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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
(Anonymous) 2016-12-01 06:20 am (UTC)(link)"Your posture is impeccable today, Credence," Ma says quietly, and it's as much approval as she's ever shown.
"Thank you," Credence mumbles. He feels warm with praise, but also torn, and embarrassed, and half-wild, and --
He swallows. It resists.
*
Ma sends him out midday to hand out their new flyers. She likely chooses him because he hates it the most. Hates standing out there, vulnerable, put in a position to be actively ignored. A thin stick jammed into the middle of a river as the water rushes around it.
He walks up the street slowly, close enough to the storefronts that his sleeve catches on rough brick. It would be easy choose a spot nearby, but he fears word getting back to Ma. One of the church children had snitched last time about Credence being tucked away behind the door of a bakery, barely seen by anyone. She had earned an extra bit of bread with her soup; Credence had earned three more lashes that night.
Lunchtime rush is starting up by the time Credence finally angles toward the middle of the crowds, flyers in hand. The first one simply brushes against the coat of a passing business man.
"Come hear the word," Credence begins, scratchy and muted. The collar is battling his throat. He coughs, but the more he ducks his head, the worse it feels until he's almost dizzy with anxiety.
Someone bumps past him and he looks up by instinct, inadvertently releasing the pressure on his neck. The relief is immediate.
Credence takes a few experimental breaths. He keeps his gaze forward, spine straight. "Come hear the word," he repeats, louder this time. A girl with bright blue eyes glances at him, and then takes the flyer as she walks by.
He swallows. It resists.
*
"No complaints, Credence?"
"No."
Credence is slowly getting used to the way the collar manipulates his body to open up. The ache in his shoulders is now a memory, faded away like old scars. He thinks of a book he saw once, over a stranger's shoulder -- a heretic illustration of ape becoming man, standing taller with each iteration.
Mr. Graves appraises him, eyes unreadable in the low light. Darkness is falling much earlier these days. The collar gleams in Credence's periphery.
"Have you ever had a pet?" Mr. Graves asks, stroking his hair. They're almost the same height like this, but Credence feels enough like a pet, small and pushing into Mr. Graves' touch.
"Ma won't allow it," he says.
"Well, some people take very good care of their pets. Others -- ," Mr. Graves tugs at thick strands at Credence's nape, " -- don't."
Credence feels out of breath despite his posture. "Do the pets deserve it, Mr. Graves?" he asks, and the only answer he gets is when the collar tightens just a bit.
He swallows. It resists.
*
"The congregation has grown," Ma says over dinner. Credence still has the smallest plate, but Ma meets his eyes as she speaks. "Our word is spreading. Do you see that the Lord rewards good work?"
"Yes, mama," says Chastity and Modesty in unison.
"Yes, mama," Credence echoes after a beat. Mama stares at him, considering, then resumes her meal.
He swallows. It resists.
*
Credence stands in the alleyway, feverish. Mr. Graves has put some sort of charm on the collar so that it holds Credence firmly in place. There's no amount of struggling that allows him to move against it.
When Mr. Graves takes Credence's cock into his mouth, the collar chokes at him until black spots dot across his vision.
"Please." His voice breaks in the middle. He wants -- he wants to --
"Show me what you want, Credence," says Mr. Graves' voice.
Credence isn't even able to look down at the sight of Mr. Graves on his knees in front of him. He tries to create the image in his mind: dark slacks dirtied with mud, salt-and-pepper hair contrasting against the black of his shirt and trousers. Still, it's not enough -- he struggles once more and even cries out, but then Mr. Graves is swallowing him again and all Credence knows is the tongue on his cock and the collar around his throat.
He blindly reaches out and manages to tangles his fingers in Mr. Graves' hair. The collar allows enough freedom for Credence to buck his hips and he's desperate enough to do so, trying to push himself into the delirious heat of that mouth. He expects a punishment, for Mr. Graves to stand up and Apparate away, leaving Credence trapped, exposed, half-mad.
Instead, Mr. Graves obliges him and takes him in further. Blunt fingernails are pressing lines into the backs of his thighs; they dig in sharply as Credence's legs start to tremble.
"Please," Credence whispers again, and Mr. Graves makes a low noise of approval. When he comes, Credence can feel him swallowing it down, even and measured, like a hungry animal.
It takes several minutes for the world to right itself again. Credence opens his eyes and Mr. Graves is there, brushing his mouth gently against Credence's own.
"Good pet," Mr. Graves murmurs.
Credence swallows, imagines tasting himself. The collar resists.
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