Prompt Post #1

[fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme]

 ROUND 1

FUCK IT WE'LL FIGURE OUT SPECIFICS LATER

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Re: FILL: Giggle Juice 1/3

[(Anonymous)]

Intoxication, dub con, dirty talk, accidental erotic asphyxiation

***

When he was twelve, Ma caught him drinking behind the pews with Jimmy Cowle and Abe Moore. Jimmy’s pa made bathtub gin on the weekends to sell for pony money, and Jimmy had snuck some out in an old jam jar, flashing it sidelong from his jacket pocket at Credence and Abe during the morning sermon. Afterwards, when the nave had cleared, the three boys sat in a circle hidden behind the last row of pews, passing the jar between them. It smelled like gasoline and burned his throat, but the feeling was bliss. The lasting sting on the back of his thighs from last night’s punishment dulled; the shame of his routinely mocked haircut and ill-fitting, cheap clothes forgotten; the anxiety that in an hour’s time he’d be back with Ma, unpredictable and unforgiving, evaporated altogether. There was no future, only a blurry, hazy now with his friends.

He was flayed, of course. His back, the soles of his feet, his ass, his hands. He was lectured, prayed over, nearly exorcised, forced to beg God and Jesus forgiveness for his sins. The worst though was Ma pulling them all from that church and moving them from their then reasonable two bedroom apartment over a bakery to the bachelor with the communal toilets overlooking an abattoir. It was convenient to their new church, according to Ma. The churches of his childhood ran together - was this before or after the one where the minister strapped him for annoying Billy Trumble? It was definitely before the one on 125th Street that Ma nearly torched for being too progressive.

Credence had learned his lesson well, like he had many times before and since. Do as Ma says, no drinking.

But now Mister Graves is here and everything is upside down; obeying Ma is no longer the only option. His confidence and ease are unlike any Credence has ever witnessed. He’s magnetic and magic. Actually magic. And so he’s in defiance of his Ma yet again, spending time with an alleged abomination, and worse yet, spending the rest of his time thinking about when he’ll next see that alleged abomination. Mister Graves’ hand is on his shoulder, warm through the thin fabric, and he looks at Credence with some worry. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Let’s get a late dinner, my treat. As a thank you for all your help.”

Mister Graves is scarcely taller than him, but is much bigger in every significant way. His fine coat trails behind him as he beckons Credence forward, out of the alley they had met in, and Credence is fairly certain that this coat alone is worth more than their rickety church. He’s thought about resting his head on Mister Graves’ shoulder so he could feel the rich fabric, feel the muscle underneath...but such thoughts are depraved.

The man exudes importance, prominence, stature, and yet here he is, choosing to be with Credence, needing his help of all people’s, and now asking him to dinner in appreciation.

“There’s no need, Mister Graves. There’s soup at home.” He can’t seem greedy. If Mister Graves thinks him unworthy, more unworthy than he already is, he could leave. And then what would Credence have?

“Don’t be foolish. You’re not eating that broth your mother’s always feeding those orphans when there's a perfectly fine diner not far.” There’s no refusing him, not when he wraps his arm loosely around Credence’s shoulder and tugs him down the street.

***

The diner is warm and inviting; it smells of hot coffee, toasted bread and lunch meats, a luxury for Credence who has never eaten anything but his mother’s philanthropic soups and oatmeals. But this place is far below Mister Graves, that is clear to Credence. The other patrons are working-class families; men in overalls sip coffee with their tin lunch boxes under the tables, mothers in dated dresses persuade children to remain in their seats, and Mister Graves walks by them, far too aristocratic, far too magical for the likes of this place.

Of course Mister Graves could never take him somewhere he actually frequents. His threadbare clothing, his hair, his - what did Mister Graves call it - his No-Maj status; he’s not suitable for any reputable establishment, the sort of place that Mister Graves would want to spend time. Maybe one day though, after he’s found the child...

Mister Graves leads him to a booth near the back of the diner, and Credence shuffles in, sitting opposite the older man. “How long do you have before your mother returns?” Mister Graves passes him a menu, but doesn’t open his.

“A few hours. She took Chastity and some other members of the congregation to protest a Catholic night mass in Harlem. She thinks their rituals are occult.” Credence is startled by Mister Graves’ snort; their eyes catch as Credence looks up from the menu. Mister Graves is half smiling, eyes alight, an eyebrow cocked, a dare for Credence to smile back at the absurdity. Credence feels a slight blush warm his cheeks and a small smile peeks through quite accidentally.

Looking back at the menu, he’s knows logically that Mister Graves can afford this easily, but the prices are still startling; he’d never be able to eat here. As if reading his mind, Mister Graves says, “Order whatever you’d like, Credence. The sandwiches are excellent.”

“You eat here, sir?”

“Often. The Woolworth Building isn’t far from here. I lunch here a few times a week. It’s convenient and relatively quiet. No MACUSA business to disturb me.” Credence nods, as if he understands what MACUSA means.

The waitress arrives to take their orders and mercifully looks to Mister Graves first. He orders water and a rye sandwich, and Credence, not understanding most of the menu anyway, asks for the same, his eyes downcast.

Once the waitress leaves, Mister Graves smiles at him. “I want to thank you, Credence. You’re truly doing a service to the Wizarding World in helping me with this.” He feels another flush spread across his cheeks, and he tries to meet Mister Graves’ eyes, but the man’s stare is so intense, so overwhelming, that he just can’t hold it.

The water is deposited on the table and Credence reaches for it, suddenly thirsty in the wake of Mister Graves’ stare. Before he can grab it though, the cup shifts, untouched, to Mister Graves’ side of the table. The man is still smiling, his wand in one hand.

“Why don’t we toast you properly, Credence?” With a soft tap of the wand on the table, the contents of both cups, once transparent, is now a sparkling, amber-white colour. Credence’s cup shifts back to him. “Prohibition be damned.”

He doesn't want to seem ungrateful, because he's so very grateful, grateful for everything Mister Graves has done for him. He's cared for him like no other person he's known, tended his bruises, taken the pain away, showed him honest magic, but more than anything, he's given him hope - hope that there's something better for him than a sad, dilapidated church, cold soup, threadbare clothing that doesn't keep the winter out, and a Ma that beats him mercilessly. Mister Graves has given him a whole new world, so of course he can't refuse him this request, can't slight him by snubbing a kindness. Another kindness of so, so many. Credence whispers, “Thank you, Mister Graves,” and takes a sip.

It’s cool and sharp, maybe a little fruity. It decidedly does not smell like gasoline or burn his throat when he swallows. “Just some wine, a half decent one,” Mister Graves says.

“Water into wine,” Credence breathes, more to himself than to Mister Graves, as he takes a second sip.

The sandwiches come soon after, and Mister Graves was right, they are excellent, although Credence has little to compare them with. The wine is better though, and as they eat in companionable quiet, Mister Graves refills Credence’s glass once he empties it.

He feels a little sluggish halfway through his second glass. Was wine normally this strong? He hadn't thought it was; they drink it in some churches, after all. Perhaps wine is different in the Wizarding World. Or perhaps it’s just strong and good because Mister Graves made it, and he’s so strong and everything he does is good.

It’s not an unpleasant sluggishness. It feels freeing, this light haze that seems to surround everything. His Ma, the church, his general inadequacy, his unworthiness of Mister Graves’ company, it all seems so far away that it’s rendered blurry and insignificant, almost nonexistent in its distance from him. He takes another drink, deeper this time.

“I know you're trying so hard to help me, Credence.”

“Yes, Mister Graves.”

“But I wonder, perhaps you've neglected to tell me something, some minor detail that might prove important. It's so necessary that we find this child.”

“No, Mister Graves. I mean, yes, Mister Graves. I mean, yes it's important that we find the child, but no, I'm not keeping anything from you.” Another sip. It tastes good; he wonders what Mister Graves tastes like. A sinful, deviant thought.

Mister Graves refills his cup again and pushes it towards him. “You have to understand, Credence, it’s not just for the good of the Wizarding community. It’s for me as well. If I don't locate this child, I fear for myself, my position. I'm asking you personally, as a friend, are you holding anything back? Maybe out of some loyalty to another, some conflict I don't know about. No harm will come to the child, I promise you that.”

Friend. The world around him stutters. “We’re friends, Mister Graves?”

“Of course, Credence. I've come to care for you very much.”

“I haven't had a friend since I was twelve, I think.” He hiccups and sees Mister Graves watching him with some intensity. It's easier to look at him now, hold his gaze with the shroud of wine. He feels a little bold.

“You most certainly have one now - have some more wine, dear boy - which is why I must insist you tell me anything you're hiding about the child. For my sake, as your friend.”

Hiccup. “I'd do anything you - ” hiccup, a violent one, “ask, sir.”

“And the child?”

“I'm trying so hard.” His voice is small, his almond eyes large and earnest. “I wouldn’t deceive you.”

A pause while Mister Graves watches him, surveying him in a way that would make Credence blush if not for the wine. Then, “There, there, my boy. I just wanted to check. I believe you.” Mister Graves squeezes his hand from across the table and Credence squeezes back. He doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want this to end - the evening out with Mister Graves, the warmth of the diner, the blissful escape of the wine - all of it, he wants it to last forever. It's sinful, so sinful, but the sin doesn't matter now. It's so removed, stuck in a past that doesn't seem relevant. All that matters is right now with Mister Graves. “Finish your drink with me.” Of course Credence obeys.

When did the waitress return? The plates have been cleared, the glasses contain water again, and Mister Graves is counting bills to leave on the tabletop. “Come, Credence. It's getting late.” The floor is quite unsteady beneath him; it seems crooked and angled, while simultaneously moving under his feet. Mister Graves supports him as they walk out of the diner, and the other tables melt together as Credence passes. Outside is overwhelming; the traffic blurs in the street and the lamp posts glare a violent, angry orange. Only Mister Graves’ arms keep him grounded.

“I didn' know wine coul’ do this.” He thinks his words are slurred, but he can't tell for certain; his own voice seems so far away. “I didn’ think I had tha’ much.”

“I’ll Apparate you home - ”

“Please don' send me home yet, Mister Graves. It's so nice out with - ” hiccup “you. I don' wanna go back there. You're so warm and I’m - ” hiccup “always cold.” He closes the scant distance between them and finally rests his head on his shoulder, feeling the fine fabric of the coat, memorizing the firmness of the muscle beneath. Mister Graves cards his fingers through Credence's hair, and Credence unabashedly tilts his head forward, giving him better access.

Mister Graves is silent, stroking the back of the boy’s head, his fingers lingering on his neck. Finally, “And where would you like to go, Credence?”

No hesitation. “Anywhere with you.”

Mister Graves guides him to the side of the diner, to the cramped alley between it and its neighboring building, out of sight from street traffic. They Apparate into the cool night.