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Macallan 1946

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                The Macallan 1946 burns golden in Baba’s throat, the warmth hitting his ears, making the jacket on his arms seem as though it’s lined with an extra layer of wool. Polaris has been abandoned for years, but the heating system seems to be intact—just not very efficient. Probably benefits from one of the neighbors on the floor above or below them. It wouldn’t be the first time Baba was mooching off of someone without them knowing.

                Poor Saejima.

                The man in question looks good, though, drinking the sharp and bitter whiskey as he slouches on the barstool, always looking too big for his surroundings. Baba wonders if that presence he always has to handle is hard to carry. Especially when they’ve got the world looking out for them right now, eager to re-indict them. It’s not like Saejima’s the most incognito looking man, not with a frame like that. Relaxed for once, not bogged down in prison by the daily, routine duties of his—one of which included being tortured. Not weathered from the mountainside’s harshness, his face deeply creased with frown lines in the firelight of the cabin as he fretted over Baba’s wellbeing.

                While he knows this joy is fleeting, Baba also savors the present. The same way he did in Abashiri Prison, sharing dreams with him and their cellmates, pretending the next day’s duties wouldn’t come, blissfully forgetting why he was behind bars in the first place.

                Sometimes, he gets lost in the present. Forgets what he must do, who he really is.

                Right now, looking at Saejima in the soft light of the bare bulb, he forgets. All he sees is the new warmth in his eyes, the way his neck works as he swallows the ancient glass of whiskey from a debatably unclean cup. Saejima’s consumed worse. Raw bear meat, most recently.

                They’ve fucked before, and as he watches Saejima looking strangely relieved, refreshed, Baba feels the usual stirring of excitement in the pit of his stomach.

                “You seem happy,” Baba says with a slight giggle, refilling their glasses. Outside, it’s daylight, but inside it could be any hour, any year. Polaris hasn’t changed since the sixties, probably. There’s something freeing about this timelessness, this hidden spot that’s without the rising and setting of the sun, with no modicum of modernity in it. Similar to the cell, to the cabin in Abashiri. They belong in these boxes of their own, safe from the world outside which demands betrayal and bloodshed on Baba’s part.

                Being isolated together like this, it does a lot for him. Makes him feel human, close to someone else. Perhaps dependent.

                “I don’t know if ‘happy’ is the word for it,” Saejima says, taking another sip. “Probably ‘buzzed.’”

                Baba laughs, propping his elbows on the counter and dropping his chin in his hands.

                “Well, even so, it’s cute on you.”

                “Cute?”

                “Mmhm,” he hums. Saejima smells like vanilla and sharp barley. He walks around the counter, overcome with the urge to tuck himself against this big, bearlike man, to fit against his frame and absorb his body heat. So, he does. He climbs onto his lap and loops his arms around his neck, the stool beneath them creaking with their combined weight. They’re both heavy with muscles and recent body fat from the endless spreads of hunted deer and bear, and the stool is ancient, unused, its legs stiff from the cold. Baba doesn’t care, though, as he perilously throws his legs around Saejima’s thick waist, fitting himself over his crotch.

                Saejima sticks his arms out to hold onto the edge of the bar, just in case.

                “Making yourself comfortable already, huh?”

                “Hey, might as well. Who knows the next time we’ll be able to be together?”

                “I know,” Saejima mumbles, “But we can’t stall much longer. I need to find who killed Majima.”

                Baba tucks his doll-like lips beneath his teeth and hums.

                “What?”

                “I don’t know. It’s—anxiety-inducing. The prospect.”

                “Kitakana will get what’s coming to him, Baba-chan. But I need answers, first.”

                Baba feels a strange swoop in his stomach—something he can’t quite identify. A need to confess bubbles behind his lips, and he opens his mouth for a second, but the words get stuck.

                “What is it, Baba-chan?”

                Baba decides to go with one of the truths. Just a less dangerous one.

                “I’m a bit jealous of your relationship with Majima-san.”

                Saejima’s eyebrows raise and he lets go of the end of the bar to hold Baba on his lap, balancing them perilously, his boots firmly planted on the floorboards, caked in dust. At least it’s too cold for bugs to fester.

                “Don’t be, Baba-chan.”

                Baba realizes it’s selfish to be jealous of the dead, of the past. So, he props his chin on Saejima’s broad shoulder and mumbles, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

                “You’re my kyodai. The same as he was.”

                Baba sighs and turns his cheek to press against his shoulder, to kiss lazily at his neck. Saejima’s breath exits his nose in a rush, the same sound he made after his first sip of whiskey.

                “What’re you doing, Baba-chan?”

                Baba’s lips find his pulse and rest there for a while, taking in his body heat, counting the rhythm of his heart against his lips.

                “C’mon,” he says, the stubble of Saejima’s neck grazing Baba’s smooth lips, “Take care of me one more time.”

                “What’s with the finality?”

                Baba shakes his head, makes his way to his Adam’s apple, sucks it openly. Feels the increased pulse under his tongue, feels Saejima’s legs twitch a little.

                He knows more than Saejima does about the next twenty-four hours. But he can’t let that on.

                “I don’t know. Bad feeling,” Baba sighs, and kisses up to his chin, finds his lips, presses them together, “Call me nice names, Saejima. Be nice to me.”

                Saejima grunts in confusion. He won’t ask what’s going on. Baba’s so kind, so gentle. Saejima will grant him the time to be anxious, nervous, needy. After the bravery he’s maintained, he deserves it. (And if Baba were to know how he was thinking, he’d probably kill himself then and there, he couldn’t handle the guilt. Saejima’s so innocent.)

                Saejima’s hand finds the dip of his spine and he pulls him impossibly closer to his chest, the bulk of their jackets and their combined body heat making for a snug fit. “Okay, pretty boy. Anything for you… Anything at all, kyodai.”

                The sound Baba lets into his mouth is a broken one.

*

                “That’s a good boy,” Saejima purrs, “That’s my baby.”

                Baba sobs into his arms, crossed on the bar which smells of mahogany and old, rain-wet musk, that ancient, woody scent sinking into his bare skin as he’s been bent over it for a good five or ten minutes now. He’s naked, and he’d be shivering if he didn’t have Saejima behind him, keeping his skin warm with his own burly frame, with the hot breath that fans over the back of his firm but slender thighs as Saejima tongue-fucks his hole lazily.

                “Ah,” Baba squeaks. His sounds are all gentle but gut-fucked things, little whimpers and moans as if he’s trying to be quiet. For once, they don’t have to be, but whenever your last few years of sexuality have been covert under-the-blanket masturbation and cabin-side handjobs, it’s hard to break the habit and let himself untense.

                Especially whenever he’d rather listen to the sloppy noises of Saejima’s mouth than his own voice.

                His nipples are hard, and he can see his own gooseflesh stand up on his white as milk, white as  a bride’s dress as he shivers, but his ass and legs are pushed up against Saejima, and he feels too hot. His cock is already hard, his hole flexes and unflexes with each pass of Saejima’s tongue, his thighs tremble in Saejima’s hold, feeling as though his nerves are bunched up and tight beneath his palms.

                “Ahhn,” he whines again, melting, pushing his hips back, forward, trying simultaneously to push into his hold and pull away from it. Saejima’s mouth on his hole is too much, the past use of Vaseline doing little to compare with how nice it is to feel Saejima make out with his body like he would his mouth. It’s probably insufficient lube, just Saejima’s spit, but it feels nice all the same. No wonder girls like being eaten out so much. Baba wishes that, in some other world, he could wake up to this every day. In a safe place, where they have a bed, and there’s real sunlight coming in through thin, cotton curtains, and he has a big husband between his legs, eating out his hole. Baba’s hands scrabbling over the back of his head, pushing him closer, making him take his ass like Saejima makes him take his dick.

                And then they’d roll over and get coffee.

                Baba sobs again at the idea, his hand falling to his dick, jerking himself off lazily. Wouldn’t that be nice? To be a housewife rather than an assassin?

                Saejima’s hand finds the knob of his wrist and he eases his hand off himself.

                “Don’t,” he says, breath humid, cheek and chin covered in spit and Baba’s sweat, “I’ll take care of it.”

                “Saejima,” Baba whines, “Please, fuck me.”

                “You taste so good, pretty boy,” Saejima says, and his hands travel up the joints of his thighs so he can take either cheek in his hand. Squeezing them, he relishes in the whine Baba produces before he pushes them over and spits on his hole, watching as the glob of saliva trickles foamy and white between his crack and against his puckered skin. Saejima thumbs at it, pushing it into him, watching the furl of his ass take it.

                Baba’s breathing heavily now, the kind of stuttered breathing that a child takes after crying.

                “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Saejima asks, pulling himself off his knees and standing behind him. He drapes his body over his own, presses his chest to Baba’s spine, kisses at the shaved nape of his neck which throws a full-body shiver down his back.

                “Yes, Saejima-san!” he cries, which takes great effort, given that his diaphragm is being pressed against the counter roughly. Baba pushes his hips back against Saejima’s crotch, feeling his own spit-wet hole tighten and relax, push open needily.

                The sound of Saejima unzipping his pants cuts through the damp breaths. Then Baba starts begging more, desperate. That big dick he’s become so familiar with makes his head spin when he thinks about it. What he wouldn’t give to have it in his throat, in his palm, between his legs, twenty-four-fucking-seven. He’d be a full time cockwarmer for him.

                God, he wants to be his bride or something.

                When he feels it slide between his cheeks, already hard and throbbing, Baba clenches up and sighs into his forearms. He hears Saejima spit onto his dick, listens to the slick sound of him jerking himself off. Baba would love to look over his shoulder and down at Saejima’s fat cock, all seven inches of it, thick and mapped with veins, the tightly clinging foreskin being pushed back to reveal the leaky, wet head of it. He’d love to get down and worship it a little, see how much it leaks for him, suckle on his heavy balls.

                But he can’t really move, immobilized by Saejima’s weight over him. He strains anyway. And quickly stops, realizing that this is not the ideal place for him to break his neck. Maybe tomorrow.

                That morbid thought is pushed out of him as Saejima’s dick sinks into him, not enough spit, not nearly enough. Even though he got his hole sopping, Baba starts panicking in earnest. It’s too much, the fit of his dick, the way his lungs seem unable to expand, pressed on the bar like this.

                “Saejima—wait.”

                Saejima stops immediately, pulls out, lifts off of him. Baba takes in long breaths of the cool Hokkaido air, the chill of it suddenly welcome for once. It seems to thaw out the pain in his lungs, in his ass.

                “By the fridge, on the little crate over there… Yeah, there it is… There should be—a little tin of tattoo lubricant…”

                Saejima blinks. He’s not stranger to tattoo lube. He has a whole back piece, after all. He supposes yakuza came here after getting their irezumi done to drink away the soreness, to lacquer their backs with it.

                “Is it safe to use?” Saejima asks, walking over to it and unscrewing the top. He doesn’t know if this stuff expires, but they’ve used worse.

                “Better than spit.”

                Saejima shrugs.

                “Is it expired?”

                “Probably, but it’s not like I’m using it on a fresh tattoo, Saejima-san,” Baba laughs at the absurdity of it. Saejima’s fucked him dry before and now he’s worried about using old lube, “It’s just gonna hurt less if you slick that monster up with something besides spit.”

                Saejima shrugs, scoops out an excessive handful of the stuff, and smears it on his dick until it shines like it’s caked in castor oil.

                Then he returns to Baba, who’s still bent over, but propped on his elbows this time, shoving his ass back and swaying his hips slightly, desperate for cock.

                A few fingers covered in the paste, and then a slap to his hole that has him squeaking again, and Saejima pushes back in again, the heat not unwelcome.

                Baba ducks his head and takes deep, steady breaths as Saejima spearheads his cunt, his eyes closed, and brows knitted, his cock spitting out little dribbles of precum. Having Saejima inside of him always feels overwhelming, both physically and mentally. Baba always feels responsible once he’s inside of him, like he’s made to make him feel good. He has to take care of his cock. Of course, Saejima is too kind, such a gentle giant, and he’d never ask him to do anything he didn’t want to.

                Baba wishes he would, sometimes—wishes he’d mistreat him. Probably part of his guilt complex. He doesn’t deserve to be spoiled like he does by someone he has ultimate ill intentions for.

                But as soon as Saejima is fully sheathed inside of him, he pulls out. Baba’s hole clenches and he gasps at the sudden outpull.

                “Saejima-san!” he barks.

                Saejima’s laugh is gruff, a teasing little tone. He holds his own cock by the base and slaps it lightly against his hole, watching as that desperate little inch of skin reacts. God, that gape wants him so bad. He rubs his head lazily against the rim, in slow circles, teasing himself as much as he is Baba.

                “Yes?”

                “Put it in me, you jerk!”

                Saejima laughs again, “Baba-chan. Your hole looks so hungry like this.”

                “Put it in!”

                “You want my big cock in you? Want to swallow it up?” He slaps his hole again, which makes Baba’s dick jerk out its own stream of pre-jizz with how slutty it feels.

                “Yes! Put it in me, shove your cock inside. Let me keep it warm.”

                “You sound like a whore when you say things like that.”

                “Because I am one!” he barks, and his hand tugs open his own cheek, he fucks his hips back like a paid stripper, trying to take all the cock he can get. It’s not a very efficient method, only getting Saejima’s wet and messy cock to slide up against him and tease him more. “You’re not being fair.”

                “Okay, okay,” Saejima laughs, slapping the cheek that Baba isn’t gripping and relishing in the yelp he produces before he places his cockhead right at his hole, sinking in once more, until he bottoms out and truly takes the time to appreciate the inner walls around his member, the internal heat, the way Baba’s body twitches of its own accord, eager to milk his dick for all its worth.

                “That better?”

                “Yes,” Baba’s voice cracks but he’s too distracted to be embarrassed about it. Arching his back and sighing as Saejima’s lips find his neck, covering him with kisses, he creaks out another teary demand. His cheeks are wet, but he knows it’s just him being overwhelmed. No pain. Saejima licks up the knob at the top of his spine, his tongue landing behind his ear, suckling it. Baba shivers. “Move…”

                “Alright, pretty boy,” he says into his ear, pulling out with the achingly slow movements of a man intent on teasing. Baba hiccups, leaning against his lips with a surprisingly tender movement, the way a cat nudges against your legs.

                Saejima slams his hips back in. Baba sighs, riding the movement until he angles himself so that his cockhead kisses his prostate. The heat in his stomach spreads to his balls, the tops of his thighs with the touch of it, and he closes his eyes tightly, the beginnings of an incredibly intense anal orgasm hitting.

                “Oh, fuck, Saejima—”

                “Feel good?”

                “Yeah—yeah. Feel you in me, pushing me out,” he sighs, his hand traveling to his own abdomen. He can’t feel Saejima’s dick outlined in him, but the way his body jostles with each thrust almost makes it seem like he can. What he wouldn’t give to see it: his cock pushed out in his flat stomach, evidence that he’s made to take Saejima’s cock and do nothing else.

                God, he wants to be a full-time cock slut for him.

                Maybe he can.

                Baba, intent on convincing him of this possibility, pushes around him, his rim pink and tight as a band around his cock, swallowing up the bulk of his dick. He reaches back and loops his arm around his thick neck, weak, squeaky moans being fucked out of him with each thrust.

                “Let me be your wife.”

                “What are you saying, pretty boy? You’re my husband.”

                Baba beams, the warmth of that word hitting him like a gut-punch. His husband, huh? What a nice possibility that is. He knows it’s mindless dirty talk, knows Saejima would never make that commitment. But it’s a nice thought, nonetheless.

                “Am I?”

                “Mmhm,” Saejima’s voice is starting to sound broken now, too. He’s panting, his hips slamming against Baba’s ass, his balls kind of sore from each time they connect with Baba’s skin. Just adds to the pleasure of it, though, which is mind-numbing.

                “Thought I was your cocksleeve, huh?”

                “That—that too,” Saejima says, breathlessly.

                “You’re gonna get to my head,” Baba teases, “Gonna make me get an ego. Calling me your husband, your cocksleeve.”

                “You should have a big ego already, with a face like that,” he trails a hand over his chest, feeling out the defined muscles of his pecs, like perfect little tits, down his slender waist, over his high hipbone, “With a body like this. Perfect boy…”

                Baba closes his eyes, clenches up so tight he sees stars. His prostate is hit once, twice, electricity in his veins.

                “Fuck. Fuck. I’m getting—I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum, Saejima-san. You’re gonna make me squirt like a fucking bitch—”

                And he does—all over the counter in front of him, his small dick twitching, untouched by anything but the cold air, his insides clenching, his ass feeling as sensitive as a pussy. His balls tighten and then release, the cum sprayed all over the wooden lacquered counter, trickling down it, a pretty decent amount for a guy that didn’t lay his hand on his penis.

                Saejima keeps going, though, undeterred by the fact that Baba’s still having his prostate hit on every thrust. Undeterred by the fact that Baba’s dick is softening between his legs.

                “Ah-! Saejima-san!” he cries, pulling his hips forward as if to move away, but his big hand just spreads over his abdomen and he hauls him back onto his cock.

                Using him like a fleshlight.

                Baba sobs again, a fresh set of tears falling down his cheeks. He wriggles in his hold, his cunt too sensitive, his dick twitching uselessly between his legs.

                “Too much…”

                “Shh, baby,” Saejima purrs, biting the shell of his ear, “You like it.”

                Baba nods frantically, crying, his hands feeling out Saejima’s forearms, mapping over his strong veins, his big hands. Then he’s bent over in earnest, his cheek hitting the bar, inhaling the smell of his own sweat which has dominated the rot of the wood.

                “Gonna dick you down,” Saejima mumbles, “And seed you up.”

                “Please, please, please,” Baba gasps, the breath knocked out of him once more as Saejima hunkers over him, bites at his ear. He squeals as Saejima’s hips slam down, his balls slapping against him, and he gets plugged up fully.

                For a while, they stay there like that, Saejima rooted deep inside of him, like he’s marking his mate, staking a claim. Baba’s head throbs.

                Then Saejima pulls out and slams back in with a guttural noise. The sniffling and defeated but eager sound that Baba makes and the way that he tightens up—it’s enough.

                He feels his own balls throb as he spills inside of him, filling him up, so much cum that he could probably mistake it for a short piss. It slicks against his walls, collects around his rim, drips out of Baba’s hole. Baba clenches, trying to keep it in, but it slips out anyway whenever Saejima’s dick pulls out of his warm, inviting cunt.

                “Jesus,” Saejima mumbles, tucking his dick back into his pants despite the tenderness of it, despite how sloppy it is. His underwear isn’t gonna be happy about it. “Your pussy doesn’t get old, does it?”

                Baba shakes his head, turning around finally. Peeling himself off from the bar, his back aching and his arms sore, he reaches out for him.

                “Come here,” Saejima mumbles, gathering him close. Baba wraps his arms around him, buries his nose in the cloth of his jacket. The tip of it is cold, runny with snot.

                “Why are you crying?”

                “I’m not. You fucked me too good. I get like this.”

                “Oh,” Saejima chuckles, wiping the tear-wet, round cheek that isn’t pressed against his shoulder, “Guess the other times I fucked you, it wasn’t this good, then, was it?”

                “It was,” Baba huffs, “I just had to be quiet.”

                “Didn’t know you were a crier.”

                “Well,” Baba wipes his face in his jacket, the cloth absorbing the dampness, dotting the cotton with splotchy, dark spots. “Now you do.”

                “Here,” Saejima says, “I’ll clean you up.”

                Baba is pried from his jacket and his chin is held. Baba feels embarrassed, with his smeared face, his red cheeks, and dewy eyes. But as soon as Saejima sticks his tongue out and presses the flat of it to Baba’s cheek, the embarrassment is sapped from him and replaced with confusion.

                “Eh?! What the fuck are you doing?” Baba shrieks, pushing him back. But Saejima holds him in place, lapping at his tears, cleaning up his face, replacing the saltiness with his spit. Baba’s franticness only makes him lap at him harder, like a dog cleaning its pup’s wound.

                “You’re such a freak!” Baba wails.

                “Mhm,” Saejima hums, pulling back. A string of spit is severed as he passes his tongue over it. Baba groans and rubs his face in his arms. Saejima’s breath smells of the Macallan, “Can’t help it. I wanna take care of you.”

                “Ugh.”

                “Speaking of take care of you,” Saejima picks up the shed pile of clothing from the dusty floorboards, shaking them off, presenting them to Baba once more. “Put these back on. We just got ‘em.”

                “Don’t wanna see me naked?” Baba asks, pulling his underwear up his legs. He knows he should clean out his cunt, but he’ll wait to do so. He’s starting to shiver.

                “Don’t want you to get hypothermia,” Saejima laughs, walking to the barstool and sitting down once again, like nothing ever happened, refilling his glass.

                “Tch.”

                “Besides,” Saejima brings the glass to his lips, “I like seeing you in that sweater. Makes your tits look big.”

                “That’s because they are,” Baba says, adjusting the neck of it.