ππ‘π πππ ππππ ππ« ~ πΊππ πππ ππππ. π΄π ππππ ππππ.
He thought youβd finally fallen for him.
How fucking naΓ―ve.
Atsumu watches you tremble, your body sprawled across the cold hardwood, limbs uselessβbroken. A jagged snap of bone beneath your flesh, an unnatural twist of your legs that makes bile claw up his throat. The sight should make him sick.
It doesnβt.
“You fuckinβ lied to me.” His voice is eerily calm. His golden eyes, usually sharp with arrogance, are dull, lifeless. “Thought we finally had somethinβ, sweetheart.”
His fingers trace the metal of the gun in his grip, his thumb flicking over the safety, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches. Your body flinches. Good. Youβre scared. You fucking should be.
“You were so good for me,” he murmurs, stepping closer, the barrel tapping against your thigh. The weight of it makes you sob. He hums, dragging it up, up, pressing it between your legs, parting you with the cold kiss of the muzzle. “But I shoulda known better, huh? Shoulda known youβd never actually love me.”
He slides the gun deeper. Your body jerks, a raw, choked cry spilling from your throat as he forces it into you, slow, violating. Your walls clench around the foreign object, muscles spasming from pain and fear, but he doesnβt stop.
He never stops.
“Yβknow what hurts the most?” His other hand grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. “I actually trusted ya.”
Your breath is erratic, your pupils blown, your body twitchingβyou’re breaking. Finally breaking. He should be satisfied.
He isn’t.
Atsumu pulls the gun out, slick and glistening with your wetness. He drags it up, presses the barrel against your lips, smearing yourself against them. Your head shakes violently, but he just grips your hair and shoves it inside. Your mouth stretches around the metal, your throat spasming as he pushes too far, too deepβgag. That sound. Fuck.
He groans, cock twitching against his thigh. He should stop.
He wonβt.
“Shoulda never let ya get that far,” he rasps, yanking the gun out, your spit glistening along its length. “Shoulda never let ya think you had a fuckin’ chance.”
The muzzle presses against your temple. His finger rests on the trigger.
You sob. His thumb tightens.
And you know, you know, he’s going to pull the trigger.
Your eyes meet hisβfurious, shattered, achingβ
And then everything goes black.
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