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New Being Human fic

Pairing(s): Mitchell/Lauren, implied Mitchell/Herrick
Rating: ummm. Don't know how these work- R?
Disclaimer: They're not mine, they're Toby Whithouse's
Warnings: Sex and a bit of violence
Summary: What might have happened when Lauren comes to the house in episode 2, if Mitchell hadn't managed quite so much self-


Lauren’s face is inches away from Mitchell’s and he can’t move back because there’s a wall in the way. He’s wishing he’d never mentioned Herrick.

“What is it with you two?” she demands, cheeks flushing. “You’re obsessed with each other! It’s totally gay.”

And suddenly, seemingly out of his control, Mitchell’s hands are on her shoulders and he’s spun them both round, forcing her back against the wall, his body close against hers. Her eyes widen slightly for a second, before she remembers that maybe this is what she came for. “God, Lauren,” he says, “You really have no idea.” The small part of his brain that’s still functioning rationally is telling him to step back, put his hands back in his pockets, and get out of this while he still can. But the vampire ego has taken over now, and he wants this... this child in front of him to understand who he is, the things he’s done. Not to mention how good she smells, this close up, or that the reminder of him and Herrick together has set off something in him that he’s been keeping buried for so long.

Lauren cocks her head sideways and looks up at him, half afraid but enjoying the fear. “So why don’t you tell me all about it?” And that’s it; any trace of self-restraint is wiped from Mitchell’s mind. He grabs her hair, forcing her head further over so he can sink his nose into the hollow between neck and shoulder, breath her in. “What would you like to hear?” he asks her, pressing her harder into the wall so that she gasps. “The time we had those twins? Identical, they were, we had one each. Although I like to think mine was prettier.” Her hands are in his hair now, and she pulls his head up for a kiss. Teeth and tongues clash and they pull away panting. “It was in Brighton- we took them down to the beach at one in the morning. They were so trusting... pathetic really. I held mine down and made her watch while Herrick fed from her sister.”

He’s staring intensely at her and she sees his eyes change, filling up with blackness that spells out all his darkest desires. “And then when I bit her... oh god, she tasted like summer, like the first proper summer evening of the year, when you go outside and you can smell the seasons changing.” His voice is a harsh whisper now, and as she arches against him she can feel him pressing hard into her stomach. Her hands are inside his shirt, nails scraping over his shoulder blades. “More”, she whispers, digging her nails in harder to hear his breathing go ragged.

“There was a soldier we picked up, just after the last war. Herrick was always good at spotting the ones who might like to have some fun with us. He said he liked it rough.” Mitchell puts his forearm against Lauren’s throat and leans his weight into it, not gently. She bares her teeth at him. “So we tied him up and took it in turns. Herrick got a bit carried away. The guy was in bits by the time we finished.”

Somehow his shirt is off and his jeans undone, and she’s reaching inside, gripping hold of him. With a growl he grabs her hands and shoves them back against the wall. He doesn’t want to be given- he just wants to take. His arm pressing on her throat again to hold her in place, his other hand tears at her tights and dress, pushes his jeans down a little, and then he’s inside her. He manages three desperate strokes before the desire for blood overwhelms him and he pulls her head sideways again, finds the spot and bites down hard. She shudders and gasps; he feels her tighten around him as the blood flows down his throat. Mitchell’s mind has shut down, reduced to its most basic, a white noise of desire and power and the need for satisfaction.

Lauren’s writhing against him now, making noises that are probably closer to pain than pleasure, but he doesn’t care and if he did there would be no way of stopping now. Then her fangs come down on his neck and his back arches involuntarily, bolts of sensation shooting straight down his spine and surging into his groin. He’s gritting his teeth and trying to hang on, trying to feel this way as long as he can.

“Jesus Christ.” Afterwards he clings to her for a long moment, their foreheads pressed together, only just managing to stand. Then he pulls away sharply, tugs his jeans back up and grabs his shirt from the floor. He touches a hand to the wound on his neck and grimaces. He turns away. “You can see yourself out.”


stronger than mensa, richey

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