open post.

[mund]

GEN/NSFW/TFLN/TEXTS/STARTERS/PROMPTS from canonmates/non-canonmates most welcome.

Comments

proscribed. (royalty)

[mund]

[ The problem with armistice, Graves finds, is deciding on a mutually acceptable show of faith; itself a tenuous display that has the potential to be a colossal failure as much as it can be a shining example for the generations of warring factions to come.

Credence Barebone, the oldest son of the family that has been locked in bitter quarrel with Graves' own for generations, is offered to him like a lamb to the slaughter. A spoil of war, one of his advisors whisper surreptitiously, thinking that he doesn't hear. Graves, who does not usually deal in the trade of humans like they're chattel, has half a mind to politely decline, but the words die in his throat when he sees him. Pale-skinned, beautiful, and obviously a boy they had kept in consideration of this moment. An exquisite jawline, a sensuous mouth, and bold cheekbones that come together to form an unconventionally lovely face. His is one no one will forget in a hurry.

Graves offers gold in turn for the family to rebuild, and this is how the armistice proceeds, peacefully and with distrust on both sides. He takes Credence as his lawfully wedded consort and spouse, the symbolic joining of two houses -- and he thinks cynically of battles fought in domestic contexts, if the young man doesn't kill him in his sleep first.

He doesn't put it past them, but ever the gentlemen, he accords them -- especially Credence -- the required courtesies. The ceremony is promptly concluded, the knot officially tied and the agreement sealed, and it's deep in the night when Graves finally gets time to himself instead of simply playing host. The idea of entertaining a family like the Barebones is profoundly unsettling, a newfound duty he doesn't look forward to, but when the alternative is protracted fighting at the expense of progress and prosperity, the choice is obvious.

He makes his way to his sleeping chambers tonight, having made sure that his new husband (what a strange, word; Graves had always believed he would never be tied down, and here he is, with a ring on his finger and sharing the large expanse of the castle with the young prince) is adequately attended to, his every need met. Graves knows he doesn't personally need to be present up until the inevitable consummation, and he knocks lightly before he enters. Another courtesy, even if it's well within his rights to enter without announcing himself. He's still dressed in elegantly grand robes from earlier, but he's shedding the outer robe, handing it off to one of the manservants.

They stay silent, eyes averted, but diligently attend to every need. It's only the first night, and Graves would be lying if he says that he knows what to expect. This is new territory, uncharted, and it will be most unfortunate if Credence is hiding a knife underneath all of that. ]

Is everything to your satisfaction?

[proscribed]

[Credence, through circumstances he's long since accepted as fact, has less than no say in what happens in his life. As the oldest son, a prince, he's always known that there would come a time when he'd be more valuable in the form of an exchange. Either through marriage or something less fortunate - a pretty bauble for a foreign royal's court. His eyes were never shrouded and reality never painted in unrealistic coloring. He didn't, however, expect to be handed off to the family who his own has fought with for longer than he's been alive. Prince Consort to a man who he's never met and he's heard stories of, terrible and frightening tales spun of a warrior, a king, a leader.

He's offered up to gain peace and this King gives his family gold, joining there two houses and making it impossible for either side to enact any kind of fight without being labeled treacherous. His mother, the Queen, will behave, acting the part peacefully because she's had a taste of what this marriage could give her and she'd bleed it dry before doing anything reckless to ruin it.

It's a progression, a show. A parade of their entire family in their best clothes, but no gifts, no belongings. Nothing to be given to this King except for Credence's hand in marriage and his body. The proceedings are awkward, uncomfortable, but over more quickly than he could have anticipated. Everything is signed and sealed and stored away - then, and only then, is he finally left alone. The solitude is brief. Short-lived.

They take his robes, everything, bathe and change him, help him settle into the middle of the bed, then they wait beside the door. Credence assumes it's so that they can attend their king when he comes, which he will, he'll have to. He shifts to the edge of the bed out of nerves, feet hanging off the edge, hands clasped in his lap. The knock at the door startles him, but the servants don't acknowledge his action, a kindness he doesn't deserve but one he appreciates all the same. He licks his lips, unable to look up at the handsome, dark, powerful man that's come into the room for one thing - to consummate their union. To make it official, binding.

His mother explained the process. How the King would push into him and take what he wanted. That he'd feel no pleasure, only pain. That it was his duty to bear it, not seek enjoyment.]

Yes, thank you.

[A wave of nerves crash over him. He's heard stories of Graves in battle, how he fights and how he wins. He's formidable, strong, and it doesn't matter if he's the most beautiful man Credence has ever seen - he's here out of duty and he'll have to endure it. The servants continue to flit around the King and as he comes towards him, steps light on the stone floor, Credence's hands twist in his lap and a flood of words spill out.]

Don't let them stay. Please. I couldn't bear it if they stayed. [An unsteady breath.] If they heard - if they saw.

[His mouth falls open, eyes wide, but he forces himself to carry through. Credence pushes the blankets aside, lays back on the bed with his legs sprawled apart, the thin fabric nightgown covering him settling just above his thighs.]

You can do whatever you want. I won't complain. Just make them go.

[mund]

[ If Credence is faking nerves, he'll easily be considered the most exceptional actor of his generation. It's all right there, from the most minute tremors in his hands to the plaintive words couched in necessary courtesy. The young prince looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, and the king supposes he can't blame him for it. He has, after all, just been traded like particularly expensive chattel (permission unsought, if Graves' assessment of his mother is accurate).

One does not bear the weight of this indignity easily. Credence, after all, is of the bloodline of kings, and even if his mother considers him a valuable pawn in whatever game she's playing, Credence is now Prince Consort of this land.

The briefest moment of calculation is spared -- all the ways an assassination might be carried out in the marital bed before summarily set aside. Mary Lou is cunning and greedy, but not foolish; she is suited to manipulations in the shadows, not prosaic machinations that can be so easily foiled.

(That thought does not reassure.)

He nods to the servants and dismisses them as asked, his gaze caught on the way the nightgown rides just barely up his thighs, pale-white and smooth, untouched. Mary Lou has whispered that he is pristine, a virgin to man and woman -- and Graves has only half-believed that up until now. Surely someone as exquisite as he is would have had his fair share of suitors. Credence is stunning, with long lashes and high cheekbones and a wide, sultry mouth made for kissing and for many, many other things, and yet somehow it seems inappropriate to ask if his mother speaks truth as to his inexperience.

When they're finally alone, he steps forward, fingers brushing lightly over a knee. His easy capitulation is troubling, strange -- what has his mother actually told him about the act of consummation? ]

Sit up, Credence. [ His words are firm but gentle, belying his fierce, unforgiving reputation. He is speaking to a spouse, not an enemy (although knowing his mother he's not sure if it's entirely true). ] In my bed, I only claim the willing; pleasure is to be both mine, and yours. If you feel that it's beyond you tonight, there is always the next night.

[ He'd be lying if he says that he doesn't want him, that he doesn't desire sinking into the tightness of Credence's lovely body, to push inside of him and take him as his own, to hear him cry out sweetly when he comes, but to start off a marriage (however arranged) by taking what Credence doesn't willingly give is distasteful. Mary Lou might consider his kingdom a heathen, moral-less bed of sorcerers and sorceresses, but there is powerful magic here even her most advanced technology cannot hope to replicate. ]

mund. (royalty pt.2)

[proscribed]

[Credence, in one day, had his entire world broken apart and reassembled.

He was now Prince Consort to a powerful king who had shown him that what he'd thought was going to be his life might not have to be. He'd given him pleasure and told him he was beautiful and he'd fucked him so thoroughly that Credence could still feel it. His thighs ached and he could feel a pull, a lack of being full and safe that he's never had before. Credence also can't shake the almost euphoric aura that's surrounded him, enveloped him in an easy calm that helps him through the first part of their long day.

There's been visitors, of all ranks. Some with gifts and others with problems that Graves is meant to help remedy. He's sat by his side for hours now, listening, and answering when the King asks him to. He's supposed to learn the kingdom in and out, be a part of it, not a bystander. He doesn't have an answer to every question, but when he doesn't, Graves explains to him and the room at large, what the best solution would be. The young woman assigned as Credence's maid and helper is instructed, after a quick respite for lunch, to put a cushion in Credence's chair as his husband had noticed that he was fidgeting.

The flush that causes stays on his cheeks for the next hour, but it helps and he catches himself sneaking little glances of his husband. He's only sitting a few inches away, in a grand chair, Credence's own smaller and set beside him - they could touch, but they don't. He knows this is business, and he has to keep his silly whims to himself. The line has finally decreased, the final visitor comes and goes, and Credence sits up a little straighter as paperwork is spread out in front of his husband.

Servants are waved away so that the King can finish signing and reading for the day, and Credence can't help but slide a little closer in his chair. He's exhausted, craves some kind of touch, anything.]

[mund]

[ Credence now occupies the second highest position in the kingdom, one is coveted by many far and wide -- but he still has much to learn about the citizens who are now Credence's subjects, his people; how Graves works for them as much as he presides over their lives, earning their respect, their trust and loyalty with sound decisions and careful thought.

Graves may rule his kingdom with an iron fist, authoritarian and brooking no fools, but he is just and fair to the best of his abilities, most of his waking hours devoted to the good of his people. His new husband is here to learn, to understand, and Graves gently explains what he can to him in between the many who seek an audience with him. Credence, he's learned, is surprising insightful from time to time, and he is heartened that his new spouse is no imbecile.

He doesn't deny, however, that he's in a relatively good mood today -- most of which owed to Credence, the pleasures he's afforded him with his body, tight and willing and eager, and the mess they've made together in their bed. It's filthy and delightful all at the very same time, but work is work and while Graves allows himself the occasional distraction, he is a king before he is a husband, and he does what is due before finally, they are left to their own devices. He had been just a touch smug when he witnessed Credence's blush at the gift of the pillow, another reminder of how thoroughly Graves had fucked him last night, taking his virginity for himself and showing just how good he can make him feel.

Graves looks forward to doing it again.

However, even while the last seeker is gone, his day is far from over -- there are documents he has to peruse, minutes to review and policies to be scrutinized. But then there's the matter of Credence, who has obediently sat beside him the entire day, quiet and attentive and spoken only when asked -- and it looks like he's just about run out of patience for it. The gentle, discreet movement captures Graves' attention, and he looks up, his expression mild. His hand comes to rest over his, curling over Credence's fingers. ]

You want something.

[proscribed]

[Credence immediately sits back up, ramrod straight in his chair, wincing at the pressure it puts on his lower back.

The serious expression he'd been wearing, to show the people of his husband's kingdom that he wouldn't take their issues lightly, falters. A little hint of embarrassment and newly minted affection creep onto his face. Credence doesn't want to press his luck or assume that the King is as kind and generous and wonderful as he thinks he might be, but he can't help it. It's been a day and he's already smitten. He turns his hand over, wiggling his fingers.]

No. [His shoulders sag.] I mean, yes.

[He looks up, brows furrowed in worry. If he says what he wants, Graves might not like it or might decide not to give it to him. Credence figures that if he goes for it and something bad happens, it'll only be what he's used to, but last night makes him think of the what-ifs.]

We're so far apart. We've been that way all day.

[No, that sounds needy. Too desperate, but he really does mean it. Credence fumbles over the right words, tries to pull his hand away.]

I just meant that.. I liked what we did. No, I mean.

[Credence feels like he's on fire, flushing from head to toe, warm and uncomfortable all at once.]

We were sitting together all day and you didn't touch me. We couldn't even touch each other.

[And he missed it, already, misses him.]

proscribed. (sex party)

[mund]

[ Graves is a man of varied but discerning tastes, and his choice of night-time entertainment is no exception. Instead of the trendily gaudy nightspots that plague New York City and its ravenous, unfulfilled inhabitants, Graves' finds himself a patron of the city's most exclusively restricted clubs; the ones that thrive in secret and on the glittering, ironclad promise that its many exquisite pleasures are only to be sampled by the men and women whose wealth and influence eclipse even the greatest titans of industries.

Within this piece of paradise dwell the real gods, moving amongst the world's prettiest faces (their bodies on display for every imaginable carnal desire, offered for consumption, glittering and dripping with jewels, the finest wine, and come); oracles of their own order, lambs offered to the altar of the world's most powerful men and women.

Graves samples the fine offerings as he pleases, but he is never alone. Tonight he comes with his husband, a young man half his age who is as dangerous as he is beautiful, a captivating thing with high cheekbones and glittering eyes, a sensuously generous mouth reserved only for Graves' pleasure. They have rules; they've made them together, when they were first married and Graves had shown him into this world, and despite Graves' taste for the finest things in life, he remains faithful to Credence, and demands the very same in return.

Tonight, he is impeccably dressed in a tailored tuxedo, his features hidden under a sleek onyx and white-gold mask; tonight, his Credence is a lamb by his side, so very scantily, provocatively dressed. His lovely, lean body turns heads, as does the lacy, jeweled, barely there underwear that Graves has gifted him with earlier on in the evening, the only thing he wears underneath the gossamer, translucently shimmering Oriental robe that flutters around him when he moves.

Credence is the prize tonight -- the way he is all other nights; even underneath the mask he wears, his beauty is unmistakable. He is desired, profoundly so, and Graves knows how Credence so expertly holds that over so many of them. He is sure to lean in to kiss his mouth as they move with each other to the low, sultry crooning of a similarly masked singer (stunningly beautiful in her own right, voluptuously poured into her glittering gold dress), commanding the middle of the dance floor as if this is their own kingdom, their court. Graves doesn't miss how both men and women are watching them; some surreptitiously, some not bothering to hide -- and some perhaps jealous that this lovely boy has allowed himself to be kissed so fully on the mouth.

Graves, in the meantime, doesn't bother to hide his possessiveness, his hand resting on the curve of his ass underneath the near-transparent robe, stroking over where he'd slid the anal plug into him barely an hour ago. He murmurs, soft against his mouth. ]

Do you want to play with them now?

[proscribed]

[Credence has learned, over time, that he's incredibly lucky to have met Percival Graves. The life he lives now, wealth and luxury, extends beyond fulfilling basic needs, and while he's no longer hungry or cold at the worst of times, he's stumbled into the exquisite pleasures that only someone like Graves could afford to give him. Give them both. Their relationship at home is, as it's always been, strong and flourishes every day. He can't remember the exact moment, or if it wasn't from the second he saw him, but he loves Percival with everything he has and is. He trusts him. They settle into their new, grand apartment - something that is both of theirs, though it bares more of Graves' style with touches of Credence throughout.

And then they pick up right where they left off. With the club.

He's no longer new at this. He doesn't need a guiding hand or for Percival to walk him through everything. Credence knows what to say, when to say it, and most importantly, he knows exactly what he likes. There are rules, his own rules, that he wouldn't let anyone break - not even Graves. There are rules that they have together, so that Credence never feels jealous or uncertain. They walk a fine, high-strung line and it works for them so well that it often feels unreal. It's a part of their understanding, it's the only way something like this would work for someone like Credence.

It hasn't been so long that he's forgotten, but it's been long enough that the anticipation has built up inside his chest, raw and pounding to get out. And the goddess in the gold dress sings - ]

I walked into the room dripping in gold
Yeah dripping in gold
I walked into the room dripping in gold
Dripping in gold
A wave of heads did turn, or so I've been told
Or so I've been told
My heart broke when I saw you kept your gaze controlled
Oh I cannot solve

[Credence's eyes are closed, rocking side to side as he listens to the sound of her voice, the press of Percival's mouth against his own. The hand cupped so possessively above his ass, fingers moving down over the plug, and he feels so beautiful in the clothes his husband had picked out for him, the smudge of liner around his eyes and the lipstick that took half an hour to apply so it wouldn't come off. He blinks, rolling forward and turning so that his back is pressed to Graves', a hand coming up to tug his robe apart, letting it fall open.]

I want.. [He nods to the singer.] .. her to watch.

Can you do that for me, Daddy?

[The rest - whether Graves fucks him or someone else sucks him off or if Percival forces him to his knees or bends him over a nearby surface or has him ride him until he passes out - he doesn't care.]

[mund]

Yes.

[ Graves' voice is a low, dangerous purr when Credence turns around in his arms, and his gaze flicks up to the singer, beautiful and sensuous as she is. He's already hard, there's no pretending -- everything that Credence is tantalizes and titillates, and he will give him all that he demands. He's come such a long, long way, his sexuality awakened and tended, carefully cultivated to blossom, and Graves senses how the others' heads turn to the beautiful boy in his arms.

Credence's robe has fallen open, smooth as water, to reveal pale, smooth skin that anyone would kill to worship, to press their mouths on it in open reverence. He knows, too, that more than a handful of their esteemed, anonymous guests are here for Credence, for how that expensive scrap of cloth that passes for underwear accentuates the shape of his cock and his balls, and the shape of his sensuous, full mouth that promises a world of sin.

And Graves is the man who has him, his teeth scraping over his earlobe when the singer looks over, and he holds her gaze fearlessly, a hand splayed possessively over Credence's chest and sliding down, down, pushing his underwear down to let it slip down his hips, trapped at his thighs. The true prize is his cock when it springs free, and the singer breaks her gaze to stray downwards, her eyes on Credence's cock, his heavy balls as Graves exposes his husband to her, puts him on display the same way she is. He's stroking Credence's cock now, light fingers moving up and down the shape of his dick, thumbing over the slit and showing him off.

Look at Credence, look how he steals the show with a body that's meant to be fucked, to be debauched and ravished. ]

You are to call me that the entire night. [ He growls softly in his ear, free hand coming to ease the plug out of his ass, sliding the toy back into his pocket. ] Do you see how they're craving you, my boy? How she's looking at you? Would you like her sweet, soft cunt tonight?

→ a little priest

[insidiose]

[ to be perfectly honest, credence knows what he's doing is wrong. or, well - he hasn't acted on anything yet, but he's been thinking and that's enough of a sin on its own. he should be ashamed and he is, but he can't stop. ever since his mother has had him going to church almost more than he gets to stay at home he's hated it except for the fact that it's not as bad as at home.

as strict as the church is, there's a possibility of salvation and atonement. at home there's only his mother's overzealous beliefs and her ideas of one mistake - one tiny mistake - damning you forever. credence supposes he must be damned, then. the thought of it makes him anxious but if god is forgiving like he's taught in church then he'd rather spend his time there. he goes to his classes to learn what he's meant to and stays afterward, reading or praying or helping with anything that he can. only in part so he doesn't have to go home.

but now on to the problem: he's started to like church a lot more since father graves came from another church. he thinks that's sinful on his own, playing favorites, but if it was just that it would be better. instead he looks at the older man and thinks about how attractive he is, how he's kind even though he's stern, how much credence likes him, and...

he thinks about other things too, things that he's ashamed of. of being kissed by him, touched by him--worse. (better?) in any case it makes him shy and skittish, more than he even would be, and most days credence can barely look him in the eye. when he does he's sure he imagines that father graves is looking at him in any remotely similar way. he's imagining that the brush of a hand on his shoulder means something too, like all the rest of his imaginings.

it's sinful.

sometimes he gets overwhelmed and excuses himself from being tutored for a few moments - lying and saying he needs to go to the bathroom is a sin too, he knows - but he always just needs a moment to breathe and stop his heart from beating right out of his chest. what does he want from him? affection? something more? credence is too scared to even ask himself that.

today he's so anxious that he has to excuse himself early and ends up leaning against the wall near the bathroom door rather than even hiding inside, head tipped forward and hands in his hair as he tries to relax. ] Stop being stupid, Credence.

[ it's barely audible even to himself and he closes his eyes, wondering how long it's going to take for his cheeks to fade from the flustered red tinge they've taken on. it's not even anything father graves has done: he's just helping him work, quizzing him on the proper answers, doing what needs to be done. but to be in such close proximity to him, to feel his presence, to have him so close that credence could reach out to touch him... he drops his head back until it thunks against the wall behind him. he needs to hurry back so father graves doesn't come looking for him, but he's too lost in thought to remember that just now.

he's definitely going to hell for this, and that is even worse. ]

[mund]

[ Here's the juicy little secret, the thing they don't tell you in Catechism, in your entire blessed lifetime: you are all. fucking. damned. That's the entire premise of grace and salvation, isn't it? You had to be a wretched piece of shit, or else the magic just isn't there. Graves knows that to his bones, of course -- being a priest lets you be two things: a holier-than-thou motherfucker (sometimes not literally, it all depends on how much you like the Madonna, and no, not the singer) or someone who's acutely aware of what's coming for you and it isn't seventy two virgins and a big house in the clouds. No, your destination's way down south.

Graves is very carefully neither, but he has his duties and his obligations (even if he sometimes doubts there's anyone out there at all), and he fulfills his duties with a severity and tenacity that will shame even the most hardened Puritans. But he's not without weakness, especially not when the biggest one comes in the form of a lanky, tall, and hunched young man with fine cheekbones and a generous mouth, with a general disposition that suggests that his mother keeps him firmly under her thumb, and cruelly so.

Credence Barebone. Graves is inexplicably kinder to him, for reasons that he's evidently realizing -- reasons aren't all platonically altruistic, reasons that have everything to do with the shy flutter of those eyelashes, the occasional pursing of those lips, the shy, awkwardly ardent nature of Credence's overtures. There is no doubt about it, the boy is both beautiful and tortured, which is all the more personally perplexing when Graves has historically never been inclined to favor any of those things.

Things get steadily worse when Graves wakes at night, mired in obscenely sensuous dreams, self-control shot to pieces by the threads of desire, need, because God made man and God made him so fucking flawed that he prays when he wraps his hand around his cock and he prays when he thinks of Credence's mouth around his dick, of him sinking deep into that tight, tight hole and he prays when he comes in a whisper of his name, buried in sin.

He's damned. Of course he is.

He asks for forgiveness the first six, seven, eight times it happens. Nine onwards, there's no 'first' anymore, and he stops asking. He lets it sit with him, this filthy little thing, this hobgoblin of the soul that reminds him how he wants more than anything to fuck Credence Barebone into the mattress, and on occasion he's half-certain Credence knows, that perhaps lust has a smell to it that he's already picked up, especially today. Graves doesn't miss the anxiety during this particular lesson, and when he excuses himself the priest gives him a grace period of four, five minutes.

He enters the empty bathroom on the sixth, surprised to see him there instead of locked away in a stall. ]

Are you all right?

[insidiose]

[ credence has dreams too. these are so much more vivid than his daytime imaginings, visions of the both of them tangled together with father graves above him, weighing him down, filling him in a way he can't even hope to accurately imagine and whispering filthy things into his ear that make credence arch against him and moan. he always wakes sweaty, heated, and hard. at first he'd tried to simply calm himself down and go back to sleep but night after night of waking with an ache in him he gives in, curling his fingers around his cock and thinking about the older man's body against his, imagining it's his hand wrapped around him instead and he always comes with his face hidden against his shoulder and a muffled mumble of father on his lips. every night he desperately cleans himself and the bed before he can be caught out in the morning. once, he'd done it huddled in the bathroom here hurried and desperate but it had made him feel so dirty and anxious that he couldn't bring himself to do it again.

perhaps it's funny on a cosmic level that they have such a similarity. credence never stops praying afterward then, begging for forgiveness.

credence's only experiences with anything are these moments and a series of clumsy kisses with another boy hidden away from prying eyes. but that had ended as quickly as it had started and he tries to forget it now that it's gone. it's not worth thinking about—his focus is elsewhere now anyway.

that focus has just walked through the door to find him.

credence startles visibly at the sound of father graves' voice and he looks at him guiltily, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. what if you had been touching yourself here again, a cruel part of his brain whispers, and his face immediately flushes red. ] I—

Yes, [ his voice is wavering slightly, nervous and shamed as he looks just slightly askance from the older man, but he's trying to not sound like he's lying. ] yes, I'm all right. I just didn't feel well for a moment, I'm sorry. [ sorry for thinking of you like that, sorry for sinning so much while i do, sorry, sorry, sorry ]

—Father Graves? [ it's blurted out suddenly before he can stop it. ] What are you supposed to do when you can't stop thinking about things that are sinful? I've prayed and I've prayed but nothing is helping. [ a heavy admission, and especially one outside of confession, but perhaps an understandable one for someone his age. certainly it doesn't mean he's talking about the man before him... right? ]

( you took to me so well )

[chaungen]

[ it had been an ugly fight, shutting down this trafficking ring--beasts and humans alike, starved and abused and changed. specialists had to be called in in the end, newt scamander for the beasts.. and with him, a very unusual young.. person. teddy lupin is a healer and a specialist in non-human physiology-- specifically that which occurs from curses and other magical alteration. most of his patients tend to be werewolves, vampires, and the like; people that other healers don't often willingly deal with. but then, it's rumored that he's a werewolf hybrid himself.

and then there's the other thing, the fact that he's one of those exceedingly rare beings called a metamorphmagus. needless to say, he's been a somewhat alarming figure around MACUSA headquarters since his arrival. ]


I have to admit that I've never really seen anything like what they were dosed with, [ he's saying this afternoon over coffee. --well, she's saying; she's currently a petite, busty witch with bubblegum-pink eyes and a short, pink bob. though her features are still vaguely like her default male shape, it would still be difficult to tell who she is if not for the white coat she wears with her name stitched neatly across it.

she lifts her cup, manicured pink nails tapping against the porcelain as she considers the report she'd just handed graves. ] I'm working to reverse-engineer it so I can better understand it, but all I can do right now is keep them stable. [ her eyes lift to his, and for a moment or two she looks a little flustered. she coughs, then, lashes dipping over her eyes again as she takes a sip of her coffee. she still doesn't care much for it, but it's growing on her. ] .. Newt's been very helpful, for the record. I know you don't think much of his creatures, but it's nice having immediate access to a wide range of exotic plants and venoms.

[mund]

[ graves might not think very much of his creatures, but times are changing -- and gradually, so is his opinion of them, especially when he, on the occasion, goes down to help newt out from time to time. not that anyone will ever find out, the way they keep whatever they have firmly under wraps. it's a strange thing, he supposes, this fancy, and when newt said that he would bring someone here, graves had very little idea it would be someone like him.

newt had promised interesting, but knowing the magizoologist, 'interesting' covers an immense range, and graves usually isn't entirely sure where the scale swings sometimes.

even so, he has to admit that the newest consultant that macusa is in the midst of testing out has gumption -- he's pretty, and young, and wholly strange in ways that pique graves' interest despite himself, and a part of him wonders if newt has already anticipated this, that this is why he'd asked him here.

teddy is now a girl, ridiculously attractive and in a shade of bright pink that is very nearly blinding (is that teddy's favorite color?). reading through the report she (he?) has given him, graves looks through the text, gleaning whatever he can from everything that's offered. teddy is clever, as bright as she is beautiful, and graves absently taps the side of the report as he contemplates her. ]

What did Newt say to that?

[chaungen]

[ teddy glances back up at the question, brows lifting in surprise. ] --About being helpful? [ a beat, then she grins, the pink of her hair turning a soft, pleased lavender. ] Oh, he knows that I quite like the work he does. We were only a few years apart in school, you know, and we were both in Hufflepuff. I'm very fond of him.

[ perhaps because newt had stood out in his own way as much as teddy did. of course, there couldn't be two people more opposite-- where newt is quiet and awkward and prefers the company of beasts, teddy is bright and outgoing and social. given his complicated approach to his sex and gender, though, not to mention the men he prefers, he'd learned the hard way to just embrace it all. the more stunned people are by him, the less likely they are to find the breath to condemn him.

she sets her cup back down again, uncrossing her legs and then re-crossing them the other way, pink eyes lifting to graves's again. ]

--Anyway, there's nothing else I can do tonight. And I checked with some of your Aurors before I came by: they said you haven't eaten since breakfast. [ her lips curve, amused and a little wicked. ] You should come by, let me cook for you.

leans in here

[cervidous]

[ he has a laundry list of behaviors that are considered "unacceptable" in the house.

prancing about on his hooves is one of them, but the tile is unkind so he seldom does that anymore.

tracking mud in the house, bringing in animals from outside, leaving pressed flowers in percival's folios and books. these are are mild offenses, ones that tegan toes the line of, acts out on, does anyways because it is simply in his nature.

but today, he decides that perhaps he'll err on the side of good behavior. what possesses him to do so is really a mystery, but here he is, clinging to the door frame on two slender, long legs, realizing now that the tile is very cold underneath the pads of his toes as he leans in against the wooden door and peers into percival's study. it's a grand thing, books lining the shelves, an enormous window that sheds beautiful daylight during the early hours. however, it is late and only the moon is high, casting a brilliant glow that intermingles, silver on the gold sconce lighting against the walls.

percival is going through some kind of paperwork--tegan will never understand it, but he's through with his own studies and rather bored.

he clears his throat. loudly. look at me. ]

[mund]

[ graves is reviewing statistics, reports on the hotbeds of criminal activity and contemplating changing out the aurors responsible for the area, since nothing seems to have changed since the last report two months ago. he is a busy man, but he tries to make time for his errant fawn, a lithe, lovely young thing that he indulges as well as disciplines -- although it's not so much discipline as withholding kisses when he misbehaves, and rewarding the good behavior he chooses to pick up.

tegan is a wildling not made for the trappings of city life -- a creature of nature itself, sunny and capricious and yet ultimately sweet natured and innocent. he can't deny that he likes seeing the occasional flower in his books, carefully pressed like he's sending a kiss through the pages, a wisp of a thought. here, this is for you. love me. it's innocence in it's purest form, and he keeps them even if he gentle chides tegan not to do that again.

there is one, a small flower with a defiantly indigo hue and a red, red heart, pressed inside of his wallet. it reminds him of tegan, even if he doesn't breathe a word of it to him; his fawn will ooze smugness for days.

this evening, graves senses tegan before he sees him, teetering on two legs as the young man peers in, those lovely eyes bright with silent demand. the moonlight reflected in his gaze lends him an indescribable allure; its very nature old even before the first tree reached roots into fertile soil.

he looks up only a moment, before he's drawn back on numbers and moving dots on parchment (it occurs to graves that he's eschewed hooves for the evening, but he knows better than to attach a charitable intent to it). ]

What's the matter?

shrugs

[ariadnos]

[ alba is still out at work that night when graves gets home-- so it's ariana that's stayed up to meet him, and actually, she meets him at the door, pink-cheeked and flustered as she takes his coat to hang it up. that's how she's been lately, though, interacting with graves, and it's not exactly difficult to guess why. with a brother like albus, who's done all kinds of things to support their family over the years, and in a household like this.. well, it was only a matter of time before ariana started showing interest in someone. it's just that no one quite expected that to be one of her brother's lovers.

it's obvious she didn't expect it to be graves, either, because as often as she gives him guilty little glances, she's never mentioned it--at least not to graves--and she's certainly never acted on it.

she smiles as she closes the hallway closet door, glancing back toward the older man. she's in her sleep-clothes and a robe, white-blond hair braided loosely down her back, barefoot on the cool floor. technically, it's inappropriate with a man that's not part of her family, but albus has never chided her about it, and graves has been with her brother long enough that she's never thought twice about this sort of thing. ]

I made dinner earlier, [ she says, and leans up to give him her usual chaste kiss on the cheek. ] Did you want me to heat it up for you?

[thieving]

[ there is no problem with percival graves.

he is practically perfect in every way possible, not a hair out of place, not a stitch undone, a face like stone, eyes like hard gems that peter wants to pluck out with his slender fingers.

no. percival graves is, without a doubt, perfect, or at least as close as you can get to it.

which is why he has him on his knees, because what's a perfect thing but another conquest? tonight, anyways. it's unusual fare, graves on his knees, his shirt collar peeled back, buttons undone. the sharp coat is abandoned at the doorway, the sharper shoes not far from the coat. peter makes short work of his belt, winding it slowly around his wrists with a little grin tattooed into his throat as he whispers that tonight they're going to play things a little differently. "By ear, I know you hate that," he'd whispered before leading him to this very place--a well-put together bedroom for a well-put together man that peter had thousands of ways to undo.

on his knees was a very good start.

kissing him and muddying his lipstick is an even better segue, the bright red a smear like blood, staining the corner of graves' mouth like a solidly placed punch (it could be said that peter's kisses were not unlike dirty death blows dealt in back alleys when you least expected them.)

peter takes his time now, perched on the edge of the enormous bed, one ankle gently braced between graves' thighs in such a way that friction is inevitable, pressure is inevitable, on such finely tailored trousers in such a tender place. he presses upwards a little bit, tilting his chin upwards, thumbing where he knows his lipstick has fallen just out of place, smeared, but more debauched than clumsy. his sharp eyes, sharper teeth, focus on the man on the floor and he smiles.

he presses up again, and encouragement to maybe get a closer to the opening of the tight little number he wears. it's conservative at the front, black, paneled, but up the thighs the slit is dangerous, and rucked up, it's even more so, giving graves a full view of less-than-innocent black lace. a set of slender fingers winds through the back of graves' hair tightly. ]

Ready for some more overtime, darling? [ he purrs out softly. ]

DILF meme.

[mund]

[ 40, modern AU - either Director of the FBI / Secretary of Homeland Security / Director of MACUSA (up to you). 2 year old daughter, Nimue Graves. ]

modern non-magical, so either of the first two job options

[lunisolar]

[Since losing Dora, Remus hasn't given much thought to romance. He'd been offered a professorial position at an American university and the thought of taking Teddy and starting over had been too tempting a prospect to refuse. He'd lost too much, in the UK, there were too many painful reminders.

Teddy had adapted quickly. He was still young, after all, only in pre-school. He took after his mother in demeanor, bright and cheerful, and Remus was more than happy to allow him his self-expression. If he wanted to wear a bright pink- and blue-striped tutu with his Superman shirt and rainbow-polka-dot ribbons in his hair, Remus would set straight anyone thinking he needed "correction" on what was appropriate for little boys to wear. Of course, that accommodation meant he had to be a little more selective about where to enroll him, but Teddy's security and happiness was more important than anything, and the university had a surprisingly robust allowance for childcare options.

Teddy's best friend at pre-school, at least as best as Remus could guess from his often nonsensical ramblings, was a little girl he called "Nimmy". He'd usually see the two of them playing when he went to pick up Teddy, but he'd never seen either of her parents at pick-up or drop-off.

He's in the middle of a lecture when he gets the call, and this daycare only calls if it's necessary, which is the only reason he answers. His students are all too happy to be out of class a half-hour early, he quickly emails the rest of his classes to inform them there'd be a cancellation and asks one of the other professors to put up signs about it for those unfortunate enough to not check their emails, and he's flying out the door.

There'd been a bloody bomb threat. Who sends a bomb threat to a daycare? Remus is equal parts fuming and terrified the entire drive. It was just a precaution, they'd said, they didn't expect it to actually turn up anything, but they were legally required to clear the building and send the children home.

Some of the kids are crying when he arrives, either having sensed the tension in their teachers or just upset that their usual routine had been broken. Teddy seemed fine, though, sat on the ground with Nimmy, chattering and making mud cakes. One of the teachers explained that the bomb squad needed to give them the clear before anyone could go back in to pick up their children's daybags, and to please remain calm and patient.

Remus sighed and crouched down by Teddy and his friend, kissing the top of the boy's head and taking a strange sort of pride in how unruffled his child was by the situation.]

"We made pies!" [Teddy states proudly, holding up a handful of vaguely shaped mud. Remus chuckles.]

Oh, is that for me?

"No, Papa! Don't eat!" [Well, at least he understands it's just pretend pie.]

Secretary of Homeland Security probs best -- lemme know if this doesn't work lmfao

[efficaciousness]

[ When Blake Moran had first researched Percival Graves he hadn't thought very much of him. He'd done some research for the Secretary of State, briefing her on the newly confirmed appointment. There was nothing of particular note that made him stand out and maybe it was a bit strange that there wasn't all that much to learn about the man that was no running one of the most important departments of the United States.

That being said, when Blake had first met Graves in person it had been another matter. He'd not seemed to have much patience for the the Secretary's executive aide who was tasked with stalling him just outside of Elizabeth's office as she dealt with a last minute conference call with Ambassador Ming of China. If anyone knew anything about Ming it's that he's annoying and tends to ruffle the Secretary's feathers. The last thing needed then would be for Graves to burst in in the middle of what was likely a heated dialogue.

On top of that, Blake hadn't known what the meeting was for -- which means that the Secretary of State didn't know what the meaning was for and neither of them liked that very much which transcended to a dislike of the man causing the issue -- Secretary Graves.

From that meeting, however, came many more meetings and a high level joint project between the departments that Blake didn't even have full clearance for -- which hindered his own abilities to assist the Secretary and she ended up frazzled at him more often than not. Despite that, there was less animosity between them all.

During one of the lulls when Elizabeth had to step away to deal with a foreign diplomat while Graves was present, Blake was alone with him. They'd talked about any number of things and the conversation had ended in somehow Blake very awkwardly blurting out an invitation to dinner.

For some ungodly reason, Graves had accepted and that had been the start of a string of dates. In truth, it had been a long time since Blake had dated anyone. His job at State took up all of his time and most people didn't understand that. Then there was the annoyance of people incorrectly assuming things about him and just the right man or woman had never been in the right place. He'd already known that Graves had a daughter from his original research but they'd never really talked about her before. So, after -- well he's lost count of the dinners -- the something-th dinner, they were at Blake's tiny DC apartment, his cat locked away as she doesn't seem quite partial to Graves yet.

Blake finally brings it up: ]

Are you ever going to mention your daughter? [ Maybe this is Blake's subtle way of wanting to establish if they're something more than casually dating, not that Graves seems the particularly casual type to him but sexual and romantic encounters have their own dynamics. ]

modern non-magical exes AU also I'M NOT SORRY

[ex_assertiveness90]

Stella Gibson is not usually attracted to powerful men.

She's not, truly. Powerful men tend to be arrogant, self-centered, afraid of losing control, and either unaware of the effect their power might have on others or too willing to use it as a tool of manipulation. Probably most critically for her, they also tend to have difficulties when confronted by a powerful woman. Nine times out of ten, she's found men in positions of power feel the most threatened not by other men, but by women who might be equally as intelligent, competent, or ambitious — and for an intelligent, competent, ambitious woman like Stella, the idea of having to cope with that even on a short-term basis is not appealing in the slightest.

Percival Graves was — is — a little different. The scent of power had hung over him like strong cologne from the moment they'd met three years ago, he an assistant director at the FBI, she a detective chief inspector with the Met, crossing paths over some business of extraditing a criminal from the UK to the US. She'd intended to stay well clear of him, to treat their interaction as completely professional — really, that's what she always intends, except for some reason it never quite works out that way. There had been power there, certainly, and control, and maybe a little more willingness to push the boundaries of what was acceptable when it came to dealing with suspects and offenders than she liked — but there had also been maturity, and confidence, and a sense of justice and fairness, and a desire to protect. That he had treated her like an equal, without trying to assert some sort of patriarchal male-dominance bullshit, had really been the bare minimum she'd expected of him — it's the bare minimum she expects of any man — but combined with everything else it had caught and held her attention firmly. One night he'd asked her out for drinks after work, and the next thing she knew they'd been fucking in his hotel room after only a couple glasses of scotch, not nearly enough to blame the alcohol. It would have been easy enough for her to pass him off as just another in her long list of conquests, another notch on the metaphorical bedpost, but then she'd got his mobile number and it had all gone downhill from there. Stella can't say when the lust had turned into actual liking, let alone when the liking had turned into something deeper — probably somewhere between the time she'd started phoning him just to say hello (she never does this, with anyone) and the time he'd flown to London again, but this time expressly to see her. For a little while, it had almost seemed as if things might have worked out, despite the distance and their differences. She'd never once considered marrying him, but perhaps they could manage something like a relationship after all. They'd gone on for a little over a year like that, and then—

Things just broke. Stella doesn't have any other way to describe it other than she had quite simply realized he couldn't give her what she needed, and she thinks he'd felt the same way. The problem hadn't been their differences in the end, but their similarities, both of them too much in need of control to compromise. It had ended as amicably as possible, she thinks; she'd even done him the courtesy of breaking things off in person, rather than through the cold distance of a phone call or text message. Only after the fact had she realized she'd probably been at least a little bit in love with him, judging by the way her mood had abruptly turned so poor she'd had to bury herself further in work to avoid dwelling on it or doing something really, really stupid like changing her mind. A year later had been the Moon case, and then her promotion to superintendent — and then the Spector investigation in Belfast, and that had consumed her life for more than two months. More than two months in which she hadn't had time or energy to think of anything else except catching a man responsible for the deaths of three women. And then Spector had killed himself to avoid justice, and Stella had gone back to London having — at least in her mind — completely failed.

A month later and the ghost of Belfast still clings to her like cobweb. Her boss the chief superintendent asks her to go to a policing conference in the States, some sort of series of cross-disciplinary workshops, and though she suspects it's an attempt to distract her, she goes anyway. She doesn't even think about the fact that it's in Washington, DC, and she certainly doesn't expect to encounter a man she hasn't seen nor spoken to in over two years. But there's a black-tie dinner before the conference, about the only time anyone might convince her to wear a dress, and there are a few FBI people there, and — there he is, there's Graves (Percival) and she has the sudden, ridiculous urge to bolt. Her own pride stifles it hard; she doesn't run from things like this, that's absurd. She actually allows herself to go up to him and say hello, have a conversation — she's an adult, she can do this — but at the end of the night he's inviting her to his apartment and fuck, fuck, she really ought to say no but she can't. Doesn't even want to. Jesus, when did she turn into such a masochist?

So this is how Stella ends up drinking wine with her ex-boyfriend (God, she hates that word) in his kitchen, making small talk — she finds out he got promoted, too, in the interim, and work is an easy discussion but she doesn't set one toe near the thought of asking him if he's seeing someone else. She doesn't want to know. She doesn't because if she learns he's seeing another woman (or a man, whatever, she doesn't care), then she might for once manage to feel guilty. Guilty for being here with him when they both know this isn't what they should be doing. Guilty for having spent the whole night at the dinner thinking about fucking him. Guilty for finally putting down her wine after a glass and a half because all of a sudden she can't stand talking to him without touching him, a feeling like rubbing salt in a raw wound. Fuck, this is why she doesn't get involved with anyone. Stella steps into him, catches both her hands in the lapels of his suit jacket and tilts up to kiss him, only a short distance in four-inch stiletto heels. Part of her wants this rough, wants to shove him into the counter island and bite him hard enough to bleed, but instead — instead she's slow, almost tender, just a little bit needy in the way she strokes her tongue over his lower lip to urge him to open for her. For once, she doesn't want to have to think about anything.

leaves this here i guess idk

[pointedlook]

[ When he'd been reassigned to be Percival Graves' personal assistant, well, it'd just been another thing for him to put on his resume. Since getting employed by the wizards and witches headquarters in the US, he'd been bopped around from one department to another. His HR contact– Olivia Farnes, bless her heart– told him it was because he was very good at what he did but they didn't always have a permanent home for his skillset.

They were very reluctant to let him go, though, and she'd apologized profusely when handing him his new assignment. Personal assistant had never been on his docket, so he'd raised a questioning brow at her and Olivia just apologized some more. The benefits, though, they looked like they might outweigh the annoyance of being a glorified secretary. And well, he didn't have any personal issues with Percival Graves. The man got shit done, which was more than enough for a modicum of respect in his book.

Because of this, they've been ships passing in the night, only seeing each other long enough to say hello and for Arthur to hand him a stack of scrolls that needed his signature. It's been a month of this and frankly, he doesn't mind. He has rule of the upper office and receiving room, has rearranged everything to his exacting standards because whoever kept it together before him– well, their organization had been terrible.

Today, though, they're both in the office space. Oddly enough. Stretching, he gets up to bring in the scheduled paperwork as well as notify Graves he's off for lunch. ]

Director? These need your signature, in the areas I marked. [ Little charms hover over the signature areas, keeping them highlighted. ]

I'm heading to lunch; did you need anything?

[mund]

[ Graves has strict, exacting standards when it comes to his direct subordinates, especially his personal assistants, who fulfill a much more crucial function than it says on the job description. Considering the sheer amount of work that comes across his desk daily, as well as the rigors of his position and his dedication to utmost efficiency, there are unfortunately not too many who are equipped to handle his demands. Hazards of the job, he supposes -- as the President's right hand, Graves keeps hellish hours, but he's long been used to it.

This time around, however, Human Resources finally manages to find him someone competent, someone who is capable of keeping up with his punishing schedule, performing as an effective buffer between him and the more administrative part of the organisation. As for the executive branch of the organisation, Arthur shows a canniness towards dealing with the other Head Aurors of the respective branches who tended to think that the personal assistant of their boss is someone they could push around -- Graves had been fortunate to be within earshot when their misconceptions had been firmly corrected.

It doesn't hurt, either, that the man is easy on the eyes and quick on the uptake, swift to disseminate minutes of meeting notes with an eye for detail that he has come to admire. In the business of keeping his own Aurors alive, Arthur has been a great boon.

He glances down at the documents for his signature, scanning through its contents with a soft word of acknowledgement before he pens down his signature, the mark glowing before seeping into the paper. ]

Anything edible and fuss-free. [ He says absently, absorbed in the reports as he flips through one, then the other, and another. ]

Has the Bureau submitted its yearly crime report yet?

[ The deadline is tomorrow, but anyone worth their salt who's worked under Graves understands full well that the real deadline was yesterday. ]