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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: FILL: Giggle Juice 2/3
(Anonymous) 2016-12-04 03:00 am (UTC)(link)“Is this magohamy - magohany - mahogany?” That's the right word, right?
“I didn't know you're interested in architecture, Credence.” They're moving down the stairs very slowly. Mister Graves has hold of both of Credence’s hands and he's taking the steps backwards so that he can face Credence.
“Read about it in a book...it's nice.” Mister Graves is smiling at him as they reach the landing.
“Nearly there. We’ll get you sitting down soon.” They walk down a narrow corridor with dark wooden walls. More mahogany? Credence stumbles into the wall and lets his palms rest on it for a moment, before Mister Graves sets him right and helps him on. This must be what happiness feels like, he thinks, touching Mister Graves’ hand like this.
The end of the corridor is guarded by another doorman. He's huge, inhumanly tall and nearly as wide, with blunt features that look a little...off. Credence blinks up at him, trying to place what's wrong, but he can't keep focused; the man and the corridor keep swaying. The giant man nods at Mister Graves, clearly recognizes him and then looks in Credence’s direction. He mumbles something to Mister Graves, and a wicked smile showing unnaturally pointy teeth spreads across his distorted face as Mister Graves replies, too quiet for Credence to hear above the whooshing sounds in his ears. Credence leans closer to Mister Graves, closing his eyes momentarily and steadying himself. He hears the door opening and follows Mister Graves through the threshold.
The sound hits him only the moment he enters, as if it couldn’t escape the room even with the door open. Jazz music and talking and laughing and dancing, the staccato beat of heels across a dance floor. A bar stands on the far wall, crowded with elegantly dressed patrons sipping drinks out of fine glasses. A couple is pressed kissing against the near wall, and Credence desperately wants to watch them, having never seen any sort of display like that, but Mister Graves guides him forward, past the crowded dance floor, past the stage, - wait, is the lead singer bald? And her features, exaggerated with huge eyes? - past an exceptionally short man with a large head arguing about his tab, past a tall, pale man who smiles predatorily at Credence, baring alarmingly sharp fang-like teeth. They stop at a small, empty booth on a platform. Mister Graves holds Credence by the waist and helps him up to the seat, a few steps up from the floor, and he follows. He doesn't sit across from Credence, like he did at the diner, but instead slides next to him, their thighs touching lightly under the tabletop. Credence flushes and smiles, actually smiles.
“You look so nice when you smile, Credence.” And Mister Graves is smiling at him, so he smiles more.
“It's an - ” the hiccups have returned, “honest speakeasy.”
“That’s right.” Mister Graves shrugs off his coat and scarf, revealing a fit vest and starched shirt. He motions with his hand and the coat and scarf fly to a hook on the wall behind them.
“Mister Graves! Can you do tha’ here?” Wait. Credence tries to focus on the patrons by the bar. It's so hard to concentrate, but some are dressed a bit off - that woman is wearing the sort of hat pictured in Ma’s pamphlets. Are those drinks flying to that table? And squinting at the singer again, her proportions seem all wrong, almost inhuman. He looks over at Mister Graves, who’s observing him closely. “Is this place magic?”
“I thought you could use a special treat.” Mister Graves tugs Credence’s jacket off, his fingers feel so intimate on his neck, and with a flick of his wrist, it joins the hook.
Credence tries to commit all of it memory; the different people, - not all of them are human! - the sound of the music and how some of the instruments, he sees now, are playing by themselves, the floating candles lighting the otherwise dim tables and booths; he needs to remember every detail, knows it can help sustain him when Mister Graves is too busy to visit, during the stretches of time when they’re apart for weeks. If only he could see everything properly. The delightful haze makes focusing on any one thing so difficult.
Mister Graves makes a motion to the bar, and four small glasses of a clear liquid soon fly to the table. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever tried shots before?” Credence shakes his head, trying to say something, anything, but the words won’t form. He’s so lucky to have a friend like Mister Graves, who sits so close to him that he can now smell his aftershave and the musk of his cigarettes. It’s intoxicating, far more so than any alcohol. He wants to go home smelling like Mister Graves, so he can take just a little piece of this night with him.
“All in one go,” Mister Graves instructs, handing Credence one of the glasses. He clinks it with his, winks, and they both drink.
This one burns a bit, unlike the wine, but it’s a pleasant sort of burn that warms his perpetual cold. It doesn’t taste like much of anything, maybe a little like a medicine that Ma gave him once when he was small and ill, and Credence finds himself leaning heavier on Mister Graves’ shoulder, better able to feel his muscle now that his coat is removed. “These take effect quicker than the No-Maj stuff.”
“Than’ you, Mister Graves.” Yes, he’s fairly certain that he’s slurring. Why isn’t Mister Graves slurring? Must be used to this; higher tolerance, he thinks it’s called. Plus he’s so much bigger than him, firmer than him. That must affect it. “It’s so good of you to take me - so good of you to let me - so good of you - ” He’s not sure what he’s trying to say. He closes his eyes, curls up against him and prays to whatever God he’s surely offending that this night doesn’t end yet.
“My dear, Credence, I wouldn't have taken you for an affectionate drunk.” His voice is soft and when Credence opens his eyes to see if he’s angry, Mister Graves is smiling at him, amusement apparent in his face. Credence smiles and presses his face into the crook of Mister Graves’ neck, nudging.
“Can’ feel my face.”
“Yes, definitely drunk then.”
“Please don’ - don’ - don’ take me home yet.”
“We still have plenty of time.” Mister Graves’ hand is in his hair, petting him softly, like he’s something precious, something to be cherished.
He wants to kiss him. Like Billy Trumble kissed him once after bible study, sloppy and wet and warm and good. Like that couple, still pressed against the wall near the entrance, legs entwined and mouths locked. He wants Mister Graves to hold him like, touch him like that. Touch him like he does in the thoughts Credence sometimes has in the night, the ones that leave him aching in sinful ways, rocking against his mattress for relief because he doesn’t dare touch himself, doesn’t dare sin in case Ma finds out.
He reaches for the remaining shot, misjudges where it is on the table, and knocks it slightly, spilling half the liquid. Mister Graves chuckles and hands him the full shot, taking the spilled one for himself. “I may have to cut you off.” His voice is rich and deep and it’s everything. Just everything. Mister Graves clinks their glasses together again and Credence swallows the liquid in one go.
Mister Graves’ hand is still in his hair and Credence is fairly certain it’s the only real thing in the speakeasy. The world around him is nothing but dimness punctuated by spots of blurred light and unintelligible noise, but Mister Graves is solid next to him, carding his fingers through his hair. He needs...he needs…
He’s leaning up, pressing his face against Mister Graves’ face, mouth a little open, rubbing his smooth cheek against the rough stubble of Mister Graves’ chin, going by feel alone. His eyesight fails him. “Mister Graves, please,” he breathes, touching their lips together.
He tastes vaguely medicinal, like the shots, and also like his cigarettes, even though Credence hasn’t seen him smoke today. His lips are soft in sharp contrast to his stubble and so, so warm. Credence opens his mouth sloppily; he wants more, he wants it all, even though he has no idea what all entails. Just please, please make the cold go away. Please warm me from the inside out, he thinks.
Mister Graves is cupping his face with one hand, or at least he thinks he is; he still can’t fully feel his face, and he’s whispering something. His voice is distant even though he’s speaking into his ear, his lips almost brushing the shell.
“ - teeth. Don’t work so hard at it, just open your mouth and I’ll show you.” Mister Graves presses their lips together again and Oh God, he does want this too; he's not being pushed away, not being rejected. Mister Graves runs his tongue against Credence’s bottom lip and he moans at the intrusion and tries to keep his mouth pliant as Mister Graves kisses him deeper, sweeping his tongue inside his mouth now. Credence moans again, pulling away panting, overwhelmed. “Have you never kissed anyone?” Mister Graves runs his thumb across Credence’s lips.
“Billy Trumble kissed me when I was ten, I thin’.” More slurring. “But a few days la’er he hit me and told me to stop coming ‘round. Then the minister strapped me because I was bothering Billy. Then some of the boys strapped me after church for fun because Billy told them I was a sissy. Then - ”
“Hush.” Mister Graves, stroking Credence’s collar, kisses him again, teasing Credence’s tongue with his own. “I won’t ever tell you to stop coming around. We’ll find the child together and then every night can be like tonight.”
“Please.” His voice breaks.
The surrounding noise, bleating and indistinct, increases and Credence is vaguely aware that the band has switched songs, playing something more uptempo. He looks around, squinting at the dancing couples, suddenly aware that kissing Mister Graves, kissing a man, publically like this will get them arrested. A hot wave of panic hits him. “Is it safe here?”
“This place caters to all things illegal. No one will bother us. You’re safe with me, Credence." Another kiss, deep and wet and good, and please-don’t-ever-stop-keep-touching-me-yes. He’s sinfully hard, but it doesn’t feel shameful here like it does in bed after praying. It’s freedom like he's never felt before. It’s the liquor and the jazz and the magic and Mister Graves’ big hands urging his hips upwards, pulling him down on his lap so that he’s straddling his thighs. He can’t hide his own arousal and he doesn’t try to, instead he grinds down on Mister Graves’ lap, rubbing his ass against the man’s erection, hot and hard beneath him.
“Now where did a good boy like you learn that?” Mister Graves is smirking, but his eyes are dark and desperate, his voice throaty.
In his thoughts at night, eyes squeezed shut, hips thrusting against the sheets, he does this sometimes. Behind his eyelids, Mister Graves would strip them both and have Credence grind against him, and in that fevered state the sheets under him are his Mister Graves. He wishes he knew more of what men do together, so he could please Mister Graves better. He’s read about sodomy in the bible, but there must be more, there must be so much more, and he wants it all.
The world around him is unsteady and the noises of the speakeasy fade in and out, but he continues to roll his hips backward and forward. The sensitive underside of his balls rubs Mister Graves with each movement, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine. Do men touch each other there? Is it supposed to feel this good? His breathing grows erratic as he presses down further on Mister Graves’ lap. Does this feel good for him? It must, he’s breathing loudly, and squeezing Credence’s ass, guiding him back and forth quicker, harder. The notion that he could be pleasing Mister Graves, that this strong, perfect man could be aching because of him, worthless, poor, ugly him, it’s overwhelming and Credence whimpers, feels himself leaking in his trousers, a slight dampness spreading across the front.
Mister Graves holds Credence’s hips firmly, stopping his thrusts. Credence whines and tries to resume grinding, but Mister Graves keeps him still. “What a pretty slut you are.” A wave of intense pleasure hits him at these words, and he sobs desperately, his hips bucking up wildly. He feels scattered and spread thin, but still he somehow knows that if he was sober these words would horrify him. Mister Graves is so good and magical and he just wants to please him, be good for him in return. And good boys aren’t sluts. But the way Mister Graves said it, it certainly didn’t sound like a condemnation. “Desperate, aren’t you, Credence?” Definitely not a condemnation.
He moans and grinds again, nodding furiously. He is so desperate. He wants Mister Graves in every way he’ll have him.
Some movement and an untangling of limbs. Mister Graves is out of the booth and helping Credence shift over and stand up. He wobbles immediately in Mister Graves’ arms. The world has tilted again now that he’s standing, and walking seems impossible. “What a lovely mess you are.” Mister Graves holds him up as they walk, steering him by the shoulders and catching him when his knees buckle.