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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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Re: Original Graves/Newt - Newt sits on Graves' lap
(Anonymous) 2016-12-24 08:10 pm (UTC)(link)Combine all of those and apparently you get Newt Scamander on your lap.
Graves tries to think of other nights that were worse (better) than this. Because this is the worst (best) night of his life, and coincidentally also the most awkward moment of his professional career. He did not claw his way up the ranks of MACUSA to end up stuffed in a muggle car smelling of fur while having to contend with a magizoologist on his lap. And yet he is. With O'Brien watching the whole thing unfold through the rearview mirror.
It had started so ordinarily, too.
They were supposed to be exclusively on surveillance this night around. Some tip about a black market for invisibility cloaks led him and O'Brien to a warehouse on a dimly-lit street. They were to watch the entire exchange from a muggle car. Newt Scamander was to aid them on Picquery's orders, as he was the latest consultant brought in on magizoology-related matters. Let him get used to his position, Picquery had said. Make him useful.
O'Brien had somehow interpreted that differently. Which is why, when Newt Scamander freaks out upon seeing the perpetrator (as expected), and runs out of the car in pursuit (as expected), and the man simply apparates away, leaving behind crates containing demiguise pelts, the normally tetchy auror simply shrugs and lights up a cig. "Ah well," he says. "Least we got the goods. What say we bring these back to HQ, boss?"
He is unusually calm. Which, for some reason, makes the normally unflappable Graves, abnormally tense. He clenches his jaw and nods. "I'll send word for these to get picked up."
"Think we're spread too thin for that. Woolworth ain't more than a few blocks away. We can drop these off ourselves."
Newt's constant apologizing becomes background noise as Graves levitates the crates into the car, one piled on the other on the front seat, and another pair in the back.
"I trust you can handle yourself," he tells O'Brien, who smirks. The cigarette lolls on the edge of his mouth.
"Ah, but what if more come back and ambush me? I think you and Scamander better stay close."
"That's true, I can't leave knowing Mr. O'Brien has to deal with my mistake," Newt interjects.
"We can't fit in the car," Graves says impatiently. "There's only space for one."
"Two, if Scamander sits on your lap. Shouldn't be a long ride. Whaddaya say?"
"No," he says firmly. "That's ridiculous."
"Mr. Graves, I really think the more back-up, the better. I promise I'm not too heavy," Newt says, because he always misses the fucking point of the matter. But his eyes are wide and pleading and Graves can glare daggers all he wants at O'Brien, but he can never do the same to Newt. So he curls his lip.
"Fine."
And two minutes later, they're in the car. O'Brien is snickering, Newt is clueless, and Graves is suffering silently as the car hits another bump, which makes Newt bounce slightly, bottom landing against Graves' groin.
"Ah, damn potholes," O'Brien says, but his mirth has never been more obvious. "Them muggle vehicles is tricky at times." His eyes are crinkled with amusement and Graves has honestly never seen him smile with so many teeth. He curses the auror and promises to make good on at least ten of those curses later.
Graves closes his eyes, wondering how much more torture he can withstand. Thankfully Newt is wearing his coat so he can't feel the physiological changes threatening to happen with Graves' anatomy. But even the skinny legs covering his are warm and Newt fits in his lap perfectly like a puzzle piece, a puzzle piece he would incidentally like to press down on the leather seats and fuck raw. And because Newt's ass feels so nice against his lap Graves can't help but wonder in what other ways they could fit together perfectly, like if Newt's legs were wrapped around him or if Newt were on all fours and his body slotted right over his--
"O'Brien," Graves barks. "Shouldn't we be there by now? What's the hold-up?"
"I, ah, missed a turn, I think," comes his cheeky reply. "No matter, we can just circle around, right?"
"You fucker," he says, foregoing all pretense because he is very hard, dammit and if Newt gets an inkling he will be very fired for sexual harassment, and the New York Ghost will have a field day, which would be very bad. But Newt shifts (why God why) and he suppresses a groan as the magizoologist flashes him a concerned look.
"I'm sure Mr. O'Brien is trying his best, Mr. Graves, it's my fault and you mustn't take it out on--"
"I'm not taking it out on him." There's a substantial decrease in the volume of his tone, one he reserves just for Newt, and many would call him biased because of it, but, well, it's honestly true. "I just don't want this to be more uncomfortable for you than it already is."
"It's very comfortable, don't worry," Newt says with a shy smile and Graves leans his head against the window in defeat.
"Hey Scamander," O'Brien leers. "Mind giving me a light? I gotta keep both hands on the wheel, you see." The cigarette is dead in his noisy mouth, and Newt moves, and his ass slides against the tip of Graves' dick to the base as he rummages in his coat for his wand. Graves fights not to thrust and ends up emitting a noise that sounds vaguely like an indignant squawk.
"You alright, boss?" Newt is busy reaching over the front seat to incendio the tip of O'Brien's cigarette. In doing so, the pressure on Graves' lap increases and if Newt bends any more he'll practically be grinding against him. He contemplates asking Newt nicely to sit still lest he explode. But that would be too suspicious, so Graves instead wonders if he can get away with flashing O'Brien the finger through the rearview mirror.
"Peachy," he says through gritted teeth.
"Great, 'cause we're here!" The car mercifully comes to a stop. The boxes are blocking his view but Graves recognizes the street, and he quickly flings open the passenger door.
Newt takes ages to clamber out of the car, apologizing the whole while, and at one point he's facing Graves with their faces so close that Graves feels the breath on his lips. Every part of him is aching for Newt, thrumming with the urge to ravish him in, on top of or against this muggle contraption (he's not picky) but O'Brien is still here and that alone is an instant mood killer. So he sits still as a rock as Newt climbs off of him and gets both feet on the pavement.
Graves follows, everything from the knee below feeling numb and everything from the crotch above on hyper alert.
Newt bids them good night, and disapparates, not noticing Graves' wistful gaze.
O'Brien lights up another cig beside him using wandless magic and he puffs out clouds of smoke unapologetically.
"Get him used to his position, get him useful," he says, mimicking Picquery's authortitative tone. " That was some position indeed," he continues, whistling. "I'd say mission accomplished, wouldn't you, boss?" And all those curses he had listen in his head earlier never do end up leaving his lips, because sometimes even magic is nothing compared to a good old-fashioned choke-hold. It's worth it, especially to hear O'Brien's cackle quickly morph into a surprised yelp.
Re: Original Graves/Newt - Newt sits on Graves' lap
(Anonymous) 2016-12-24 11:00 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Original Graves/Newt - Newt sits on Graves' lap
(Anonymous) 2016-12-25 10:27 am (UTC)(link)