He can't sleep. It's close to three in the morning and Credence turns in his bed, sighing and trying very, very hard to ignore the predicament between his legs. He's had this before, of course he has – it's happened on and off for years, but it's never been quite so difficult to overcome. And it's because of Graves.
No matter how he tosses and turns and arranges his limbs, the persistent heat and thrum of his prick will not let him drift off. He can still feel where Graves touched him. Stroked his face in something like tenderness – something Credence has never felt. It's as if Graves branded him with his fingers. Held him close. Held him – oh, God. Credence turns over for the millionth time and groans into the pillow. His cock is hard, aching, wet at the tip, and his cheeks are hot at the very thought of it. He shifts against the bed, quite unintentionally, and it – it...
The noise that comes out of him is shocking. He has never made such a noise. It's quiet, but desperate and wanton and the sound of it in the air hits him like a hammer blow, and it's enough to make him do it again.
“Oh,” Credence moans and his hand flies to his mouth so he can bite down on it and stop the noise. His underpants will be stained and everyone will know he's been thinking about... No...
Quickly, he reaches down and tears off his underpants, bunching them in his hand and pushing them into the gap between his mattress and the bed. No one can know. He'll wash them tomorrow. His cheeks are hot with debilitating shame. They're already wet – his prick is spilling thick fluid from the tip and he wants, with no idea what it is he wants.
"Aahh..." This time his vocalisation dissolves into a gasp as he rocks his hips again, bare cock sliding against smooth warm cotton. Credence presses his cheek against the bed and tries to breathe evenly, his eyes slipping closed. And he can't help it, his prick is throbbing and it feels tight and wound down there and the slow rub is so, so good. He barely knows how pleasure feels and this is like nothing else.
He pictures Graves here watching him - but oh, it would be awful for Graves to see him like this, so vulnerable – doing something so terrible. Degrading himself. He's not touching himself, though, so maybe it isn't so terribly sinful. But Graves, watching him with those dark eyes as he moves again, quicker this time. The friction has him parting his lips, desperately drawing in air. He gropes for his pillow instinctively, shoving it between his legs, spreading them wide so he can grind against it. And he can't stop making these obscene humiliating noises. And every time he does, it's a shock of pleasure in his body. He pulls the blankets over his head, muffling the sounds.
"Mm... ah, oh... ooh..."
He feels disgusting, but it's better like this. Graves-in-his-mind regards him, head tilted to one side. Approving. Credence moans again without meaning to and then clamps his hand over his mouth, biting down on the flesh of his palm and scrunching his eyes shut. He thinks about Graves, walking over to the bed. Looking down at him doing this awful, sinful thing. And maybe his prick would swell and throb like Credence's and he'd be able to see it through his pants. See it. Maybe it gets wet at the tip like his and maybe it feels good like this when he touches it. Maybe Graves would watch Credence rutting against his pillow like a wild animal and touch himself, or better still – no, no, not better, this is dreadful and he's vile for doing it, for wanting it - so bad but oh, oh God it feels so good - maybe Graves would touch him, not just gentle touches to his face but kiss him and -
Credence cums hard, biting on his lip, and the last image before he is unable to form a coherent thought is of Graves stroking a hand down his undulating back as he rubs himself frantically against his pillow and saying softly, "Good boy. My good boy."
He sobs as he rinses his soaked underpants in the sink and hides them once again under the mattress. He's pretty sure he'll never sleep – what if his mother somehow finds out? But he finds it comes more easily to him than since he was a child. The sky is turning grey with the beginning of sunrise, and he drifts away.