[ fuck, credence is so fucking beautiful. graves sees him in little more than an oversized shirt -- credence had bought that with graves' card; he thinks, he doesn't actually remember. but what he does know now is the fact that he can imagine credence just like that in his bed, fresh from sleep and artfully disheveled, the sun in his dark hair and the light in his eyes.
he thinks of lifting that shirt to see if he's wearing anything underneath, and he swallows hard and tries to think of something else, alarmed by his own lust and desire, how he would hitch him up onto one of his leather couches and get between his knees, to make him mewl and whimper as his mouth closes around his cock --
-- ah, fuck. graves is thinking of fucking him and he's sure credence knows, he's sure he does because the next thing he knows, the young man's sitting on his lap, casual and flirty as you please, but then there's something in his words, the nervous flutter of that smile that makes him tense. there is nothing relaxed about the way he sits in his lap just so, perfectly arranged like he thinks this is what he wants
(credence is not wrong but)
but this is not how he wants it. the tremor of nerves and the strange expectation that graves has never put on him hits home when the boy leans forward to kiss him, that sensuously full, wonderful mouth moving to brush over his and
and he's afraid. credence is afraid and graves has spent his entire life reading people not to figure that one out, and he pulls back. it falls into place now, pieces of a little puzzle that comes together to form a plausible narrative. ]
I didn't take you in to fuck you. [ graves says bluntly, his hands loose by his sides; not touching him. he will return him the dignity that he'd set aside because he thought this is what graves wants. it's cute, almost, but it's also a sobering look into how credence is wired, how he seems so convinced that the toll is due when there is none to be made. ]
Credence. [ he starts again gently, seeking him out. he's so much older than he is, he has so many years on this pretty young thing, and there's no mistaking how much he wants him, but not like this. ] Look at me. Not like this, do you understand?
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he thinks of lifting that shirt to see if he's wearing anything underneath, and he swallows hard and tries to think of something else, alarmed by his own lust and desire, how he would hitch him up onto one of his leather couches and get between his knees, to make him mewl and whimper as his mouth closes around his cock --
-- ah, fuck. graves is thinking of fucking him and he's sure credence knows, he's sure he does because the next thing he knows, the young man's sitting on his lap, casual and flirty as you please, but then there's something in his words, the nervous flutter of that smile that makes him tense. there is nothing relaxed about the way he sits in his lap just so, perfectly arranged like he thinks this is what he wants
(credence is not wrong but)
but this is not how he wants it. the tremor of nerves and the strange expectation that graves has never put on him hits home when the boy leans forward to kiss him, that sensuously full, wonderful mouth moving to brush over his and
and he's afraid. credence is afraid and graves has spent his entire life reading people not to figure that one out, and he pulls back. it falls into place now, pieces of a little puzzle that comes together to form a plausible narrative. ]
I didn't take you in to fuck you. [ graves says bluntly, his hands loose by his sides; not touching him. he will return him the dignity that he'd set aside because he thought this is what graves wants. it's cute, almost, but it's also a sobering look into how credence is wired, how he seems so convinced that the toll is due when there is none to be made. ]
Credence. [ he starts again gently, seeking him out. he's so much older than he is, he has so many years on this pretty young thing, and there's no mistaking how much he wants him, but not like this. ] Look at me. Not like this, do you understand?