mund | open post.

[ 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?

Edited 2017-03-09 16:26 (UTC)

[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.]

[ 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?

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ 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. ]

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

Edited 2017-08-02 00:09 (UTC)

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.

[ 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?

proscribed. (royalty)

mund. (royalty pt.2)

proscribed. (sex party)

→ a little priest

( you took to me so well )

leans in here

shrugs

no subject

DILF meme.

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

leaves this here i guess idk