Credence looked down at the enticing lap, his heart nearly knocking itself out. Slowly, deliberately, he moved to where the hand was now raised in invitation and took it. His was tugged forward, and he let the force field shift between them; put one knee on the couch and heard it creak voluptously as he climbed it to take his proper place, spread out across Mr Graves’s legs. They closed again under him, leaving him in no doubt of his own arousal as it arched up in him, in his cock, nearly suffocated between the press of Mr Graves’s strong thighs and his own weight.
His pajama tops were at half-mast again, and he was expecting Mr Graves to pull them off all the way. Instead, Mr Graves slipped a hand under him and pulled at the cottony fabric, tucking it up and between Credence’s legs so that it clung accordingly to the rise of his buttocks. It pulled into the crack between, sheathing and exposing them in their fleshly existence, it made them vulnerably there and a show piece in their own right, a moment before Mr Graves’s hand went back in play. Slap. Slap. Light, light, medium light, a firm tap of fingertips to each hemisphere. The burn, which had abated, stirred up again – almost, but not quite; rather, it felt like Mr Graves’s hand was stealing a peck or two, or twenty.
Then it stopped altogether and a man was moulding himself to the long span of Crendence's back, his voice much too teasing for his age. "Finite?"
"No!" Vibrant with indignation, and he knew without turning his head that Graves was grinning. Credence slid his hips up in retaliation; cried out as the heat flared through his lap-trapped cock. "Please," he stammered. "Please, please, take them off!"
The next sensation was fingernails, dragged slowly, almost pensively over the curve of his left cheek. It called more nerves, never acknowledged, to triumphant life. "I think I will," Percival Graves said "Ah, look at this gorgeous pink number. I want to see it all."
And the precise-gestured hands tugged his pajama down, inch after dawning inch of skin, blushing and avid for – "More," Credence said plaintively, eyes closed, and, when no more came, "Percival, damnit!"
He was too far gone to register the curse or the breach of protocol, only Percival Graves’s chuckle before he was tossed back into position, Graves’s arm circling him iron-like as he took the upper hand again. This time, there was no teasing; no respite between the neat, expert cracks of Graves’s palm sealing itself to his backside, flat-handed, curve-fingered, right, left, under, between – the shock precipitated into a sharper, electrifying jolt – until the heat came from every angle. Credence found that the slaps were jouncing his whole frame back and fro, their stoked-up pace stoking up the fever until his body flung restraint aside and took over, rocked itself into that hospitable lap, fast, fast, oblivious to the softer friction of Graves’s hand, urging his sensitized flesh.
Once more, twice, before all the heat converged to squeeze a long, hard coda of ecstasy from him.
"…Finite," he remembered to say after a while, and frowned at the answering burst of laughter.
"You don’t actually need to say it after, acushla."
"…Oh." Credence relaxed into his haze; felt somebody start disentangling the two of them and held his hand out, reluctant to break contact. He felt warm and sated; soaring, but happily so, as if he’d been puzzled out rather than blown apart. Graves’s thumb stroked a line across his fingers, followed by his lips.
"Just stay as you are, and I’ll Apparate us straight in bed. How do you feel?"
"Hmm. Warm. Tingly?"
Graves laughed again, the sound now familiar, a piece of the puzzle. It lasted the next jot of time, before they were in bed, in each other’s arms, Credence’s pajamas tucked up once again in place. "Thank you," he murmured groggily.
The next kiss was for his forehead, now released from its bowl-cut gaol. "You liked it?"
"Hmm." Credence sank further into the sleepy, pacified throb of his own body. "Sh’d do’t again.
"Good. Then perhaps, one day, if you feel up to it" – low-voiced words, to be heard at the listener’s will, but stamped with the determination that was another Graves standard – "you can return the favor. "
Credence’s eyes opened in the dark, his heart suddenly awake to the blank and unspoken cheque of trust. He struggled to answer; but sleep was too strong, and the low, rhythmical sound of their breaths catching up with each other another. Or perhaps there was no need for words. Only his face, burrowing against Percival’s chest; only the night-blue peace owning them, another promise of one day.
Fill: Spare the child, spoil the lover (3/3)
His pajama tops were at half-mast again, and he was expecting Mr Graves to pull them off all the way. Instead, Mr Graves slipped a hand under him and pulled at the cottony fabric, tucking it up and between Credence’s legs so that it clung accordingly to the rise of his buttocks. It pulled into the crack between, sheathing and exposing them in their fleshly existence, it made them vulnerably there and a show piece in their own right, a moment before Mr Graves’s hand went back in play. Slap. Slap. Light, light, medium light, a firm tap of fingertips to each hemisphere. The burn, which had abated, stirred up again – almost, but not quite; rather, it felt like Mr Graves’s hand was stealing a peck or two, or twenty.
Then it stopped altogether and a man was moulding himself to the long span of Crendence's back, his voice much too teasing for his age. "Finite?"
"No!" Vibrant with indignation, and he knew without turning his head that Graves was grinning. Credence slid his hips up in retaliation; cried out as the heat flared through his lap-trapped cock. "Please," he stammered. "Please, please, take them off!"
The next sensation was fingernails, dragged slowly, almost pensively over the curve of his left cheek. It called more nerves, never acknowledged, to triumphant life. "I think I will," Percival Graves said "Ah, look at this gorgeous pink number. I want to see it all."
And the precise-gestured hands tugged his pajama down, inch after dawning inch of skin, blushing and avid for – "More," Credence said plaintively, eyes closed, and, when no more came, "Percival, damnit!"
He was too far gone to register the curse or the breach of protocol, only Percival Graves’s chuckle before he was tossed back into position, Graves’s arm circling him iron-like as he took the upper hand again. This time, there was no teasing; no respite between the neat, expert cracks of Graves’s palm sealing itself to his backside, flat-handed, curve-fingered, right, left, under, between – the shock precipitated into a sharper, electrifying jolt – until the heat came from every angle. Credence found that the slaps were jouncing his whole frame back and fro, their stoked-up pace stoking up the fever until his body flung restraint aside and took over, rocked itself into that hospitable lap, fast, fast, oblivious to the softer friction of Graves’s hand, urging his sensitized flesh.
Once more, twice, before all the heat converged to squeeze a long, hard coda of ecstasy from him.
"…Finite," he remembered to say after a while, and frowned at the answering burst of laughter.
"You don’t actually need to say it after, acushla."
"…Oh." Credence relaxed into his haze; felt somebody start disentangling the two of them and held his hand out, reluctant to break contact. He felt warm and sated; soaring, but happily so, as if he’d been puzzled out rather than blown apart. Graves’s thumb stroked a line across his fingers, followed by his lips.
"Just stay as you are, and I’ll Apparate us straight in bed. How do you feel?"
"Hmm. Warm. Tingly?"
Graves laughed again, the sound now familiar, a piece of the puzzle. It lasted the next jot of time, before they were in bed, in each other’s arms, Credence’s pajamas tucked up once again in place. "Thank you," he murmured groggily.
The next kiss was for his forehead, now released from its bowl-cut gaol. "You liked it?"
"Hmm." Credence sank further into the sleepy, pacified throb of his own body. "Sh’d do’t again.
"Good. Then perhaps, one day, if you feel up to it" – low-voiced words, to be heard at the listener’s will, but stamped with the determination that was another Graves standard – "you can return the favor. "
Credence’s eyes opened in the dark, his heart suddenly awake to the blank and unspoken cheque of trust. He struggled to answer; but sleep was too strong, and the low, rhythmical sound of their breaths catching up with each other another. Or perhaps there was no need for words. Only his face, burrowing against Percival’s chest; only the night-blue peace owning them, another promise of one day.