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The thing is, when Samatoki’s fingers are anywhere near his face, he wants to snap at them like a dog. A bad, bad dog. He ain’t even a dog person. He has no idea where that’s coming from! Because it’s not like he wants to rip them off (clench his incisors on the knuckle and pull back and scrape like on a Garigari-kun to get the best bits off then slobber all over the bone for the dregs, that’s how much he loves the taste, don’t waste a drop-) or actually do any damage. Hell, Samatoki can do that himself, doesn’t need Sasara to get himself mangled. The two of them get into enough pinches without putting themselves in the hospital for something consensual.
Incense, cig smoke, a wilted chrysanthemum, the must of petals that kept a touch too much moisture for the drying process and have that scent of grey smut against the mahogany shrine in the corner tokonoma. All of that and still, Samatoki left his sweet scent on him when he’d grabbed his chin moments before dragging him into the place. Kimono. Sweat. Hairspray. Sasara can’t believe it sometimes, the innocence– nah, the obliviousness of this man, so-called head of the Family. Even now he’s swaggering around the 12-mat room like he doesn’t know he’s the fucking light of his life.
“Before you do anything,” Samatoki breaks the silence, tapping his pipe out into the ashtray by the altar, “I’ll let you know that people have died in this room.”
Sasara was wondering what the pinkish tinge was on the tatami mat several paces away from where he’s been plonked. His brain misfires nervously, but not for the reason Samatoki seems to want to convey. “Is that a promise?”
“What?”
He blinks, all show. “What? I mean, hey, it don’t bother me, you’ve seen where I’ll bang.”
Samatoki is standing at the head of the room by the dark-wood patch of flooring between the mats, a slip of a stage from long ago, in his black ceremonial (apparently) kimono, a second overcoat kimono, even sandals. Even tabi. Even looking down, as normal as that cut of a look sits on his features, he’s so dressed up, all for him. In twilight blue and gingko gold, Sasara feels like he’s in a Hallowe’en pastiche of the costume despite picking up his New Year’s nicest from the same tailor. Samatoki’s eyes narrow, searching. Then it hits Sasara that he’s implied the Family’s home ceremonial room, for all the death and loyalty and betrayal and blood it’s seen, has the same grody vibe as an illegal club’s urinal, going on Bone-able Vibes alone. Samatoki takes a step forward and Sasara’s scalp aches in anticipation of a disciplinary tug.
“Ahh, not to say that this is like that, more that ya–”
“Remind me again why I agreed to do this?” Samatoki’s towering over him now (not difficult, when Sasara’s already knelt and half-scrambling to shield his poor head) – but he reaches down, a hand extended. Sasara freezes at his fingers curved.
Then Samatoki curls his index finger. Beckons.
Heat drops in Sasara’s stomach like acid.
“This is what you wanted. Don’t run from it now.”
“I- I ain’t. Just…” Samatoki cups his cheek. Sasara nearly whimpers. He stares at his wrist, follows the tracing thumb down his skin, stares to really judge if this is going to happen, although he can’t see much more than a smudgy blur at the cusp of his face like a setting sun. “I, I…”
Samatoki touches his thumb to the pillow of Sasara’s lower lip, and it takes everything not to open his mouth right away, open fucking sesame! Order up! Here ya go, boss! -- he knows Samatoki likes a little resistance when he’s all suited up like this. Massage the ego a bit if he’s gonna do something so sensitive for him, what a sweet guy. His eyes are spinning. He keeps his lips sealed, staring at the blue veins on Samatoki’s inner wrist. He’s good. He’ll be good.
All of a sudden, Samatoki’s nail prises under his front teeth and he thrusts his thumb hard into his tongue with a jolt that backs it down into the root, catching the gumline behind his incisors on the way. The sting, the tang– he lets his tongue bow like a cat’s, an easy response to give under the feeling, like it’s meant to fit in there, like it’s meant to sink into the soft flesh under his tongue– Sasara’s body wants to cough. He doesn’t. He stays splayed on his knees, but he doesn’t look at Samatoki. Patience, patience. Knuckles drag under his chin, and his mind shoots a thousand miles an hour towards the desirous thought of them at his gullet, inside, choking, white noise, but Christ alive, I gotta focus, he thinks, eyes firmly shut. He knows Samatoki prefers eye contact when it’s earned, when it’s tender, or when it’s forced. Something about looking at the man for longer than a second does something to him apparently. Sasara’s flattered.
“Ease up,” he commands, which is when Sasara realises he’s almost clamped around the thumb in his mouth teethwise. Oops. He relaxes his jaw and Samatoki digs his thumbnail under his tongue into the fleshy bed with such sharpness that he lets out a sound of surprise that peters off into a moan as those fingers come up ironlike under his chin, a perfect vise, keep him in place. He can’t control how his jaw slackens, the saliva pooling in the well Samatoki’s digging under his tongue, and mere moments before he worries it’s going to start running down Samatoki’s wrist his chin is tilted up, not harsh, but enough of an angle to make it slide down his throat. He swallows faster than he’s ever swallowed. It makes a dramatic glock of a gulp noise over a lump of air in his gullet. But it’s fine. Choking isn’t for right now. Gotta earn it.
Like he’s considering the physics of it, Samatoki’s thumb lightens up, sliding down on the flat of his tongue. And there it is, the sweet prickle of his skin, all over his tastebuds with the slight roughness of the knuckle of his thumb; Sasara’s mouth waters. He sucks, swallows. Like he’s gonna let this chance slip by!
“Loosen up, I said.” Samatoki’s voice is stern. Sasara answers with a kind of nasal hum along the lines of ‘my bad’ and stops clenching with his teeth. What’s wrong with me? It’s like he’s never given a blowjob in his life.
This is better, though. He can’t help but want to cling on…
Samatoki must forgive him, because he twists his wrist to slip out his thumb and slot two fingers in his mouth instead, index and middle. Oh, the beckoning; they arch sharply, knuckles hitting the roof of Sasara’s mouth as the fingertips dig onto his dripping tongue, nails catching between tastebuds, and God, he hopes they’ll leave scrapes he’ll feel for days after, tiny trenches stinging on every sling of shochu in their regular bar. He gapes. He gives him room. No space for anything in his own mind beyond Samatoki, Samatoki. Get in there already!
And he does, spreading his fingers apart in a taut V that Sasara quickly fills with the tip of his tongue, back and forth over the web between them. Samatoki curls them again, nails cutting downwards and almost into the gums by his molars as he digs down the sides of his tongue; if there’s a tang of blood like when his dentist does it, he doesn’t notice, lapping like a dog. Samatoki’s sweet. Sweet and salty, maybe umami, sweet, sweet, the cologne and sweat and ash and paper and silk and steel and whatever else that’s left its tinge on his hands all in each lick, each gulp.
It almost feels rhythmic for a while: curl, dig, press, swallow what feels like great sugary gulps of his own drool flavoured with Samatoki’s hands, scrape the gums, rinse, repeat. He could get used to this.
Then he pulls out with a long thread of saliva drooping from knuckle to tip to Sasara’s lips. It sags, sticking to his chin and dripping onto his kimono taut over his knees, hot and sweaty under all the layers Samatoki insisted he wrap himself up in. Feels like good head, Sasara thinks dumbly, as if supplying the script for a porno. What the hell. He stays dazed, staring at Samatoki’s hakama in front of him for a second, wondering if this was actually where the finger-fucking-as-a-treat ends and he has to exchange it for cock instead. Then he looks up, the tang of blood faint like a far-off echo in his crowded senses.
“You warmed me up pretty good th–” Samatoki slams his fingers back into his mouth, so far in it shocks him down his spine and his first response is to clench and swallow. The skin on the backs of his fingers bunches behind his incisors on the withdraw and Samatoki growls.
“Loosen up that jaw or I’ll break it, Sasara.” he says, bending close. The idea has him so fucking hard all of a sudden he aches, knees slipping apart as he weakens to one side with a moan. But Samatoki won’t let him; he’s a softie like that, he’s too sweet, so sweet so sweet so sweet so sweet– it feels like his body’s being lifted, a puppet on strings, when Samatoki grabs him by the face with his other hand to right him, palm and thumb so hard on the bone he can feel his skull in HD, fingers squeezing his mouth open, the bracket of his palm a plane against his cheekbone. “Fuck. Piece of work, aren’t you?”
“Ahh-huh.” Sasara agrees, best he can with his mouth prised wide open and drooling, ready for invasion.
Samatoki scoffs and starts to finger-fuck his mouth. Just naturally, like this is something that they do. So smoothly do his fingers glide along the flat of his tongue that it takes Sasara a good few thrusts to catch up to it, to the steadiness, the complete motion – in and out, index and middle, straight as pokers, harder and firmer and certainly sharper than anything else he’s generally had thrust in there, and how Samatoki’s knuckles feel when they grind to a halt at his lips. But barely.
Eyes shut, he tries to find a motion of his own, his usual paces for head, but Samatoki keeps– keeping going. Keeps fucking his mouth. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t exactly guide him; he’s just crouching there, one hand on his face and the other knuckle-deep in him despite the teeth and his bad habits. And he can’t do anything about it. It’s like his usual toolbox of Sex Having has been thrown out the window. He can only pay attention to two things; his mouth, and Samatoki shoving himself into it, over and over.
Just as he thinks about sucking or something to make himself useful, Samatoki splits his fingers apart like scissors and slides them down the sides of his tongue, guiding his other hand to the back of his head as the fingertips stroke down and hook, hard, in the arch of bone of his lower jaw. The motion has him sigh. A fucking sigh. Prince charming over here, swoon. It’s like the sensation leaves his body with the out-breath from the way pins and needles prickle at his feet, or maybe that’s just from keeping this shit attempt at seiza with his bony-ass legs–
Samatoki grips his hair briefly then flexes, relaxes, cups the back of his skull, and cradles him closer as he fucks and fucks until his fingertips really, really start to nudge at the root of his tongue. He must be melting or something if Samatoki’s truly having to hold him together.
He can’t tell where his fingers end any more. If he’s sitting up nicely, even. If he’s drooling all over the tatami. His chin feels sore, his lower lip tender, but it’s a great pillow for those knuckles.
Suspended, like that, his thoughts flatline into a great rush of white noise and he jolts in some electric suspension, mouth open, tongue arched up under the bend of Samatoki’s fingers. He feels the grip on his head slide to that surprisingly soft palm against his cheek, tilting him up so high it feels like the back of his neck is going to pop from its socket, and he looks at Samatoki down the tip of his nose.
He sees him raise his eyebrows, a loose flick of interest over blood-red eyes, as he pulls his fingers out and rests the tips on his sloppy, sticky lower lip.
“Sasara?”
…
Oh, that’s me.
But he’s melted into a puddle, can’t Samatoki see? He’s not Sasara any more. He’s just a bundle of nerves absolutely frayed into oblivion, tingling everywhere, and head lighter and sparkling harder than any highball, with a suspicious heat slowly turning cold somewhere in the depths of his own kimono. The fact that he has a skull that Samatoki seems to be turning side to side like a doll for inspection is nothing in particular. He wonders vaguely if this is what a suggestive state feels like.
Peace.
“You should’ve told me if this is all it took.”
“‘All’?” He almost laughs, but he hasn’t caught his breath yet; his cheeks feel weak as he grins, his throat tight with joy, skin sore with his own saliva. He’s never been happier in his life, and Samatoki’s looking at him with fascination. It makes him smile. “‘All’?”