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inkyajax · 1 year

Text

only you

character: kamisato ayato

genre: smut + yakuza!au

notes: this piece is set within my feels like forever universe, but it works well as a stand alone piece and you absolutely do not need to read that piece to understand this one! it is a yakuza/crime family au meaning there are no visions etc. but either way the primary focus is the smut! as always, reader is female. enjoy and please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, somnophilia, dubcon, minimal prep, rough sex, size kink/size difference, implicit toxic relationship, daddy kink, yakuza boss!ayato, dacryphilia, praise

words: 2.7k

synopsis:

It is only here, in the safety and comfort of your shared bedroom, buried balls deep in your body and shrouded in your love, that he gives himself permission to fall apart with yearning, to give into that voracity for you constantly roaring within him, safely buried beneath layers of nobility and integrity and chained tightly to his soul, bound by expectations and duties and responsibilities.

It is only here, with you, where he can lose control completely, where he can be messy with it all, where he can abandon that tight meticulousness he rules over every aspect of his life with—in the only way he can, the only way he knows how.

And you let him, every night.

“Shh baby, keep sleeping,” he’s murmuring as he slips into bed behind you. “Just let Daddy take what he needs.”

This has become somewhat of a habit as of late; Ayato retires from his endless work at an ungodly hour to snuggle into bed—into his plush pillows and fluffy comforter and your sweet, sweet cunt—and rails the hell out of you before finally falling asleep.

You can’t say you blame him, though.

Your Daddy’s been under so much stress lately. Shipments gone wrong, product gone missing, men gone missing with it, disappearing into thin air as smoothly as a ghost, leaving mere wisps of their auras behind.

But your Daddy is a smart man, a ruthless man, and he knows how to grasp those wisps and turn them into threads, braid them into ropes, tie them into nooses.

Still, it’s exhausting work, and his favourite way to end his fourteen hour workdays, to relax and release all of the tension that’s been collecting in his muscles, is by fucking you into oblivion.

Not that you mind, of course. You never mind. His pretty, perfect little princess, shining with your sterling obedience and your desperation to submit.

It hurts every single night, Ayato consistently failing to prep you and stretch you out properly, opting instead to use two saliva-slicked fingers pumping in and out of your cunt until it’s just wet enough for his cock to slide in with minimal pain for him.

His cock momentarily eradicates the thick haze of sleep as it stretches you open, stinging sparks shooting down your inner thighs as your delicate flesh tears itself wide for him, ready and eager to welcome him home.

A lethargic hiss trickles through the gaps of your teeth, soft features crumpling in discomfort as dainty fingers curl in the lavish pillows, nails scraping against the Egyptian cotton, a tender hush dripping from your Daddy’s lips, sweet and silky as the most decadent syrup.

He’s not often an impatient man, preferring to take his time when he fucks you, to appreciate each and every precious little detail—the hitch in your breath, the whiny mewls on your tongue, the way your nose oh-so-cutely scrunches up when his cockhead rams your cervix—and singe them into the pages of his memory.

But lately, on these nights, it seems that he just can’t wait, that he just needs you immediately—needs to fuck his soul into you, to fuck your soul out of you, to pour all of his frustrations of the day into your cunt and watch them ooze out in thick dollops of glistening cream.

It’s a nice change of pace, if you’re being honest. There is something so sexy, something so powerful, in watching a distinguished and elegant man such as your Daddy absolutely fall apart with desperate desire for you—to allow himself to melt into your body and become one, temporarily freed from the shackles of Yakuza Boss and Yashiro Commissioner and the heaviness such titles carry with them; to be wracked with this seemingly insatiable hunger that only you can cure, only you can fill, only you can fix, even if it’s only for but a moment, the insatiable sated until it resurfaces by the next night and you offer him that heavenly release all over again.

“Just let Daddy takes what he needs tonight,” he’s repeating as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed tightly against your sore cervix.

“Daddy can take whatever he wants, whenever he wants it,” you mumble up at him, stars of worship in your eyes, their shine unhindered by the bleary glaze of sleep. “It’s all yours, Daddy, always.”

You look so fucking beautiful, so fucking breathtaking when you get like this, staring at him like he’s some sort of god, as if he carved the moon and painted the constellations in the night sky himself, voice stuffed full of such sheer devotion, such unadulterated love for him that your words scald his skin, searing themselves into smooth flesh and burrowing deep into his tissues, never to be removed.

He pauses for a moment, gaze softening as his eyes glide gently across your face, overflowing with fondness. Lithe fingers brush hair back from your temples, Ayato leaning down to press his lips firmly to yours—a second for him to savour the moment, to suck it into his mouth and curl his tongue around it, protective as it presses it further and further, holds it tighter and tighter, then swallows it down.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your mouth, soft and warm. “I love you.”

Large hands skim along your thighs, molding your pliant body into whatever position he deems satisfactory tonight, legs folded up on either side of your torso as nimble fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, limbs limp and muscles malleable from sleep, yielding to the tender will of their master as he crafts you into a brand new masterpiece; something created only to be beautifully destroyed.

And then, he begins, the slow draw back as he drags his cock nearly entirely from your body a precursory wind up, gathering power and momentum before he slams back into you in a single, swift, fluid movement.

It’s hard, and rough, and fast, the ruthless snapping of his hips jostling your body with each plunge into you, his grip on your flesh the only thing preventing you from being shoved up the mattress.

A sharp cry tears up your throat, his name and his title a tangled mess on your sloppy tongue, and he hushes you, the gentle sound juxtaposing his relentless fucking, his voice a pacifying lullaby as he tells you to Rest, angel, rest for Daddy.

Ever compliant, you nod, heavy lids drooping with Daddy’s permission, eyes glassy with the prick of tears, shimmering droplets embellishing your thick lashes in their stubborn refusal to fall.

“So pretty, my sweet girl,” Ayato’s breathing, a thumb swiping across your cheekbone, the tip of his finger grazing your lashes and collecting your tears, bringing them to his mouth as the point of his tongue licks the salt clean, the maneuver slowing his pace for no longer than a single instant. “So, so pretty for me.”

It’s only in these moments, in the dark of the night and the heat of your breathy sounds, that he can truly allow himself to let everything loose.

And you let him, every night.

Snarls rip from his chest, each one more vicious than the last, blunt nails biting his name into your skin in purple-tinged crescents, his hips gaining speed with each buck into you.

Jutting hipbones carve a space for themselves in the supple flesh of your inner thighs, staining them with the most magnificent galaxies—brilliant blues and swirling violets and specks of crimson—microscopic worlds he creates for the two of you, a whole universe between your legs that will fade by morning.

You can practically feel the stress melting out of him, leaking from his muscles and seeping from his pores, rigid and tense form becoming more languid and lax with the rough ruts of his hips.

But despite his growing reprieve, his strength does not falter.

His pace is pounding, cockhead ramming against your cervix with each merciless piston, and that elegant, dignified man of high society melts away, fastidious nature consumed as he indulges himself in these hedonisms, drowns himself in the chaos and the uncontrollable and succumbs to what he needs, what only you can offer him.

“Only you,” he pants out like he’s reaffirming a mantra, strands of blue drenched with sweat hanging in his eyes, swaying slightly with each brush of his eyelashes. “Only you, baby. You give it to me like no one else.”

“Only me,” you mumble out, words slurred, delicate fingers curling weakly against his shoulders, nails collecting flesh beneath them as you cling to him. “Me, me, me.”

And you can’t help but feel a thick swell of privilege, of pride, that no one else in the universe gets to see him like this—unhinged, rabid, desperate for you—that no one else allows him a space to be like this, that no one else in the would could ever make him like this, not the way you do.

Tilting his head downward, his forehead knocks against yours, tongue hanging limply from his mouth as uneven breaths waft across your face, soft moans pushed from his chest with each thrust, strands of saliva drizzling across your lips and your chin.

His scent invades your body—potent notes of sandalwood and jasmine rushing down your throat and into your lungs, soaking through deep tissue and twining through your blood, making you one; irrevocable, irreversible.

A pitchy whimper catches in your chest, fragmented by his rough hips, as your tongue sops up his spit, the taste a shot of spice to your senses, mouth instinctually falling open and begging for more.

“God,” he keens, eyes frantic as they sweep across your face, down your neck, to your tits, to where you are conjoined, a groan rattling his ribs. “You always know just how to help Daddy, don’t you, princess? Such a—ah—such a good girl for me, aren’t you,”

It isn’t phrased as a question—you both know you are, his good girl, his best girl—but you answer anyway, head nodding in wobbly movements, mewling out, “Always, Daddy, always wanna be good f’you,”

“Look at you, my perfect baby,” he nearly spits at you, words tapering off into a hoarse whine. “So good for me, taking my cock so well.”

His voice is ragged velvet, torn haphazardly with sharp sheers, his snarled out praises resonant and rumbly, his sweet sentiments paradoxed by a harsh tone. It evolves in time with the acceleration of his movements, morphing from that sophisticated, almost regal cadence to something much deeper, much darker, decadent as it spills from his lips.

Yes, Daddy, yes, Daddy, yes, Daddy, you’re babbling out with stupid little jerks of your head, words a sticky stream steadily flowing from your mouth, drenched in spit and lathered with tears.

It’s admirable, how he still manages to retain such finesse, a rhythm that’s almost graceful in a way despite the brutal jackhammering of his hips, so hard, so forceful the rosewood of his headboard rocks against the wall, harmonious with the scrape of wood against wood beneath your bodies.

And even in the midst of all his growling and guttural words, all his vicious thrusts and gnashing teeth, he still stares at you with so much adoration it pours from his irises, thick and heady as it smothers your skin, cradles you in the warmest blanket, stitched together with appreciation.

The pain only works to amplify the pleasure, the heady concoction buzzing through your veins with every pump of his hips, leaving your blood tingling in its wake. Everything feels hazy, weighted with thick exhaustion, the veil of sleep diffusing your vision and turning the room into soft, blurred edges and lethargic, dreamy movements.

But it feels good, the steady grind of your Daddy’s cock against that spot, the bouts of thorns it sends fizzing through your gut chased promptly by soothing flares, the comforting heat of his body—his sweat and his spit and his breath—blanketing yours.

It’s all so very blissful, and you’re merely enjoying the sensation when your orgasm shatters it suddenly, breaks the euphoria into sharp shards that slice through your skin and pierce through your organs, lidded eyes snapping open as your body goes rigid and your cunt convulses around your Daddy’s cock, a gushing warmth flooding the apex of your thighs.

Ayato’s murmuring something in that dark, sweet, smooth lilt as he continues to slam into you, but you’re too fucked out to comprehend it, everything muted by hedonistic languor.

You barely feel him cum, senses gone blunt and numb by the time his hips are stuttering to a stop, his cock nothing more than a dull, faint throbbing against your cervix.

You can feel his cum leaking out of you, though, dribbling out of your cute little hole and smearing across your thighs, a soft whine slipping from your parted lips as Ayato leans back, dispelling the warmth his body had provided.

“Beautiful,” he’s breathing out to himself, periwinkle eyes fixated on your cunt as his thumb swipes across it, a violent shiver rippling through your flesh. It seems as though he’s in some sort of trance, captivated by your body, your beauty, gaze scanning your skin for dollops of cream and smearing them across rapidly developing blotches of violet—the perfect canvas, painted with him.

But then you’re whimpering, nonsensical little noises that slip from your lips as you make grabby hands at him, and he’s smiling, pulled from whatever spell your cunt and his cum had cast over him, fingers lacing with yours as he leans forward to press a kiss against your damp forehead before he’s gone again.

You try to follow, but everything aches, muscles dense and heavy with the pleasure that has seeped into your tissues. Residual tears shield your eyes, rendering your gaze watery, belatedly watching as your Daddy moves around the room, his body nothing more than a collection of blurry, wavering lines. Blinking hard and with conviction, you dispel the bleariness from your vision, a pair of crystals rolling down your cheeks, Ayato suddenly crisp, clear.

“Daddy?”

An involuntary wince twists your features as the term leaves your lips, letters ragged and ruined, voice wrecked and raw. An attempt to clear your throat does nothing but make it worse, the noise spiky, stinging as it scrapes against the gummy walls.

“Shh, baby,” Ayato’s saying as he hovers over you, a damp washcloth in his hand. “Daddy’s here, right here.”

He looks utterly spent, amethyst eyes dull and sunken, hair mussed with salt and sweat, voice soft but weighted with fatigue.

“Daddy,” you say again, a frown marring your face as large hands gently spread your cum splattered thighs, mindful of your sore muscles. “S’fine, just leave it,”

“No,” he responds with a singular shake of his head, voice simultaneously tender and firm. “Daddy has to clean it, sweetheart, or it’ll crust and stick, and that will hurt you.”

“S’okay,” you mumble sleepily with a shrug. “I can jus’ clean it in th’morning.”

“A Daddy isn’t a very good Daddy if he doesn’t clean up the mess he’s made, don’t you agree?”

“But—But you’re exhausted, Daddy,” the protest comes out as a stringy whine, your frown morphing into a pout so deep it puckers your forehead. “You need’ta rest, too!”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he murmurs, ministrations paused to gaze upon you with stifling fondness, a palm caressing your cheek. His thumb skims across your lips, tracing the bow and the curve, a small but genuine grin spreading across his own. “You’re so cute. But you don’t need to worry about Daddy, okay? He’ll rest as soon as he’s finished with you, he promises. Now, go back to sleep, darling.”

And although his voice is sweet and his actions are tender, there is an implicit order folded into them, firm and strong and indicating that this conversation is over; his word is final, and it’d be wise to obey, just like the good little girl you are.

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes finally slipping shut again, dry and tacky as the salt-encrusted lids stick together. “G’night, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, precious.”

The satisfying warmth of happiness bubbles in your chest as you allow unconsciousness to finally envelop you, faded giggles tickling the back of your tongue while you drift further and further into its comforting embrace, those two little words swimming laps in your mind. Only you, only you, only you.

Only you can offer him this solace, only you can grant him this reprieve, only you can fulfill his desires.

Only you.

And whatever he wants, whatever he needs, it’s his to take, always.

#kamisato ayato x reader #kamisato ayato smut #kamisato ayato x you #ayato smut #eeee yay!!!!#tw:somnophilia

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