𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝓼𝓷𝓪𝓹

He knows better.

He always knows better.

Atsumu has played this game his entire life—cool, easy, untouchable. Girls come and go, he fucks ‘em, he leaves, no strings, no messy emotions, no fucking feelings.

But then there’s you.

And suddenly, he doesn’t know shit.

Because he was fine until he saw you smile at that guy. Fine until he heard you laugh at some stupid joke that wasn’t his. Fine until he realized—fuck, he’s jealous.

And Atsumu doesn’t do jealousy.

So, when you turn around and see him, something inside him fractures.

It all happens fast—the sharp inhale you take before bolting, his footsteps chasing after you, the way your name falls from his lips like a snarl.

You don’t even make it ten steps before he catches you.

“Don’t—!”

His fingers dig into your waist, arms caging you in, body heat swallowing you whole as he shoves you against the alley wall.

He doesn’t give you time to scream.

A rough hand covers your mouth, his other gripping your hip so hard it hurts. His face is inches from yours, golden eyes wild—too bright, too raw, too much.

“Ya fuckin’ like makin’ me crazy, don’t ya?” His voice is uneven, laced with something manic, something not right. “Like makin’ me look like some fuckin’ fool?”

You shake your head, panicked, muffled words lost against his palm.

His lips curl.

“Liar.”

Then he flips you.

Your chest slams against the wall, breath knocked from your lungs, panic clawing up your throat as he kicks your legs apart.

“This ain’t fair, y’know?” Atsumu mutters, hiking up your skirt, yanking your panties down. His hands are shaking, rough, his movements not suave, not cool, not effortless. “I try bein’ good. Try lettin’ ya do what ya want. Try not—fuckin’—breakin’ ya.”

You thrash.

He forces you still.

“But ya just gotta push me, huh?”

You scream when he shoves himself inside.

The stretch is unbearable—deep, punishing, your body barely able to take him. It hurts, raw and overwhelming, and he knows. He knows.

But Atsumu snaps his hips forward anyway.

You jerk, nails scraping at the bricks, but he doesn’t stop.

“Where’s all that fight now, baby?” he grunts, voice thick, ruined, desperate. His fingers tangle into your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to arch. “Tried bein’ good, I did. Tried playin’ nice. But ya—ya make me like this.”

His rhythm is brutal—deep, fast, dragging broken whimpers from your lips.

You sob.

Atsumu laughs.

“Told myself I should treat ya better, should be sweet on ya—” He groans, teeth sinking into your neck, branding you.

Then he fucks you harder.

“Guess it’s too late for that, huh?”

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