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Tangerine

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                The room is sunlit and orangish with the summer’s warmth whenever Takasugi pushes open the door. It’s always hot in the city whenever July rolls around, but Shinada’s home being perched atop a building, the sun beating down directly upon his makeshift “roof,” makes the room feel heavily insulated and sour. Shinada is nowhere to be seen, which is unusual this early in the morning, but he supposes the guy must have set an alarm to purposefully avoid the shit he’d get kicked in on his monthly interest payment.

                Well, Shinada can’t avoid him forever, and Takasugi’s got all day. He can wait it out.

                Taking a seat on his futon, which is deeply embedded with the shape of his frame, and probably unwashed, Takasugi shucks off his suit jacket and kicks off his shoes. There’s a box fan in the corner that’s circulating slow, humid air that does little to cool him off. No wonder Shinada left. This place is suffocating.

                Not only that, but it reeks.

                Luckily, it hasn’t rained recently, and there’s no moldy, natural scent to make the still, hot air amplified. But it’s all—body odor. It smells like a locker room. … It smells like Shinada. And it isn’t like Shinada wears cologne, it isn’t like he has a working shower in this dump. A sink and a bucket. God, where did all that money he lent him even go? He obviously isn’t using it for much.

                Takasugi sits by the low tea table and opens his client’s laptop. There’s no password on it—the idiot’s too stupid and trusting for that—and his background is a picture of some middle-aged woman with the whitest skin he’s ever seen in a barely-concealing one-piece swimsuit, submerged in bath water.

                Takasugi’s gay ass can’t get the appeal.

                He opens the half-completed word document and reads Shinada’s surprisingly well-written and detailed entry about a peep show parlor offering girls from the Philippines and China. Doesn’t seem too ethical or legal, but it isn’t like Takasugi cares about the legitimacy of business.

                How far the poor guy’s fallen, though.

                As much as Takasugi likes imagining Shinada’s cock, the idea of him sticking it in some undeserving sex worker makes his cheeks blister with jealousy. That isn’t the Shinada Tatsuo he knew. Well, maybe—but a baseball player is far more respectable than some man-whore.

                Speaking of, he wonders if the guy still plays. He’s fit enough to be doing something athletic regularly, but he isn’t sure what.

                Takasugi sits back on his heels and hums. Sweat has begun to gather at his temples. Time slides by slowly.

                Well.

                He has time.

                Takasugi closes the laptop and makes his way to the meager space of a plastic wardrobe, hanging from an exposed pipe on the wall, in search of any baseball gear at all. Shinada doesn’t even seem to own a bat.

There isn’t any variety to see when he unzips it. Mostly t-shirts and wifebeaters, wrinkled and half-washed, and jeans stained with dirt at the knees. There’s a single leather belt, and his usual brown jacket has been left behind in the hot weather. And at the bottom, there’s a pile of…

                Oh. How interesting.

Socks and underwear. Takasugi blinks and crouches down.

                Casually lifting a pair of his white briefs, he realizes from the immediate aroma that it’s unwashed. His eyes widen behind the lenses of his fogged-up glasses.

“Ah, you lazy fuck,” he murmurs, and spreads them out on the floor. The crotch is slightly yellowed and Takasugi doesn’t feel disgusted at all. His breath comes out feverish even in the stifling heat of the bedroom.

                He picks out two unmatching socks and inspects the bottom of them, his mouth filling with spit at the outline of his heels and toes, sweat-stained and dirty. Takasugi bites his lip, pushes the items back in the pile and stands up, fully intent on closing the wardrobe and forgetting any of this ever happened.

                But as he does, he sees something jammed to the side of the wardrobe, a familiar flash of color.

                He wrenches open the plastic and sees the Wyverns uniform from his old baseball days. Not only does it seem well-kept, it seems recently used, somehow. It isn’t stiff or musty whenever he pulls it out, and it has that now-familiar, Shinada scent of body musk and cigarettes.

                Takasugi could sit and wonder why Shinada has put it on. The implications are there: he is rotting in his new life, miserably looking back at what could have been. The years stolen from him for some scandal that he likely never really acted on back then. Reliving what he once could have had.

And yet, Takasugi is way too fucking horny for sympathetic analysis.

                He sits back down on the futon, holding the uniform close to his chest, and works frantically at his belt. His excitement makes it take some effort to get it open, but he’s too frantic to think properly, to take his time.

                 Once his slacks are unzipped and wrenched halfway down his thighs, he gropes at his half-hard cock and brings the fabric of Shinada’s jersey to his face. He inhales deeply against the chest, that scent of sweat sort of warm and nurturing. It smells woody, like apricots and sweet skin. He can just imagine being tucked up against Shinada’s big body all night.

                He lifts the sleeve of the jersey—it’s his long-sleeved one, the one he wore on that cold winter night’s game—and brings the armpit to his nose. His other hand works his cock now, feeling it swell and twitch in his hand. He knows Shinada’s is bigger. He’s seen it before, when he kicked the door in and caught him jerking off with those thick, impressively muscled legs spread. Takasugi had managed a straight face when he threatened to cut it off then, but the image of that fat cock with heavy, dark balls and a mess of pubic hair has stayed imprinted in his mind every time he masturbates now.

                He drops the jersey and frantically goes for the baseball pants. Shinada’s ass fills it out so much. As much as he’d love to have Shinada’s dick inside of him, Takasugi would prefer to fuck him. Big guys look so good on their backs, having their cunts used sloppily as they whimper and make sheepish, cute noises. Shinada would look especially good with that innocent, naïve face all blissed out.

                He brings the ass of his pants to his face and sniffs deeply, imagining being able to yank them down and just lick out his hole, still (preferably) sweaty from a game.

                “God, I’m so fucked up,” Takasugi groans, sniffing deeper and laying back on the futon. He spreads his legs and accidentally kicks aside some tossed beer cans in the process. He thumbs at the inseam of the pants until he finds the crotch, and he drapes it over his nostrils. He can practically smell his cock like this, the fabric netted with that unwashed-dick smell, all old piss and semen and sweat. He’d give anything to just have Shinada sit on his face like this, to worship his body, and its odor, and huff it open-mouthed.

                Maybe he’ll reconsider the interest payments on his loans. There are definitely potential alternatives to money.

                His wrist works faster, his hips jerking, lifting up off the mattress as he opens his mouth and sucks the fabric of the crotch between his lips.

                Sure, he should be more nervous about Shinada walking in, returning home. Or one of his potential other moneylenders, friends he’s sapped cash from. But he can’t really give a shit. He has a reputation to maintain, sure, but there’s nothing that new about a loan shark also being a pervert. It isn’t like he’s got any commitments to uphold, anyway.

                He tosses the baseball uniform aside completely. As much as he loves the idea of a 22-year-old Shinada spread legged and eager for him after a game, 37-year-old Shinada drinking beer in his underwear is just as hot. He fishes out the briefs from the wardrobe once more, kneeling on the floor, and jerks his dick off so roughly that he’s sure it’ll swell and go raw from the friction. Didn’t even have the foresight to spit in his palm.

                He brings that piss-stained cloth to his face and breathes in. It’s pungent, sour, and Takasugi’s eyes roll back as he imagines Shinada’s soft cock nestled in it, his cute, messy pubes sticking out of the waistband every time he stretches and shows off that hard abdomen from beneath his t-shirt. He would lick every inch of him. And he probably could, he realizes—Shinada’s already essentially a prostitute. He could surely pay Takasugi back with his body.

                The idea materializes as one single, beautiful image in his head: Shinada wrenching aside these very briefs to let his hard cock rest outside of them, precum leaking over the date-colored flesh of his head, balls still encased in the stained cotton, those big, dewy eyes on him and muscular arms outstretched needily—for Takasugi. Just begging to be fucked.

                Takasugi cums so hard he sees stars behind his vision as he squeezes his eyes shut, his face buried in Shinada’s unclean briefs.

                His dick spurts out jizz that he quickly uses the underwear to mop up, his balls twitching as his hips jackrabbit of their own accord into the fabric. He moans and feels the heat in his body boil up into jitters as he realizes how warm he is. Doesn’t help to turn him off at all, the thought of Shinada sauna-ing in here and sweating that incredible scent.

                He sits up and sighs. His undershirt has become damp with perspiration and his hair gel’s leaking out down the back of his neck. Shinada isn’t back yet and it’s getting too hot for him in more ways than one.

                The citrus-colored room was already messy before, but he knows Shinada would notice the uniform out of place if he just left it. Takasugi tucks his soft, messy cock back inside his underwear, zips up, and puts the uniform carefully back on its hanger, woefully giving mental goodbyes as he shoves it in the hiding place behind the crease of plastic.

                The cum-stained underwear he tosses onto the tea table. He doesn’t give a shit if Shinada finds out. In fact, he hopes Shinada takes him up on his implied proposition.

                Squatting at the laptop, he opens up a new word document and writes in the largest font he can: STUPID BITCH, YOU OWE ME MONEY. Lots of love, Takasugi-chan.

                Before he leaves that tangerine fortress of good smells and perversion and debt, Takasugi snags a used, white sock, and shoves it in his pocket. Consider it collateral.