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“You’re worth far more than anyone has ever shown you,” said the man. His gravelly voice was lowered to a soft purr, his breath warm against Credence’s neck. Credence had shivered, he’d leaned into it. He had felt, in the pit of his stomach, a growing warmth that he had come to associate with shame alone.
Later, his knuckles were raw and aching. He had taken it upon himself to rectify his sinful thoughts. He could barely make a fist, his joints too swollen. It was hardly deterrent enough. In the dark, rigid on his lumpy bed, flanked on both sides by other unwanteds, he shoved his hands desperately beneath the mattress and grasped the bare springs.
The knuckles on his left hand stung, but Credence tightened his grip until the sharp edges dug into his palms, into the sides of his hands, and he bled.
—
“Did she do this?”
“No.” Credence stared at his scuffed boots.
“Then who?”
“I—”
Mr. Graves tsked. He took both of Credence’s wrists in hand and brought his torn palms together, raised them until they were at chest-level between them, and covered them on each side with his own, larger ones, as though holding him in shared penitence. Credence found himself mesmerised by the touch alone.
“Someday soon, you won’t have to submit. To anyone.”
The same terrible warmth threaded itself through Credence’s gut.
“It’s the only thing—”
“Hmmm?”
Credence brought his chin up. He swallowed a shaky gulp of air. “It’s the only thing I know how to do.”
Mr. Graves’ expression shifted, his eyes darkening somehow, as though the light in the alley where they so often met had dimmed them suddenly. His mouth thinned, and he squeezed their hands tightly together. Pain twinged up Credence’s wrists, into his forearms. Then the pressure ceased, and Mr. Graves was looking at him fondly, his eyes kindly again.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Y-ye-yes,” Credence stuttered out, shaken, but somehow no less warm inside. Perhaps warmer still. And he was hungry, he was always hungry, and Ma was so stingy.
“You’re a growing boy. And I’ve tasked you with so much. The least I can do is feed you. Would you like that?”
“I would like that very much.” He gave a short nod.
“Good.”
Mr. Graves pulled his hands away, and when Credence looked down at his own, they were healed.
—
Waitresses in neat little caps and starched white aprons laid out a complete spread before them. Mr. Graves had taken him to a regular establishment; one Credence had passed by often enough, but as the cakes and soft yeasted rolls multiplied before him, he wished they were somewhere magical, even if his ma might scent it on him later. A platter of thickly sliced prime rib drenched in dark gravy, and offset by bright parsley leaves, made the centerpiece of their meal and Credence’s mouth watered despite his selfish disappointment.
Across from him, his arm loosely draped across the empty chair at his side, Mr. Graves smiled indulgently.
“Go on, boy. Eat up.”
It felt like an order, as much as encouragement, and Credence obeyed. He slathered butter over a hot roll and devoured it, the sweet warm interior nearly melting on his tongue. He served himself two big slices of meat, spooned an indecent amount of gravy over them, and cut into the fatty side first, his knife moving through the flesh with a satisfying drag, its red juices spilling out over his plate.
Mr. Graves sipped at a tall pint of ale and watched him. His posture was relaxed, lazy. When Credence found himself hunched over his food, his mouth too close to his plate, and suddenly so ravenous it startled him, he chanced to look up at Mr. Graves, worried that perhaps he was making a fright of himself. But the man was still focused intently on him, his lower lip caught between his teeth, as though he, too, were terribly hungry.
And yet, his plate was bare.
“Won’t you eat?” Crendence asked, swallowing a hunk of prime rib with some trouble to do so.
Mr. Graves shook his head. “I’ll have something later. This is your feast, special, just for you.”
Credence nodded but he set his fork down and sat back. He wiped his hand over his mouth. Beneath the table, he felt a booted toe nudge against his calf, then hook around his ankle. His whole body jolted, what felt like a spark, like the spells he had seen Mr. Graves speak so casually, shot up his spine.
“Don’t stop now,” Mr. Graves said. “You’ve only just loosened up enough to enjoy yourself.”
The foot around his ankle tugged lightly, then trailed up his calf, soothing. Credence bent his head again, and shoved another roll into his mouth to keep the please he longed to whisper from tearing past his lips. He didn’t know what he could possibly be asking for.
Instead, he ate silently, taking care to keep his mouth full. Mr. Graves ordered a second beer and kept an unwavering eye on him. His foot, Mr. Graves’ foot, nudged the interior of his kneecap, and Credence reached for his glass of milk and gulped it down, forcing himself to swallow more than he could easily manage just to keep quiet. His eyelashes fluttered with the effort.
Mr. Graves cleared his throat. “Here,” he said, holding up his own cloth napkin.
Credence dropped his glass, absurdly grateful when it didn’t spill. He felt milk dribble down his chin, and gripped the edge of the table, leaning forward without fully intending to.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m not—”
“Shhhh, you don’t need to be ashamed with me. Not ever.”
Mr. Graves dabbed at his lips, and his other hand gently held Credence’s face steady, his thumb nearly tucked into the corner of his mouth. Credence could almost taste the salt on his skin, the napkin fabric felt far too rough. He was acutely aware that his body was reacting far too keenly, that he felt overly primed to sin gladly.
“Thank you,” he muttered, and the movement forced Mr. Graves' thumbnail to dig just so into his lips. His groin throbbed disobediently.
“You should finish up. Any later and your mother will surely worry. We can’t have that.”
“Right,” Credence said. He turned his mouth into Mr. Graves' warm, dry palm and pressed against it. “That would be bad.”
“Very bad,” Mr. Graves agreed, and abruptly snatched his hand away.
—
In the middle of the night, Credence wished, for the first time since his pubescent urges revealed themselves, that the church afforded him some semblance of privacy.
“You musn’t hurt yourself again,” Mr. Graves had told him before they parted that evening. “If you do, I won’t be happy with you. And I know you don’t want to displease me.”
“No, no sir,” Credence answered, eyes downcast.
Mr. Graves tilted his chin up. He had put his gloves back on and the leather was buttery and warm. His other hand fixed Credence’s collar. “Promise me that you’ll be gentle with yourself, from now on.”
“I will.”
“Say it.”
“I’ll be—” Credence stopped. He wet his lips. “I’ll be gentle—with myself.”
“Whatever you’re feeling. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Credence repeated. The words felt soft and strange in his mouth.
“There’s a good boy,” said Mr. Graves. He had moved in very close, and suddenly Credence was grateful for the dusk, and the derelict nature of his block. The street was all but empty, and they were tucked away by the side entrance to the church, under the cover of its looming shadow. “A very good, very special young man,” Mr. Graves amended, his face so near that Credence felt his lips move over his cheek. “So very special.”
The hand beneath Credence’s chin turned his face an imperceptible tick to the side, and Mr. Graves' mouth was on his, touching his. His lips were chapped but full, wet when he dragged his lower lip over Credence’s own. Some ungodly, curdling thing inside of him roared to life; his hands twitched, he shuddered desperately at the minute pressure of a man’s mouth against his. He wanted—he wanted to be—he had such—
But Mr. Graves stepped away. And then he was gone—disapparated, as he called it, into the night.
The memory of that touch made Credence want to thrash about in his bed. He wanted to dig his stubby nails into his palms, do anything he could to quell his treacherous desires. He inhaled noisily, and exhaled through his mouth. He would pray.
He tugged up his woolen socks and forewent his boots as he stole quietly from his room, his steps as light as they could be. The whole church was pitchy black, but he navigated his way down to the main hall easily enough, and shut himself away in one of the vestibules, before the altar where his ma often proselytized to smaller groups of children. The wooden floorboards were cold through his socks, and he dropped to his knees with intentional force, as though he could jar himself enough to shock away the malicious want he felt inside.
It wasn’t just—desire. It couldn't be so base as that. It was bigger, consuming him from the inside. He felt somehow empty and too full all at once, his stomach worked into knots, his heart hammering against his breastbone as though it wished to escape and return to Mr. Graves like an offering.
“Gentle,” he whispered scornfully into the dark. His erection twitched at the memory of Mr. Grave’s voice. “Please. Please take this from me. I know that I am worthless and undeserving of salvation. But I—” His words broke on a sob.
He was crying. Crying and still hard in his thin pajama bottoms despite his tears and the unforgiving, terribly cold ground. He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then, overcome with helplessness, he fell onto his back and reached into his pants with broken resignation.
—
The next time he saw Mr. Graves he could barely look him in the eye. He had, in his weakness, licked his own release from his palm in fear that somehow his ma would know. That his sisters would know. That someone would know had he wiped it on his pants or worse yet, the church ground. He could recall the thickly viscous feel of it on his tongue, the salty-strange taste of it, with horrifying clarity as Mr. Graves asked after the child. Had he had any luck at all? Was he trying his hardest?
“I’m—distracted,” Credence burst out. “Weak. Incapable.”
Mr. Graves frowned. “Then we have to snuff out the source of your distraction.”
“I can’t—It isn’t like that. I’m a freak, an invert.”
Arms came around him, and Mr. Graves pulled him into an embrace. He smelled of burning wood, spiced cologne, in short: wonderful. The little hairs at the base of neck tickled Credence’s nose. He was held so tightly, and he sagged into it, grateful and terrified.
“Shhhh, shhhh child. Hush now. What did I tell you?”
“I’m normal.”
“Tell me how to help you.”
“Is there somewhere we can go?”
Mr. Graves pulled back and gripped his shoulders. “Of course. Take my arm.”
Credence did, and then all went black and he was assaulted by terrible pressure on all sides. He clung to Mr. Graves, he could not breathe. He eyeballs felt likely to burst from his skull. And then it was over, and he was unclenching his fingers from Mr. Graves' coat and standing in a hotel room.
Mr. Graves dusted off his jacket. He pulled forth his wand and summoned a coffee service from out of thin air with no words at all.
Credence gaped until he remembered to close his mouth.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Graves. He poured them each a cup of steaming hot, black coffee.
Credence sat. He took the offered cup and sipped at it. The caffeine buzzed into his veins; his ma forbade coffee. He wasn’t used to it.
Mr. Graves tipped a small amount of amber liquid into his own cup, then milk, and it all swirled together of its own accord.
“Milk?”
Credence shook his head. Mr. Graves placed a hand over his knee. It covered his whole kneecap.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve led you astray.” His hand inched ever slightly higher. “I have been unfair to you, and it has taken a toll on your,” —to Credence it almost seemed like he meant to say usefulness, but instead he finished firmly with ”productiveness.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Credence said. “You’ve been so good to me. I barely know how to thank you.”
Mr. Graves set down his coffee on the bedside table, and took Credence’s cup from where he was cradling it to his chest. His other hand stayed firmly on Credence’s upper thigh, a hot brand through his trouser fabric. Credence wished he had crossed his legs. Done something to hide the way in which his body was responding to the proximity between them. Mr. Graves touched his thumb to Credence’s mouth. He pushed it past his lips until it bumped against his teeth and Credence was helpless but to part them for it.
“You’re afraid, and I’ve told you time and again not to be.” He rubbed at Credence’s gums behind his bottom teeth and tugged slightly, pulling at his jaw. “I want to give you something, will you let me?”
Credence nodded.
Mr. Graves took his thumb back, and replaced it with his mouth. The kiss was deeper this time, plundering. His tongue was a thick, writhing force against Credence’s own. His teeth were sharp and careless. Credence found himself clinging to Mr. Graves’ broad shoulders, clutching at him like he would drown otherwise, as his lips were assaulted, and he began to kiss back, at first tentatively, and then with the same force. The dark abyss inside of him yawned open, voracious and needy. Mr. Graves pulled one of Credence's hands from his shoulder and redirected it to his trousers, cupped his hand around his erection, and groaned into Credence’s mouth when he forced his grip to tighten over it.
“You have—” he said, pulling back, and nipping at Credence’s lips, “a divine mouth. So—” he licked at him “—soft. Untouched.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Use your hand on me. You know how.” He undid the buttons holding his fly together without touching them, pushed the fabric aside, and Credence’s palm came into contact with his engorged cock, hot and silky. Mr. Graves thrust against him slightly, grunting, and Credence was shocked by the wet tip, by the tender slit against his thumb.
He sought Mr. Graves’ mouth again, to distract himself as Mr. Graves rubbed against his hand, and he shut his eyes against the sight of himself gradually beginning to bring him off wholeheartedly, his fingers gaining confidence with each stroke. He felt—powerful, oddly powerful, when a twist of his wrist made Mr. Graves groan and jerk in his hand.
“Is that, is it—good, sir?” he asked wetly. His voice sounded weak and distant. He was startlingly close himself, and he wouldn’t have realized it had he not indulged so recently.
In response, Mr. Graves rubbed at him through his own pants. His hand ground down just on the right side of painful. “You deserve this,” he said, against Credence’s ear. He dragged his teeth down Credence’s neck, and when he bit down hard at the top of Credence’s collar, Credence knew he was gone, utterly lost and unlikely to find his way again unless Mr. Graves was there to guide him. His hand contracted into a fist around Mr. Graves’ cock, unintentional and perhaps too rough, but Mr. Graves loosed another grunt against his skin, and Credence felt his cock throb before his hand was striped in hot slick.
He had barely pulled away when Mr. Graves slid from the bed and to his knees. He dispatched with Credence’s belt and trousers as though they had never been there, and swallowed the red, leaking source of his shame without preamble.
“Oh—oh fuck—” Credence managed, horrified at his loss of control, and his language. Too soon he was emptying himself into his savior's mouth, shocked still, his whole body gone rigid and taut, his mouth open on a soundless scream
—
Mr. Graves sent him home after another cup of coffee, and a lusty bout of praise: the promise of more if he redoubled his efforts to find the child, and a final kiss, in which he could taste the familiar tang of his own semen.
“Find her,” Mr. Graves whispered, biting at his mouth again, and this time, gripping his buttocks with both hands.
Credence was soft and sensitive but renewed arousal rocked him regardless.
“Find the child,” Graves said, more forcefully, curling his fingers into the crease between Credence’s thighs and ass and stroking upward with purpose. “And I’ll have you.”
He would, Credence thought. He felt a fiery and newly zealous confidence. He would find the child, and Mr. Graves would give him his reward.