Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10411113.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fantastic_Beasts_and_Where_to_Find_Them_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Credence_Barebone/Original_Percival_Graves
  Character:
      Credence_Barebone, Original_Percival_Graves
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Shotgunning, Drug_Use, Underage
      Smoking, Underage_Sex, Frottage
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-03-23 Words: 2266
****** boogeyman ******
by brittlelimbs
Summary
     credence is a sweet, nerdy high schooler. graves is his dealer, and
     gets him high for the first time. smut ensues.
Notes
     written quick and dirty for a shotgunning prompt on my blog.
See the end of the work for more notes
they’re in a state bordering another state where this stuff is legal. it’s
night, and mr. graves pulls them into this little park with a big, even pull on
the wheel of his souped up el camino, quiet enough that credence can hear the
keys swinging against the steering column, tlink tlink. the engine purrs, and
the headlights stab yellow into the dark pocket of the lot, which is bent back
against the road like a crooked elbow: bushes. trees. a low curb, crusted with
papery detritus of picnics past. mr. graves pulls them into one of the spots,
shifts the beast into park, flips off the ignition and kills the lights,
letting the engine tick in darkness.
it would do you good, he had said. credence had thought it was a joke, at
first. credence thinks smoking is immoral. but, as with most things in orbit of
his– dealer? he thinks, vaguely alarmed– credence is also easily seduced.
plus, mr. graves knew how to mellow the hit. or so he said. just for credence,
he’d do it.  
they wait until the sounds of outside have risen up around them. a dog starts
barking somewhere in the night. this seems to satisfy graves; without preamble,
he pulls a baggie from the pocket of his jeans, then reaches over credence’s
narrow lap to pop the glove compartment. his bare forearm is thick and strong
and nearly silver in the light of the moon streaming in and filling the car.
credence couldn’t fit his fingers around that wrist, he thinks. a lighter is
produced from beneath a stack of– something, and then placed on the dash.
the sound of the baggie rustling and then graves holds up a joint, slim and
brown, compact. credence is already hit by the smell, which echoes that of the
rest of the car, but stronger. the leather carries the reek. so does graves.
“you seen one of these before, kid?” he asks when he sees credence staring, and
then: “sorry– don’t answer that.” he loads the joint into the corner of his
mouth and lights it.
“see, you’ve got to get it going, first. real slow,” he explains, almost like
he’s talking to himself, low. tender, even. the blunt bobs cartoonishly on his
lip. he sways the blue flame beneath the end of it in an odd caress that makes
credence tingle all over and tuck his hands between his thighs and the bucket
seat, so as not to do something foolish. graves suckles a little, causing some
some smoke to uncurl itself from the tip. he shuts the lighter with a shink,
and credence watches as the end starts to glow a cheery red in the bluedark
clutching their bodies. he proffers the joint with no smile.
“there. cherry.”
credence wants mr. graves to fuck him, so badly.
or, something in that general direction. fucking just seems paramount, somehow,
like that should be what he’s angling for, if he’s gonna want something at all
with someone this hot. the dirtiest endgame he can imagine. in reality, he can
hardly bear to look at the big, laminated instructional posters in gym class
that teach you the right way to stretch your groin without feeling dizzy, and
mr. graves is something of a sublime being. a friend of a friend had a
connection; that one guy, yeah, you know, graves, no known first name and just
a weird last one (no weirder than barebone, or credence himself, other kids are
quick and mean to remind on that one) the creepy older dealer that everyone at
Ilvermorny High knows– even the kid with too-short khaki pants and battered
merrells and a polo that wants, so badly, though it is a want without
direction.
graves draws the first hit with a lazy suck, then passes it to credence,
brushing their fingers as he lets the heady smoke stream from his nose and
coalesce at the upholstered ceiling. credence’s mind feels numb, the weight of
grave’s eyes heavy on him. he suddenly finds himself staring at the sizzling
blunt in his hand, uncomprehending, the way a goldfish might ogle a calculus
problem.
“I–” he stutters, choking; nothing more unholy that RC cola has passed through
his lips, never ever, and he’s embarrassed enough that he can feel the heat
pricking at his ears and cheeks. a complete fraud. “I sort of h-hoped–”
there’s a hand on the back of his neck. graves, locking at his nape like heavy
heat, the oily suckers of an octopus, all the jolt of some sort of electric
moray eel-thing. thrill shoots through credence’s stomach. outside, the dog
stops its barking, and silence flash-floods everything, though credence’s
heartbeat is pounding loud enough to soak it up.
“alright. easy now. here’s how we’re gonna do this,” graves says. his hand
starts to knead, as if it’s nothing, while he steals the joint from credence’s
dumb fingers and takes another pull. credence is quietly destroyed in this
moment. he has no tells; just thumbnails pressing white crescents into his
palms, safely hidden beneath his legs.
when graves speaks, it’s from high in his throat, funny sounding from keeping
the smoke inside him. “when i breathe out, you breathe in. got that?” he says,
and, yeah, credence thinks he has got it, considering he’s been breathing all
his life and doing a pretty decent job of it, pretty much
straighforwards, okay, yeah–
it takes him a moment to recognize what’s happening. mr. graves is kissing him.
mr. graves is kissing him, or, not quite; just right up in his space, bumping
his stubbly face against credence’s own, blurred out, all fumbling nose and
smoke-smell. nobody’s ever been so near to his body like this, not even to beat
him up. graves murmurs something and credence feels a hand on his thigh, making
him gasp and drink in the smoke being offered by grave’s waiting mouth without
consent. it tastes hot and gagging, like dirty plants, or dirty socks, foul,
and also of grave’s spit. it prickles and burns in credence’s virgin lungs and
he chokes, of course.
graves is thumping his back. “you okay?” he asks. credence nods, even though he
isn’t. tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he curls around his chest,
nearly pressing his forehead to the dashboard, trying to hide the ugliness of
the face he knows he must be making.
“breathe through your nose. deep. there you go, that’s good.”
credence shakily obeys, even as each breath draws fire. he tries and tries to
swallow the coughs, but they keep coming.
“jesus,” graves mutters, then credence feels the hand on the nape of his neck
again, rubbing out the tension in his muscles. “you sure you want this?”
credence, the dorky, lonely high school drifter, wants this more than anything
he has ever wanted before in his life. yeah, he mumbles. he wants this. 
“how old are you, again?” graves asks, once the coughing has subsided. it’s a
taboo, something they know shouldn’t be asked or answered.
“eighteen.” he turned fifteen in february.
“sure, kid.” graves says, rubbing his face, spitting another “jesus,” for good
measure. there are scars on his knuckles, and for a moment, credence worries
that he’s about to be kicked out of this sort-of stranger’s toughboy car and
have to find his way home at ass-o’clock on a tuesday night, alone. ma coiled
in the apartment in wait like a snake. but then the moment passes and there’s a
hiss as graves fills his lungs with smoke again. like they’re going to do this,
anyways.
credence tries to look older, a little less one hundred and thirty pounds
soaking wet.
“okay,” graves measures. the gate spills open.
time sways. the tickle in credence’s throat eventually goes down as they build
a rhythm, or a weird, syncopated sort of dance: graves leans his big body in,
leather jacket creaking on leather seat, and feeds credence the hit. leans back
to draw another one, while credence shivers and breathes in and does all he can
not to drown. he stays absolutely still, just letting graves press the smoke
into him, holding the heat in his chest like a sacrament, and it takes a few
passes to figure out this new kind of choreography. when to release, when to
tip his chin up just-so to accept more. after a handful of gritty mouthfuls,
grave’s hand moves from his nape to his jaw, grip bigwarm and soft,
experienced, showing credence exactly how this is going to work. credence
melts.
ten hits. a hundred.
some say god breathed life into adam when he was just cold clay. credence
doesn’t realize he’s said this out loud, until graves, somewhere way out in the
smoke, gives him an odd look.
“how’s that?” he asks. he starts fiddling with something by the console. a
bottle of water. half-drunk, off-brand. he offers credence a sip instead of the
blunt, and credence suddenly realizes his mouth is bone dry. he takes a drink
and figures, vis-a-vis the weathered filter of grave’s saliva and lungs, he’s
getting a lot less of the actual weed, isn’t nearly as high as he could be;
graves is toking up, despite a tolerance that’s gotta be legendary. credence
can see his eyes getting red in what little light is filtering in through the
smoke– and when did the car get so full? grave’s head rears gloriously in a
swirling medusa-haze, murky as a boogeyman from those after school specials he
sneaks sometimes, and credence realizes he’s still waiting on an answer.
“oh–” he says, “–nothing.” his voice is breathy and giggling, a private joke,
not funny at all but somehow even more hilarious for it. it’s fine, credence
thinks. he’s lit, he’s baked, he’s whatever, and mr. graves is so hot that this
whole situation is laughable, honestly.
“you’re just–” credence can’t find words. the sound escapes his kiss-swollen
mouth in jagged hiccups, making him dizzy. shit. there’s a logic to this.
he leans in and licks mr. grave’s lips.
a pause. credence feels grave’s breath on his face, unlaced, undiluted, and the
shared heat of their bodies in this car full of miscellaneous crud and air
that’s been through both their lungs twice.
and then, all at once, it’s literally just– making out, sloppy and wet, open-
mouthed, smoke making credence feel heavy-limbed and light-headed. the two of
them, bandits: one, high as a kite. the other, tugging him higher.
the pump of credence’s blood is so sluggish that it takes a minute for his dick
to even get interested, but then it’s all he can think about. it feels bigger
and heavier than normal, throbbing against the inseam of his worn-out jeans.
graves is an animal, taking of credence and then some, hands squeezing
shoulders, blunt forgotten, silent save for the slippery slide of their mouths.
credence kisses with the pure clumsiness of no prior experience and with his
eyes drowsily half-lidded. Blue blue blue: grave’s shoulders through his
jacket, the cut of his jaw, the way his knees are spread wide in the footwell
beneath the steering wheel, making the crotch of his pants tight and bowlegged;
the collective sight of him is just too much. credence starts to fumble with
the button on his jeans.
graves grunts. suddenly there are two pairs of hands working him, and credence
is going to die. graves slips a hand between the fly of his jeans and the
threadbare cotton of his briefs, and just chills there, nipping away to tend to
the joint again for a minute. credence goes for it, reservations long gone;
it’s easy to rut against grave’s hand, up, up, feels hot and good and natural.
vaguely, far away and right up-close all at once, he feels himself getting wet
like a girl. then graves is back and shotgunning more smoke like before, but
this time it’s wetter, closer, swapping spit and massaging tongues. 
“mmph, credence moans into his mouth, too blissed out to speak. to breathe. if
it’s the smoke clouding his head, he wouldn’t know it, the incense of it
already written right into his blood. faster, he goes, damn it all, just
rubbing over clothes and it’s by far the hottest thing he’s done in his fucking
life, sad, but true, and he’s a goner for it already. graves, who’s town-
outskirts scary and wickedly attractive and who credence has kissed to
ruination. graves, who is pushing down onto his aching dick and murmuring, like
the sweetest secret, “fuck, yeah, that’s it, baby, do it, make yourself feel
good–” 
a car speeds past on the road. like really speeds, rip-roaring by the little
park and the car sitting next to it, total asshole, all brightness and loud
hemi. its headlights clip in through the back windshield of grave's car for
just one second–just one half, gold-galvanized little slip. and in that moment,
from his tripled up curtain of haze, credence can see the way mr. grave’s lank
hair hangs from his head like a pelt, lit up in an incriminating snowbank of
smoke. the way tobacco has made his mouth stained dark and crooked, his
battered coat with seedy shirt beneath. the scraggled beard and eyes sunken
into his skull like two terrible, tired chunks of ore. 
yeah, graves, that one motherfucker. the creep. 
credence’s come gleams on his hand. 
and then the moment has passed into darkness. the car goes on down the road,
speeding, plummeting, a real inconsiderate sonuvabitch, as they say. hauling
ass up the dusty draw, towards nowhere. 
 
End Notes
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