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Blood and Roses

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It’s winter in Los Angeles. Josef doesn’t feel the cold, has no need for the warmth of the hearth; still he lights the fire anyway. He enjoys the way the flames flicker, and dance across the logs, the crackling of wood – the soft glow of embers.

Mick is there with him, on his knees in front of Josef seated on the leather lounge; Josef’s own knees spread wide, his cock buried down Mick’s throat.

Josef slips an experimental finger into Mick’s mouth, feels himself hard against Mick’s lips. He groans, and grabs the top of Mick’s head as Mick begins to suck harder; Josef’s fingers digging into Mick’s scalp, fisting handfuls of hair.

“Sweet Jesus, Mick,” Josef groans again; arches his back, pumps his hips – thrusts into Mick’s mouth.

Mick’s own hand is buried inside his underwear – stroking - the front of his cotton briefs dampened with pre-cum.

It’s just another way to pass eternity; a connection they’ve made to ease the drudgeries of living forever – being a Vampire isn’t all it’s cracked up to be…

I get lonely man, you know that.

…Or so they try and tell themselves.

Mick’s movements become erratic. He can feel the orgasm rising from the base of his spine, his balls tightening. He swirls his tongue over Josef’s glans, flicks at the sensitive underside. Josef almost comes then too; urges Mick to back off.

“Stop,” Josef pushes Mick’s head away from his crotch. “I’m too close.”

Mick does as he’s told; moves a short distance away to lie on the floor, stretched out in front of the fire place. He slips off his underwear, rests back a while; one hand tucked behind his head, the other still lightly caressing his cock and balls.

Mick watches as Josef closes his eyes; takes a deep breath, steadies himself - waits for his arousal to drop. And then Josef’s on the floor with him, hovering over Mick’s supine form, his eyes focusing on Mick’s hand. Mick steps up the pace, works himself harder now, enjoying the sense of trust they’ve established; the feeling of being appreciated, every movement scrutinised.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Josef runs an artful hand along Mick’s torso; feels the muscles of Mick’s stomach contract under his touch.

Mick has just enough time to marvel at the way they’ve ended up here again - the way they’ve always ended up here – unplanned, unscripted; inchoate desires agreed to by silent, mutual consent.

Josef circles Mick’s wrists with his fingers then, grips vice-like as he slams Mick’s arms above his head - bares his fangs - snarls in Mick’s face, exerting dominance.

Josef chuckles at the way Mick reacts. His eyes widening, pupils dilating – head stretched back to expose his throat. Josef leans forward, punctures the sensitive pulse point with his fangs; and then curls the tip of his tongue along Mick’s flesh, gathering drops of crimson.

Mick whimpers, and mewls beneath him - bucks his hips - struggles against his entrapment.
“Easy there, tiger.” Josef quips, and offers Mick an emphatic smile. He lets go of Mick then, reaches for an ornate glass jar next to the fire place - rosehip oil, made in France, nothing but the finest. Josef pours some of the warmed liquid over Mick’s crotch; lets it seep between Mick’s legs.

“You know almond oil is cheaper,” Mick points out as Josef sets to work, one hand stroking Mick’s cock, two fingers of the other pressed against Mick’s arsehole.

“What are you, an expert now?” Josef gives an exaggerated eye roll, and slides his fingers inside Mick’s rectum, grins when he curls them against Mick’s prostate; the desired result achieved – a complete cessation of Mick’s ability to speak in a coherent language.

Josef pauses then, and removes his fingers, listening to Mick groan in frustration.

“Relax.” A casual instruction, Mick’s legs hooked over Josef’s shoulders then. Josef coats his own length with an application of oil, and presses forward; reaches the hilt and then stills, letting Mick adjust to the sensation of being filled with something larger than the diameter of two fingers. “You ok?”

“Yeah.” Mick nods his assent. Josef’s consideration still surprises him. Part of him expects Josef to take what he wants without care or concern; after all this is little more than an elaborate masturbation scene for the two of them…

…Or so they try and tell themselves.

Josef withdraws just enough to plunge back in again, and then repeats the motion, building a steady rhythm. And then he’s adjusting the angle of penetration slightly, holding onto Mick’s ankles for leverage, and quickening the pace, nailing Mick’s prostate with every stroke.

Outside flashes of lightning crackle and dance across the city; the high voltage light show provides an appropriate backdrop as the pace shifts frantic. Mick reaches a hand between them - takes hold of his cock - strokes himself in sync with Josef slamming into him now.

Josef thrusts forward one last time, holds, and then cries out with the force of his release. And Mick’s right there with him, his hand a blur along this length as he brings himself over the edge; his fingers flooded with strings of viscous white, fangs sunk deep into the top of Josef’s shoulder.

“Interesting place to bite,” Mick comments as Josef withdraws his own fangs from Mick’s leg. They head for the shower then, water washing over bodies sticky with sweat, and replete with fluids. Josef instigates another round; let’s Mick fuck him bent over, hands braced against the tiles – curses loudly, and splatters the shower wall with semen as he comes.

“I should go soon.” Mick announces to no one in particular as he steps out of the shower, and towels himself dry, watches as Josef does the same.

“Sure.” They head back to the lounge room, gather up piles of discarded clothing, “See something you like, Mick?” Josef arches a facetious eyebrow, and comments as he begins to redress, noticing the way Mick’s eyes roam across his body, admiring his semi naked form.

“Cheeky s.o.b,” Mick parries back, and tosses his head in Josef’s direction. “Field of vision.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” Josef continues to tease as he does up the remaining buttons of his shirt; watches as Mick does the same - a jacket picked up, and slung across his shoulders.

Josef follows Mick to the door then, holds it open for him, “I’ll see you next time then?”

“Yeah, you will,” Mick hesitates inside the open doorway, and turns back towards Josef, looks as if he wants to say something; his brow furrowed with contemplation.

“What Mick?” Josef doesn’t really need to ask. There’s a look that’s exchanged between them sometimes. It speaks volumes. Theirs is a relationship that has always existed between blood and roses, where even the thorns of denial have their own sharpened scent.

“Nothing, just…”

Mick has just enough time to marvel at the way they’ve ended up here again - the way they’ve always ended up here – unplanned, unscripted; inchoate desires agreed to by silent, mutual consent.

Mick steps forward, places a tender kiss on Josef’s mouth, says ‘thank you’, and then steps back. “I’ll be seeing you…”

"Yeah, you will," Josef repeats Mick's own words as he says his goodbyes, "You'll be seeing me..."

And they’re not in love, not really; there’s nothing in those glances that are exchanged. It’s just another way to pass eternity; a connection they’ve made to ease the drudgeries of living forever…

…Or so they try and tell themselves.