𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝓫𝓻𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓱𝓲𝓶

Atsumu isn’t soft.

He’s never been soft.

But even he knows you’re falling apart.

Your body is wrecked—bruises blooming ugly across your skin, your wrists raw from his grip, your thighs trembling with exhaustion. His cock has split you open too many times to count, and now there’s blood—faint but there, staining the sheets, seeping into his mattress, mixing with the mess he’s made of you.

He should care.

He should stop.

But instead, he just clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders as he drags a hand through his hair.

“Tch. Look atcha. Fuckin’ pathetic.”

You don’t move.

You barely even react.

You just breathe—shallow, uneven.

His jaw clenches.

Atsumu isn’t good at this.

At feelings.

At this thing you do to him—twisting him up inside, making his chest feel too tight, making his stomach coil with something foreign, something he doesn’t like.

So he does what he always does. He ignores it.

Instead, he grabs a damp rag from the bedside table, pressing it roughly between your legs. You whimper, body twitching from the contact, but he doesn’t stop.

“Quit yer whinin’.”

It’s not gentle. Nothing he does ever is.

But his fingers are firm, pressing into the ruined heat between your thighs, wiping away the blood, the sweat, the evidence of everything he’s taken from you.

You make a soft, broken noise when he pushes two fingers inside.

He ignores that, too.

“Gotta make sure yer still fuckin’ usable, yeah? Can’t have ya fallin’ apart on me.”

A lie. You already have. But he doesn’t say that.

Instead, he presses harder, making you jerk, making you hurt, making sure you still feel him—even as he cleans up the mess he’s made.

When he’s done, he tosses the rag to the floor, climbing over you once more.

You tense.

A reaction that makes something ugly curl in his gut.

He scoffs. “Relax. I ain’t gonna fuck ya. Not yet, anyway.”

He should leave.

Should go about his night, move on like always, forget about you until he wants you again.

But for some fucking reason, he stays.

His arms cage you in, one hand pressing against the mattress beside your head. He leans down, his nose brushing yours, golden eyes flicking over your face—taking in the glazed look in your eyes, the way your lips part in exhausted terror, the way you breathe.

Why do you make him like this?

His fingers drag down your stomach, slow, possessive, stopping just above your navel.

“Yer mine,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. His voice is almost soft. Almost.

Then his lips graze yours. “So don’t fuckin’ die on me, yeah?”

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Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh