𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞

The walls are soundproof. Not that anyone would come even if they weren’t. His house—your prison—is miles away from civilization, a countryside estate where the wind carries no voices but his.

Ushijima watches you from across the dining table, his gaze heavy with judgment as you push your untouched food around the plate. A muscle in his jaw ticks. You know what’s coming before it happens.

“You will eat,” he says. His voice is even, the same tone he’d use to dictate a volleyball play—unshakable, immovable, final.

You glare at him instead.

The chair scrapes against the floor as he rises, his sheer size blotting out the overhead light when he rounds the table. A slow walk. Measured, precise, terrifying in its patience. Your breath stutters when he stops behind you. One large, calloused hand grips the back of your neck, applying pressure—not enough to bruise, just enough to remind you that he could. That he would.

“I don’t like repeating myself.”

You twist, you struggle, but it only earns you a sharp yank, and suddenly, you’re hauled out of the chair. The plate clatters, food forgotten as your feet barely brush the ground. His grip is unrelenting as he drags you through the house, past rooms you never got to escape from, past doors you once tried to break through.

The bedroom. The place where you learned the futility of resistance.

He throws you onto the bed like you weigh nothing. Your wrist snaps upward as you try to catch yourself, a jolt of pain burning through the joint, but there’s no time to focus on that. He’s already on top of you, his heavy frame pressing you deep into the mattress, caging you beneath muscle and power.

“You want to starve?” he mutters, his voice dark with something unreadable. “Fine. But a wife should have better things to do than cause trouble.”

“Wife,” you spit. The word is acid.

His hand slides down, fingers curling into your clothes, and then the sound of fabric tearing fills the room. Cold air rushes against your skin. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Yes,” he affirms simply. “My wife.”

He doesn’t waste time. There’s no ceremony to it, no gentle prelude, only the inevitability of his claim—something he decided long before you had a say. His thick cock forces its way inside you, stretching you too fast, too hard, the sting of it making you cry out. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you adjust, because why would he? You’re his.

His thrusts are brutal, drilling the breath from your lungs, knocking the defiance out of you with each cruel slam of his hips. His hands anchor your wrists above your head, pinning you open, making escape impossible. He watches you, impassive, as you gasp and tremble beneath him.

“Good,” he says, like he’s evaluating a performance. Like you’re nothing but an unruly thing to be broken in.

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