second-salemite:

[[finally the trans!credence yall have been asking for!!]]

“Daddy?”

Credence rolls over in the sheets, pink lip in his mouth and hair in his eyes. Graves, caught thoroughly enjoying a favorite vice, huffs a long plume of smoke through his nose and glances up from the paper in his lap. Smoking in bed: a bit gauche, he’ll admit. 

He looks plainly upon his bedmate, who averts his dark eyes at the contact. The poor thing seems a little bit undone– Graves knows what’s the matter in a heartbeat, a half-second, but it would be so much more delicious to have his boy it voice his agonies aloud, wouldn’t it? 

He stubs the cigarette out with a thumb and flicks it away, vanishing it into oblivion, making his ritual vow to quit (he won’t). 

“Yes, Credence?”

“It’s– wet, again.” Graves can see the long, lean line of Credence’s forearm shifting incriminatingly under the ash of his best linens, lewd in the finery of his master bedroom. He says it balefully, the way a child confesses a crime, pouty, mournful at the uncontrollable nature of the world; of course it’s wet with you touching it, Graves wants to grouse, almost does, but knots his tongue tight and swallows it down. 

“Mmm,” he hums, nonchalantly watching Credence over the planes of his cheeks, underneath the glassed rim of his reading glasses. “How wet?” 

“Oh, so–” Credence must find a particularly pleasing rhythm against his clit, because he swallows the words, hiccuping around his arousal. Graves can see the flush climb up his neck onto his cheeks as he works himself harder. 

“Credence?”

“– so wet. So wet, Daddy.” 

“Let’s see the little guy,” Graves huffs, curling his thick fingers in a come hither motion that makes Credence’s hips visibly buck beneath the blanket, as if tethered to Graves by the tangle of spellwork, or his phantom stroking is inside him already (like they were last night, the lazy afternoon before, and the sweet, shearling-softened dawn before that, much like this one). Credence moans and wriggles shyly closer, pushing his hips out in offering as he pulls a pillow over his face. Graves peels the blanket back. Credence, greedy boy, is still stroking himself frantically, glutting himself on his pleasure even as he’s unable to look on it with his own eyes. The wet sound of it is amazing; Graves finds him tenting in his pajama pants, curtly pulling Credence’s hand from his pussy and pinning it to the trembling, white expanse of his own bare belly. His fingers gleam slick in the white, soft light filtering through the drapes, clear strings forming and breaking between his knuckles. 

Credence is right; beneath the thatch of dark, curly hair, his cunt is puffy, pink and dripping. Is it Grave’s imagination, or is it pinker than normal– sore, excessively loved? He runs a thumb up the sopping seam of his boy and Credence hisses into his pillow.

He’s been pushing himself too hard, taking his pleasure too much, too liberal and rough with his most tender parts. Graves briefly allows himself to imagine an overwhelmed Credence, voice quavering, asking in a cinema-soprano: Oh, Mr. Graves, how did you know–? 

Years in the field, my boy, he’d say, knowingly, by which he’d mean: I’ve known enough company to name a well-used cunt when I see one. 

Instead, he pries the pillow from Credence’s face with a grunt. It comes way with resistance and some amount of wetness; snot, maybe, or tears. A subterranean creature beneath an upturned rock: Credence’s eyes are screwed shut, his hair horribly mashed against his tacky cheeks and forehead. Graves leans close to study him. 

“You’ve hurt yourself,” Graves says, not hardly an inch between the two of them. Credence’s nose wrinkles, smelling the smoke on his breath. Shakes his head. Graves feels Credence’s work hand start to slip from his grip, homing towards his pussy, even now; Graves redoubles his effort, prying a squeak from his boy’s mouth. 

“Ah--”

“How awful,” Graves comments. You’ve cared for something so wonderful so poorly. Again, he wants to chastise Credence. To rough him up further, make pleasure awful, until he’s crying in earnest, so he makes promises of abstinence and takes oaths of gentleness. Credence needs– he needs to be shown how to care for himself. 

Credence blinks up at him, doe-wet, lovely. And then Graves knows: here. This is how, and–surprisingly– it’s not really a cruel thing, at all. Instead, he finds himself lowering his mouth down, and down further still, past trembling stomach and twined, dirty hands. Lips opened, not to insult, but to teach a particular brand of smokey sweetness. 

Credence, ever the miracle, learns beautifully.