BBTP FIC: I Don't Have to Sell My Soul, He's Already in Me.
Title: I Don't Have to Sell My Soul, He's Already in Me
Author: omarandjohnny
Fandom/Pairing: Being Human, George/Mitchell
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,877
Summary: "And then, what?" Takes place the night George and Mitchell first met. Wounds are licked, and bonds are formed. Title taken from The Stone Roses.
Disclaimer: I claim nothing.
Highlight for Warnings: * some violence (nonsexual), blood *
Beta: andreth47
"And then, what?
I can't keep...I've lost everything.
I've had this for six months, and now there are vampires?
And they want to kill me, so I have to leave...again.
And then, what!"
---
"Can I em, go through...man?" Mitchell halted at the threshold, unsure of what to call the werewolf.
"It's George, and yes, go through."
The first thing Mitchell noticed upon entering the room, was the overwhelming smell of chip oil. It seemed to smother from every direction, he was amazed that the werewolf managed to live with it for six minutes, nevermind six months.
He watched as the young man peeled off his bloodstained shirt and threw it in the dustbin. Before George turned, Mitchell caught a glimpse of the violent pink scars running vertical along his left shoulder. Still adjusting to the slow-forming keloids, George's arm maintained an alien stiffness, and that made something in Mitchell wince; Something buried, but not quite gone. The pain of the attack was written all over the young man's face, masked by the reflex of human pride, but Mitchell was not fooled. The trauma radiated from George like steam rising off of August asphalt.
The werewolf seemed to forget Mitchell was there, busying himself with the linen basket at the far side of the room. Not finding an available chair, he settled on the edge of George's bed. Worn sheets---slightly yellowed with the alkali of night sweats---were pulled hospital crisp against the mattress. Mitchell found the contradiction amusing, and terribly sad. He caught George's eye, and gestured for him to sit as well.
"George, you're making me nervous."
The man half-chuckled, and rested next to him, shakily folding his hands in his lap. "I'm making you nervous? I...I apologize, it's just that with the whole 'vampires are real and they want to see me dead' thing, I'm feeling a bit out of sorts tonight."
Mitchell took the hint, and rose from the bed. "If you're alright then I think I'd better go." He straightened his jacket and took a step, feeling the hand on his back a second before George stood up to place it.
"Don't...I mean. You don't have to go, I didn't mean it like that. I need, I ne-ne-need you to talk to me. I need answers!" The last sentence was forced at him, and with it, a minute spray of blood from George's reopened lower lip. Mitchell turned away in an instant, the soured musk of it making his stomach leap.
"George, your mouth. I, em," Mitchell kept his eyes down as he rubbed the transfer from his chin, not wanting to frighten away the small progress of the conversation with a flash of ebony.
George shuffled to the kitchenette, prompting Mitchell to sit once more. He forced himself to calm down, blinking away the black, repeatedly wiping his mouth like an alcoholic. The scent was too different, too much all at once. It was earthen and meaty. It was rotted plantlife and unwashed fur. It was disgusting, and utterly intoxicating. Mitchell knew that upon tasting it, he probably would not be able to stop.
He remained still as George returned, cautiously watching the man pat his face with a damp towel. There was something in George's eyes that wanted, needed to trick Mitchell into thinking the vampire's every uncomfortable thought was being broadcasted outwards. And as thought gave birth to speech, George brazenly leaned in and whispered," I can smell you too."
Mitchell's eyes darkened, and he shot from his seat.
"Don't worry, full moon's five days away. But I guess you know how things work," George continued with an abrupt growl," Did you come up here to kill me? Scare off your mates to have me all to yourself!"
Mitchell knew the talk was just so much chest-thumping, as he could still taste the fear in the air. " No, George. I don't want to kill you, I don't see the sense of it." He watched George dial back his anger, almost hearing the bluster in his mind fade again to the television static of dull pain. He kneeled at George's feet, resting a palm on the man's knee. "I wish I had the answers for you, you seem like a guy who deserves them. But I can't give you the hows and the whys. This is all there is. The real world wants nothing of us, save mutual ignorance, so here we stay...in the alleys."
George let out a weak moan, and sank down to the floor. "Please don't...I just can't..."
Without thinking, Mitchell pulled off his gloves and turned to face him. George gave a muted shudder as Mitchell's chilled fingers found their destination, wrapping around George's feverish ears. He could sense the man's unease, and attempted to quell it with a light kiss. Avoid the cuts, avoid the cuts. In an instant, cool became cold, and resting back on his heels, he could see the anger return in George's eyes.
"I'm s-orry," Mitchell stammered as he recoiled, rising in tandem with the young man.
"You're sorry?" George spat, "Sorry?! I've just had my world crash down on me for the second time in a year, and you're sorry over a bloody kiss!"
It occurred so quickly, Mitchell saw it happen in slow motion. George's fists careening out and up, the sharp grate of knuckles against his breastbone, the feeling of weightlessness as he crashed to the floor. His natural instinct told him to leap back up, swat the boy like a fly and open his throat like a penny fountain. He could sense the fight had not left George, and he knew the werewolf needed this, so Mitchell stayed limp as he was being pummeled. A bare foot found purchase in his ribcage, a fist cracked against his collarbone, an elbow stabbed his thigh. It didn't take long for the already weakened George to tire, and as the hits wound down, Mitchell unfastened his eyes long enough to see the werewolf collapse against the bed, a flood of tears streaking the mess of his face.
As the sobbing died down George asked,"There's nothing left of the world for people like us, that's all you tell me?" Crawling to Mitchell, he continued,"And then you try to kiss me?"
Mitchell could hear the click in his head, realizing his insensitivity. There's still a schoolboy in there somewhere, shit. He wrapped his arms around George, and said softly,"I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. What I meant to say is that there's nothing left of the past for us, but that doesn't mean we're done here and now." He placed his hand against George's neck, and tentatively kissed his cheek."We don't have to live in the alleys like rats. I'm so tired of living in the dark, George...aren't you tired of it too?" The werewolf nodded against Mitchell before he went on," If we...I dunno...tried to stay out of the alley together, maybe things wouldn't look so grim, yeah?"
George looked at him, the reflection of his black eyes mirrored in the more natural blue. "I can't remember what they called you," he stated calmly before nestling against Mitchell's neck. The vampire gasped at the sudden heat of fingers under the back of his shirt, a careful hand surveying the nubs of his spine.
"M-Mitchell," was all he could get out as George continued his exploration, seemingly awed by the refrigerated temperature of his flesh. He quickly pulled off his jacket and shirt, letting the werewolf have full access.
"You're so cold, how do you, I mean?" George stuttered, tracing a thumb over Mitchell's right nipple. "So cold, my god," he whispered, and leaned in to kiss Mitchell. Cautious at first, Mitchell didn't press into the kiss, fearing the delicate, wounded skin would break open again. He felt George's breath quicken, and lightly darted his tongue. Suddenly he felt strong arms pulling him closer still, and without warning, George crushed his mouth against Mitchell's.
The taste was immediate. Dead animals, stale tea, rotten wood, it coated his chin and trickled down his throat. He felt the fangs, but could not stop. He heard a whimper as he bit into George's lip, but could not stop. It was horrible and wonderful, it was the taste of George battling with the monster that grew inside him; fury and regret and all those terrible thoughts that the creature secreted away from the parts that were still George. He swallowed hard, and with a heavy gasp, he pulled himself off. George's eyes stared wide, spun with parallels of pain and arousal.
"George, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," he muttered, unconsciously licking at his fangs.
George shook his head, and resumed the embrace. "You didn't hurt me, Mitchell, I'm okay," he replied, cementing the assurance by licking a bloodied stripe against Mitchell's face.
Mitchell could sense that a wall had come down between them, sometime between the first failed kiss and first successful bite. A new air of playfulness, eagerness, rose from George. Like a puppy, he mused, watching the man trip over his clothes as he tore them off. George gave him a crooked smile, gesturing for Mitchell to take off his trousers as well, a command that didn't have to be repeated.
Both standing naked, George nuzzled into Mitchell's neck, his solid weight pulling them both onto the bed with ease. The perfumed hunger of the vampire appeared to commingle with the animal scent rising from the werewolf's body underneath him. Mitchell could tell by the strained look on George's face, that he could smell it too, and with much keener senses. George grabbed at Mitchell's ass with both hands, seeming to want every square inch covered with his touch. Mitchell moaned into the short rough of George's nape, absently clawing at bare shanks as they struggled to find a common beat.
He couldn't resist George's mouth any longer, and turning his head, he dove into the seeping wreck of George's lips. Mitchell's tongue opened a cut as they kissed, and fangs soon reappeared, garnering a positive response from George in the form of a hot hand wrapping itself around Mitchell's dick. A low growl emanated from George's chest as Mitchell sucked and bit, and it wasn't long before he moved to the valley of the man's neck. He took in a wasted breath, and paused.
"It's okay," George said for the second time that night, and accompanying the permission, George tightened his grip.
Mitchell gasped, and sank his gratitude deep into George's shoulder. He drank with a whisper of warning, concentrating on the stop and start of George's hand against his cock. He knew that if the grip faltered, he was taking in too much. The intersection of smells and tastes, ancient death wrapped in the youthful sting of ammonia, drove Mitchell to a higher plane. It was nothing and everything he'd ever desired. Feeling a quick shudder beneath him, he unclamped from George's crook, and looking carefully into his eyes he asked, "George, are you alright?"
"Fi-fine," George uttered, and weakly bucked his hips upward.
Mitchell feared the worst, and as if hearing him again, George washed away the thought with a kick of his legs. Color bloomed back quickly in the werewolf's face, and Mitchell could feel the need grinding between them, hard and desperate. George forcefully grabbed Mitchell's ass again, trying in vain to fold them into one being. Mitchell bit at his chest, leaving tiny marks that made a shaky trail across the span of George's nipples.
The growling continued, not quite animal yet, but not man either, and it sent Mitchell to the edge. He held himself up with one arm, and spat into his hand, George's frothy blood the only thing filling his palm. He stared at George, who answered the question by adding his saliva to the mix. Mitchell flashed a toothy grin, and proceeded to rub the pinked slick along George's shaft, using the remainder to keep his own fingers lubricated. Resting his forehead in the moist gore of George's shoulder, Mitchell pushed his finger slowly inside. After so many years, it was still a bit of a shock to feel his own insides. Always cool and shallow, but during the height of pleasure, it retained a natural heaviness, the body's old memories of firm desire. He snaked a second finger in, gasping into George's chest as he wriggled and slid, making room for his new companion.
George made a solitary ticking sound, signaling Mitchell to look up, and as he did, George kissed him again. The meat of George's tongue scraped against Mitchell's fangs more than once, but neither seemed to care. The kiss was full, and warm, and invulnerable to everything outside of the space they shared. Mitchell withdrew his fingers, and with lightning precision, replaced them with George's cock. The werewolf growled from somewhere very far away, and sat up, slamming into Mitchell as he positioned their bodies. Mitchell cried out, and returned the action, swiftly pistoning his body up and down, finally catching the rhythm as he half-folded his legs against George's back. Mitchell lapped at George's mouth, neck, ears, and with every lick, George matched with a harder upward thrust. The sounds were no longer discernible as human, and Mitchell took a moment to look into George's eyes, just in case, but they were fully dilated with sky blue rings; he let a relieved moan slip out, and gripped George tighter. The feeling was incomprehensible, the fire of George sinking repeatedly into him, molding the horrors of the night and transforming them into something beautiful. Safe.
Mitchell wavered in and out as the rush of George's heat took his body over section by section, and before he could register it, George had flipped them over, Mitchell's back now flush against the mattress. George took Mitchell's legs with his hands, and began jackhammering like a teenager, all sense of modesty thrown aside in favor of sheer, repetitive force. The look on George's face as he grunted and growled made Mitchell smile, but he stifled the laughter that bubbled.
The relentlessness of George's motions began to work their magic, and Mitchell brought a hand up, tightly grasping his own dick and pumped in time with George. Looking down to see what Mitchell was doing, the werewolf shook the mattress, appearing to lose control over every muscle he had, and let out an almost comical howl as he came, furiously propelling it so deep Mitchell could swear he felt his ribs light up. Grabbing George close, he stole one more taste of the semi-clotted shoulder wound, and let out a low scream as he finally succombed.
Collapsing into Mitchell's arms, George tiredly whispered," It really is okay, isn't it?"
The vampire kissed his bloodstreaked face and replied, "Yeah, George, it is."
---
The first thing Mitchell noticed upon waking up were the curtains, shut tight and fastened, cellotaped, against the windows. Small cracks of light gave the room a funny amber glow, and as he slowly sat up, Mitchell noticed he was alone in bed.
"George? George," he called, the sound of his voice echoing along the far wall. He then heard the rapid scurrying of someone running up the staircase. George bounded in seconds after, shutting the door fast.
"Is it enough? I mean, the sun, I mean, you're not gonna?" George pointed to the slivers of light and continued rambling,"Oh my god, I didn't use enough, don't get up, I mean, your arm! Your arm is in the light?! You're gonna, you're gonna!" He then made a dramatic whooshing sound, threw the bedsheet over Mitchell's arm, and began digging through the hamper for more coverage.
"I'm fine, George, calm down," Mitchell laughed, scooting off the mattress. He lifted his arm into the light for a few moments, and then dropped it again. "See, no combustion, alright? Just makes me a bit sick if I'm out too long."
George heaved a sigh of relief, and hugged him, muffling the remaining giggles left in Mitchell's system. He returned the embrace fully, and looked down to see a glint of jewelry catch the sunlight.
"That's nice, George, what is it?" George caught his gaze, smiled, and pulled the Star of David necklace from under his shirt.
Mitchell panicked only momentarily, the twinge passing as fast as it arose. "Hmm," was all he could say, before returning to the warmth of the hug. Mitchell then rested his head on George's left shoulder, knowing the right would still be quite sore. "You need to eat, George, if you haven't already," he mumbled against the soft flannel of George's shirt.
The werewolf released the embrace with a smile. "Taken care of. I woke up this morning craving half a dozen eggs. Four days, and all."
Mitchell nodded, pulling his clothes on as he moved around. "Where do you go, on the night of?"
"Well, I used to go to this abandoned factory nearby, old industrial-sized cold storage in the basement. Guess that's out of the question now."
Mitchell looked at the werewolf with a tinge of sorrow and replied,"Yes, George, I'm.."
George cut him off, squeezing his gloved hand. "Time to move on. Right, Mitchell?"
Mitchell grinned, spotting the packed bag at the door as they put on their coats. "Yeah, time to move on."
---
end.
Author: omarandjohnny
Fandom/Pairing: Being Human, George/Mitchell
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,877
Summary: "And then, what?" Takes place the night George and Mitchell first met. Wounds are licked, and bonds are formed. Title taken from The Stone Roses.
Disclaimer: I claim nothing.
Highlight for Warnings: * some violence (nonsexual), blood *
Beta: andreth47
"And then, what?
I can't keep...I've lost everything.
I've had this for six months, and now there are vampires?
And they want to kill me, so I have to leave...again.
And then, what!"
---
"Can I em, go through...man?" Mitchell halted at the threshold, unsure of what to call the werewolf.
"It's George, and yes, go through."
The first thing Mitchell noticed upon entering the room, was the overwhelming smell of chip oil. It seemed to smother from every direction, he was amazed that the werewolf managed to live with it for six minutes, nevermind six months.
He watched as the young man peeled off his bloodstained shirt and threw it in the dustbin. Before George turned, Mitchell caught a glimpse of the violent pink scars running vertical along his left shoulder. Still adjusting to the slow-forming keloids, George's arm maintained an alien stiffness, and that made something in Mitchell wince; Something buried, but not quite gone. The pain of the attack was written all over the young man's face, masked by the reflex of human pride, but Mitchell was not fooled. The trauma radiated from George like steam rising off of August asphalt.
The werewolf seemed to forget Mitchell was there, busying himself with the linen basket at the far side of the room. Not finding an available chair, he settled on the edge of George's bed. Worn sheets---slightly yellowed with the alkali of night sweats---were pulled hospital crisp against the mattress. Mitchell found the contradiction amusing, and terribly sad. He caught George's eye, and gestured for him to sit as well.
"George, you're making me nervous."
The man half-chuckled, and rested next to him, shakily folding his hands in his lap. "I'm making you nervous? I...I apologize, it's just that with the whole 'vampires are real and they want to see me dead' thing, I'm feeling a bit out of sorts tonight."
Mitchell took the hint, and rose from the bed. "If you're alright then I think I'd better go." He straightened his jacket and took a step, feeling the hand on his back a second before George stood up to place it.
"Don't...I mean. You don't have to go, I didn't mean it like that. I need, I ne-ne-need you to talk to me. I need answers!" The last sentence was forced at him, and with it, a minute spray of blood from George's reopened lower lip. Mitchell turned away in an instant, the soured musk of it making his stomach leap.
"George, your mouth. I, em," Mitchell kept his eyes down as he rubbed the transfer from his chin, not wanting to frighten away the small progress of the conversation with a flash of ebony.
George shuffled to the kitchenette, prompting Mitchell to sit once more. He forced himself to calm down, blinking away the black, repeatedly wiping his mouth like an alcoholic. The scent was too different, too much all at once. It was earthen and meaty. It was rotted plantlife and unwashed fur. It was disgusting, and utterly intoxicating. Mitchell knew that upon tasting it, he probably would not be able to stop.
He remained still as George returned, cautiously watching the man pat his face with a damp towel. There was something in George's eyes that wanted, needed to trick Mitchell into thinking the vampire's every uncomfortable thought was being broadcasted outwards. And as thought gave birth to speech, George brazenly leaned in and whispered," I can smell you too."
Mitchell's eyes darkened, and he shot from his seat.
"Don't worry, full moon's five days away. But I guess you know how things work," George continued with an abrupt growl," Did you come up here to kill me? Scare off your mates to have me all to yourself!"
Mitchell knew the talk was just so much chest-thumping, as he could still taste the fear in the air. " No, George. I don't want to kill you, I don't see the sense of it." He watched George dial back his anger, almost hearing the bluster in his mind fade again to the television static of dull pain. He kneeled at George's feet, resting a palm on the man's knee. "I wish I had the answers for you, you seem like a guy who deserves them. But I can't give you the hows and the whys. This is all there is. The real world wants nothing of us, save mutual ignorance, so here we stay...in the alleys."
George let out a weak moan, and sank down to the floor. "Please don't...I just can't..."
Without thinking, Mitchell pulled off his gloves and turned to face him. George gave a muted shudder as Mitchell's chilled fingers found their destination, wrapping around George's feverish ears. He could sense the man's unease, and attempted to quell it with a light kiss. Avoid the cuts, avoid the cuts. In an instant, cool became cold, and resting back on his heels, he could see the anger return in George's eyes.
"I'm s-orry," Mitchell stammered as he recoiled, rising in tandem with the young man.
"You're sorry?" George spat, "Sorry?! I've just had my world crash down on me for the second time in a year, and you're sorry over a bloody kiss!"
It occurred so quickly, Mitchell saw it happen in slow motion. George's fists careening out and up, the sharp grate of knuckles against his breastbone, the feeling of weightlessness as he crashed to the floor. His natural instinct told him to leap back up, swat the boy like a fly and open his throat like a penny fountain. He could sense the fight had not left George, and he knew the werewolf needed this, so Mitchell stayed limp as he was being pummeled. A bare foot found purchase in his ribcage, a fist cracked against his collarbone, an elbow stabbed his thigh. It didn't take long for the already weakened George to tire, and as the hits wound down, Mitchell unfastened his eyes long enough to see the werewolf collapse against the bed, a flood of tears streaking the mess of his face.
As the sobbing died down George asked,"There's nothing left of the world for people like us, that's all you tell me?" Crawling to Mitchell, he continued,"And then you try to kiss me?"
Mitchell could hear the click in his head, realizing his insensitivity. There's still a schoolboy in there somewhere, shit. He wrapped his arms around George, and said softly,"I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. What I meant to say is that there's nothing left of the past for us, but that doesn't mean we're done here and now." He placed his hand against George's neck, and tentatively kissed his cheek."We don't have to live in the alleys like rats. I'm so tired of living in the dark, George...aren't you tired of it too?" The werewolf nodded against Mitchell before he went on," If we...I dunno...tried to stay out of the alley together, maybe things wouldn't look so grim, yeah?"
George looked at him, the reflection of his black eyes mirrored in the more natural blue. "I can't remember what they called you," he stated calmly before nestling against Mitchell's neck. The vampire gasped at the sudden heat of fingers under the back of his shirt, a careful hand surveying the nubs of his spine.
"M-Mitchell," was all he could get out as George continued his exploration, seemingly awed by the refrigerated temperature of his flesh. He quickly pulled off his jacket and shirt, letting the werewolf have full access.
"You're so cold, how do you, I mean?" George stuttered, tracing a thumb over Mitchell's right nipple. "So cold, my god," he whispered, and leaned in to kiss Mitchell. Cautious at first, Mitchell didn't press into the kiss, fearing the delicate, wounded skin would break open again. He felt George's breath quicken, and lightly darted his tongue. Suddenly he felt strong arms pulling him closer still, and without warning, George crushed his mouth against Mitchell's.
The taste was immediate. Dead animals, stale tea, rotten wood, it coated his chin and trickled down his throat. He felt the fangs, but could not stop. He heard a whimper as he bit into George's lip, but could not stop. It was horrible and wonderful, it was the taste of George battling with the monster that grew inside him; fury and regret and all those terrible thoughts that the creature secreted away from the parts that were still George. He swallowed hard, and with a heavy gasp, he pulled himself off. George's eyes stared wide, spun with parallels of pain and arousal.
"George, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," he muttered, unconsciously licking at his fangs.
George shook his head, and resumed the embrace. "You didn't hurt me, Mitchell, I'm okay," he replied, cementing the assurance by licking a bloodied stripe against Mitchell's face.
Mitchell could sense that a wall had come down between them, sometime between the first failed kiss and first successful bite. A new air of playfulness, eagerness, rose from George. Like a puppy, he mused, watching the man trip over his clothes as he tore them off. George gave him a crooked smile, gesturing for Mitchell to take off his trousers as well, a command that didn't have to be repeated.
Both standing naked, George nuzzled into Mitchell's neck, his solid weight pulling them both onto the bed with ease. The perfumed hunger of the vampire appeared to commingle with the animal scent rising from the werewolf's body underneath him. Mitchell could tell by the strained look on George's face, that he could smell it too, and with much keener senses. George grabbed at Mitchell's ass with both hands, seeming to want every square inch covered with his touch. Mitchell moaned into the short rough of George's nape, absently clawing at bare shanks as they struggled to find a common beat.
He couldn't resist George's mouth any longer, and turning his head, he dove into the seeping wreck of George's lips. Mitchell's tongue opened a cut as they kissed, and fangs soon reappeared, garnering a positive response from George in the form of a hot hand wrapping itself around Mitchell's dick. A low growl emanated from George's chest as Mitchell sucked and bit, and it wasn't long before he moved to the valley of the man's neck. He took in a wasted breath, and paused.
"It's okay," George said for the second time that night, and accompanying the permission, George tightened his grip.
Mitchell gasped, and sank his gratitude deep into George's shoulder. He drank with a whisper of warning, concentrating on the stop and start of George's hand against his cock. He knew that if the grip faltered, he was taking in too much. The intersection of smells and tastes, ancient death wrapped in the youthful sting of ammonia, drove Mitchell to a higher plane. It was nothing and everything he'd ever desired. Feeling a quick shudder beneath him, he unclamped from George's crook, and looking carefully into his eyes he asked, "George, are you alright?"
"Fi-fine," George uttered, and weakly bucked his hips upward.
Mitchell feared the worst, and as if hearing him again, George washed away the thought with a kick of his legs. Color bloomed back quickly in the werewolf's face, and Mitchell could feel the need grinding between them, hard and desperate. George forcefully grabbed Mitchell's ass again, trying in vain to fold them into one being. Mitchell bit at his chest, leaving tiny marks that made a shaky trail across the span of George's nipples.
The growling continued, not quite animal yet, but not man either, and it sent Mitchell to the edge. He held himself up with one arm, and spat into his hand, George's frothy blood the only thing filling his palm. He stared at George, who answered the question by adding his saliva to the mix. Mitchell flashed a toothy grin, and proceeded to rub the pinked slick along George's shaft, using the remainder to keep his own fingers lubricated. Resting his forehead in the moist gore of George's shoulder, Mitchell pushed his finger slowly inside. After so many years, it was still a bit of a shock to feel his own insides. Always cool and shallow, but during the height of pleasure, it retained a natural heaviness, the body's old memories of firm desire. He snaked a second finger in, gasping into George's chest as he wriggled and slid, making room for his new companion.
George made a solitary ticking sound, signaling Mitchell to look up, and as he did, George kissed him again. The meat of George's tongue scraped against Mitchell's fangs more than once, but neither seemed to care. The kiss was full, and warm, and invulnerable to everything outside of the space they shared. Mitchell withdrew his fingers, and with lightning precision, replaced them with George's cock. The werewolf growled from somewhere very far away, and sat up, slamming into Mitchell as he positioned their bodies. Mitchell cried out, and returned the action, swiftly pistoning his body up and down, finally catching the rhythm as he half-folded his legs against George's back. Mitchell lapped at George's mouth, neck, ears, and with every lick, George matched with a harder upward thrust. The sounds were no longer discernible as human, and Mitchell took a moment to look into George's eyes, just in case, but they were fully dilated with sky blue rings; he let a relieved moan slip out, and gripped George tighter. The feeling was incomprehensible, the fire of George sinking repeatedly into him, molding the horrors of the night and transforming them into something beautiful. Safe.
Mitchell wavered in and out as the rush of George's heat took his body over section by section, and before he could register it, George had flipped them over, Mitchell's back now flush against the mattress. George took Mitchell's legs with his hands, and began jackhammering like a teenager, all sense of modesty thrown aside in favor of sheer, repetitive force. The look on George's face as he grunted and growled made Mitchell smile, but he stifled the laughter that bubbled.
The relentlessness of George's motions began to work their magic, and Mitchell brought a hand up, tightly grasping his own dick and pumped in time with George. Looking down to see what Mitchell was doing, the werewolf shook the mattress, appearing to lose control over every muscle he had, and let out an almost comical howl as he came, furiously propelling it so deep Mitchell could swear he felt his ribs light up. Grabbing George close, he stole one more taste of the semi-clotted shoulder wound, and let out a low scream as he finally succombed.
Collapsing into Mitchell's arms, George tiredly whispered," It really is okay, isn't it?"
The vampire kissed his bloodstreaked face and replied, "Yeah, George, it is."
---
The first thing Mitchell noticed upon waking up were the curtains, shut tight and fastened, cellotaped, against the windows. Small cracks of light gave the room a funny amber glow, and as he slowly sat up, Mitchell noticed he was alone in bed.
"George? George," he called, the sound of his voice echoing along the far wall. He then heard the rapid scurrying of someone running up the staircase. George bounded in seconds after, shutting the door fast.
"Is it enough? I mean, the sun, I mean, you're not gonna?" George pointed to the slivers of light and continued rambling,"Oh my god, I didn't use enough, don't get up, I mean, your arm! Your arm is in the light?! You're gonna, you're gonna!" He then made a dramatic whooshing sound, threw the bedsheet over Mitchell's arm, and began digging through the hamper for more coverage.
"I'm fine, George, calm down," Mitchell laughed, scooting off the mattress. He lifted his arm into the light for a few moments, and then dropped it again. "See, no combustion, alright? Just makes me a bit sick if I'm out too long."
George heaved a sigh of relief, and hugged him, muffling the remaining giggles left in Mitchell's system. He returned the embrace fully, and looked down to see a glint of jewelry catch the sunlight.
"That's nice, George, what is it?" George caught his gaze, smiled, and pulled the Star of David necklace from under his shirt.
Mitchell panicked only momentarily, the twinge passing as fast as it arose. "Hmm," was all he could say, before returning to the warmth of the hug. Mitchell then rested his head on George's left shoulder, knowing the right would still be quite sore. "You need to eat, George, if you haven't already," he mumbled against the soft flannel of George's shirt.
The werewolf released the embrace with a smile. "Taken care of. I woke up this morning craving half a dozen eggs. Four days, and all."
Mitchell nodded, pulling his clothes on as he moved around. "Where do you go, on the night of?"
"Well, I used to go to this abandoned factory nearby, old industrial-sized cold storage in the basement. Guess that's out of the question now."
Mitchell looked at the werewolf with a tinge of sorrow and replied,"Yes, George, I'm.."
George cut him off, squeezing his gloved hand. "Time to move on. Right, Mitchell?"
Mitchell grinned, spotting the packed bag at the door as they put on their coats. "Yeah, time to move on."
---
end.