Note: It's only when I had finished writing this oneshot that I thought of the song by Cindy Lauper (and not this horrible cover by Celine Dion, tyvm). I was looking for a title so I shamelessly borrowed the title of the song, because even the topic here sticks to the song, although it was not on purpose, thus it's not a songfic. I just needed to write some sex and fluff because I can't yet with Too Sexy For My Shirt, if I can at all someday...
And yes, there's a lemon at the end ^^
Mello knew that sitting at the driver's seat himself and push the accelerator would change nothing. His underling was already driving at breakneck speed on his order, the fastlane white markings a blur in the nightshades lights as he leant against the passenger's door and sighed for the umpteenth time, looking by the window in an attempt to distract his mind. But it was useless, they weren't going as fast as he wished.
They finally arrived at the hideout where all his men, or at least the remaining ones that weren't on a mission, were spending the night playing cards, drinking, smoking or doing whatever they wanted, whether it involved girls, drugs, or guns, he didn't care. As long as his pseudo office stayed untouched, he didn't give a shit that his men made a total mess of the rest of the building. Leave the boss in peace and don't bring attention were the basic rules to which all the underlings sticked to, because none of them wanted to test the feeling of their skull exploding and their brain splattering the walls. If they were lucky, they'd end up with their balls perforated by several bullets, but even with the possibility of still being alive, it was an option that none of the thugs wanted to explore.
Mello was quick. He didn't want to increase this already unbearable sensation of losing time that was tightening his gut. Hurry. Hurry up damnit! He could have almost pushed his driver that was walking too slowly to his likings in front of him. But as the boss, he couldn't lose his contenance. So he spat the words instead, the man almost running upstairs as they entered the building once they'd crossed the garage where the limo was left.
Inside, the young man rushed to his office, grabbed his helmet, remembered that his beloved Honda was reduced to a folded carcass days ago, and out of rage, threw the helmet against the nearest wall. The item just sent some fragments of cement flying before falling and rolling on the floor. It was supposed to protect heads under way more violent shocks after all, so it didn't break in thousands pieces like Mello would have liked it to, but at least it was enough to relieve some of his anger.
He took a handfull of chocolate bars in a drawer, stuck them into a black bag he found under the bed, added all the clothes that were scattered between the bed, closet and bathroom, he didn't plan on coming back here soon, after all, he'd already stayed too long. And left.
Crossing the common room, Mello grabbed a nearly full bottle of vodka on the coffee table, one that his underlings hadn't downed yet, took from one's lips the just lit cigarette and without a word, exited the building once he had the coveted keys in his hand.
The car was still parked outside, which was why he had set his choice on it. The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a shiny black Ferrari, but he had decided against it, knowing all too well that his death could be on the road with such a fast engine. Carried away by his will to be where he wanted to be as fast as possible, he could take risks and... no, he couldn't do that.
Mello sat in the Mercedes, the bag thrown on the backseat, roared the motor to life and suddenly, the mix of scents in the small space sent his mind to overdrive. He needed to get going. Now. Leather of the seats and his attire, smoke of the cigarette he wasn't even smoking, just dangling between his lips for the smell charged with memories.
Rain, the same glistening streets, on and on, headlights, redlights, clublights... The specific sound of wheels on water, the wipers erasing drops regularly with a mecanical noise, unnerving, fingers tapping the stirring wheel in impatience for green, for the authorization to get closer to his destination... Would it ever end?
Mello was now muttering to himself, somehow wondering if there was something that was playing against him, some weird force that was changing seconds to minutes and minutes to hours, making of this drive a neverending tour through cities and fastlanes with no hope to reach his target.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
The scream addressed toward the fuel gauge would not make it magically show a full reservoir. It was nearing zero and the blond cursed because it meant he had to stop for gas at the nearest station, delaying even more his arrival. He'd have to shoot the owner of the car for not taking care of it. Hell, he was the owner of the car, of everything. He'd shoot anyone that had used it last, then.
Fortunately, there were stations distributed evenly along the road and the next one showed up soon enough.
The reservoir was huge on that type of car, and it didn't finish filling itself, as time went by, ticking in Mello's head whose eyes were riveted on the evermoving digits of the gas automat. There. He had enough to drive the planned distance. The reservoir wasn't full but just standing there looking at the liters scroll, white on black, in square signs, drove him insane.
The credit card was almost snatched out of the payment slot once the transaction was completed, the driver's seat creaked under the mistreatment of a body heavily sitting in his haste, and the door slammed, the whole vehicle trembling from the shock.
A forbidden U-turn and Mello was pushing the pedal to the floor, uncaring for the horn of the car he just cut the way to. Almost midnight and there had to be another car in that desert station. It wasn't time for an accident, and Mello was lucky he could avoid the crash as he arrived at full speed in the wrong lane, crossing the central reservation grass so he didn't have to do the whole circle around the station to join the right direction of the fastlane.
There were no streetlamps anymore, only the headlights of the Mercedes and faraway cities with their little glittery windows in the distance.
Mello had been driving for two hours without a stop, eyes focused on the road. The rain had stopped, giving some rest to his tired irises. Damn his ice clear eyes, they were very sensitive to lights, and the water droplets increasing the reflection in the night didn't help.
One more hour to go.
Still looking at the concrete in front of him, the blond began rummaging as far as he could in the gloves compartment. Bloody hell...
The bag was on the backseat, out of reach. The chocolate bars were out of reach. Stress relief was out of reach.
And the glove compartment was empty, not even a gum or whatever candy could be in there. A bag of coke.
But he didn't do drugs and threw the small plastic pocket by the window. He didn't want to risk being caught with that. Dusting the power staining his gloved fingers with a blow, he slowed down enough so he could grab the bag without leaving the road, because he was really in need of the dark substance right now. Or he would fall asleep behind the wheel. His fingers found the bottle, but he decided against it, alcohol would do no good to his sight and attention to the road.
The last weeks had been a blur of trades, intimidations, more trades, and finally gaining a market that would provide more money than the Mob already had. They didn't need it, but power had to be entertained to last. And power he had. But apparently not the one he craved for right now: instant teleportation, or at least speeding time.
As the clock informed him that in half an hour, he'd be finally arrived, he smiled.
That was probably the first one in weeks. You don't smile in the Mafia. You smirk, you mock, you laugh at other's expense, but you don't smile. A smile is a weakness, and weakness is death penalty.
Half an hour and his worst weakness, the one that contradictorily gave him his strength, would relieve stress and everything else that had built up inside of him during those long weeks. The biggest one of them being inhumanity. Far beyond sex frustration.
Mello's only partner for those weeks had been his right hand and his memories. He may be the boss of the Mafia, but a man who has found his true love never falters in faithfulness. It wasn't even difficult. His lover could never be rivaled in any way. You never beat perfection.
The second smile of the night, as an image crossed Mello's mind. He was human again at the thought. A being with a heart, for once not only beating to keep his blood flowing through his system.
The city entrance signed the countdown of the last ten minutes of the drive. The distance was the price to pay for tranquillity, for being safe and undiscovered. Not that Mello had much ennemies anymore, he had made sure to erase most of them from the surface of the earth. Life in the Mafia was quite easy nowadays, compared to what he had known during all these years to get to the top. It was just a question of making sure that anyone coveting his spot knew he was mightier than God himself, and that lives were at the tip of a barrel if they crossed the limits.
The building was in sight, and already, Mello's stomach knotted, in a good way this time. The butterflies were long forgotten, it was a whole beehive in action, and in no time, the Mercedes was parked and the young man was entering the building, bag in hand.
Having checked the windows before getting in the hall, he knew that lights were off, so he made sure to be as silent as possible as he unlocked the door, once the elevator freed him on his apartment's doorstep.
It was a pain to stay silent when all he wanted was to hurry inside. Keys on the nearby table, without a metallic knock, door closed behind him, the click of the lock barely audible, the bag on the couch, cushions muffling the noise, and a light shuffle as the blond removed his boots and leather jacket, leaving them on the floor in the middle of the living room. At the end of which resides the bed, object of all his attention.
This place is luxury. Beautiful building, heavily decorated hall, brushed steel elevator, carved wooden apartment door, expensive furniture, thick woolen handmade carpets, pure ebony bed, wine red japanese wild silk sheets.
But the most precious of all things to Mello's eyes is sleeping under those sheets, the color contrasting with milk white skin under the few moonrays passing through the rich curtains.
Mello approaches the window and, with a finger, pushes one of the curtains just to let some more light fall on the bed. Just to see better. Third smile, and a tightness building down south at the sight. The birth of a line, with two dimples, one on each side, just under the end of the dorsal bone.
The curtain falls back in place, and the form moves, beginning to awaken as the mattress lowers under Mello's weight, who sits at the border. Not afraid to scare his lover anymore, he finally allows himself to let his hand rest on the bare shoulder exposed, and the body turns around, eyes fluttering open, a soft smile on full lips even before seeing the owner of the hand, because a body knows when love touches it.
Mello bends and capture the mouth even before a word is uttered, because I love yous are useless, the looks were enough to speak volumes of sweet nothings, of tender everythings.
And they've always been more volubiles with flesh against flesh and caresses, kisses and embraces, and as Mello is Mihael again, human in Mail's arms, salvation at the tip of fingers, the sheets meet the foot of the bed along with leather, and a rosary, because there's nothing to believe in anymore, the reality is right under Mihael's palms, an idol he has faith in, that is palpable, far from the vain image of a God he'd been worshipping when it never appeared to him, when he needed it the most. Mail is the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, and sweat, saliva and semen are the Sanctified Water in which these love children are baptised.
Mail looks at the face he'd been missing for weeks, patient at home, in the housewife's role since he really has not much else to do than wait for his love. And Mihael provides everything. It's only fair when Mail is the one that helped him to the top, and saved his life more than once. So Mihael bought this apartment, and everything in it, the best he could find for his true love, so Mail doesn't have to worry for material aspects, and can play his games all day long.
Weeks like the ones that just passed are fortunately rare nowadays, but the reunions are always bathed in the same passion and eagerness and bliss, because that's what love is. Sad that most people will never ever know what is true love, because treasures are a rare thing, and people always seek wealth in the wrong place.
Fingers creep in blond strands, pulling the head down to kiss it better, and Mihael's body covers his, skin uncovered, warmth for warmth, touch for touch.
The blond rolls so Mail is on top, and he strokes the red locks, putting one behind a shell shaped ear, before his hand finds the lower back, just where the line begins, but he doesn't go lower yet. No, not yet.
He waits for sleep to leave Mail's eyes completely. He just feels the dimples and the soft duvet residing here, and he drinks the deep blue eyes and the little nose and the freckles like sweet liquor, and the scent of smoke is only that good when it mixes with Mail's skin and the lilac perfume that the redhead insists to wear even though it's very feminine, because Mihael loves it.
Mail's lips find their way across the other man's body, first tender in the neck, then more daring the lower they go, leaving saliva trails on those sinful abs, briefly licking along the line of hairs going from the navel to the more dense bush of pubic hairs. Mihael twitches. His arousal began minutes ago, but he's getting even harder now, and the sudden sucking won't help the blood rushing so fast it's almost painful.
He looks down and meets perfectly awoken eyes, and so Mihael pulls his lover up to him, rolls him over gently so Mail lays on his back, and there's only a brief share of looks, a bond so visible that it could be cut with scissors, and then everything's unleashed.
Mouths don't kiss, they eat. Hands can't caress anymore, eagerness make them grasp and grab, holding on to each other as legs spread and fold around the other's waist, welcoming the erected organ barely wet with saliva, hissing of pain and then groaning of pleasure. Skin slapping skin, moans and pants, almost a lovesong, in tune with something that even them can't express, because you can't explain miracles.
Mihael moves in and out, his eyes locked with Mail's, holding each other so firmly they're at the edge of physical pain, the bed creaks under the pounding, and Mihael only lets some space between them so he can fully palm Mail's balls, massaging them before encircling his erection with long thin fingers, calloused but Mail doesn't care, the rough skin against his sensitive flesh sends him over the edge, and Mihael bends so he can catch every single drop of sperm on his tongue, before coming inside of his lover.
Mail curls up against Mihael's chest, the arm of the blond securing him against himself, regaining his breath, still tasting Mail on his tongue, and it's even better than chocolate.
Steel eyes slowly close, Mihael drifts to sleep, along with Mail whose breathing has evened with Morphee's arms calling to him.
Mihael can feel the redhead's pulse against his chest, and it's like this neverending ticking in his head when he drove this night. And he thinks that maybe it's just Mail's beating heart that was calling him. Sleep makes Mihael sappy, but he doesn't care, he drove all night and he's home.