night air is so great that he thinks his heart actually stops beating for an instant.

"MOMMA!" He gasps in spite of himself and at that she slaps his bare bottom with the flat of her hand so hard that he stumbles, and almost falls. "Sorry ma'am," he says, half-sobbing.

He doesn't know what he feels. There is a roaring in his ears and his skin is stinging where she struck him, chilly where she didn't; there is a traitorous stirring and warmth between his thighs that will get him beaten bloody if she notices it, and he's poised between stark terror and desperate yearning for something he can't put into words.

"Stay still," she says, so he does. His face is scalding with shame, feeling exposed in ways he can't express; he doesn't understand why she's making him do this; he wishes he'd stayed in his own room. "Only one way to know if you're shirking," she mutters, and then, to his delirious bliss and abject horror, she lays one cool hand on the stinging flesh of his bottom. Her thumb curves around and under, pinching his flesh and spreading his buttocks apart. Credence shudders. He is hard now, unambiguously hard, his penis pressing warm and rigid against his belly. He wants to cry. He wants to crawl out of his skin and hide somewhere.

And then he cries out, shocked at the violation of the cold glass thermometer pressing into his tightly clenched hole. He tries to recoil, but she is still holding him tight and pulling him open and in just a few seconds the thermometer is jammed all the way inside him.

Credence whimpers like a trapped animal.

"Stop whining," she says, holding him in place. Her breathing has quickened ever so slightly. "I need to know the truth, boy." She is standing right behind him, her body warmth bleeding through the fabric of her nightgown. Her hand moves a little, stirring the thermometer inside him, and he gasps despite his best intentions, his buttocks flexing and his penis twitching against his belly. He wants to touch himself with a baffled, desperate urgency, but when she leans closer, curving her body to fit over his, he freezes as still as any marble statue. Her breath tickles the nape of his neck and her breasts swing close enough to graze his spine through the double layer of fabric.

"Are you thinking ungodly thoughts, boy?" She whispers as she slides the thermometer out, then thrusts it viciously back inside. Credence lets out a startled sob as it knocks against something inside of him which sends a jolt of pure intense sensation screaming through his nerves, and he reaches blindly up to clutch his slick-tipped penis in a convulsive grip. He doesn't want to do the bad thing - mustn't do the bad thing! But he feels like he might fly apart at any moment.

"Please..." He gasps, not sure what he's begging for, exactly. "PLEASE, Ma'am!"

"Are you a dirty, wicked boy, Credence?" She asks, her voice going hoarse as she pulls the thermometer out and then pushes it back in again. "Are you lying to me?"

"No! No, ma'am! I would never..." He cannot help himself; his hand is tugging at his hard dick, rough and awkward, as she pushes the thermometer into him.

When she pulls it all the way out he feels terribly empty. His hand pauses, and then he remembers himself, and where he is, and terror flows through him again; he hurriedly lets go. He begins to straighten, but her hand presses down on his spine.

"No you don't," she says. He shivers. There is a pause. "Well...perhaps a little fever," she acknowledges, then slaps his bare flesh with a suddenness that is startling. He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet, shuddering; for a panicked second he is afraid he might spill onto the floorboards; he knows that if she realises he is hard, her rage will be beyond imagining. "It's only a LITTLE fever. Not worth all this whining. You should take it like a man."

"Yes, ma'am," he breathes, staring at the floor and willing his wretched flesh to go quiescent once more. "Sorry, ma'am. May I stand now, ma'am?"

"Of course, you fool. Go back to bed, and pray to the good lord for forgiveness," she says.

Credence curves cautiously back to his feet, hunching a little and keeping his hands in front of his groin. He doesn't look at her, afraid of what his face might betray. "Good night, ma'am," he says. His head is still spinning, but now his whole body feels like it is vibrating, feels flushed and feverish and a-tingle with prickles of unspeakable desire. He stumbles out of her room and closes the door behind him without ever once meeting her eyes, then lurches back to his own room as if he is sleepwalking. Sweat beads his forehead.

When he is once again inside his own room, with the door closed, he yanks up his nightshirt as he stumbles towards the small, hard bed, pawing frantically at his rigid erection with clammy, trembling fingers. It's wrong, he knows it's wrong, but he is weak and wicked and bound for hell, and as his back hits the mattress his thoughts are a confused whirl: the curve of Momma's bottom under the white nightgown; the pressure of the thermometer sliding into his ass; the face of that man today, with the sinfully cut coat and the proud face. He wants....he wants...Credence. Has no words for what he wants, beyond release. He wants something beautiful, something impossible and glorious and tender. He wants to be free.

He comes with a stifled gasp, and for a dazzled moment he is boneless, nameless, guiltless, beautiful; for a dazzled moment he has no flesh or wickedness; for a dazzled, joyful moment he simply IS, and that is enough.

Then he comes back to himself, and the shame is excruciating. Credence curls onto his side, buries his face in his pillow, and sobs as if his heart might break.

Re: MINIFILL Re: Mary Lou / Credence rectal temperature

[(Anonymous)]

OP here. This is amazing, more than what I could've imagined when I made the prompt. Your writing is so vivid, and the whole thing is super hot. Guilty Credence Masturbation is what I live for. I loved it, thank you so much for writing!

Re: MINIFILL Re: Mary Lou / Credence rectal temperature

[(Anonymous)]

Love it.