𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒆.
He tells himself that even as you thrash beneath him, even as your voice—raw, shattered—pleads with him to stop.
Atsumu’s got you folded like a bitch in heat, thighs wrenched open so wide your muscles twitch from the strain. His cock pounds deep, drags out slick and wet, before plunging back in, grinding against the desperate clench of your unwilling walls. Fuck, you’re tight. Too fucking tight. His nails bite into your hip when you try to pull away, when your body resists him, when your hands shove at his abs, his arms—anywhere, anywhere to stop this.
“Still fightin’?” His voice is a cruel, honeyed drawl, lips curling as he grips your chin and forces you to look at him, your cheeks streaked with spit and tears. “Fuckin’ useless, ain’t it?”
Your breath stutters, eyes burning with rage and helpless terror, but he sees it—flickering, buried under layers of hate—you love him. He fucking knows it.
And if you don’t? Then he’ll fuck you ‘til you do.
His cock throbs, twitches, and his movements grow sloppier, needier, deeper. He’s been in and out of you for hours, wrecking your body, stretching you raw—so why does his chest feel so tight? Why does his heart slam against his ribs like it’s desperate for something more?
Fuck. No. No, no, no.
He doesn’t want this.
He doesn’t want you like this.
He just wants to fuck, wants to bully you, ruin you, take you apart because it’s fun—because you’re his toy, his favorite little whore to break down, to humiliate, to see you glare at him with all that fire still left in your ruined, soaked body. He doesn’t need you, doesn’t love you, doesn’t care—
Then why the fuck does he want to keep you?
Atsumu grips your hips harder, teeth baring as he thrusts even deeper, grinding against the swollen ache of your abused cunt, forcing you to take him, to feel him stretch you so wide you swear you’re going to break. Your voice hitches, something breathless, something he can’t quite place, and—
His body seizes. His mind blanks.
He wants to breed you.
The thought hits him so hard he nearly chokes on his own breath.
No. No. That’s not what this is. That’s not—He’s not fucking sentimental. He’s not some lovesick idiot with dreams of holding you in the morning, of watching you swell with his kid, of you pressing your lips to his and whispering—
“I love you.”
The words hit him before the pleasure does, before the orgasm that’s been building in his gut rips through him like a goddamn bullet.
His mind goes white. His hips stutter.
Atsumu breeds you, spilling inside your trembling, battered body, filling you up with everything he has until you’re overflowing.
And the worst part?
He believes you.
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𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 