He stood and watched them leave him, trying not to feel anything.
Andy--Boss--whom he knew in his bones that he would never see again. Joe, Nicky, the closest thing to brothers that he had had in centuries. Nile. A younger sister, perhaps even the daughter he had never had?
Well, not as if he'd know now. They were good people, and deeply, infinitely kind, but they did not forgive readily, if at all. He had at least a hundred years to shift for himself now, more if they wisely decided not to welcome him back to the fold. So. Appealing though it was to simply sleep rough until he starved to death (however many times he could manage in the span of a century), eventually that would be noticed and attract unwanted attention. He needed a steady profession which would permit him to remain more or less in shadows, and required none of the documentation he lacked. Even a simple retail job would want a social security number. A real hassle, those. They made immortal life so much more difficult.
The idea of sex work came quickly; as it turned out, prostitution was legal in London, so long as it wasn't in public. He quickly found the kinds of websites that would lead potential johns to him. This Craig fellow and his wondrous list! Before long he had a system of sorts in place: every three days he would book a handful of clients, never the same twice, always for cash. Booker had always had very few sexual limits, but he flatly refused things like knifeplay or asphyxiation, as his secret could potentially be revealed if something went wrong. He never had much worry where safety was concerned; he couldn't get any STDs, and even if a client proved to be a serial killer, it's not as if he wouldn't just come back to life again later. Not that he'd have particularly minded had the chopping stuck. One less worry on the Guards' minds.
Some cold, lonely part of him, frozen over since Russia, whispered that it was nice to be able to feel wanted even if it was all based on a lie. To have someone greet him warmly, with a kiss, laugh at his jokes, hold him close at night---he hadn't had that since he'd buried his wife. To see desire for him reflected in a partner's eyes as they led him to bed, gentle hands on his body, his pseudonym gasped in ecstacy---all these things, he hadn't even known he was missing.
He could pretend, just for a few short hours, that he was loved.
Oh, in the harsh light of morning as his client snuck out of the flat to get back to their life all such illusions would vanish. He was left a lonely, shame-ridden whore, semen cooling on the sheets. He wasn't a lover, was barely even a 'partner'. He was an experiment. A fling. A mistake. An itch to be scratched. Nothing worth staying for.
Damn it all, he wanted more for himself, whether he deserved it or not. To that end, when he saw the post he immediately responded to it.
Discreet gentleman seeks lovely younger companion to show him a good time in London for the weekend. Let me treat you; all I ask is you be good to me in return.
The price offered was more than Booker could have charged a month's worth of clients. All it took was a few flirty messages exchanged, a tasteful nude sent, and an agreement was made. They would meet for dinner in a little pub along the Thames---a different one from where he'd been exiled---and from there he and John would spend the weekend together. He'd send half the payment in advance as a show of good faith, and give him the rest when their time together was up.
He was already at the table when Booker walked in---a genial fiftysomething with a wide smile and smoke-colored eyes.
"Hello, David. So pleased you could make it. Come, try the wine. I've taken the liberty of ordering for us."
FILL: Wrong Side of Heaven (Booker/OMC , Booker/Joe/Nicky, sex work, drugged sex, noncon)
Andy--Boss--whom he knew in his bones that he would never see again. Joe, Nicky, the closest thing to brothers that he had had in centuries. Nile. A younger sister, perhaps even the daughter he had never had?
Well, not as if he'd know now. They were good people, and deeply, infinitely kind, but they did not forgive readily, if at all. He had at least a hundred years to shift for himself now, more if they wisely decided not to welcome him back to the fold. So. Appealing though it was to simply sleep rough until he starved to death (however many times he could manage in the span of a century), eventually that would be noticed and attract unwanted attention. He needed a steady profession which would permit him to remain more or less in shadows, and required none of the documentation he lacked. Even a simple retail job would want a social security number. A real hassle, those. They made immortal life so much more difficult.
The idea of sex work came quickly; as it turned out, prostitution was legal in London, so long as it wasn't in public. He quickly found the kinds of websites that would lead potential johns to him. This Craig fellow and his wondrous list! Before long he had a system of sorts in place: every three days he would book a handful of clients, never the same twice, always for cash. Booker had always had very few sexual limits, but he flatly refused things like knifeplay or asphyxiation, as his secret could potentially be revealed if something went wrong. He never had much worry where safety was concerned; he couldn't get any STDs, and even if a client proved to be a serial killer, it's not as if he wouldn't just come back to life again later. Not that he'd have particularly minded had the chopping stuck. One less worry on the Guards' minds.
Some cold, lonely part of him, frozen over since Russia, whispered that it was nice to be able to feel wanted even if it was all based on a lie. To have someone greet him warmly, with a kiss, laugh at his jokes, hold him close at night---he hadn't had that since he'd buried his wife. To see desire for him reflected in a partner's eyes as they led him to bed, gentle hands on his body, his pseudonym gasped in ecstacy---all these things, he hadn't even known he was missing.
He could pretend, just for a few short hours, that he was loved.
Oh, in the harsh light of morning as his client snuck out of the flat to get back to their life all such illusions would vanish. He was left a lonely, shame-ridden whore, semen cooling on the sheets. He wasn't a lover, was barely even a 'partner'. He was an experiment. A fling. A mistake. An itch to be scratched. Nothing worth staying for.
Damn it all, he wanted more for himself, whether he deserved it or not. To that end, when he saw the post he immediately responded to it.
Discreet gentleman seeks lovely younger companion to show him a good time in London for the weekend. Let me treat you; all I ask is you be good to me in return.
The price offered was more than Booker could have charged a month's worth of clients. All it took was a few flirty messages exchanged, a tasteful nude sent, and an agreement was made. They would meet for dinner in a little pub along the Thames---a different one from where he'd been exiled---and from there he and John would spend the weekend together. He'd send half the payment in advance as a show of good faith, and give him the rest when their time together was up.
He was already at the table when Booker walked in---a genial fiftysomething with a wide smile and smoke-colored eyes.
"Hello, David. So pleased you could make it. Come, try the wine. I've taken the liberty of ordering for us."