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fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme) wrote2016-11-23 07:27 am
fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme) wrote2016-11-23 07:27 am
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Prompt Post #1
ROUND 1
FUCK IT WE'LL FIGURE OUT SPECIFICS LATER
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FILL: reel against your body's borders 1/?
(Anonymous) 2017-01-01 08:40 am (UTC)(link)Pairing: Credence/Graves, ABO verse
Rating: E
Summary: Graves is working on rebuilding MACUSA after Grindlewald’s shit, but his body freaks out after having been forced to be on suppressants for months and gives him a truly bad heat. At the same time, Credence has been looking for the man who hurt him, never knowing about how Grindlewald had stolen Graves’ face and identity, and so happens to find Graves in the middle of the heat.
A/N: I’m sorry OP, this is probably pretty far as fuck from your original prompt, but I hope you’ll like it even a tiny bit, since it’s Original!omega!Graves and alpha!Credence, and some use of Obscurus powers for some rough claiming. Anyway, here goes.
1.
Graves was in his home, not because he had finally managed to untangle the chaos that MACUSA had become under Grindlewald's schemes, but because Picquery had entered his office, taken a deep breath, and told him to get out.
He had opened his mouth to protest, but the smell of her, Alpha and heavy, made his skin thrum in sudden, acute want, Graves swallowing down the whimper in his throat as she stared him down. He thought he had until tomorrow morning before his heat began, but no, it was coming on quick and harsh, biting.
Before it was an easy thing, three or four days where he burned and ached, producing enough slick to run down his thighs. He would often take care of it himself, though there had been a few times he had invited someone he liked to join him in it (but that hadn't happened in years and Graves, unfulfilling as it was, preferred the crafted phallics of his collection).
But he had been on suppressants for months, Grindlewald tsking at how he writhed under the pain of the drugged restraints. Omegas were so inconvenient, Grindlewald sighed, his beta smell oppressing alongside the hollowing effect of the drug.
It wouldn't do for Graves to slip into heats under his care--the hormones changed everything just enough that it destabilized the delicate chemistry of the polyjuice potion. Grindlewald couldn't have that, and during Graves' scheduled leave of absence for the heats the bastard was probably off making sure his plans were still in order.
After they had found him, curled up on himself and half-delirious with fever, Graves had spent more than a month in the hospital recovering from starvations and beatings, one arm bent badly and needing to be rebroken to be set right. He couldn't remember if he had screamed or not, but he had felt the humiliation of it the first time he had woken up in more than the brief snatches of time where the faces of healers and Auror's blurred together in a nightmare of white lights. He'd been alone, drying sweat making his skin feel cold and clammy.
A healer asked specifically what Grindlewald had done to him. Graves had gone mute at first, the nerves of the reset arm flaring up bright and painful, but he had swallowed and told them. The last thing he mentioned were the suppressants, bitter on his tongue and in his veins, and the healer had nodded, eyes giving away neither condemnation or sympathy, to which Graves found himself thankful for.
Graves' had been on heat tea when he had been a younger man, regulating them around the beginning of his Auror career. His heats had always been predictable, and manageable, and as he grew older and the time in between them grew longer, he had begun to wean himself off the tea. The extreme dosage of the suppressants had suddenly and violently thrown off his body's natural cycle, making it flutter and panic until Graves could taste the fear of it in his mouth, acidic, churning bile.
The healer warned him that his next heat was probably going to be a rough one.
Graves felt it in his bones and prepared himself, but the state of MACUSA was far worse than anyone had thought. He was given as much information as they had over what had been going on for the past few months--he’d remembered at least that it had been the middle of March when Grindlewald had ambushed him, though the face of the Auror, Tina, had dropped, it was December now--and it was well and truly a brilliant mess. Grindlewald had fired all of his competent Aurors and tempted the ones that had always grumbled after Graves was out of sight. He brewed tension between the departments until everyone was on the edge of hexing the slightest feeling of a backhand compliment. And then the rush of barely three days where everything was unraveled because of one British wizard and his suitcase full of beasts.
Graves read the reports, heard from Tina herself. Sometimes he found himself concentrating again over the few photos taken in awkward, unpleasing angles, the British wizard with his fumbling elusiveness, and the image of a hunched, resigned dark-haired young man who had been an Obscurus (Tina’s careful scrawl on the back relating his name, Credence Barebones, and that the picture had been taken a few hours after they had had to obliviate the No-Majs. The picture wasn’t against policy, but it was an indulgent detail in Tina’s report which was now being treated as high-security intel).
Graves knew there were protests against his reinstatement--he had barged in on the meeting and said to their faces that he was not going to be fired or stalled on rebuilding and they could very well remember that he wasn’t the one that had mistaken, for months, an international terrorist for him.
So he got to work, and ignored everything else.
Aurors that had been fired by Grindlewald were reinstated, and the ones that had gone along with him beyond merely following orders were being expelled or imprisoned (thankfully no one had gone along quite so far as to have warranted execution). The wards around headquarters were all eschew, tampered with until some were just an illusion of protection. And Graves had to rebuild the entirety of their communication network from top to bottom, and all the departments were wary, wound tight. Graves held his ground and worked through the ache of his body, ignoring the screaming of his joints and muscles and the deep, foreboding pit in his stomach.
He began drinking heat tea to lessen the harshness of the upcoming one, or stop it all together if he could, but his body made him heave it back up until the mere smell of the unboiled leaves made him dizzy and weak. It was going to happen, it needed to happen, but MACUSA was in pieces and Graves refused to bend to the fear his omega body was pumping into his veins, begging for something stable and sure.
But when it came there wasn’t a single chance to fight against it—after an afternoon of having the same argument with the Head of the Department of Trafficking about “something scaring smugglers to high heaven,” Graves was rushing to his office as he felt the heat start as a thick knot in his stomach, unwinding slowly but fully enough that he was shaking, gasping as he managed to shut the door of his office and collapse into his chair. He wasn’t slick yet, wouldn’t be for another moment or so if he could just hold out a little longer, but already he could feel himself growing pliant, mind going warm and hazy. But no, no, he couldn’t, not now, not here—disgust cut through the thickness of the heat and Graves held onto it until his thoughts were clearing.
But then Picquery had come, knocking at his door politely before simply entering when he didn’t respond. Her voice was a command, her gaze rough, the smell of her so intoxicating that all Graves wanted to do was climb on top of his desk and offer himself to her, legs spread and slick soaking through the fabric of his crotch in a display of unabashed need. But Graves, even now, had dignity, though it was closer to shame.
He sat deathly still as Picquery summoned a healer to take Graves to his home, as he couldn’t apparate away by himself. He looked up as they entered and felt a tiny swell of relief—it was the healer that he had spoken to earlier about being forced to take suppressants, a young beta woman with blonde hair wound tight into a working bun.
She smelled, far, something sweet on a gentle breeze. Calming, almost, but Graves was confused why she was here—she wouldn’t be able to give him what he wanted, not really. But then Picquery was leaning close into her and Graves’ breath shook before he could catch it—the healer wanted the alpha for herself, she was going to take the alpha away from Graves—
Picquery spoke in a hushed voice, Graves pushing past the bubbling in his throat, coughing to hide a whine at how close she was to the beta healer when he was right here, ready and pliant, didn’t she know that he would be so good, so…
The beta was speaking to him now, asking if she could touch him. Graves didn’t want her to, he wanted the alpha to touch him, but he could hear steps retreating, her scent leaving with her. He wanted to chase after her, beg a little if that’s what she wanted, her absence sharpening his senses, trying—
Graves took a deep breath to clear out the rest of Picquery’s smell from his lungs, swallowing thickly as he snagged onto something resembling himself. He searched for words in what felt like hours. “Yes. Hurry.”
The healer’s touch was kind, a careful hand on his shoulder before they were rushing through the streets, a smear in the air.
They landed at the doorstep of his house, the hand on his shoulder keeping Graves from swaying. He leaned out of the touch, pressing a hand against the door for balance as he tried to remember the correct sequence of spells to get in.
“Do you need anything?” the healer asked, voice soft.
Graves mind went blank as he registered her words, opening his mouth before he even knew what he was going to say. He wanted to refuse, he didn’t need or want anybody’s help right now, but there was the other side of him, making a soft keening sound; it was fine if she was the one to take him, she would treat him kindly, be so gentle to him through his heat, help him fuck himself onto those toys that could never reach where he needed to reach, she would—
“Fine,” he gritted, the door opening with a faint click as he let muscle memory work a familiar repetition. He escaped inside before she could say anything else, offer anything else.
He leaned against the door and counted down from ten, twenty, thirty until he was sure his legs wouldn’t buckle beneath him.
The house shifted just so around him, warm and safe, and he was, he was fine, it would be fine, he needed to go to his room quickly and pull out his collection of carved phallics, he needed something thick and heavy inside him now.
The house made it easy, shifting until he was in his bedroom, locking the door behind him as he went straight to the false backing of his closet, hands shaking as he drew a figure along the wood to open it. The knot of heat in his stomach flared, Graves gasping against the pleasure of it unfurling fully, crashing through him in a fevered rush. Slick gushed between his thighs, a voice mourning his ruined trousers before being smothered under the need to release the ache inside him.
Graves pulled the compartment out and shuffled away from the closet, but he couldn’t make it to his bed, he wanted, wanted—he went down on his knees and fumbled at his clothes, frustration sharp and unpleasant as he simply just tore at them, buttons flying as he finally, finally shoved a hand down between his legs.
He didn’t bother with his cock, fingers pressing lower until they were touching the edges of his hole, his slick warm as he was pushing in.
But it wasn’t enough, it never was, and soon he was reaching for what he’d pulled out, grabbing the thickest of the phallics. He wasn’t loose enough for it, wasn’t fucked out enough for it to go in smoothly, but his fingers were working him as he brought it to his mouth, sucking on it without rhythm, moaning around the girth of it as he worked saliva over the hard surface.
His fingers twisted up inside him, trying to reach but his position was difficult, thighs straining but he couldn’t be bothered to shift, desperation taking over as he rocked against his hand. He pulled off the carved phallic with a wet pop, gasping as his body tensed unexpectedly, coming in weak, tense shudders.
Graves heaved in ragged breaths, blinking against the first orgasm of the heat, mind clearing of full full now now long enough that he was crawling towards the bed. He dragged himself on top of the covers, breathing in the familiar scent of his sheets as the heat pulsed again, as it pulled him under and he was, he was
The slide of the carved phallic into him made him groan, feeling every inch of it. It was hard, like he needed it, heavy and thick inside him that every clamp down on it sent a shudder of pleasure up Graves’ spine. But he knew, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted, there was no warmth to it, no pulse or twitch, no hands to grab at his hips or hold him down by the back of the neck as the cock sped up inside, Graves’ hands working frantically to shove the carved phallic in deeper, chasing after a tickle of pleasure that wasn’t going to be enough, not this time.
Graves bit down on his lips to keep from screaming, his body refusing to orgasm, it wanted to be fucked properly, knotted and bonded, used and spent, wanted the seed of a mate to root itself in his womb until he swelled with child--
Graves wrapped a hand around his cock as he shoved the carved phallic as deeply as it could go, stroking his length in stubborn determination until he was coming, vision going white before snapping to black, stomach dropping into emptiness but it was enough, enough, his body going slack and his mind blanking as the heat allowed the weight of it all, the stress and the bitterness and the deep-pitted anger of the entire mess his life had become, to fall away into nothing in an abyss of yearning.
-
Graves woke up on his back to the sound of something slithering in his room, the smell of it thick and toxic and full of raw magic, seething of hurthurtbetrayalhURT--
He shoot up from the bed, senses flaring up and hand reaching out to throw a spell, but it was too late, too--there was a weight pressing him back down onto the bed, swirling and massive and he could see, he could see eyes suddenly, white and enraged and pained before it was sliding into something resembling a face, the mass trapping him down condensing into a vaguely human shape but writhing still. Graves opened his mouth to, what, scream?, but it wrapped a forming hand around his throat.
“Liar,” a voice choked out, and Graves couldn’t breathe.
Re: FILL: reel against your body's borders 1/?
(Anonymous) 2017-01-03 10:13 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: reel against your body's borders 1/?
(Anonymous) 2017-02-09 06:15 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: reel against your body's borders 1/?
(Anonymous) 2017-03-25 11:59 pm (UTC)(link)