Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9067384.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fantastic_Beasts_and_Where_to_Find_Them_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Credence_Barebone/Percival_Graves_|_Gellert_Grindelwald, Credence
      Barebone/Other(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Public_Humiliation, alpha_graves, Omega
      Credence, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Teacher-Student_Relationship,
      Ilvermorny, Gangbang, Gang_Rape, Protectiveness
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-29 Words: 5065
****** Flagrate ******
by nonconanon
Summary
     At a branch of Ilvermorny devoted to squibs and delinquents, Credence
     goes into heat. Mr. Graves devises a punishment for him.
Credence squirms in his chair. It’s small and hard and uncomfortable, like all
lecture hall chairs. He can’t figure out what went wrong--he swears he took all
of his suppressants. There’s no reason to go into heat. Yet here he is, in
Defense Against the Dark Arts, surrounded by alphas and betas and a few of his
classmates who haven’t yet presented. It’s mortifying. He is the only omega in
the entire small school, a boarding branch of Ilvermorny for squibs and
troubled youth. His magic is pathetic, he knows, but he tries. Mr. Graves gives
him open glances of disgust whenever his secondhand wand sparks uselessly in
his hand.
Last week, Mr. Graves made him face a bogart, and when a ghastly visage of his
mother stormed out of the custodial closet, Credence fell to the ground in a
heap of tears and screaming. It was the only time Mr. Graves had ever shown him
a kindness. He picked Credence up and dismissed class, and in the privacy of
the empty room, he held Credence while he cried, whispering what a good boy he
was. Credence was baffled by the sudden display of affection, but clung to Mr.
Graves until the trembling and tears finally subsided.
After that, Credence hasn’t been able to look at Mr. Graves the same. He thinks
about him before he falls asleep, finds himself anticipating Defense Against
the Dark Arts even though it’s his most difficult class. He daydreams about Mr.
Graves and blushes whenever their eyes meet. He can smell the alphahood roll
off of him, stronger than all the other students. It feels like it attacks
Credence personally, seeping into his brain and pushing all his buttons.
It might have something to do with the heat he’s gone into, considering he felt
the stirrings of it in the minutes before class had started. Heats are strictly
forbidden and grounds for expulsion, so he can only sit, entire body clenched,
and hope no one smells it on him. The school is known as Ilvermorny’s blind
eye, where the bullies are sent for more unique kinds of punishment, the squibs
educated only enough to become servants to the wizarding community, not much
more than house elves. Anything goes here, and Credence doesn’t know if he’d
rather take expulsion or whatever creative punishment Mr. Graves could plan for
him.
He has pitched himself in the furthest corner of the room, knees tucked to his
chest. His skin feels clammy and hot, like everything on the inside wants to
make its way out. He can’t look at Mr. Graves at all because that makes it
worse. Mr. Graves is lecturing on duels today. Abernathy is standing nervously
in front of him, several paces away, wand held tight in his grip with a look of
terror on his face.
“I want you to block, alright,” Mr. Graves says. He tosses a charm at
Abernathy, who, instead of blocking it, dodges. The charm shoots into the wall
and makes a charred mark.
“S-sorry,” Abernathy says as he rights himself.
“Again.”
They continue like this. Credence’s eyes continue to stray to Mr. Graves’ bared
forearms, sleeves rolled to his elbows, clad in his waistcoat and trousers; the
glistening sweat on his brow; the salt and pepper stubble dotting his jaw. And
worse, the ferocity in his eyes as he slings curses at an incompetent
Abernathy, helpless to Mr. Graves’ cruelty. In some dark part of him, Credence
wishes to be on the other side of his wand, facing him like Abernathy is, to be
at the center of Mr. Graves’ attention even at the risk of spells he doesn’t
even know. He would rather have Mr. Graves’ temper than his apathy.
Mr. Graves runs a hand through his now-disheveled hair. He gestures to the
seats of boys and says, “Go sit down.”
When Abernathy scurries away, he scans the room and says, “Who’s next?”
Credence curls up tighter, making himself small and wishing he knew a spell for
turning himself invisible. Or at least masking his heat.
Mr. Graves’ eyes land on Credence. He lifts his nose in the air and sniffs.
Credence closes his eyes and resorts to the No-Maj prayers his mother had
forced upon him, anything to get him out of this.
Mr. Graves asks the room, “You all smell it too, yes?”
Credence cracks an eye open to see a few boys nodding in agreement. Others look
bewildered and seem to nod only because everyone else is. Mr. Graves is still
staring directly at him. Credence can hear his heavy footfalls as he slowly
walks through the aisles of desks. They stop when he reaches Credence. He bends
down so that his breath is hot against Credence’s cheek, voice surprisingly
soft as he says, “You know the rules, Credence.”
Tears prick the corners of Credence’s eyes and he gives a slight nod. His
entire body feels like it’s on fire. He’s only had a few heats, when he was
younger and living in an orphanage. His mother abandoned him shortly after he
presented, and then he was accepted into school where the administration
offered him suppressants and stern rules.
“Did you forget your suppressants?”
Credence shakes his head and whimpers, “I didn’t, I swear. I don’t know--”
“Don’t lie to me, boy.”
“I’m not, I--”
“Front of the room. Now,” Mr. Graves says, and walks away. As he makes his way
up front, he announces, “We are civilized creatures, students.”
Credence unfurls himself and hesitantly follows, shoulders slumped so he
doesn’t have to watch the glares of his peers. He feels them smelling him as he
passes, some disgusted, some confused, some aroused.
“We are better than our fellow No-Maj,” Mr. Graves continues. “We are better
than our base instincts. When one of us fails to maintain hygiene, he threatens
all of us. And we, as men, as wizards, decide whether or not to seize that
threat, whether to let our darkest selves overcome us.”
When Credence reaches the front, Mr. Graves uses the tip of his wand to tilt
Credence’s chin up. Their eyes meet; his gaze is gentle yet greedy. His pupils
have dilated so that he looks like Credence feels--like an animal, a beast
wanting to succumb to his baser instincts. In the smallest voice at the deepest
part of him, Credence hopes he does.
“As punishment,” Mr. Graves adds, softly, as if speaking only to Credence, “we
will take a test.”
The students groan.
Mr. Graves takes a step away from Credence and announces, “A test of control,
to prove that we are capable of stifling our baser instincts when Mr. Barebone
has not given us the same courtesy.”
He turns back to Credence and gestures toward the large oak desk beside them.
“Bend over.”
“Sir, Mr. Graves, please…” Credence whispers, forcing back the crack in his
voice. Tears are welling up in his vision. He can feel his own slick staining
the back of his pants, an uncomfortable wetness leaking out of him that the
whole class will surely see if he bends over.
Mr. Graves steps into his space, pressing his cheek to Credence’s. Credence can
feel his stubble scrape against him, the kind he hasn’t grown successfully on
his own yet. He’s never had to shave, and his face is still baby smooth.
“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, not unkindly, “repeat after me.”
Credence gives a slight nod.
“Good boys accept their punishments.”
Credence swallows heavily. He wonders if his classmates could hear it, if he
can say it quietly enough that they can’t hear his repetition. As softly as he
can, he says, “Good boys accept their punishments.”
Mr. Graves steps away, smiling darkly. “I’m glad we agree. Now bend over the
desk.”
Knees weak, Credence turns around, thankfully away from the class, and puts his
hands on the cool, notched oak. Not a terribly humiliating posture, but he can
see the dark wet stain in his mind’s eye regardless. Perhaps his classmates are
too far away to see it, or his jacket might cover it up.
In his peripheral vision he sees Mr. Graves make a small hand gesture, and
feels his own belt come undone, his pants unbuttoning. He yelps in surprise
when the fabric of his pants and boxers fall down to his thighs, and he
immediately spreads his legs to stop the movement, which only leaves him
further exposed. Another spell hits him, this one freezing him in place like
his palms are covered in glue, his feet trapped in cement.
His whole body is trembling, the room deadened in its heavy silence. The smell
of alpha boys nearly suffocates him, especially Mr. Graves’, whose scent he
could still pick out in a crowd on a rainy day. It stirs the arousal in him so
much that even more slick comes out of him; this time he can feel it pulsing
out of his hole and dripping down his inner thigh. His cock is hard and leaking
too, but it’s the least of his concerns, the puddle he’s dripping onto the nice
desk.
“Now,” Mr. Graves says, directed to the class, “you’ll spend the remainder of
the period reading chapter eleven of your textbooks silently while an omega
writhes in heat mere feet away. Passing the test means you keep in your seat.
Failing the test means coming up here and mounting the omega. Yes, Mr.
Baumstrudel.”
A boy asks, voice rough and too breathy, “What happens if we...if we fail?”
Mr. Graves pauses a moment to consider this. “Detention and ten points revoked
from your house.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Credence can hear shifting and murmuring, students wondering if a single
detention and ten house points is worth being able to fuck an omega in heat. It
seems unfair, and unlikely that every single one of them will obey, especially
since most of them are delinquents anyway.
Mr. Graves rounds the desk and takes a seat. Credence dares a glance up at him;
tears stream down his face--he’s not scared of being mounted by and in front of
his peers, rather that he wants it so badly, like his body has completely
betrayed him. He wants nothing more than for boys to line up behind him and
breed him one by one, fill him up with their seed until his stomach distends
with pups. And he wants Mr. Graves to watch every moment of it, to see that
he’s a slut worth breeding, a willing and obedient omega.
Mr. Graves glances at his face without meeting his eyes. His gaze trails over
Credence the same way he looks at the chalkboard, flatly, like Credence isn’t a
person at all, just today’s lesson. Then he takes his quill out and starts
grading papers. Credence watches his hands as he works, quick jagged movements
across the page, and he’s so entranced that he barely notices the screech of a
chair on the floor, or a heavy pair of boots approaching him. Then there’s
someone else’s warm aura right behind him, and a meaty hand on his hip.
“No, please,” Credence begs, though whether it’s to the boy or Mr. Graves or
even himself, he’s not sure. He only knows the slickness crawling down his
thighs, the heavy scent of alphas surrounding him, all becoming increasingly
aroused.
Mr. Graves glances up only to make note of which boy failed the test, then
Credence catches him write a name down on another paper--Millerson, which rings
a bell. A big blonde boy who breathes through his mouth.
The pop of buttons and shifting of fabric, and suddenly the fat head of a cock
is breaching his entrance and sliding into him. Credence’s stomach bottoms out
and he takes in a surprised inhale. Millerson pounds into him with no finesse,
no noise but for the slapping of thighs and the occasional grunt. Credence
counts the seconds--it takes less than a minute before Millerson is coming deep
inside of him, still and pulsing.
Millerson is one of the worst students in the school, Credence thinks. It’s
possible no one will follow in his footsteps. But then Millerson pulls out and
walks away, and another dick replaces it, this one thinner. Credence squeezes
his eyes shut so he doesn’t see the name Mr. Graves writes down. The boy fucks
him fast and hard, longer than Millerson had, two minutes maybe. He comes
shallowly, so when he pulls out, Credence can feel his come slide out of him
too, down his balls and dripping into the crotch of his pants.
Credence has a few seconds of a break before the thickest cock yet plows into
him. This time Credence lets out a broken sob--it hurts, it burns, he feels too
full of cock and seed and the arousal is only getting worse instead of better.
He feels so close to the edge but he doesn’t want to let himself come, not from
this, not from being mounted and bred in front of all his peers.
This boy fucks him slowly, grunting the whole time. Tears fall down Credence’s
face and he can no longer hold himself up. He collapses onto the desk and feels
wetness welling under his cheek. With the force of the boy’s thrusts, his own
cock is grazing against the edge of the desk, and it feels good but it’s not
nearly enough to satisfy.
The boy pulls out and Credence can hear a wet sound as he jacks himself with
his fist and comes all over the back of Credence’s thighs.
Another boy, and another. There’s rustling behind him like a lineup. Each boy
takes a handful of seconds to a couple minutes and fill him up until he can
actually feel his stomach begin to swell. His ass and thighs are soaked with
sweat and slick and come. He’s weeping and drooling into onto the desk, and
occasionally opens his eyes to look at Mr. Graves and beg him to let it stop.
His whole body is cramping from the position he’s in, and his knees are
threatening to give out. When they finally do, the spell keeps him locked in
place.
Mr. Graves ignores him, only moving occasionally to flip a piece of paper over.
When the bell finally rings, the last boy comes silently and pulls out too
quickly; Credence’s asshole clenches around nothingness, pulsing out pools of
come. His own cock is so hard he’s in unbearable physical pain from it, but
it’s mitigated by the intense relief he feels at the ebbing away of his heat.
He can hear the rush of boys dashing out of the room, the laughter and back-
pats they all give each other just outside the door. Mr. Graves lifts his hand
and makes a lazy gesture, unlocking Credence’s invisible restraints. There’s
nothing holding him up, so he crumples to the ground, pants still tangled
around his thighs, ass leaking dozens of boys’ come onto the cold tile. But his
heat is over, and all he can feel is gratitude--toward Mr. Graves, for making
it as quick as possible, for watching the whole thing. Credence doesn't want to
think about how much worse it would have been if he'd been caught in the
hallways or dorm rooms in heat. He would have been expelled and left destitute
on the street again. Or worse, sent back to his mother.
“You’re dismissed, Credence,” Mr. Graves says. “I hope you learned your
lesson.”
 
Credence doubles up on his suppressants but it’s still not enough. He can feel
his heat bubbling up just two weeks later, in the slight tremble of his hands,
the heightening of his senses, erections happening at the most inopportune
times. He sees the way the other boys look at him now, hungry like animals,
hoping he goes into heat and Mr. Graves will punish him again so they can all
have their fun like last time.
He thinks he has a couple more days until it hits him, but Millerson, the first
boy who mounted him during his punishment, sniffs the air one day while
Credence is washing his hands in the bathroom. Millerson unbuttons his pants to
use the urinal. He’s the most alpha student in the whole school, if such a
thing were possible, all fatty muscle and a hideous underbite, ugly crew cut
and shirts that never fit him right. They’re alone in the bathroom, and
Millerson smiles at him crookedly.
“Bitch in heat again, huh,” he says while pissing onto the porcelain.
“N-no,” Credence replies, trying to dry his hands quickly so he can leave.
“How about I help you with that. Like last time.” Millerson shakes his dick
twice and shoves it back in his pants, but doesn’t bother buttoning them again.
Credence makes for the door but Millerson gets in the way. He pushes Credence
back into a corner and cups his dick, which is already hard. He can feel his
body betray him again, slick welling up between his asscheeks. Millerson grabs
his own dick and strokes it to hardness, then he spins Credence around and
shoves him against the wall so his cheek and chest are pressed against it. He
sidles up behind Credence and grinds against his ass, breath hot on Credence’s
face.
“Bet you like this, you fucking slut,” Millerson whispers. “Bet you liked all
of us breeding you that day.”
Credence shakes his head, shame roiling in his gut. It was a lie; he did like
it. At least a part of him did. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it,
of the feeling of warm fullness, Mr. Graves’ watching him get mounted over and
over again, taking it like the good omega slut he was. The punishment was
really a kindness, he realized later. 
“Please don’t,” Credence says. It feels like the air absorbs his words as if he
didn’t even say them. And it doesn’t stop Millerson from reaching around him
and unbuttoning Credence’s pants, then shoving them down to his ankles.
Credence is exposed again like before, and the chill air covers his skin with
goosebumps. His shirttails hang over bared skin, and Millerson lifts them to
shove two fat fingers in Credence’s ass.
“Tight for an omega,” Millerson says as he pushes a third into him. Credence
isn’t wet or ready enough so it hurts, and he can feel his heat rising faster
because of it.
Millerson fucks his fingers in and out of Credence, the other hand gripping the
collar of Credence’s jacket and keeping him in place. Credence hates himself
for humping the wall in time with Millerson’s thrusts, cloudy spurts of precome
smearing the plaster, getting too much pleasure out of something so terrible.
When Millerson pulls his fingers out, he lines himself up behind Credence.
Credence can feel his thick cock sliding between his cheeks, periodically
grazing his rim, cockhead peeking in before sliding out again. Credence feels
his heat creep up his spine more rapidly than it normally does, but he clenches
his teeth and keeps it down, keeps it from overtaking him.
“Just do it,” Credence finds himself saying. “Just get it over with.”
Millerson lets out a filthy laugh against Credence’s neck. “Well if you’re in a
hurry--”
The door slams open and Credence can hear a pop of magic, and suddenly
Millerson is being pushed away from him. There’s a yelp and a thud against the
opposite wall, and Credence turns around to see Millerson slumped in a corner,
unconscious, dick waning to softness.
He smells Mr. Graves before he sees him. He looks over to see him breathless
with a rouge tingeing his cheeks and a look of unbridled fury on his face that
Credence has never seen. His wand is out and pointing at Millerson as if he
expects the boy to get up and fight him.
Credence pulls his pants up hurriedly and buttons them with shaking hands--his
heat has finally arrived in full force. It hits him like a train now that Mr.
Graves is here, and his whole body feels like it’s on fire now. He has to lean
against the wall to keep himself upright.
Mr. Graves finally notices him and his face softens at the same time his gaze
grows more intense. “Credence.”
“How, how did you--”
“I could smell you going into heat again. And I could smell this…” He points
his wand at Millerson again. “...beastmixing with your scent.” He gives
Credence a stern glare and says, “No one is allowed to touch you without my
permission, do you understand?”
Credence had no idea such a rule existed, or why it existed, but he gives a
small nod.
“Are you alright?” Mr. Graves asks, stepping closer. His smell is overwhelming.
It takes all of his willpower not to drop to his knees and beg Mr. Graves to
please, please fuck him.
Credence nods. Then he hesitates and shakes his head, and he’s crying again
because his whole body aches with the need to be bred, and he hates that
feeling as much as he loves it. He covers his face with his hands, but then a
pair of strong arms are wrapped around him, petting his hair and shushing him.
“It’s alright,” Mr. Graves says. “This time we’ll wait it out, take you
somewhere safe.”
 
They go to a classroom in the topmost spire of the school. It’s locked, so Mr.
Graves whispers alohomora and it opens. The desks are covered in dust and the
air smells musty and stale, but it’s so far away from the other students that
he’s sure his heat could pass undetected here. He shares a dorm with three
alphas who would surely take advantage of him in the middle of the night like
Millerson did, if he didn't get expelled first.
“You need to be taking your suppressants,” Mr. Graves says as he goes around
the room closing the shutters.
“I am,” Credence replies. His voice wavers. “I doubled up on them.”
Mr. Graves glances at him from across the room. “Then why is this is still
happening?”
“I think it’s--” He interrupts himself to swallow the lump in his throat. He
averts his eyes as he says, “I think it’s you, sir.”
“Me?”
“I think being around you, sir, triggers the heat.” He can feel his face and
the tips of his ears turn pink. When Mr. Graves doesn’t respond, he replies,
“Thank you, by the way. If you hadn’t done what you did...before, with all the
boys, the heat would have lasted much longer than it did. Days, maybe.”
Credence risks a glance at Mr. Graves. He’s staring at Credence with longing,
eyes blown and mouth open, the way Credence used to look at full meals before
he understood that food was plentiful here and that he no longer had to go
hungry. Credence can smell the alpha arousal rolling off of him. 
He’s still wet and open from Millerson’s fingers, and the need to be filled is
completely overwhelming. He’s dizzy with it, and balances himself on a desk.
“Would you be willing to, maybe…” he ventures.
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Graves says with a terse shake of his head.
“Fraternization with the students is strictly prohibited. I did what I could,
before, knowing it would be worse outside of my control.”
“I know,” Credence replies. “But if you could just--”
“No. We’ll wait here until it passes, and then we’ll take you to the clinic and
triple your dose.”
Credence glares at him. “It won’t work. I can feel it when you’re around me.
It’ll start happening faster, and harder, until you--”
Mr. Graves makes a hand gesture and Credence feels pressure on his throat. Not
enough to choke him, but enough that his head lifts up and his body with it,
floating a foot above ground. His arms lift above his head and he can feel
invisible ropes around his wrists. He tries to struggle, but he’s trapped, like
before.
“You will stay there until your heat subsides, and I will watch over you. Is
that understood?”
The pressure lifts just enough that Credence can nod.
 
Hours pass in a fog of unawareness. Mr. Graves eventually removes the
restraints and guides Credence onto a chair, keeping a safe distance across the
room. He conjures a meal, which Credence eats greedily. Night falls, and the
heat gets worse--worse than it’s ever been. It feels like the very core of him
is burning him alive; every breath is agony. He can barely see or think or
move. He gets so hot he has to rip off his clothes. Mr. Graves allows it, even
assists with gentle flicks of his wand, until Credence is naked and curled up
on a long desk at the front of the room.
He tries to take himself in hand to no avail, spreads his legs wide and fucks
his own fingers, all the while knowing Mr. Graves is watching him debase
himself. Tears stream out of the corners of his eyes and fall down to his ears.
His entire body is soaked in sweat, and occasionally Mr. Graves will levitate a
glass of water over to him, tilt Credence’s head back and slowly pour the cool
liquid between his lips. Occasionally Credence will look at him--stare at him,
even, especially the moments he has four fingers inside himself trying to make
the pain go away--and expect to see something in him, but Mr. Graves only leans
against the wall, watching him between glancing out a slat in the closed
blinds. The only indication that he is struggling like Credence is the
increasing smell of arousal from him, the soulless darkness behind his eyes.
Credence goes through bouts of shameless begging, and makes it to his feet only
to crawl toward Mr. Graves, who will let him a foot away before lifting an
invisible wall between them and levitating Credence back to his desk, like a
sick game of fetch that neither of them can win.
 
The dull light of dawn creeps through the panes, and Credence awakens more
tired than he fell asleep. He feels a warmth over his body, like a blanket
that’s not really there. Mr. Graves is sitting in the corner with his knees
tucked to his chest, head against the wall, asleep.
Credence sits up and the magic blanket slides off of him. The heat is still
there, but the roar of it has lessened. He carefully approaches Mr. Graves,
kneels down in front of him, and reaches a hand out to touch him. Before he
can, Mr. Graves’ eyes open and he lashes out to grip Credence’s throat. There’s
nothing behind his eyes at all; they’re almost completely black. His lip furls
up and he lets out a low growl. There is no more Mr. Graves left, just his base
instincts, as he called them. The part of himself that wants to mate, to
connect himself to Credence in the way they both know they are already
connected. 
“Mr. Graves,” Credence struggles, scraping at Mr. Grave’s forearm. He’s still
mercilessly hard, and now throbbing with a renewed flourish of heat at having
skin on skin contact.
Mr. Graves stands, pulling Credence up with him, and throws him with alarming
strength onto the desk he just came from. He’s still growling somewhere deep in
his throat as he looks Credence’s body up and down like he owns it. He pushes
Credence’s legs apart and pulls him to the edge of the desk.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Credence says, though all his body can do
is open up and beg to be mounted again. Slick slides up the small of his back.
Mr. Graves makes quick work of his belt and fly, and Credence can’t see his
cock before it’s pushing into him. He bends Credence in half and fucks him hard
and fast, eyes never straying from his face. Credence cries out in pleasure and
pain, and begins begging for something--more, less, he doesn’t know. He can
feel his hole clench against Mr. Graves’ cock and try to pull him deeper. Mr.
Graves keeps a hand on Credence’s throat, squeezing until Credence sees stars
and can feel little half-moon nail marks on his flesh.
His entire body goes limp and suddenly Mr. Graves has pulled out. He manhandles
him roughly to the ground, where he bends Credence over the desk and fucks into
him again. His hand never leaves Credence’s throat, folded over him and fucking
him so hard Credence can feel a knot begin to press against his walls.
It grows and grows, bigger than a knot has any right to be, and then there are
teeth at the back of his neck, biting gently at first, and then harder. The
knot presses against a spot in Credence that makes him scream, and suddenly
he’s coming all over himself and the desk, clawing at it, toes curling against
the tile.
Mr. Graves continues fucking the knot into him until Credence comes again,
crying out and just crying, body so overcome with pleasure and relief he can’t
control himself. He comes a third time but loses track after that; all he knows
is that he’s shouting and losing himself and the only thing grounding him are
the teeth breaking skin at the nape of his neck.
Mr. Graves stills and Credence can feel the vibration of the growl still
trapped in his chest, poised and panting. The knot pops and Credence comes once
more, so sensitive it almost hurts, and he can feel himself swell with all the
come flooding inside of him, like before, but now he doesn’t want to lose a
drop of it, wants to keep it all inside him until he’s fucked full of Mr.
Graves’ pups.
The teeth let go of him but the knot stays inside. Mr. Graves brushes his lips
against the fresh wound on his neck, and whispers, “Credence. I’m sorry. It
just…”
“I know,” Credence says, forehead pressed against the desk as he catches his
breath. His heat finally breaks, slipping out of him as easily as shedding a
jacket.
“But you’re mine now,” Mr. Graves adds, peppering his neck and shoulders with
kisses. “My good boy.”
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