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06 July 2011 @ 11:30 pm
The Moon Over Bourbon Street  
Title: The Moon Over Bourbon Street

Pairing: Josef Kostan/Mick St John

Rating: Low Level NC17

Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: The morning after the night before, Mick has a confession to make, which brings unexpected results.

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Dusk descends; the last muted rays of sunlight stream through the bottle glassed windows. Standing in Mick’s apartment Kitchen, bottle in hand, Josef pauses mid pour as he watches Mick descend the stairs, hair ruffled and face still creased from sleep.

“I thought you would have left by now?” Mick brushes past as he makes his way to the refrigerator.

“Thought I’d stick around for a while,” Josef gestures towards the bottle as Mick pours himself a glass of blood. “You want a little something to go with that?”

Mick hesitates, and then shrugs, holding his glass out for Josef to fill. “What is it?”

“Evan Williams, twenty three year vintage.”

“Expensive.” Mick wafts the glass under his nose, draws in the scent of fine bourbon mixed with blood.

“It does the trick.”

“Didn’t we have enough to drink last night,” Mick comments drily as he throws back a mouthful of crimson liquor.

“We did, didn’t we?” Josef raises an eyebrow and titters with amusement at the memory. And then he’s jumping with unexpected surprise as Mick suddenly slams his glass down on the kitchen bench.

“Christ, Josef,” Mick leans on the laminate top, his head hung low. “We had sex last night.”

“That too.”

“This isn’t funny, I was drunk,” Mick pushes away from the bench then, and protests.

“Oh,” Josef arches another eyebrow, and points to the conspicuous bulge in Mick’s pants, “and what do you call that, a hangover?”

Mick quickly moves to cover his crotch, turns a whiter shade of pale as he wills his erection to go down, and silently tries to convince himself it has nothing to do with Josef being there.

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Mick,” Josef sighs wearily, and fixes a pointed stare, “we’ve already had this conversation. We’re vampires; you don’t need to go making a big deal out of what happened.”

“But it is a big deal, Josef,” Mick gestures incredulously, “and we had one conversation, twenty years ago, when you were dating a guy.”

“Sleeping with, Mick, not dating.”

“Whatever,” Mick huffs, and brushes Josef aside. “The point is I never wanted to be a vampire, and you knew that.”

A finger stabbed pointedly in the air, Mick’s voice raises an octave.

“So wait,” Josef furrows his brow, strokes two fingers across his forehead as he tries to make sense of the conversation. “We had sex, and I turned you into a vampire, again. Loony bin is that way.”

Josef points over Mick’s shoulder, watches as Mick slumps against the kitchen wall, his shoulders sagging with defeat.

“I don’t want to argue about this.”

“Who says we’re arguing?” Josef seizes the opportunity to move closer. He shifts over to where Mick stands, scents the air around him, noting the subtle changes in Mick’s chemistry, the way his heart rate quickens, and his eyelids flutter. “You’re fooling yourself,” Josef leans in close then, and brushes his lips against Mick’s ear.

“Don’t.” Mick’s inner vampire is barely held in check as he presses back against the wall, his voice reduced to a low whisper.

“Give me one good reason why not,” Josef continues to push, his fingers skimming beneath Mick’s belt now. “You enjoyed yourself last night, didn’t you?”

Mick draws a sharp breath, “That’s not the point”

“Then what is?”

Mick quickly side steps Josef then, knocking past him as he travels a few steps into the centre of the room, and then stops. His back turned, Mick raises his eyes skyward for a moment. “It’s been twenty three years, seven months, and nine days since she died…and I think I’m in love with you.”

Mick hears the incongruousness in those words; he wants to laugh out loud, expects Josef to do the same. Instead he feels the weight of Josef’s body pressing against his back, the sensation of Josef’s arms slipping around his waist.

Josef bites back the temptation to snip, “it’s about time.” He traces his lips along the side of Mick’s neck, pauses to nip lightly at the pulse point in Mick’s throat, and whispers, “I know.”

The truth is finally out. Mick groans with approval as Josef’s hand slips below his belt.

“How…?” Mick begins to ask.

“It doesn’t matter,” Josef interjects. His fingers working deftly at the fastenings on Mick’s jeans, Josef releases Mick’s cock from its constraints, and grips the shaft with a firm hand, his other arm drawn tight across Mick’s chest, holding Mick steady as he begins to stroke along his length.

“Jesus,” Mick hisses through clenched teeth. Mick’s jeans and underwear are hastily slung around his ankles then; Josef’s hand across his chest is questing lower now, stroking between the cheeks of Mick’s arse. Mick closes his eyes, and relaxes into the sensation, part of him wants to protest, but he’s gone beyond caring.

Josef quickly manoeuvres the both of them over to the bench. In the back of Mick’s mind the past surfaces as Josef picks him up, lays him out on that same bench. The memory proves fleeting. Mick kicks off his jeans and underwear as Josef anchors him in the present with a saliva coated finger pressed against his arsehole, and pushes first one, and then two digits inside him.

Josef curls those same digits against Mick’s prostate, delights in Mick’s response, the way Mick’s hips thrust involuntarily against his hand; for a moment he’s tempted to get Mick off that way, watching as Mick flies apart on his fingers. He withdraws instead, and hurriedly sheds his own clothing, suit pants and jacket crumpled on the floor as he urges Mick to draw his knees up against his chest.

Mick draws his arms around Josef’s neck, buries his nose in Josef’s scent as Josef positions himself, and leans forward. Unsure if he wants to hear the answer, Mick repeats his same question from before then.

“How did you know?”

Josef hesitates, “Because the feeling’s mutual.”

And then it’s all Mick can do to hang on; any response he might have made carried aside on a sudden wave of pain and pleasure. A hurried application of makeshift lubricant, in the form of a hastily grabbed bottle of vegetable oil, and Josef is slamming into him, withdrawing and then slamming into him again. Josef repeats the motion, quickly builds to a frenetic rhythm, and Mick thinks to mutter a silent word of thanks to Josef’s freshies, and their mortal appetites.

As quickly as it’s begun, it seems to be ending then. Mick pushes his heels against Josef’s arse, spurs him on as he clutches Josef’s back, and prepares to come. They separate when it’s over, redress in momentary silence, Mick’s fingers absentmindedly tracing the spot on his neck where Josef had sunk his fangs in at the moment of release.

“I suppose this is the point where we throw ourselves into each other’s arms, and declare undying love,” Josef remarks with dry humour, breaking the awkwardness between them that threatens to descend.

“So what does happen now?” Mick rests against the bench, studies Josef standing in front of him.

Josef shrugs, his hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his suit coat. “What do you think should happen, the whole house with white picket fence, and two point two kids deal? You know that’s not my style.”

“No, but…” Mick’s response is cut short as Josef moves next to him.

An arm slung casually around Mick’s waist, Josef leans alongside, and points to the skylight above. “We’ve got the moon over Bourbon Street, and we’ve got each other,” Josef pauses then, and kisses the top of Mick’s shoulder. “That’s enough for me.”