Being Human Fic: innocence for days
Look! rentboy!fic! \o?
***
Title: innocence for days
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Being Human (UK)
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,708
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing.
Summary: Unfortunately, the current economic climate meant that there weren’t many career prospects available for a young man with a regrettable case of lycanthropy. Or: George takes up hustling, Mitchell is not amused.
Author notes: I never meant to write rentboy!fic for this fandom, but I don’t really regret it either. This is completely ridiculous authorial wish fulfilment that ended up way fluffier toward the end than I really planned on. Damn my hopefully romantic heart. Thank you to moth2fic for a wondrous beta and protecting me from excessive cross-Atlantic language drift. Special mention to pushkin666 and trialia for their enthusiastic encouragement along the way. Title from House of Wolves by My Chemical Romance because I’m just that lame.
Chinese translation available: Link 1 and Link 2
“I’m sorry, George. It’s just not going to work out,” Mrs. Laurell said, tapping her pen against the folder. “You’ve had ten sick days over the last three months and since you’re still on the probationary period…”
To give her credit, she actually did look sorry about it. George guessed it was something at least. He didn’t bother fighting the decision, just shook the supervisor’s hand and walked out.
He was getting depressingly familiar with the routine of getting fired.
***
The pub was a shithole but it was also convenient, attached to the train station like some sort of disgusting parasite. George was sitting at the bar because at least there he could see all the stains even if it was still impossible to avoid them.
“…twenty years of hard labour and this is the thanks I get!” Watery ale sloshed everywhere the as the guy next to George slammed his pint down. “You know what I’m talking about, right?”
George grunted, non-committal. The man had been droning on for a while, muttering to himself bitterly about everything from price of milk to immigration and George had done his very best not to engage.
“I recognise that ‘just lost me job’ slump, lad, I sure do. Fucking recession,” he slurred. “I tell you, whores with their legs spread make more money now than honest workers like you and me.”
George stared at him for a moment, his alcohol sodden brain slowly digesting the words. The guy was a dickhead and George wanted to kick him in the balls for this and every other derogatory thing he’d said over the last hour (never mind that he would probably fall over at the moment if he tried). There was something there though; an option George had not been desperate enough to even consider before.
He knocked back his drink and got up with some wobble. He was desperate enough now, it seemed.
***
George lay on his back on the bed, struggling into a ridiculously tight pair of jeans. How did Mitchell do this? Maybe it was some sort of vampire trick… slither… shimmy. George lifted his hips off the mattress and yanked, biting a yelp when the denim settled rather snuggly against him. Gingerly, he got up and pulled on a plain white t-shirt, finally regarding himself in the mirror.
Despondently, he poked at the little bit of belly pudge hanging over the low cut of his waistline. This was a terrible idea; no one was going to pay to have sex with him.
Unfortunately, the current economic climate meant that there weren’t many career prospects available for a young man with a regrettable case of lycanthropy.
George squared his shoulders and reached for his jacket. Time to stop whining and start working. It’s not like this was the first time he’d had to deal with a new situation.
***
The thing about George that no one ever accounted for was how quick a learner he was: not his parents or school teachers when he’d aced his A-levels at the age of 15, not his university professors when he’d written an undergraduate dissertation of publishable quality, not his ex-fiancée when he’d pursued and won her in under a week after setting his mind to it.
George may have entered the world of male prostitution with only the vaguest of ideas about what it involved (beyond the basics of sex for money), but within a month he was an established face in some of the city’s seedier clubs. He’d adapted to being a werewolf. Compared to that, hustling was a piece of cake.
The sex itself was boring. He stuck to handjobs or an occasional blowjob (even then insisting on a rubber - he was fairly sure being a werewolf meant he didn’t have to worry about catching anything else, but not sure enough to risk it). Not terribly adventurous, but people didn’t pay George for the act itself, but for the wide-eyed look on his face, the flustered stutter in his voice, the way he ducked his head and hesitated when someone put their hands on him.
They paid for that and they paid well. George had found quickly that there was a market demand for his type - clean-cut, polite, seemingly safe - and started working to his strengths, playing up the naivety and innocence to draw the clients in.
***
It took three months for Mitchell to catch on, which was frankly more than a little embarrassing. Especially, since it seemed he was the last one to do so.
“You knew! You knew George’s been,” Mitchell waved his arms around agitatedly, trying, and failing, to come up with a word that didn’t make the situation sound as bad as it actually was. “...whoring himself on the streets and you didn’t tell me?!”
Annie put a third mug of tea on the table and sat down, quite calm like Mitchell’s whole world view hadn’t just turned on its head. “One, the term is ‘self-employed sex worker’ and two,” she pursed her lips primly, “it’s none of your business. Just like it’s none of my business.”
Mitchell didn’t flail, because he was a vampire, and vampires didn’t do that, at least not where anyone could see them, but it was a near thing. “How can you say that?” he demanded. “Of course it’s our business! He’s our housemate, for goodness sake! Our friend! He’s… He’s my… He’s George!”
Annie sighed. “Sit down before you pull something,” she said.
Mitchell sat, feeling somewhat defeated. And other emotions he did not like at all.
“What exactly is your problem here?” Annie asked. “I know for a fact that it’s not the concept of prostitution that’s bothering you.” She regarded him shrewdly. “At least, not in general.”
Mitchell refused to respond, instead casting about for another reason for why George’s new career choice was bad news. “He could get hurt,” he said. “All sorts of creeps out there, who could-”
“Could what? He’s a werewolf.” Annie leaned forward, her expression serious and somehow disappointed. “More than that, he is in fact a grown man. I know you don’t give him much credit, Mitchell, but George is more than capable of looking after himself.”
Mitchell knew that, well, at least in abstract. It was just that… “But, why didn’t he tell me? He got kicked out of yet another job and he didn’t tell me. Instead he just… what? Gets up one morning and decides that fucking men - and there’s another news item that would have been nice to hear from him! - for money is the way forward!”
“Mitchell,” Annie said, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “Mitchell, did you ask?”
***
Mitchell had not asked. He’d been… preoccupied with his sudden ascension to the top of the local vampire hierarchy, and all the tedious scheming, posturing and outright violence that came with it. So maybe he had let his friendship with George slide. Annie too, though she was more likely to demand attention when she wasn’t getting it. And maybe he hadn’t noticed George losing his job and apparently his sanity too. And maybe Mitchell hadn’t asked how George was doing quite as often (at all) as he should have and maybe, all that had something to with why he was currently standing in the shadows, staring intently at the door of a gay bar. The alleyway behind it was filthy, the wind picking at the take-away containers and plastic bags, tossing them this way and that. It was late, but Mitchell was not going anywhere, not until he’d spoken to George, until he’d bloody well asked.
Going inside and finding him would have been the quicker option, but Mitchell didn’t think George would appreciate being interrupted while… while working. So even though he wanted nothing more than to storm inside and physically drag George back home where he belonged, Mitchell was out here, waiting. It was almost three a.m.; the club would close soon and George would come out and Mitchell would talk to him and calmly, reasonably explain why George shouldn’t, didn’t need to do this. And then they would go home and drink tea and watch some bad telly and no strange men would ever lay a hand on George.
Right. Absolutely. That was the plan. But then a forty-something businessman stumbled out of the backdoor of the club, his arm proprietarily around George’s waist, and Mitchell decided it was time for a new plan.
His new plan mainly involved striding over and punching the guy in the face, but before he had a chance to implement it, George spoke.
Well, he murmured, voice pitched low and rough, but it was more than enough for a vampire’s hearing. And, well, the things George was saying were enough to stop Mitchell cold.
“Steady on, big guy,” George said, laughing. “There’s no need to rush, we’ll get there.” He propped the other man against the wall, moulding his body over his in a move that was surprisingly smooth. “I’ll get you there,” George promised, his hand disappearing somewhere between their bodies and wrenching a choked moan from the guy in the suit.
“That’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it? I’m going to make you feel even better, just let me-” Suddenly George’s head snapped up, his movements freezing. The john groaned in protest but George ignored him, gaze turning unerringly into the corner of the building where Mitchell was gripping the brickwork in an effort to stay still.
Of course. George could smell Mitchell as well as Mitchell could smell him, especially this close to the full moon; enhanced senses just another thing they had in common.
“Sorry mate, looks like we’ll have to take a rain check,” George said, dismissing his client, eyes still riveted on Mitchell’s location.
Which is why he didn’t see the way the guy’s face twisted in rage, ugly and flushed. “You little faggot! Get on your-” His raised hand never came within an inch of George. Instead it was seized by Mitchell’s iron hard grip.
“I don’t think so,” he said, snapping the john’s wrist neatly.
The scream was loud and piercing, the guy dropping to his knees and cradling his arm in agony.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” George shouted at him angrily. “Are you trying to get us arrested?”
“Me? Me?” Mitchell hissed at him. “I’m not the one soliciting in a public place!”
“Oh, you prefer I would have brought him home?”
“What? No! I-”
“Hey! What’s going on here?”
Mitchell took one look at the crowd that had gathered at the backdoor, grabbed George by the hand and broke into a run.
***
They didn’t make it all the way home. After taking several turns onto side streets of side streets Mitchell was relatively sure no one tried to follow them and slowed down enough to get his bearings.
Perfect. “This way,” he said, tugging George along and ducking into another grimy back alley, this one behind a barber’s shop rather than a nightclub and unoccupied.
“What-?”
“Here. C’mon.” Mitchell opened a mostly hidden door and ushered George in, closing it behind them.
Inside was the complete opposite of the outside: lavishly (if unoriginally) decorated with red velvet and occupied by at least a dozen-
Well.
“Mitchell,” George said, his voice calm and measured in a way that made Mitchell want to take a step back and maybe offer to make him a nice cup of tea. “Did you just bring me to a vampire bordello?”
Yes, yes he did. But it’s not like he had planned on it. Mitchell felt defensive for about two seconds until he remembered why they were here in the first place.
“And how would you know that?” he asked, going for scathing. “Oh wait, I guess that’s your professional opinion now.”
“Oh fuck you, you sanctimonious-”
“You better tighten the leash on your puppy there, Mitchell,” a voice drawled from somewhere, causing both of them to whirl around.
A middle-aged - well, middle-aged looking - vampire stood a few feet away, lazily twirling a glass of definitely-not-wine in his hand. “He’s getting a bit… aggressive. Maybe you should check him for rabies.”
George growled.
Mitchell put a restraining hand on his arm, feeling the muscles there bunch and flex. “Get out Kristof,” he grated, before raising his voice and addressing the rest of the room. “Everybody leave. Now.”
Nothing happened.
Kristof smirked, taking another sip from his glass. “Well now, looks like there’s going to be an audience to any tricks you get your dog to perform so why don’t you just-”
The wine glass crashed to the floor a good few seconds before Kristof himself, who was thrown clean across the room and hit the wall with an audible crunch.
Mitchell did not watch him land. “Everybody. Out.”
This time it only took a minute for the room to empty, someone dragging Kristof out with them.
The silence did not last as long as Mitchell would have wanted it to.
“You didn’t need to do that,” George said. He did not sound grateful.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to make friends? Should I call Kristof back so you can have a nice little chat, maybe roll over and show him your belly?”
George narrowed his eyes and for a moment Mitchell actually thought he was going to take a swing at him, which… he was almost, sort of, looking forward to.
Unfortunately, George opted for a verbal attack: “Knock it off, Mitchell. I’m not some damsel in distress. I don’t need rescuing, not now, not earlier.”
“You need rescuing from your own stupidity!” Mitchell shouted, his accent thicker like always when he got angry. “What the hell made you think selling your arse was a good idea? For god’s sake, George! If you needed money that badly you could have just asked me, I would’ve given it to you!”
“From what? You got a treasure buried in the backyard I don’t know about, because last month you could barely scrape the rent together either!”
“That’s not the point!” Mitchell ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging a little. The conversation had slid out of his control without him even realizing it.
“Then what-?” Suddenly George crossed his arms, regarding him with a blank expression “…Oh, I see,” he said.
“What? No you don’t!” Mitchell said quickly, feeling guilty and panicked even though he didn’t know exactly why. “What do you see?”
“This isn’t about your previously undetected morals and it certainly isn’t about mine,” George said accusingly. “You don’t think I shouldn’t, you think I can’t!”
“What?!” Mitchell was honestly confused here and that was rare enough to be acutely uncomfortable.
“Yes, yes, that’s it, isn’t it? You don’t think I have what it takes! ‘Clumsy, inept, naïve George. Probably doesn’t know what to do with his prick without a diagram and an encyclopaedia entry’!”
“No, that’s not, I don’t…” Because it wasn’t and Mitchell did not think about what George could or could not do with his dick (or what he would if Mitchell asked, if he offered, what George would do with him, to him, and…)
Between one blink and another George was right inside his personal space and there was something disconcerting, something that sent a shiver down Mitchell’s spine, about the way George moved when it got close to the full moon; quiet, assured, predatory.
“Maybe it’s just the century or so you have on me or maybe you’re just that much of an arrogant arsehole, but sometimes you treat me like a helpless child.” George’s hands were flat against Mitchell’s chest, fever-hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Here’s a newsflash: I’m not.” For the briefest second his fingers curled inwards, nails digging into Mitchell’s skin just a little - still human hands, human nails, nothing like they would be in a few nights’ time - and then he pushed, shoving Mitchell against the nearest wall with a muted thump.
“I can take care of myself, Mitchell, and I can make my own choices. Whether you approve of them or not.” George was pinning Mitchell to the crumbling plaster, steady three points of pressure and heat; a hand on each shoulder and the painful grind of hip bones where George had angled his lower body to further bracket Mitchell’s. It would have been so easy to get away - George was still only George, not that there was anything ‘only’ about it - but Mitchell was too surprised (shocked, curious, fuck, turned on) to do it, and then…
Then George leaned in even closer, his mouth brushing against Mitchell’s ear. “And, for the record, I always excel at my work. Including this.” And with that George slid to his knees, a smooth practiced move that made all of Mitchell’s stolen blood run hot in his veins.
He wanted to ask what George was doing, but it wasn’t like he didn’t know. He wanted to tell him to stop, but his voice didn’t seem to be working right because when George unbuckled his belt, lowering the zipper and reaching a hand inside Mitchell’s jeans, the only thing that came out of his mouth was a strangled moan.
He was hard. He’d been hard ever since the alleyway behind the club, hearing George say ‘I’ll get you there,’ and he’d wanted this even before that, maybe since forever, since finding George behind that café, beaten and bloodied and still so fucking brave it had made something twist in his chest, right where his heart used to be.
George’s mouth was wet and good and far too skilled for Mitchell not to think about where else it had been over the last few weeks (months? Fuck, how long?). He curled forward, fingers skating across George’s face, his stretched lips, because this was, because he… “Please,” Mitchell said, “please don’t.”
George swiped his tongue under the head in an obvious gesture of defiance, before pulling off with something like regret in his eyes and that wasn’t what Mitchell had meant, not at all. “George,” he said, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Don’t, George, don’t go back out there. I… I can’t stand… Please.”
For several long seconds George stared him, realisation stealing across his face like a full moon drifting from behind the clouds; beautiful and dangerous and full of possibilities. Then he inhaled, slow and deep, mouth open and eyes almost-yellow slits of want and with a jolt that hit him straight in his gut Mitchell realised George was scenting him. The thought made his cock jump.
George’s hand curved around Mitchell’s thighs, holding him steady, and there was a smile quirking on his lips; shy and smug and razor-sharp. “Okay,” he said, just like that. “Okay.”
The relief rushing through Mitchell was pure and sweet like a first drink after years of self-denial, but even that was nothing compared to the feeling of George’s mouth sliding back over his dick, his low noise of pleasure vibrating across every single nerve-ending of Mitchell’s skin.
It didn’t take long at all, not with George’s tongue pressing into the slit of his cock and George looking up at him, eyelashes casting long shadows over hollowed cheeks, and George’s hands on his hips and George and George and George.
Mitchell was distantly aware of the sounds he was making, something between a moan and a broken curse, the back of his head connecting with the wall hard enough that it would have hurt if there had been any room in his body for other sensation beyond the ohfuckyesgod of coming in George’s mouth.
“Shit,” George said. “Shit, shit, I have to.” He was getting to his feet and opening the front of his own jeans at the same time. “Mitchell, Mitchell, I have to,” he said again and before Mitchell could find enough coordination to help, George was already fisting his cock, the head bumping wetly against Mitchell’s bare hip.
“Fuck,” he croaked. “Fuck, okay, fuck. George, George, c’mere.” Mitchell pulled him in, their lips crashing together in a clumsy desperate kiss just as George shuddered, moaning into Mitchell’s slack mouth and coming all over them both.
The silence didn’t last nearly long enough for Mitchell’s liking, but then again, this was George so it was rather unrealistic to expect otherwise. He refused to let go completely though, keeping a hand on George’s arm when he tried pulling away.
“Well,” George said, not quite looking Mitchell in the eye. The anxious almost-stutter in his voice was back and Mitchell found that oddly reassuring. “That was surprising.”
“Not really,” Mitchell said quickly, before George would start rambling about something inconsequential and distract them both. This was too important to be brushed under the carpet and never mentioned again, like they’d done to all those drunken nights of not-so-accidental touches and falling asleep curled together on the sofa.
George’s gaze snapped up at that and Mitchell forced himself to smile, going for casual and confident and probably missing by a mile. “Not for me anyway,” he amended. Just because he hadn’t acted on it before, didn’t mean the want was new.
George blinked and Mitchell could practically see the gears turning in that smart head of his. “So, what you’re saying is…” He swayed closer, licking his lips and doing it again when he noticed Mitchell’s eyes following the movement.
“What I’m saying is: Come home with me, George.” Mitchell reached out to cup George’s face in the palm of his hand, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Come home with me and come to bed with me and wake up with me. And tomorrow morning, sit down for breakfast with me and Annie and we’ll figure this out, find you another job, learn to play the stock market, something, just don’t…” He had to swallow, voice breaking around the plea. “Don’t do this anymore, I-“
George kissed him. He kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, until they were both laughing too much for it to work anymore, relief bubbling out like cheap champagne.
“Yeah,” George said, his hand curling around the back of Mitchell’s neck, smile lighting up his whole face. “Let’s go home.”
Fin.
***
Title: innocence for days
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Being Human (UK)
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,708
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing.
Summary: Unfortunately, the current economic climate meant that there weren’t many career prospects available for a young man with a regrettable case of lycanthropy. Or: George takes up hustling, Mitchell is not amused.
Author notes: I never meant to write rentboy!fic for this fandom, but I don’t really regret it either. This is completely ridiculous authorial wish fulfilment that ended up way fluffier toward the end than I really planned on. Damn my hopefully romantic heart. Thank you to moth2fic for a wondrous beta and protecting me from excessive cross-Atlantic language drift. Special mention to pushkin666 and trialia for their enthusiastic encouragement along the way. Title from House of Wolves by My Chemical Romance because I’m just that lame.
Chinese translation available: Link 1 and Link 2
“I’m sorry, George. It’s just not going to work out,” Mrs. Laurell said, tapping her pen against the folder. “You’ve had ten sick days over the last three months and since you’re still on the probationary period…”
To give her credit, she actually did look sorry about it. George guessed it was something at least. He didn’t bother fighting the decision, just shook the supervisor’s hand and walked out.
He was getting depressingly familiar with the routine of getting fired.
***
The pub was a shithole but it was also convenient, attached to the train station like some sort of disgusting parasite. George was sitting at the bar because at least there he could see all the stains even if it was still impossible to avoid them.
“…twenty years of hard labour and this is the thanks I get!” Watery ale sloshed everywhere the as the guy next to George slammed his pint down. “You know what I’m talking about, right?”
George grunted, non-committal. The man had been droning on for a while, muttering to himself bitterly about everything from price of milk to immigration and George had done his very best not to engage.
“I recognise that ‘just lost me job’ slump, lad, I sure do. Fucking recession,” he slurred. “I tell you, whores with their legs spread make more money now than honest workers like you and me.”
George stared at him for a moment, his alcohol sodden brain slowly digesting the words. The guy was a dickhead and George wanted to kick him in the balls for this and every other derogatory thing he’d said over the last hour (never mind that he would probably fall over at the moment if he tried). There was something there though; an option George had not been desperate enough to even consider before.
He knocked back his drink and got up with some wobble. He was desperate enough now, it seemed.
***
George lay on his back on the bed, struggling into a ridiculously tight pair of jeans. How did Mitchell do this? Maybe it was some sort of vampire trick… slither… shimmy. George lifted his hips off the mattress and yanked, biting a yelp when the denim settled rather snuggly against him. Gingerly, he got up and pulled on a plain white t-shirt, finally regarding himself in the mirror.
Despondently, he poked at the little bit of belly pudge hanging over the low cut of his waistline. This was a terrible idea; no one was going to pay to have sex with him.
Unfortunately, the current economic climate meant that there weren’t many career prospects available for a young man with a regrettable case of lycanthropy.
George squared his shoulders and reached for his jacket. Time to stop whining and start working. It’s not like this was the first time he’d had to deal with a new situation.
***
The thing about George that no one ever accounted for was how quick a learner he was: not his parents or school teachers when he’d aced his A-levels at the age of 15, not his university professors when he’d written an undergraduate dissertation of publishable quality, not his ex-fiancée when he’d pursued and won her in under a week after setting his mind to it.
George may have entered the world of male prostitution with only the vaguest of ideas about what it involved (beyond the basics of sex for money), but within a month he was an established face in some of the city’s seedier clubs. He’d adapted to being a werewolf. Compared to that, hustling was a piece of cake.
The sex itself was boring. He stuck to handjobs or an occasional blowjob (even then insisting on a rubber - he was fairly sure being a werewolf meant he didn’t have to worry about catching anything else, but not sure enough to risk it). Not terribly adventurous, but people didn’t pay George for the act itself, but for the wide-eyed look on his face, the flustered stutter in his voice, the way he ducked his head and hesitated when someone put their hands on him.
They paid for that and they paid well. George had found quickly that there was a market demand for his type - clean-cut, polite, seemingly safe - and started working to his strengths, playing up the naivety and innocence to draw the clients in.
***
It took three months for Mitchell to catch on, which was frankly more than a little embarrassing. Especially, since it seemed he was the last one to do so.
“You knew! You knew George’s been,” Mitchell waved his arms around agitatedly, trying, and failing, to come up with a word that didn’t make the situation sound as bad as it actually was. “...whoring himself on the streets and you didn’t tell me?!”
Annie put a third mug of tea on the table and sat down, quite calm like Mitchell’s whole world view hadn’t just turned on its head. “One, the term is ‘self-employed sex worker’ and two,” she pursed her lips primly, “it’s none of your business. Just like it’s none of my business.”
Mitchell didn’t flail, because he was a vampire, and vampires didn’t do that, at least not where anyone could see them, but it was a near thing. “How can you say that?” he demanded. “Of course it’s our business! He’s our housemate, for goodness sake! Our friend! He’s… He’s my… He’s George!”
Annie sighed. “Sit down before you pull something,” she said.
Mitchell sat, feeling somewhat defeated. And other emotions he did not like at all.
“What exactly is your problem here?” Annie asked. “I know for a fact that it’s not the concept of prostitution that’s bothering you.” She regarded him shrewdly. “At least, not in general.”
Mitchell refused to respond, instead casting about for another reason for why George’s new career choice was bad news. “He could get hurt,” he said. “All sorts of creeps out there, who could-”
“Could what? He’s a werewolf.” Annie leaned forward, her expression serious and somehow disappointed. “More than that, he is in fact a grown man. I know you don’t give him much credit, Mitchell, but George is more than capable of looking after himself.”
Mitchell knew that, well, at least in abstract. It was just that… “But, why didn’t he tell me? He got kicked out of yet another job and he didn’t tell me. Instead he just… what? Gets up one morning and decides that fucking men - and there’s another news item that would have been nice to hear from him! - for money is the way forward!”
“Mitchell,” Annie said, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “Mitchell, did you ask?”
***
Mitchell had not asked. He’d been… preoccupied with his sudden ascension to the top of the local vampire hierarchy, and all the tedious scheming, posturing and outright violence that came with it. So maybe he had let his friendship with George slide. Annie too, though she was more likely to demand attention when she wasn’t getting it. And maybe he hadn’t noticed George losing his job and apparently his sanity too. And maybe Mitchell hadn’t asked how George was doing quite as often (at all) as he should have and maybe, all that had something to with why he was currently standing in the shadows, staring intently at the door of a gay bar. The alleyway behind it was filthy, the wind picking at the take-away containers and plastic bags, tossing them this way and that. It was late, but Mitchell was not going anywhere, not until he’d spoken to George, until he’d bloody well asked.
Going inside and finding him would have been the quicker option, but Mitchell didn’t think George would appreciate being interrupted while… while working. So even though he wanted nothing more than to storm inside and physically drag George back home where he belonged, Mitchell was out here, waiting. It was almost three a.m.; the club would close soon and George would come out and Mitchell would talk to him and calmly, reasonably explain why George shouldn’t, didn’t need to do this. And then they would go home and drink tea and watch some bad telly and no strange men would ever lay a hand on George.
Right. Absolutely. That was the plan. But then a forty-something businessman stumbled out of the backdoor of the club, his arm proprietarily around George’s waist, and Mitchell decided it was time for a new plan.
His new plan mainly involved striding over and punching the guy in the face, but before he had a chance to implement it, George spoke.
Well, he murmured, voice pitched low and rough, but it was more than enough for a vampire’s hearing. And, well, the things George was saying were enough to stop Mitchell cold.
“Steady on, big guy,” George said, laughing. “There’s no need to rush, we’ll get there.” He propped the other man against the wall, moulding his body over his in a move that was surprisingly smooth. “I’ll get you there,” George promised, his hand disappearing somewhere between their bodies and wrenching a choked moan from the guy in the suit.
“That’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it? I’m going to make you feel even better, just let me-” Suddenly George’s head snapped up, his movements freezing. The john groaned in protest but George ignored him, gaze turning unerringly into the corner of the building where Mitchell was gripping the brickwork in an effort to stay still.
Of course. George could smell Mitchell as well as Mitchell could smell him, especially this close to the full moon; enhanced senses just another thing they had in common.
“Sorry mate, looks like we’ll have to take a rain check,” George said, dismissing his client, eyes still riveted on Mitchell’s location.
Which is why he didn’t see the way the guy’s face twisted in rage, ugly and flushed. “You little faggot! Get on your-” His raised hand never came within an inch of George. Instead it was seized by Mitchell’s iron hard grip.
“I don’t think so,” he said, snapping the john’s wrist neatly.
The scream was loud and piercing, the guy dropping to his knees and cradling his arm in agony.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” George shouted at him angrily. “Are you trying to get us arrested?”
“Me? Me?” Mitchell hissed at him. “I’m not the one soliciting in a public place!”
“Oh, you prefer I would have brought him home?”
“What? No! I-”
“Hey! What’s going on here?”
Mitchell took one look at the crowd that had gathered at the backdoor, grabbed George by the hand and broke into a run.
***
They didn’t make it all the way home. After taking several turns onto side streets of side streets Mitchell was relatively sure no one tried to follow them and slowed down enough to get his bearings.
Perfect. “This way,” he said, tugging George along and ducking into another grimy back alley, this one behind a barber’s shop rather than a nightclub and unoccupied.
“What-?”
“Here. C’mon.” Mitchell opened a mostly hidden door and ushered George in, closing it behind them.
Inside was the complete opposite of the outside: lavishly (if unoriginally) decorated with red velvet and occupied by at least a dozen-
Well.
“Mitchell,” George said, his voice calm and measured in a way that made Mitchell want to take a step back and maybe offer to make him a nice cup of tea. “Did you just bring me to a vampire bordello?”
Yes, yes he did. But it’s not like he had planned on it. Mitchell felt defensive for about two seconds until he remembered why they were here in the first place.
“And how would you know that?” he asked, going for scathing. “Oh wait, I guess that’s your professional opinion now.”
“Oh fuck you, you sanctimonious-”
“You better tighten the leash on your puppy there, Mitchell,” a voice drawled from somewhere, causing both of them to whirl around.
A middle-aged - well, middle-aged looking - vampire stood a few feet away, lazily twirling a glass of definitely-not-wine in his hand. “He’s getting a bit… aggressive. Maybe you should check him for rabies.”
George growled.
Mitchell put a restraining hand on his arm, feeling the muscles there bunch and flex. “Get out Kristof,” he grated, before raising his voice and addressing the rest of the room. “Everybody leave. Now.”
Nothing happened.
Kristof smirked, taking another sip from his glass. “Well now, looks like there’s going to be an audience to any tricks you get your dog to perform so why don’t you just-”
The wine glass crashed to the floor a good few seconds before Kristof himself, who was thrown clean across the room and hit the wall with an audible crunch.
Mitchell did not watch him land. “Everybody. Out.”
This time it only took a minute for the room to empty, someone dragging Kristof out with them.
The silence did not last as long as Mitchell would have wanted it to.
“You didn’t need to do that,” George said. He did not sound grateful.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to make friends? Should I call Kristof back so you can have a nice little chat, maybe roll over and show him your belly?”
George narrowed his eyes and for a moment Mitchell actually thought he was going to take a swing at him, which… he was almost, sort of, looking forward to.
Unfortunately, George opted for a verbal attack: “Knock it off, Mitchell. I’m not some damsel in distress. I don’t need rescuing, not now, not earlier.”
“You need rescuing from your own stupidity!” Mitchell shouted, his accent thicker like always when he got angry. “What the hell made you think selling your arse was a good idea? For god’s sake, George! If you needed money that badly you could have just asked me, I would’ve given it to you!”
“From what? You got a treasure buried in the backyard I don’t know about, because last month you could barely scrape the rent together either!”
“That’s not the point!” Mitchell ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging a little. The conversation had slid out of his control without him even realizing it.
“Then what-?” Suddenly George crossed his arms, regarding him with a blank expression “…Oh, I see,” he said.
“What? No you don’t!” Mitchell said quickly, feeling guilty and panicked even though he didn’t know exactly why. “What do you see?”
“This isn’t about your previously undetected morals and it certainly isn’t about mine,” George said accusingly. “You don’t think I shouldn’t, you think I can’t!”
“What?!” Mitchell was honestly confused here and that was rare enough to be acutely uncomfortable.
“Yes, yes, that’s it, isn’t it? You don’t think I have what it takes! ‘Clumsy, inept, naïve George. Probably doesn’t know what to do with his prick without a diagram and an encyclopaedia entry’!”
“No, that’s not, I don’t…” Because it wasn’t and Mitchell did not think about what George could or could not do with his dick (or what he would if Mitchell asked, if he offered, what George would do with him, to him, and…)
Between one blink and another George was right inside his personal space and there was something disconcerting, something that sent a shiver down Mitchell’s spine, about the way George moved when it got close to the full moon; quiet, assured, predatory.
“Maybe it’s just the century or so you have on me or maybe you’re just that much of an arrogant arsehole, but sometimes you treat me like a helpless child.” George’s hands were flat against Mitchell’s chest, fever-hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Here’s a newsflash: I’m not.” For the briefest second his fingers curled inwards, nails digging into Mitchell’s skin just a little - still human hands, human nails, nothing like they would be in a few nights’ time - and then he pushed, shoving Mitchell against the nearest wall with a muted thump.
“I can take care of myself, Mitchell, and I can make my own choices. Whether you approve of them or not.” George was pinning Mitchell to the crumbling plaster, steady three points of pressure and heat; a hand on each shoulder and the painful grind of hip bones where George had angled his lower body to further bracket Mitchell’s. It would have been so easy to get away - George was still only George, not that there was anything ‘only’ about it - but Mitchell was too surprised (shocked, curious, fuck, turned on) to do it, and then…
Then George leaned in even closer, his mouth brushing against Mitchell’s ear. “And, for the record, I always excel at my work. Including this.” And with that George slid to his knees, a smooth practiced move that made all of Mitchell’s stolen blood run hot in his veins.
He wanted to ask what George was doing, but it wasn’t like he didn’t know. He wanted to tell him to stop, but his voice didn’t seem to be working right because when George unbuckled his belt, lowering the zipper and reaching a hand inside Mitchell’s jeans, the only thing that came out of his mouth was a strangled moan.
He was hard. He’d been hard ever since the alleyway behind the club, hearing George say ‘I’ll get you there,’ and he’d wanted this even before that, maybe since forever, since finding George behind that café, beaten and bloodied and still so fucking brave it had made something twist in his chest, right where his heart used to be.
George’s mouth was wet and good and far too skilled for Mitchell not to think about where else it had been over the last few weeks (months? Fuck, how long?). He curled forward, fingers skating across George’s face, his stretched lips, because this was, because he… “Please,” Mitchell said, “please don’t.”
George swiped his tongue under the head in an obvious gesture of defiance, before pulling off with something like regret in his eyes and that wasn’t what Mitchell had meant, not at all. “George,” he said, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Don’t, George, don’t go back out there. I… I can’t stand… Please.”
For several long seconds George stared him, realisation stealing across his face like a full moon drifting from behind the clouds; beautiful and dangerous and full of possibilities. Then he inhaled, slow and deep, mouth open and eyes almost-yellow slits of want and with a jolt that hit him straight in his gut Mitchell realised George was scenting him. The thought made his cock jump.
George’s hand curved around Mitchell’s thighs, holding him steady, and there was a smile quirking on his lips; shy and smug and razor-sharp. “Okay,” he said, just like that. “Okay.”
The relief rushing through Mitchell was pure and sweet like a first drink after years of self-denial, but even that was nothing compared to the feeling of George’s mouth sliding back over his dick, his low noise of pleasure vibrating across every single nerve-ending of Mitchell’s skin.
It didn’t take long at all, not with George’s tongue pressing into the slit of his cock and George looking up at him, eyelashes casting long shadows over hollowed cheeks, and George’s hands on his hips and George and George and George.
Mitchell was distantly aware of the sounds he was making, something between a moan and a broken curse, the back of his head connecting with the wall hard enough that it would have hurt if there had been any room in his body for other sensation beyond the ohfuckyesgod of coming in George’s mouth.
“Shit,” George said. “Shit, shit, I have to.” He was getting to his feet and opening the front of his own jeans at the same time. “Mitchell, Mitchell, I have to,” he said again and before Mitchell could find enough coordination to help, George was already fisting his cock, the head bumping wetly against Mitchell’s bare hip.
“Fuck,” he croaked. “Fuck, okay, fuck. George, George, c’mere.” Mitchell pulled him in, their lips crashing together in a clumsy desperate kiss just as George shuddered, moaning into Mitchell’s slack mouth and coming all over them both.
The silence didn’t last nearly long enough for Mitchell’s liking, but then again, this was George so it was rather unrealistic to expect otherwise. He refused to let go completely though, keeping a hand on George’s arm when he tried pulling away.
“Well,” George said, not quite looking Mitchell in the eye. The anxious almost-stutter in his voice was back and Mitchell found that oddly reassuring. “That was surprising.”
“Not really,” Mitchell said quickly, before George would start rambling about something inconsequential and distract them both. This was too important to be brushed under the carpet and never mentioned again, like they’d done to all those drunken nights of not-so-accidental touches and falling asleep curled together on the sofa.
George’s gaze snapped up at that and Mitchell forced himself to smile, going for casual and confident and probably missing by a mile. “Not for me anyway,” he amended. Just because he hadn’t acted on it before, didn’t mean the want was new.
George blinked and Mitchell could practically see the gears turning in that smart head of his. “So, what you’re saying is…” He swayed closer, licking his lips and doing it again when he noticed Mitchell’s eyes following the movement.
“What I’m saying is: Come home with me, George.” Mitchell reached out to cup George’s face in the palm of his hand, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Come home with me and come to bed with me and wake up with me. And tomorrow morning, sit down for breakfast with me and Annie and we’ll figure this out, find you another job, learn to play the stock market, something, just don’t…” He had to swallow, voice breaking around the plea. “Don’t do this anymore, I-“
George kissed him. He kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, until they were both laughing too much for it to work anymore, relief bubbling out like cheap champagne.
“Yeah,” George said, his hand curling around the back of Mitchell’s neck, smile lighting up his whole face. “Let’s go home.”
Fin.