“The boy cried today, Percival. He's almost pretty when he cries. His lips turn this lovely shade of pink, so pink they're almost swollen looking. It's very whorish. You must have seen the look - he cries so often.
“His mother beat him again, pathetic little squib. Couldn't even close his hands, they were so raw. Lucky his favorite Auror was there to heal his wounds and cradle his head. He just about swooned after I healed him, thanked me, told me he is so very grateful for all I do. Pity you never got a chance to take advantage of this. He’s just your sort, isn't he? Young men with father issues.” The lights flicker on for the first time in weeks and Percival blinks stupidly, blinded by what he’s sure is no more than a dim Lumos, trying to see where his own voice is coming from.
“It was never like that.”
“Oh I know it was all above board. The kind Auror Graves taking an interest in the sad squib boy. Any other country in the world and he’d have at least a degree of protection because of his heritage, but not in this charming backwater. You sneaked him sweets and books, healed his cuts and you really never asked for anything in return? He'd have given it so willingly.”
“Don't you dare - ”
“You're really in no position to threaten me, Percival.” And he wasn't, Percival knew it. Magically bound, arms restrained behind his back, confined to a painful kneel with his legs locked together, he was well and truly finished, trapped in a flophouse in Merlin-knows-where that Grindelwald had somehow procured. His hope that someone would notice something off about the madman masquerading as himself was fading by the day. Said madman appears over him, immaculately dressed in a way Percival himself rarely managed. How has no one noticed?
“Hurting him earns you nothing.”
“I have no plans to hurt him just yet. He's so accommodating, so helpful. Once he finds me the Obscurial though…”
Percival sneers at the man wearing his face, disgusted. Grindelwald only smirks, a wicked, reckless grin that Percival hopes has never shadowed his own face before. “He’s done nothing to warrant this.”
“He’s an affront to nature. Magical lineage and no powers; it’s offensive, worse than Muggles.” He pauses and summons a chair from across the room so that he can sit facing Percival. “What will be wonderful about it, - whatever it is I decide to do to him - he’ll think it’s you. I’ve spun this lovely tale, you see, about how he’s helping me do the Wizarding World a service, and that once it’s completed I’ll take him under my wing, teach him everything I know, scoop him up to safety and welcome him into Wizarding New York, where he very much belongs.
“It’s going to be such fun to tell him otherwise. Hold that pouty face of his in my hands - well, your hands, really - and let him know the truth. He’s worthless, unloved, unmagical, unremarkable in every way and that kind Mister Graves isn’t here to rescue him. What should I do after that, Percival? Come, I know you’re a creative man.”
“You’re smarter than this. Angering your captor seems like a major tactical error. Surely MACUSA trains its Aurors better than that. Let’s try again.” Grindelwald leans forward in his chair and in mock sincerity strokes Percival's brow bone. “I do this a lot with him. He practically purrs for it, leans up into it just like a cat in heat. What should the good Auror Graves do after breaking the bad news, give him a few good smacks here so he knows he’s no more valuable to me than he is to anyone else? What’s next, Percival?”
“I’m not playing your demented games.”
“But they’re such fun.” He’s still smirking. “Now I’m no Legilimens, but I’m quite good at reading people, and your dear squib boy is absolutely infatuated with you. I’ve certainly egged him on, don’t misunderstand me, but it was there from the day I met him, the longing way he looks up at Mister Graves, all adoration and worship; that sort of desperation almost smells, it’s so potent. So, given his fondness for you, use your imagination and tell me what I should do after telling him he’s worthless, telling him I’m no savior to him. How can I make the little creature hurt just a bit more?”
Percival spits at him.
A sigh. “Alright, don’t indulge me.” He pulls Percival forward so that he’s kneeling in between his spread legs and with a wave of his hand, Percival is gagged with a black cloth. “I was so hoping for a conversation, - haven’t had a decent one in ages, your coworkers are insipid - but if you’re unwilling to be civil, I’ll have to resort to a gag.
“I imagine the boy will cry some once his miserable dreams have been dashed, don’t you think? I’ll tell him that aberrations like him have no place in our community, that he’s unwanted everywhere. Really, there’s only one thing his type is good for.” A pause and Grindelwald grabs Percival’s chin and forces eye contact. “You may never have taken advantage, but you can’t deny that you had interest. I’ve seen your memories, Percival, skimmed through your thoughts like a cheap romance novel. You can be assured that the way I’ll have him is nothing like you would have wanted.” Percival shakes his head vehemently, scowling behind the gag.
Grindelwald releases his chin and leans back languidly. “The boy will be terrified, of course. He may have submitted happily given the right circumstances, but please know these will not be those circumstances. I’ll have him... let’s see, where should I have him? Against a wall in some sodden back alley? Certainly fitting to leave him amidst the trash. Or perhaps your office? Give him a good fucking over your desk and then your coworkers can find him the next morning. Tempting to further burn your reputation into ashes when I leave, you’ve been so uncooperative. But no, we can do better than that, can’t we, Percival? How about the nave of that little shed he calls a church? Take him bent before God, and then his mother can see him after, fucked and debauched with cum between his legs; that will be very pleasant for him, I’m sure. No need to be so upset. We haven’t even arrived at the fun bits yet.”
Percival struggles against the bonds, against his gag, against this whole hideous nightmare. He’s tried for hours to fight the bonds, failed for hours, serving only to exhaust himself and pass out awkwardly, half sitting, unable to truly lay down. He focuses on fighting the magic and tries not to think about the words spoken in his voice, the foul suggestions of what his body is going to do to the boy. He knows these aren't idle threats; this is Grindelwald planning Percival’s next torture, one that just happens to hurt another body instead of his own.
“Should I push him to his knees first? Those swollen lips of his were made to be fucked. Maybe I’ll tell him if he’s good enough I’ll take him with me anyway - he can be my little concubine. Think he’ll try extra hard if he still has hope that kind Mister Graves just might not abandon him? Of course it doesn’t matter, but perhaps he’ll perform better with some motivation. Those fat lips on my cock - well, your cock. I won’t be gentle with him, you know that. I’ll throat fuck him until he’s choking.” That same, sickening grin spreads across his mouth and he leans forward again, whispering into Percival’s ear, “Your body is so excitable, Percival. I wouldn’t have expected it of you. Pushing forty aren’t you?”
Grindelwald’s hand has gone to the front of his trousers and he’s palming a visible erection through them. He wastes no time unbuttoning his trousers and pulling from his underwear his familiar cock rendered strange and perverse from the jarring, unnatural angle Percival has never seen it from before. He closes his eyes and prays to a God he knows does not exist.
“Oh no, you don’t get to avoid this.” His eyes are spelled open painfully, permitted to blink, but unable to fully close or look away. They’re forced to fixate on Grindelwald’s lazy strokes, even and slow as he luxuriates in Percival’s discomfort. He pulls Percival closer, trapping his head against his inner thigh, face inches away from the perverse display. With a wave of nausea, Percival tries not to think of the other men who’ve been in his very position, lovers with boyish good looks and wide eyes, head resting on his inner thigh, a devilish smile on young lips before moving inwards; this a sick parody of that intimacy. “Where was I before your body interrupted? Oh yes, throat fucking the squib boy until he’s choking. Can’t you just picture it, Percival? Tears running down his face, drool dripping from his chin, and the lovely, scared noises he’ll make as I ram your cock down his throat. Do you think he’ll fight at all? I do love a fighter, but I don’t think he has it in him. He’ll take it like a good, submissive whore, don’t you agree?
“How long can you last, Percival? I haven’t played with your body nearly as much as I would have liked, your work keeps me so preoccupied - I did have some fun last week with an intern in the Department of Muggle, no forgive me, No-Maj Affairs. Don’t think the poor boy returned to work after that. I just don’t want to end things with Credence prematurely. The boy certainly needs to learn his place and that sort of lesson can take some time. Perhaps I’ll work on your stamina; there are plenty more pretty interns around.”
Percival tries to spit out his gag, to bite him, to swear, to do anything but sit here meekly and listen, but the gag is sealed tightly and all he can do is grunt unintelligibly. Grindelwald strokes his hair in mock affection and presses his face closer to his own cock, standing hard and disgusting.
“After he’s good and gagging for me, what should we do next? It would be lovely to just fuck him right then and there, no preparation, no explanation, just push him down on all fours like the dog he is and take him. Do you think the boy even knows what sex is? You should feel privileged, Percival, you’ll always be his first. He’ll always remember you as his first.
“Tempting to rush to it, but I think I’d like to savor it first. Throw the boy on his back in front of the cross, tell him he did an adequate job for a worthless squib, but he’s far from finished. Do you think he’ll be hard? Maybe the boy likes it rough and will leak through his trousers, aching to be slapped then fucked? Or perhaps he’ll be so terrified he’ll piss himself, hyperventilating and crying pathetically on the floor of his church. Which would you prefer, Percival? Lovely to picture the boy secretly longing for it, but I’d rather him a crying mess. It’s so much more fun when they beg for you to stop, plead for you to be gentle. Like that intern. Should have seen the ass on him, Percival. You missed out.”
His hand is quickening and Percival wants so badly to look away, to look at anything other than the beads of precum pooling at the tip and trickling down his length. He’s never watched himself like this, never paid any attention to the jut of his cock and its bob as it’s stroked. Grindelwald is holding him so close that his nose is nearly touching his balls and he heaves behind the gag, trying fruitlessly to spit out the now soaked fabric. He needs to breathe, needs to get out of here, needs this to end. He feels faint and sick and disgusted, mostly at himself. If he hadn’t approached Credence in the first place...
“So let’s savor it, take our time with the boy. Make all of this cooing and healing and kind words worth it. I could make the boy finger himself, watch as his shaking fingers work in and out of that virgin hole. Make him work his way up to a fist. He would cry so prettily, don’t you think? Or there’s the school boy classic of using your wand. Did you ever do that one, Percival? You must have found some willing school chum to shoot sparks into at some point, that’s just the sort of perverse thing you’d have loved at sixteen, hm? The boy is fascinated with your wand, could be an educational experience for him, help him learn that he’ll never wield such a wonder, just be forced to take what’s given to him. But no, we can be more creative than that; you’re an industrious Auror, after all.
“Their church surely has some crosses. How about we open the boy up with one of those? It’ll be truly religious, I’m sure.” Grindelwald forces Percival’s head to his erection, rubbing the dripping, spit-soaked gag against his cock, slicking it with spit. “No need to struggle so. What you’re getting is nothing compared to what your dear boy will receive.
“I’ll fuck him nice and hard with a cross. See what his God does for him then. Do you think he’ll cry for his Lord to save him? I think not - I’m fairly certain we’ve long established that Mister Graves is now Credence’s personal savior. He’ll cry for you , Percival. Cry for your mercy.
“You won’t be a kind God though. It’ll be your cock that takes that tight, virgin hole. Your cock that pounds him until he’s collapsed on his arms, sobbing, pleading for Mister Graves to forgive him his aberrations. Your cock that will make him scream and cry and bleed.”
Percival finally works the gag out of his mouth and pulls sharply away from his crotch. Gasping for breath and with drool anew dripping down his chin, he manages, “Please stop. Just stop.”
“I’ll stop when you admit it. Admit you wanted to fuck the boy. Admit you wanted him down on his knees for you. Admit that you only approached him, only acted as nice, kind, caring Mister Graves because you wanted him to spread his legs for you.” Grindelwald’s pace quickens, his grip in Percival’s hair painful as he strokes himself in fast, hard jerks.
He can’t listen to this anymore, can’t hear the awful details, can’t keep picturing his body doing these terrible things to an innocent boy. Practically a child . And that’s what makes the truth so, so wicked.
“I admit it.”
“Admit what, Percival?”
“I wanted to” a deep inhale “fuck him.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I wanted to take him and strip him and kiss him and fuck him. I wanted to use him. But oh Merlin, not like this.” When did he start crying?
Grindelwald sharply pulls Percival’s head back and with a grunt, a guttural moan that Percival’s never heard like this, never experienced from the other side, he’s cumming, thick, foul stripes painted on Percival’s face. He still can’t close his eyes properly and it’s everywhere. He’s covered in his own shame.
“Don’t look so distressed. I’ll let him live after. That’s good news, isn’t it? Of course you’ll never be able to so much as approach him again, not after what you did to the helpless boy, but you can take some comfort in knowing the boy is still breathing, yes?”