Fic: Four; George/Mitchell; NC17
Look ma! I wrote slash. Just because.
Being Human; George/Mitchell
Normality is what you make it to be.
Superfast beta by the gorgeous arubyslipper. Lyrics by Snow Patrol.
Four
You're the only thing that I love
It scares me more every day
On my knees I think clearer
They have a ritual every month. One of them goes to Oxfam two days prior to the full moon to buy old clothing. It doesn’t matter which of them goes, Mitchell knows George’s clothes size almost as well he does. Before they met, George used to go back to whatever part of the local woods he had isolated himself into the night before, and try to collect his clothes. Most of his things were torn and he went through more packets of washing powder than the germ-phobic cleaning lady at the hospital. George had looked scandalized after Mitchell had informed him of this.
“You mean the one with the gloves? And the…”
“Yes.”
He had drawn the word out, long and lazy, exactly in a way he knew George disliked.
He draws out long and lazy now as well, George’s cock heavy and thick against his tongue. Mitchell feels the thigh muscles tensing against his shoulders and pulls back. It’s too soon, too quick and he wants to savor this.
Oxfam is not their only ritual. There are small things; buttery breakfasts as George’s sense of taste and smell increase. The blood bags that show up in the fridge for Mitchell, now that George is beyond caring. They circulate in each other’s orbits even more in those few days than they usually do. George needing reassurance that he is not the only monster, Mitchell needing the sound of George’s blood streaming in his veins like the tide.
Mitchell scrabbles down beneath the bed for the half empty tube of KY. He lets his tongue play around the head of George’s cock while slicking his fingers. After meeting George, Mitchell has become very good at multitasking. His fingers slide easily in the valley of George’s ass, circling and pressing. George’s breath hikes and he swears. Shit. The word echoes in the bare walls and Mitchell thinks that they should get some posters, maybe some old painting from the market.
But the small rituals had never been enough for Mitchell, he wanted more. Maybe it’s in his nature to crave and to push further and further until there is nothing left but bright blood and the echo of heartbeat in his ears. He had reveled in George’s adoration of the house, had thought about the pizza and the beer on the couch, and though; yes, more. And he was lying to himself, because what he was really thinking was the days after the full moon and George’s room next to his own, thinking of the shrinking distance between them.
He spreads George’s thighs further apart with his shoulders, scissors his fingers with more force. Mitchell lets his teeth graze against the head of George’s cock, lets him feel that hint of danger, the sharp sting of his incisors.
The first time had been in the back of the car, plush velvet and old leather surrounding them. George had been rattled and vehemently denied it afterwards, but it had not stopped him coming into Mitchell’s closed fist. Slowly, month by month, the hasty wanks had become a part of the ritual. Something George needs afterwards. After the high and the blood lust dissipates, and his body crashes and his mind won’t focus.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
He says this seriously, watching Mitchell in the eye through the blinding shine of his glasses which he doesn’t need four days out of the month. Mitchell had accepted his argument, just because it meant that he would get to hear the hike in George’s breath, feel the tremble of his legs and the way his body squeezes around Mitchell’s fingers just moments before he comes.
Mitchell pushes a third finger in and George grunts, but his hips move down, forcing it deeper. His eyes are squeezed shut, nostrils flared, mouth a thin, hard line trying to stop the moans and shouts Mitchell knows he’s wanting to voice. Mitchell wants to pry those lips open with his own tongue, but instead he swallows George’s cock as far as he can. The pulse of the other man reverberates in his scull. He can only smell the blood, but somehow this is better than feeding. He twists his fingers and George’s body shudders, his legs clenching on Mitchell’s shoulders. Every time he feeds, Mitchell wants to delve closer, deeper, but the heart always stops just before that moment, just before he knows the answer. George’s pulse never stops, it speeds faster when Mitchell hollows his cheeks and when he crooks his finger. Sometimes Mitchell has to close his eyes against the knowledge, against the overwhelming feeling that he is inside George.
They try to decorate the apartment and George wonders about growing vegetables.
“This is normal.”
He says to Mitchell as he washes the tens of teacups left by Annie. They go to the supermarket and live like ordinary people. Mitchell tries to give up blood, give up eating other people. They find a safe room for George for the nights of the full moon. They live like regular young people, except for four days out of every month.
Mitchell holds on to George’s quaking body. He can get away with it for now, while George is too disorientated from his orgasm to move or think. But then his breathing evens out, the sound of his pulse dissipated from Mitchell’s ears. George untangles his legs from Mitchell’s body and begins to search for his jogging bottoms. Mitchell knows that George considers this only as an extension of the curse, a part of his life that is extraordinary, a part to keep hidden. Mitchell wants to push him, to force George into the open, expose the lie that he lives. Mitchell knows that the blood won’t lie. All of his victims have wanted it in the end, like George, they have tried to mask it and fight it, but in the end the pull of blood is too strong.
Mitchell rolls off the bed and goes to the kitchen to make tea. Annie is already there with five steaming cups scattered on the table. Mitchell knows that he will never push George, never force him into the open. Not because he is George’s friend, but because he is deathly frightened that he will no longer have even those four measly days to call his own.
Being Human; George/Mitchell
Normality is what you make it to be.
Superfast beta by the gorgeous arubyslipper. Lyrics by Snow Patrol.
Four
You're the only thing that I love
It scares me more every day
On my knees I think clearer
They have a ritual every month. One of them goes to Oxfam two days prior to the full moon to buy old clothing. It doesn’t matter which of them goes, Mitchell knows George’s clothes size almost as well he does. Before they met, George used to go back to whatever part of the local woods he had isolated himself into the night before, and try to collect his clothes. Most of his things were torn and he went through more packets of washing powder than the germ-phobic cleaning lady at the hospital. George had looked scandalized after Mitchell had informed him of this.
“You mean the one with the gloves? And the…”
“Yes.”
He had drawn the word out, long and lazy, exactly in a way he knew George disliked.
He draws out long and lazy now as well, George’s cock heavy and thick against his tongue. Mitchell feels the thigh muscles tensing against his shoulders and pulls back. It’s too soon, too quick and he wants to savor this.
Oxfam is not their only ritual. There are small things; buttery breakfasts as George’s sense of taste and smell increase. The blood bags that show up in the fridge for Mitchell, now that George is beyond caring. They circulate in each other’s orbits even more in those few days than they usually do. George needing reassurance that he is not the only monster, Mitchell needing the sound of George’s blood streaming in his veins like the tide.
Mitchell scrabbles down beneath the bed for the half empty tube of KY. He lets his tongue play around the head of George’s cock while slicking his fingers. After meeting George, Mitchell has become very good at multitasking. His fingers slide easily in the valley of George’s ass, circling and pressing. George’s breath hikes and he swears. Shit. The word echoes in the bare walls and Mitchell thinks that they should get some posters, maybe some old painting from the market.
But the small rituals had never been enough for Mitchell, he wanted more. Maybe it’s in his nature to crave and to push further and further until there is nothing left but bright blood and the echo of heartbeat in his ears. He had reveled in George’s adoration of the house, had thought about the pizza and the beer on the couch, and though; yes, more. And he was lying to himself, because what he was really thinking was the days after the full moon and George’s room next to his own, thinking of the shrinking distance between them.
He spreads George’s thighs further apart with his shoulders, scissors his fingers with more force. Mitchell lets his teeth graze against the head of George’s cock, lets him feel that hint of danger, the sharp sting of his incisors.
The first time had been in the back of the car, plush velvet and old leather surrounding them. George had been rattled and vehemently denied it afterwards, but it had not stopped him coming into Mitchell’s closed fist. Slowly, month by month, the hasty wanks had become a part of the ritual. Something George needs afterwards. After the high and the blood lust dissipates, and his body crashes and his mind won’t focus.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
He says this seriously, watching Mitchell in the eye through the blinding shine of his glasses which he doesn’t need four days out of the month. Mitchell had accepted his argument, just because it meant that he would get to hear the hike in George’s breath, feel the tremble of his legs and the way his body squeezes around Mitchell’s fingers just moments before he comes.
Mitchell pushes a third finger in and George grunts, but his hips move down, forcing it deeper. His eyes are squeezed shut, nostrils flared, mouth a thin, hard line trying to stop the moans and shouts Mitchell knows he’s wanting to voice. Mitchell wants to pry those lips open with his own tongue, but instead he swallows George’s cock as far as he can. The pulse of the other man reverberates in his scull. He can only smell the blood, but somehow this is better than feeding. He twists his fingers and George’s body shudders, his legs clenching on Mitchell’s shoulders. Every time he feeds, Mitchell wants to delve closer, deeper, but the heart always stops just before that moment, just before he knows the answer. George’s pulse never stops, it speeds faster when Mitchell hollows his cheeks and when he crooks his finger. Sometimes Mitchell has to close his eyes against the knowledge, against the overwhelming feeling that he is inside George.
They try to decorate the apartment and George wonders about growing vegetables.
“This is normal.”
He says to Mitchell as he washes the tens of teacups left by Annie. They go to the supermarket and live like ordinary people. Mitchell tries to give up blood, give up eating other people. They find a safe room for George for the nights of the full moon. They live like regular young people, except for four days out of every month.
Mitchell holds on to George’s quaking body. He can get away with it for now, while George is too disorientated from his orgasm to move or think. But then his breathing evens out, the sound of his pulse dissipated from Mitchell’s ears. George untangles his legs from Mitchell’s body and begins to search for his jogging bottoms. Mitchell knows that George considers this only as an extension of the curse, a part of his life that is extraordinary, a part to keep hidden. Mitchell wants to push him, to force George into the open, expose the lie that he lives. Mitchell knows that the blood won’t lie. All of his victims have wanted it in the end, like George, they have tried to mask it and fight it, but in the end the pull of blood is too strong.
Mitchell rolls off the bed and goes to the kitchen to make tea. Annie is already there with five steaming cups scattered on the table. Mitchell knows that he will never push George, never force him into the open. Not because he is George’s friend, but because he is deathly frightened that he will no longer have even those four measly days to call his own.