ππ‘π πππ ππππ ππ« ~ ππππ π ππππππππ ππππ πππ πππ.
He doesn’t stop fucking you just because you’re crying.
Tears have never worked on Miya Atsumu.
He’s been a bastard his entire lifeβwhy would a little thing like guilt start getting to him now?
“Shitβ yer so tight,” he groans, slamming his cock deep, knocking the air from your lungs. His fingers are buried in your hair, forcing your head back against the pillows, his entire weight pinning you beneath him. Your nails scrape at his forearm, your body spasming as another wave of forced pleasure rolls through you, betraying you. He can feel it. The way you’re clenching. The way your hips twitchβno, heβs not imagining it.
Your body likes this.
You like this.
“Actinβ like ya hate meβwhen ya just moaned right in my fuckinβ ear,” he taunts, voice thick with cruel amusement. “Go on, deny it. Say somethinβ nasty. Call me a piece of shit again, sweetheart.”
You do. You spit it out between gasping breaths, but it doesnβt sound convincing. Not when your thighs are trembling like that. Not when your cunt keeps pulling him in, squeezing him like you don’t want him to stop.
And for the first time since he stole you, since he ripped you out of your life and made you his, Atsumu realizesβ
You donβt want him to stop.
Something changes in his chest. A low, satisfied chuckle rumbles against your throat as he drags his lips over your pulse, biting down just to feel you jolt.
“God, yer a shitty liar.”
You shake your head. Your mouth parts, trying to argue, but the next thrust knocks the words from your lungs, and all that comes out is a broken sob. A sob that sounds too much like a whimper. Too much like you’reβ
Ah.
His grin stretches.
“Stockholm Syndrome, huh?” he mutters, voice nothing but mocking sweetness. “Thatβs what they call it, right?”
Atsumu should feel bad about this. He should feel disgusted with himself, with the way youβre finally breaking, finally melting against him like a good girl.
But he doesn’t.
His cock twitches, filling you deeper, stretching you even wider as his thrusts grow faster. Harder. He watches your eyes flutter, your fingers gripping his biceps. You donβt even notice. You donβt realize youβre holding onto him now, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
And then it happens. The moment his sanity shatters completely.
You moan.
Loud.
For the first time, itβs not a choked-out sob. Itβs not the sound of a woman suffering. Itβs a woman being fucked so good she canβt help herself.
Atsumu sucks in a breath.
His heart pounds.
And he swearsβhe almost fucking cums right there.
The thought should terrify him. Instead, it makes him grin like a devil.
“Yer mine now, baby,” he coos, shoving even deeper.
And this time, you donβt even fight it.
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