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On a team where every penny counted, a car was a truly expensive luxury.
Especially when no one was educated enough or had the status to get a driver's license.
…Or at least was adequate.
Not like at least one of them was.
The team only has two cars.
However, given the fact that Sorbet wouldn't let anyone in his car except Gelato, there was only one.
Ghiaccio's.
And even though getting into it was no less difficult, he was the one who was the team's wheels.
He didn't mind much if the passengers were careful with his expensive Miata, but why the hell wouldn't they ask Sorbet about it? He was sure White Album would have overpowered him in no time.
Damn suckers.
However, objections were not accepted. Certainly not with Risotto.
This was yet another mission, and Ghiaccio hadn't even planned on getting out of his mattress, albeit not the softest one.
Especially not to pick up that damn Prosciutto.
The old man was experienced enough to handle this himself, so why bother worrying so much?
Although Risotto didn't sound particularly nervous at the moment. On the contrary, when he spoke like that, it meant something serious was going on.
Ghiaccio had been sitting for about 20 minutes already. And with each minute that ticked by, the nervous rhythm of his finger tapping grew more tense, and for Prosciutto, threatening.
He no longer knew what the hell to do with himself.
It was late.
All decent people should be asleep by now.
Okay, maybe they weren't the most decent people.
But all sane people...
Okay, nevermind.
The only thing that made the situation easier was that it was summer. Early July, the peak season.
So, despite the darkness, it was quite warm.
– What a shit.
Ghiaccio hisses through clenched teeth. He clenches his fists and casually hits the steering wheel, oblivious to the fact that even the slightest misalignment of his hand could have triggered the steering wheel signal.
He couldn't care less.
Just as his hand reaches for the phone, hovering over it to take it, he hears heavy, measured footsteps.
His entire body instantly tenses, as if a thin layer of frost is spreading down his spine from an approaching threat from somewhere behind him.
The hand holding the phone, hidden behind his body, is instantly encased in a thick layer of cryogenic suit. His claws loosen their grip, quietly stroking the red metal thigh, waiting, daring him to even think of getting any closer than he should.
He himself is in no hurry to turn around, listening to every slightest rustle.
Out of the corner of his eye, barely catching the edge of his glasses, he notices the approaching source of the noise.
A short, skinny, broad-shouldered figure with stupid hairstyle, hands in pockets, and an upright posture.
Almost immediately, his body goes limp.
With a heavy sigh, Ghiaccio leans back in the driver's seat when he realizes the source of the noise is Prosciutto.
– Fucking idiot.
Not loudly, but more than loudly and deliberately enough for Ghiaccio to be heard at this distance, but not enough to shake the nearby wasteland.
He wasn't angry enough to forget the necessary silence.
Prosciutto, however, completely ignores the spit. It's the least Ghiaccio could have said. It almost feels like a sweet greeting.
– Have you been standing there long?
– Long enough to make me want to wring your neck. What were you fucking doing?
Ghiaccio jerked, slamming his fist on the steering wheel as he turned toward Prosciutto, who had come closer. The slow, calm way he leaned toward the driver's side, deliberately meeting his gaze, made him even more angry.
– There were some minor difficulties.
– And that's why you needed me? Bullshit, what kind of difficulties could you have?"
– Yes. That's why I figured it all out myself.
Ghiaccio felt like a vein in his neck would burst from the dismissive tone, desperately trying to find some excuse for why he was hanging around here at one in the morning and not in his own bed, if you could call it that, a reason why he shouldn't straighten Prosciutto's teeth right now.
Okay, so he wasn't a jerk after all. He had a conscious respect for status, especially when it was earned. Even though few could even reach that level.
He still considered the Grateful Dead complete crap compared to his White Album, but he couldn't deny its effectiveness. Ultimately, he commanded more respect as a man who knew his stuff.
But these details won't be voiced out loud, even at gunpoint.
– What.
Prosciutto merely dismisses the irritated question with a dismissive wave, feeling the veins in the forehead before him tense, only further irritated by such an answer. Any answer would have provoked the same reaction.
The dull purple smoke seeping through thin lips and crooked teeth on his exhale, instead of tobacco, almost makes Ghiaccio raise his hand.
And so he did.
But not to strike, even though he wanted to. Until the very end, he tried to control himself, only for Risotto's sake.
A deft flick of the fingers snatches the cigarette right from Prosciutto's mouth, to what he only weakly pulls his head back. Reflexively.
– You're annoying.
There's no answer.
Prosciutto's gaze lingers only briefly on Ghiaccio before he finally moves.
With a light chuckle, he straightens up and calmly walks to the passenger seat, while the cigarette whines in a tightly clenched fist, from which, after shaking off, only frozen crystals of tobacco and paper fall.
Taking the wheel, fortunately, thanks to the layer of ice, the smell didn't stick to his glove, Ghiaccio released the handbrake and changed gears.
His leg muscles barely had time to tense before a grip on his wrist distracted him, stopping him. It wasn't forceful, but for some reason, he reacted instantly, freezing.
A reflex, nothing more.
– We'll stop at one place.
– To the cemetery.
– No.
Prosciutto didn't even bat an eyelid. He learned to completely ignore that kind of spitting.
Well, most of the time. This nervous boy still knew how to surprise.
– Give me a ride.
Ghiaccio manages to open his mouth, but not quickly enough to speak. Prosciutto interrupts him with a flick of his wrist.
– Not to the cemetery.
His narrowed eyes are almost hidden behind the glasses gleaming in the moonlight. He tolerates the twitch of a facial muscle and finally steps on the gas.
Who would have doubted it? Driving with such a driver was always a test of survival. However, despite aggressive driving, his skills can always be relied upon in any situation.
Prosciutto had to monitor every meter they passed, promptly indicating the right turns and directions. Risotto's call felt like he'd had ten shots of cognac, responding to inquiries with long pauses and taking his time choosing his words, completely focused on the road. Risotto understood the reason perfectly.
They covered the distance to their destination fairly quickly, and now Ghiaccio was turning, or rather drifting, into the parking lot he'd been told to pull into.
Empty.
The place was unfamiliar. And on top of all that, it was dark.
– Where are we?
– You don't think I'm going home after killing seven people, do you?
Ghiaccio frowned, looking straight ahead, around, and tensely scanning the area. Or maybe he simply wasn't particularly eager to look Prosciutto in the eye, who, on the contrary, was looking at him.
– I'd advise you to do the same.
– I'm heading back to base.
Prosciutto exhaled quietly, clearly dissatisfied with this answer, though he hadn't said so outright. He knew.
– Why not with me?
Ghiaccio grinned. But he was visibly uneasy, his cold fingers tightening on the steering wheel. This didn't go unnoticed.
Their relationship had been strained from the start, confusing even to themselves. Well, at least to one of them.
First, arguments. Then working together, as mentor and subordinate, because Ghiaccio needed to learn how to manage his emotions and character, to properly direct him in battle.
Then competition with each other. Then...
What he knew perfectly well would end this visit.
Because this had happened before.
– Why would I want to sleep in the backwater of Naples? For some homeless person to steal my car?
Prosciutto narrows his eyes, unable to speak.
– Shut up.
– I didn't say anything.
Prosciutto pointedly emphasized. His fingertips carefully plucked a cigarette from the half-empty pack, while the irritated grinding of teeth nearby filled his ears.
– Calm down.
He comments briefly, as if it's ever helped. Leaning back in his chair, he leisurely brings the cigarette between his fingers to the thin, parted lips. But suddenly he freezes, leaving the roll of tobacco hanging a few millimeters away for a few moments.
A little while later, distracted, Prosciutto removes the cigarette from his mouth, but doesn't put it back in the pack. Just hold it.
– Just suggested you sleep somewhere other than the worn-out old sofas.
Ghiaccio's gaze drops, his head still unmoving, immediately catching the slender hand that suddenly lands on his hard wrist, which seemed about to break that wretched steering wheel.
Again.
He winces, hunching his shoulders as Prosciutto leans too close. Much closer than he'd like.
– I'll grind some fresh coffee for us.
The pad of his thumb slowly traces discreet shapes on Ghiaccio's skin through the thin but soft layer of his black glove, slowly but steadily, like taming a wild animal, creeping toward the edge.
– I'll even put fresh sheets on the bed for you.
His fingertips cling to the edge of the glove, carefully pushing it aside, burrowing under it, slowly, with brief pauses, intertwining their fingers. Gradually, allowing him to interrupt this gesture if he so desires, moving Ghiaccio's hand away from the steering wheel.
– And I don't have rats running around.
In fact, Ghiaccio was ready to agree to the bed part. After he had to spend the night at the base because that damn Melone lost the keys to their rented, albeit cheap, apartment, his back hurt for a week.
Prosciutto had realized this from the start, too.
But he continued to press. Not forcefully. Just enough to feel Ghiaccio giving in of his own free will.
At the very least, it hadn't escalated to violence or screaming, so everything was more than fine.
Hearing a quiet, barely perceptible, cool sigh, he leans closer, carefully burying his nose in the neck bulging muscles, past the high collar of the white coat.
Ghiaccio is infuriated by how much he enjoys Prosciutto's cologne, which has become more intense with the closer proximity.
His back, strong, especially from the strain, slowly slides sideways in the seat until it hits the side door, pinned between the car and the body hanging overhead.
Uncomfortable.
Even painful.
Although it warms his heart that Prosciutto is even more uncomfortable.
– This is a parking lot.
– There are almost no people here, even during the day.
In fact, Ghiaccio isn't sure whether this information pleases him or disappoints him.
And especially… why.
Prosciutto squints slightly. His slender hand rests surprisingly firmly on the headrest of the driver's seat, the other hand, clutching a fresh cigarette, rests lower, on jerks upward waist.
– So it means..
– Fuck off.
Ghiaccio's gaze remained frowning, but distinctly awkwardly shifting to the side. His hips, hardened by years of running on ice and then honed by Stand use, wiggled under the soft, caressing touch.
However, his eyes were forced to jerk back, catching the cigarette out of the corner of his eye, slowly but surely approaching his lips.
– I don't smoke.
– I'm not suggesting. Just hold it like this.
His fingertips carefully guide the cigarette, lowering it onto his parted lips, his thumb helping to clamp the edge between his teeth.
Following his lips, he slides lower, along his neck and chest, catching hidden buttons along the way and gradually, without rushing, but also without deliberately hesitating, unbuttoning each one with precise movements.
The thin black thermal underwear was almost unexpected, completely fading from his memory. But it wasn't an obstacle. Hooking the hem, Prosciutto lifts the turtleneck up, just enough to expose his stomach, leaving the fabric folded over his chest.
His blue gaze lingers briefly on pale skin, barely tanned by the sun, tracing it with his fingertips, feeling the muscles tense under his touch, and the breath hitching above.
– Don't smoke a cigarette, it's my last one.
A lie.
But no one needs to know that.
Closing his eyes, Prosciutto lowers his hand to the ribs, urging to lift chest higher. Exhaling softly, mixing their breaths, burning trembling skin. He leans down, pressing lips to the collarbones, chest, and toned abdominal muscles, covering them with light, almost chaste kisses.
Ghiaccio's teeth clench tighter, jerking his head away from the hand resting right between his legs.
– I don't have anything in the car.
He mumbles inaudibly through his cigarette.
– I don't need it.
Ghiaccio immediately casts a tense glance at Prosciutto, especially when his fingers move higher, squeezing a rounded breast.
– I told you to calm down. I'm not an idiot.
Ghiaccio didn't answer. He merely averted his frowning gaze, distracted by the nearby half-naked trees.
He almost manages to relax, until a shudder runs through his body from the pressure, the sharp tingling sensation of jagged teeth squeezing the thin skin of his stomach.
There was no counterattack. Good. Very good. That speaks louder than any verbal invitation.
He closed his eyes, casually rolling the bitter cigarette around on his tongue, the muscles near the bridge of his nose twitching slightly from the unpleasant taste, feeling every movement of his hands as they deftly fiddled with the striped fabric, each sure movement undoing a button, a fly, hitting his ears with a soft squeak.
– Didn't you offer to come to your place?
Prosciutto looked up at him, almost surprised, almost, through a couple of loose curls.
– So you agree?
Ghiaccio almost bit his tongue. Moments like that were especially amusing.
– That offer is still open. Just remind me to tell Risotto.
– And now?
Prosciutto's fingers, meeting the question with a soft hum, slowly trailed down the sensitive skin beneath his striped pants. His other hand was busy, stroking and massaging the modest bulge, feeling every twitch beneath the fabric, every restless hips movement on the leather seats, eliciting faint smirks from the occasional ragged breath above him.
– And now, I don't think he'll understand what I'm saying.
Ghiaccio rolled his eyes, wagging his cigarette between his teeth as if he'd spent his entire adult life smoking.
He slung one hand over the door frame and rested the other on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. Tilting his head back, he let out a quiet exhale as he felt his body betray him by the slightest touch on his chest, between his legs, hardening and pushing against the insistent palm.
Prosciutto can't ignore it, watching with pleasure as the eyelids close behind the red glasses.
Fingertips, almost nails, catch the edge of the stretched underwear, lowering it, curving around the protruding shape.
The semi-hard organ springs from its confinement with a gentle jolt, straight into the waiting palm, closed around the still-soft thickness.
A hand, rough from years of hard work, pushes the dry length once, feeling and stroking the yielding skin, the ridges of the veins bending under the weight of his fingertips.
Listening to the heavy, slow breathing above and ignoring the sounds of nature around him, amid the quiet sighs, he tilts the pink head toward his lips, pressing a wet kiss to the rounded shape, his tongue tracing the edges of the quivering hole. Moving lower, closing around the skin stretching along its length, moistening it with saliva, until his lips close around the slowly swelling head. Finally, a distant, bitter taste began to linger.
Increasing the pressure, Prosciutto pulled back with a heavy, indecently loud smack. He softly glanced at Ghiaccio, his stomach convulsively contracting from the established pace, shuddering with every twist as his palm pushed against his now-hard cock.
How easily he succumbed to provocation was a distinct pleasure. This emotionality played a cruel trick on his body. Although, perhaps someone just needs to relax a little more often.
And Prosciutto was heroically ready to help him with that.
Ghiaccio, as expected, stubbornly held onto his cigarette; in fact, he gripped it tighter.
Not because he was particularly obedient. Rather, he simply had no choice as his jaw clenched.
The tip of his tongue pressed the filter against his upper gum.
A tense, tingling sensation pounded his head, running down his spine and constricting right into his balls. His cock twitched from the vibrations in his lower abdomen.
– Hell..
A hoarse hiss escaped through his teeth, interrupted by a harsh blow to the headboard. He was starting to get angry at his inability to concentrate.
Perhaps the stress really was taking its toll on him, since such childish, if that was even the right word, actions were turning his thoughts into mush.
Or maybe it was all because of Prosciutto. But he immediately dismissed that possibility.
– What'll be in the house?
– Shower, beer, cigarette, sleep.
Like a dot, the air is interrupted by Ghiaccio's sharp exhalation, throwing his head back.
– But if you want-
– Shut it.
Sure.
Prosciutto smirks slowly, rolling his eyes at the unchanged reaction.
But he even finds it amusing.
Finally, without tormenting them both, he bends over, lowering his head. Thin lips encircle the trembling head, spurting a thin stream of cum that rolls down his chin.
He ignores it, feeling it and whetting his appetite, but for now, ignoring it.
A slightly rough tongue glides past, wetting the tip in circles and gently sucking in, swallowing the tart consistency.
Ghiaccio's breath catches in his throat just from this gesture alone. And he only grows angrier, albeit with some effort, with each new movement of his tongue, descending lower and lower, gathering tiny folds of skin.
Prosciutto saw it. He took his time in his own pleasure, but he was also introducing Ghiaccio to this slow, calm side of it.
With a soft moan, more like a purr, a hot mouth gently circled the first half, exploring every curve before painfully returning to the head.
Sliding in steady movements along the length, pulsing with demand, right to the middle, a hot palm encouraged Ghiaccio with heavy, twisting thrusts at the base.
– Asshole. I don't understand you.
Prosciutto was in no hurry to answer.
The whole situation wasn't conducive for that.
His relaxed blue eyes flicker upward, flashing a quiet laugh before slowly lowering their lids.
Louder than any words, he stretches his throat and peers at the rest of the cock, which jerks in surprise.
The base strikes hard, hitting him painfully on the nose and slamming the wet head into the back of his constricted throat.
Prosciutto winces in surprise, jumping back toward the head. He hadn't complained much about his gag reflex, but it seemed that with this man, things were truly different.
However, frowning, he gives himself a moment to catch his breath, stretching his throat.
Well, at least Ghiaccio has started to react somehow, other than with venomous spit.
His breathing was heavy, shallow, unable to take a full breath because of the damn cigarette that, for some reason, was still clenched tightly between his teeth, forgotten but unconsciously held on by the tension in his muscles.
He couldn't even moan, coming out more like a hoarse moo, a whine that sent shivers down both their spines. A broken growl escaped through his clenched teeth every time Prosciutto's mouth sank all the way down, swallowing him to the base and rubbing the dripping head against the back of his throat, the soft sliminess of which made Ghiaccio's stomach ache.
His chest tightened as Prosciutto adjusted his position. The swollen lips began to move more boldly along the wet length, the hand did not stop, continuing to stimulate the part that was briefly exposed to the coolness of the night, and milking, no, as if sucking all the strength out of him.
Through blurred vision, further obscured by his slipped glasses, Ghiaccio lowers his gaze, seeing a gradually coming into focus image of disheveled hair, fingers glistening with saliva, and lips tightly pressed around a diameter.
Not bad. Much better than his usual arrogant demeanor.
And, most importantly, he finally takes a full breath through his open mouth, saliva catching the cigarette on his tongue.
– Shiiit…
Ghiaccio hissed. Not only from the sight that sent a fresh wave of sweat through him, but also from the way he felt his own thighs begin to tremble involuntarily, wriggling restlessly beneath Prosciutto's hands and involuntarily twitching toward the hot, wet grip that wrenched a shameless, moaning growl from him. That damn tongue, like a maddened snake, resisted, trying to burrow into the sensitive urethra that spurted from pleasure.
Asshole.
Prosciutto felt the body beneath him mount a reaction, his muscles clenching, his legs twitching, the cockhead rubbing against his throat, squirting with precum. That's why he began to gradually retreat. Not slowing down, only increasing the pressure of his hand, slowly pulling his head away.
Or rather, he tried.
– Oh no, you wanted this yourself.
Ghiaccio growled with a distinct sneer, grabbing Prosciutto by the hair with a jerky, uncontrollable movement, completely turning it into a complete mess, more reminiscent of a freshly mown field than a perfectly styled hairstyle.
His fingers, like a vice, not surprisingly, given his physical fitness, held him halfway as he attempted to lift his head. A second of awareness barely passed before a single, precise thrust of his hips drove the remaining length back in, splashing saliva that had previously collected on the hot skin across his lips.
Prosciutto doesn't resist. He doesn't object. In fact, he supports the initiative.
The hand resumed its confident, rhythmic thrusts in the part that had momentarily opened, holding the base in a controlling ring.
This reaction only further infuriated Ghiaccio with its... not even obedience.
The damned bastard knew exactly what would happen, wanted it.
He doesn't care.
This isn't a situation where he'll have to prove anything to anyone. Not now.
Blue curls bounced on his thrown-back head, short eyelashes fluttered against his closed eyelids. Both of them greedily gulped for air, while Ghiaccio groaned low in his chest.
A rough palm painfully clutched a clump of golden hair, scratching his scalp, because his body simply needed to release the energy boiling within. A release into Prosciutto's throat.
The rapid approach to his climax was evident in every small spasm, in every uneven exhalation.
And the moment, when his hips slammed upward with several short but powerful thrusts, like a battering ram, locking into place, struck Prosciutto harder than the clasped, strong legs.
Ghiaccio's muscles trembled, the veins in his lower abdomen and cock bulged as he twitched for a few more seconds at the root of his tongue, releasing waves of translucent, gradually clouding pre-cum, which suddenly gave way to the first thick shot.
Harsh, as if he'd never heard of self-gratification in his entire life, the orgasm crashed through his body, pushing countless white ribbons inside.
His hands held Prosciutto's head firmly, as if afraid he'd suddenly change his ways. But in vain. Prosciutto didn't even move, pressing tightly against the base, his nose buried in the short, curly trail, the head pressing unpleasantly against the curve of his tongue, streams of semen hitting painfully against the wall of his clenching throat, but he didn't move.
But the mockery of the gag reflex turns into karma, tingling and making him cough, gag, and closing eyes. Eyelashes stick together, wet with tiny tears that well up with my cough.
Fingers blindly clutched unbuttoned white coat, straining against the lack of oxygen.
Ghiaccio didn't let go immediately, reluctantly, only loosening his grip but not completely releasing it.
But even here, Prosciutto's mouth doesn't disappear immediately. The lips, swollen from friction, gradually slide halfway up, a hand gently, encouragingly stroking the withdrawn portion, smearing a viscous mixture of saliva, precum, and drops of semen. The remnants, languidly falling onto the tongue for a while, were graciously swallowed.
With deliberate slowness, he pulls out the remaining portion of the organ, which has already begun to soften, unable to resist gently sucking on the tip, wanting to savor the intoxicated, pained growl from above, caused by the post-orgasmic hypersensitivity.
He almost saw Ghiaccio twitch to strike him for this, but ultimately only waved his clenched fist in the air, a simple warning.
The tip of his tongue gently extended to lick, digesting the aftertaste, while his fingers gently closed around the cigarette, crumpled and drool-stained, pulling it from Ghiaccio's teeth as he sprawled in the car. Defeated and melted.
– What was a cigarette for...
Still wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, Prosciutto heard a quiet voice urge him to slowly rise until they were level, their eyes meeting.
A fleeting, almost momentary silence falls between them, during which his fingers, still sticky from the unpleasant mixture, reach out to adjust the red glasses over their eyes.
– For nothing.
Hiding a satisfied grin becomes almost impossible as they watch the eyes behind the glass widen, the black pupils constrict, and the jaw clench.
But there's no blow.
Certainly not when he lies down on Ghiaccio, who grinning like a yard dog. Prosciutto wraps his arms around his neck, deliberately craning his own toward him, leaning in for a kiss, even though he knows full well Ghiaccio will pull away.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because... it's obvious why.
And that's exactly what happened.
But the lack of a slap spoke louder than any passionate kiss.
– Get dressed. Let's go already.
Ghiaccio lightly nudges him in the shoulder. Not enough to really hurt, but enough to feel the force and push him away.
Having gained some space between them, he began pulling up his pants. They definitely needed washing. And not just them.
Damn...
Prosciutto calmly crushes his cigarette, which almost immediately flies to the ground in a random direction, accompanied by the sound of the door opening.
Following his example, he returns to the next chair, taking a moment to make himself look presentable. At least he brushes his hair out of face, removing all the hair ties and simply tying a ponytail at the nape of his neck.
Exhaling, he's just about to open the door when he feels a sharp push on his shoulder, almost causing him to fall backwards.
Before he can react properly, he's met with lips pressed tightly to his cheek.
He's denied the chance to turn or respond. Ghiaccio pulls away, following the surprised eyes that glanced his way, and slams the door roughly.
As expected. But also not.
And Prosciutto can't help but smirk.
Finally getting out of the car, he reaches for another, last this time cigarette, standing alone in the pack. He barely manages to get the edge to his lips before a ragged scream hits him in the back.
The cigarette jerking in surprise, falling into the dirt.
– IT WAS NOT THE LAST ONE?
Shit... right.