Fic: Dark in the Valley

Craig breathes softly, “If you really want me to stop, you’ll have to tell me.” So softly it’s barely there, barely the disruption of a weevil moth’s wing to the dark, damp air in the valley between Luke’s neck and shoulder where Craig’s face is nuzzled.

After the shouting at the station today, he expected nothing of coming here tonight to Luke’s flat but more of the same, but he has become a toy train on a track for Luke. On the console of his life there is left only an accelerator.

Now they’re here, the tender valley of Luke’s spine, where earlier Craig sank his knee, pressed against the wall. Craig holds Luke’s wrists above his head, bound with Craig’s belt; he strokes the fine hair cresting the bump of the wristbone.

And yes, yes, Craig’s whisper is delicate enough, and Luke doesn’t take fright, just sort of eases himself against the wall, or maybe eases himself against Craig, it’s hard to tell, but he’s becoming liquid and heavy, and slow as melting chocolate Craig spoons Luke’s knee aside with his own and cups Luke’s warm balls in his hand through the jeans. He slides his finger down the inner seam, pressing, and then he slides it up again to the fly, and then he finds Luke’s cock in the crease between hip and thigh (the denim is soft, threadbare here from wear) and makes out its contour — creates its contour, his touch firm and intrusive as if he is moulding clay. Luke’s bound wrists sag down, weighing a tonne in his other hand, and he braces his elbow against the wall to take some of the weight. Luke’s breath comes hot and quick, rabbity-frantic, against his temple. And then he moves to Luke’s fly button, and finally he turns his head to look at Luke, and Luke’s eyes are mashed shut, his mouth slack, upper lip damp.

Craig kisses Luke, once, close-lipped on the mouth as he begins to open Luke’s fly. Luke’s eyes open, panic-wide, to stare at Craig, and suddenly there is traction in his wrists, resistance in his thighs, and he opens his mouth, but Craig kisses it again, wetly, properly this time, tongue intruding deep. And he cups Luke through his pants, under his jeans, and keeps stroking and pushing inside with his tongue, and Luke’s limbs ease again, his wrists become heavy.

When he stops kissing Luke, Luke’s eyes open again, but only half way, so he looks sleepy, terribly sleepy, and when Craig brings his fingers up to his face to smell his fingers, musky from Luke’s damp underwear, the eyes only open a little further, and the sleepiness remains.

When Craig holds his fingers to Luke’s nose, even that doesn’t wake Luke up. Craig thinks he does take a sniff — there is a movement of cool air across Craig’s fingertips.

Craig eases Luke’s jeans down a bit — they’re tight, and so with one hand it’s a hand’s span at a time, one side then the other. Then there’s the band of elastic to stretch out and tug down, and Craig is looking down to make sure he doesn’t snare Luke’s cock, and he thinks he can feel Luke’s sleepy, unwavering gaze still fluttering on the ball of his cheek.

Looking back into Luke’s eyes, nose to nose now, as he takes Luke’s warm cock in his hand, doesn’t disappoint.

Craig smooths the ductile sheath of skin back and forth along Luke’s cock, so delicate and elastic it’s almost membrane — and yes, if you smooth the skin back and touch there on the tip, there is the helpless leaking wetness, and Craig knows what it’s like to have another man’s calloused thumb chafe right across the eye there, and stroke the moisture down the slit, and then rub it in, up and down, back and forth, and Luke’s back arches, chest brushing Craig’s; his mouth opens.

Craig uses his own chest to push Luke back into the wall, and the crook of Luke’s neck is wet against Craig’s lips, and he bites Luke’s earlobe. And then Luke is limp against the wall as clothes hung from a hook, and Craig falls to his knees, and when he holds Luke’s hips, it’s not to restrain, but as a chalice is held, two-handed.

Luke’s bound wrists settle, heavy, behind Craig’s neck.

Luke tastes unspeakable, unspeakably like cock; unspeakably personal, the way a jumper he once left in Craig’s office smelled unbearably like him when Craig brought it to his face. Craig sucks, and swirls his tongue, and sucks, and some times passes and Luke is making a high, whining sound with each exhale, and Luke’s balls are pulled up tight against his body, and when Craig looks, the head of Luke’s cock looks bruised and dusky.

Craig pulls off, and Luke’s whining peaks sharply, then stops with an audible effort of muffling. When Craig lurches to his feet and looks at him, Luke’s eyes roll and skate. Craig puts his hand to Luke’s jaw and turns Luke’s head; he puts his lips to Luke’s ear and he kisses around the central well of the ear, so the cartilage collapses against the skull; he rubs his forehead against Luke’s gel-spiked hair. He says, feather-soft, nudging the edge of inaudible, “I want you so much.” And he breathes in and breathes out on Luke’s ear.

Craig kisses the round, firm swell of Luke’s shoulder. He pushes back the sleeve hem of Luke’s T-shirt and strokes Luke’s underarm, ruffling damp hair against the grain, disturbing the odour of sour sweat. Tendons in Luke’s arm twitch; his wrists shift behind Craig’s neck; but Luke makes no effort to turn his head back, makes no sound.

Craig undoes his own fly, one distinct pop of a button at a time. His cock is almost as painfully vertical as Luke’s and they slot together into his sticky palm as if designed.

Luke sags and puts his head down on Craig’s shoulder. He moans, finally moans. Craig drags their skin back and forth together, carelessly firm. His own cock burns from friction. Luke’s mouth is open on his shoulder, saliva soaking the fabric.

One, two, five hard strokes, and Luke wheezes sharply, and Craig has it; he has Luke’s spunk on his shirt hem and the back of his hand and on his fingers, enough to smear it over his own cock, pushing it into the slit and coating it under the head, and dragging his foreskin over it so it swallows it up. And then Craig shoots, slashes it across Luke’s torso, shocking as gunshot spatter.

Like he never has for a gunshot victim, Craig eases Luke to the floor and holds him while he stares into the middle distance and breathes fast and quiet as a sparrow. Luke’s sofa smells musty against his face when he leans them back against the arm. He rubs the place his belt has been around Luke’s wrists — it’s pale and damp and naked as raw chicken.

5 comments

5 Comments so far

  1. daisy may o2 December 7th, 2013 4:54 pm

    Liked your story but it seemed to end in mid air.Feel like writing another chapter?

  2. Eyebrow of Doom December 30th, 2013 1:23 pm

    Thanks for the comment! It’s from years ago and I think I’ve moved on, sorry. 🙂

  3. gwenda July 24th, 2017 11:35 pm

    I love your story as well and i know it is from years ago but why have you moved on. There are people like me who have only just found these stories. So please write more
    bye G

  4. gwenda July 24th, 2017 11:37 pm

    Maybe not just forget about it.Don’t you are very interested

  5. Eyebrow of Doom July 25th, 2017 12:49 am

    Hey, it would be hard to revisit something from 2005 now, but I’m glad you enjoyed it!

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