you may think misogyny is good because it is made up of miso, which is delicious, and gyny, which is woman. and girl miso sounds great. but 👆 it is not girl miso
i forgot to take a picture until it was 80% gone but here is a slice for you:
the crust is biscoff cookies ofc, the bottom layer has some spread beat into the cream cheese, and for the topping i made a biscoff infused salted caramel sauce!!
there is no one she hates more than miya atsumu, and no one that can make her feel bad for what she’s doing to him
tags/warnings: enemies to lovers, office au/coworkers, workplace bullying, cyberbullying, catfishing, mention of suicidal ideation, hookups/brief smut, unreliable narrator, yn is a loser, atsumu is a dick, yn has body image issues but nothing specific, unhappy ending, takes place in 2007, angst, everyone will probably be out of character, no one here is a good person, mdni
an: i wrote this in a possessed frenzy with no idea if it's actually any good or not. i loved writing this. i have not loved writing something this much in a while so i hope you enjoy <3
word count: 7k
Her life is boring, monotonous.
She stands outside the imposing office building in which she works her tiresome, repetitive job, and watches with a cigarette in hand as people pass her by. Her life is boring, monotonous, but this is one of its perks. The old women who walk by with full bags of groceries, green onions poking out holes they tore in the plastic. The high school boys who skipped out on school to push each other around on the sidewalk and laugh as if they’re the only ones there. The busybodies running errands for bosses they hate. The recently heartbroken. The ones madly in love. She gets to see them all, sitting on her perch.
She has this thing about people, about watching them. They’re easier to observe than they are to interact with, and they’re more interesting that way too. She likes the faces they make when they think no one can see and the way they talk to each other and mumble to themselves, even if it's just for a fleeting moment as they pass her by.
Because it’s like, for a moment, she can look at someone as they walk by, and she can imagine that their life is hers. Like, for a moment, she can look at someone, and know what it feels like to be them. As she flicks the end of her cigarette and leans against the concrete base of the building, she can pretend to be someone else.
And then, her lunch break ends, and she has to go back to her tiresome, repetitive job.
A tingle runs down her spine, and she shoots up straight. And then, she hears his voice in her ear. “Baby, please don't tell me you’re not done with that report yet.”
She whirls around her in her chair, abruptly ripping her attention away from the report she had been agonizing over. Leaned down to her level, is a pair of annoying, sparkling eyes and a grin that makes her skin prickle with irritation. Without realizing it, her lip furls up in disgust. He has that effect on her.
More than she feels anything else, she hates Miya Atsumu. She hates everything about him that there is to hate, from his cockiness to his slacked posture to the way that he just can’t seem to fail. She hates how he speaks and she especially hates how he speaks to her.
He straightens out, and looks down on her like he’s meant to. “I really need that by the end of the day,” he tells her. “So I guess it’s a good thing I know you don’t have any plans tonight.”
Heat rushes to her cheeks. This is how he humiliates her. In small, subtle ways that are easy to get away with. She figures, at this point, she should’ve gotten used to it by now, but there’s no getting used to someone like Atsumu.
Her jaw locks and her teeth grind together. “I’ll get it to you before the end of the day, okay? So don’t worry about it,” she says, and turns back around in her chair to face her work again, hoping that will mark the end of it.
But he lingers, hands in his pockets and rocking on the back of his heels. “Man, your work ethic is so admirable. This is why I love boring girls like you.”
Her fingers hover over her keyboard. One twitches, but she doesn’t type anything. In her head, she counts to three, and breathes slowly. There’s no use in saying anything now, she tells herself. She will get her moment to bite back. “Goodbye, Miya,” she says in a deliberately even tone.
He can’t ever leave silently, like she’d want him to. Instead he scoffs, this irritating little sound that elicits a flinch from her. “Looking forward to that report, baby.”
Her teeth grind harder against each other until her jaw hurts, and she holds her breath until she can feel the looming, intense presence of Miya Atsumu fade away.
God, she really, really hates him.
Her skin feels greasy and her tired eyes burn. She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, with her laptop burning the tops of her thighs. The room smells of the stale, half-eaten takeout container that sits next to her on her unmade bedsheets. The only light in the room is from her glowing laptop screen, the only noise from the hum of its fans.
She has thirteen open tabs. Some articles she's read only half-way through. Some games to pass the time. Some forums where she's in an argument that's over a hundred comments deep. Her brain's starting to get fuzzy. Her vision too. She wonders aloud what time it is. She yawns. There's a familiar ping. Her heart skips.
It never ceases to make her uneasy. She always feels this nervousness that makes her chest contract and her hands shake. Sometimes she feels excited, like a kid with a crush. Sometimes she can't shake the feeling she's about to get caught.
cyb3r_tsumu: hey pretty
cyb3r_tsumu:ive been thinking abt u all day
Miya Atsumu is the only person that ever messages her, and he does so under the impression that she is someone else.
222angel: hi cutie >.<
222angel: ive been thinking abt u too. i couldn't wait to msg u all day
Atsumu was surprisingly easy to trick. Though, she's not sure exactly what compelled her to do so in the first place. All she knows is that, one day, when she was filled with rage over some transgression he committed against her, she found his profile. And as she was staring at his stupid posts and his terrible music and his awful friends, something compelled her.
Setting up a fake profile with a fake name and a fake picture was easy. The most laborious part of all of it was building up her list of friends and posts before she added him to her list of friends-she figured an empty profile would be suspicious. It only took a hundred fake friends and a flirty line in her biography to get him to accept her request.
And that was it, Atsumu was her friend. It took him twenty-nine minutes to message her first.
cyb3r_tsumu: it's so hard dealing with all the jerks and losers at my job knowing i could be talking to you instead
cyb3r_tsumu: life is so cruel @_@
She has the urge to light a cigarette. The words stare up at her, ink black against a bright white screen. This is how she humiliates him.
Atsumu tells her everything about himself. He talks about the things he dreams of accomplishing and the life he could've had as a volleyball player had he not had a career-ending injury. He gushes about his feelings like he's been cut open and he can't stop them from spilling out. He complains about work and his friends not understanding him and how lonely he feels. He comes into work and he insults her and belittles her and then he comes home and whines to her about it.
She really, really hates him.
222angel: aww my poor baby :(
222angel: tell me all abt ur day!
Maybe she should feel worse, about what she's doing to him. Maybe she should feel the weight of it when Atsumu so easily trusts her, when he tells her anything that she asks without thinking twice. Because really, she knows what she's doing. But, she figures, it's Miya Atsumu. And that makes it okay.
09:12AM
From: Miya Atsumu
To: Sales Team
Subject: Office Poll - Please Send in Your Answers!
What do you think is more likely? That our sales meeting will get cancelled, or that Y/N got laid last night? Send in your answers before noon!
It's not easy being hated.
She opens each reply, one by one, and reads them with tired, heavy eyes. 'I think it's more likely hell freezes over - is that an option?' 'Two impossibilities, but my bets are on the cancelled meeting.' 'I'd stake my house on that fact that she's never gotten laid.'
He'll get disciplined for this. He always does, but never enough for him to care. Atsumu is too much of a valued talent at this company to let go over some girl who doesn't accomplish half of what he does. She thinks, bitterly, with a metallic taste in her mouth, that if they're going to let anyone go over this, it'll be her.
She tilts her head to look up over her desktop, across the span of the office, to get a good look at him. He's there, leaned back in his office chair with his black tie loose around his neck. He's grinning. Atsumu's always grinning. There's always something funny, always something to be smug about.
Her body heats up, either from rage or humiliation, and it's like Atsumu can feel it, like he's attuned to her horror. He turns his head, and catches her eye. Miya Atsumu, with his pretty blonde hair and his dazzling grin, gives her a wink, and she thinks about killing him.
That night, she messages him first.
222angel: im having a hard time at work :(
Music plays loudly in her bedroom. Her neighbors might complain. They have in the past. She wears long Spider-Man socks that cut off circulation halfway up her calf, and plays with a loose string that dangles off the top of them while she waits for his response.
Sometimes, she tells him things that are real. Not usually, though. And really, most of the time they talk it's all about him, anyway. But every once in while, she just gets this urge to make Atsumu feel sorry for her. To tell him really, how he makes her feel, tell him exactly what he does to her, and have him coddle her over it.
It's satisfying, in a way that it probably shouldn't be. She likes to hear him admit that the way he treats her is abhorrent.
cyb3r_tsumu: is that guy still treating u like shit?
222angel: yeah :( i just can't get him to leave me alone no matter what i do
cyb3r_tsumu: i wish u'd let me just kick the shit out of this guy
cyb3r_tsumu: yknow id do it for u
She smiles, face illuminated in blue light. There's this pleasant feeling that bubbles in her chest. Satisfaction, she tells herself. It's simple satisfaction.
222angel: ur too sweet to me
222angel: talking to u makes me feel better abt it
cyb3r_tsumu: just wish i could be w u to defend u. makes me sick to think that someone's not treating u right
The CD player stops. She's too engrossed in her screen to get up and hit play again, so she sits in the silence, hands shaking, fantasizing. Her head is playing drawn out, anguished scenes, just picturing Atsumu's reaction to finding out that the person who's hurting the girl he cares so much about is him.
She bites down on her lip, and decides to push the line.
222angel: i wonder if ur like this in person
cyb3r_tsumu: like what?
222angel: kind. caring. would u be like that if i met u in real life?
222angel: or would u be mean?
cyb3r_tsumu: not to u i wouldnt be
It's hard to be hated. Sometimes she forgets she's a person.
The bathroom mirror in the small, cheap dive bar is cloudy and scratchy and the corners are covered in faded stickers. She can't tell if her reflection is distorted or if that's just the way she truly looks. Strange, like the details of her face were arranged incorrectly. Strange, like she's just shy of being a real person.
She stares at herself for too long. She gets the distinct feeling that her face might start to melt off if she looks for a moment longer.
The water in the faucet runs cold. She uses warm, sweaty hands to splash some of it on her face, and figures it won't matter, because her eyeliner is already smudged and she didn't bother to put on foundation. Her patchy and discolored skin is on display for everyone to see.
She's at this bar with the sole purpose of bringing someone home. Despite the constant harassment insisting that she spends all of her nights alone, she is able to find occasional companionship. Someone's who drunk and desperate enough to overlook just how off putting and strange she is. Someone who will spend the night in her bed long enough for her to forget, just for a night, that she's alone.
She looks back up at the mirror, disappointed to see that nothing on her face has changed, and takes a deep breath. Her breath smells strongly of cigarettes and there's a sheen of sweat over her skin. She doesn't look like someone she would want to take home, but she tells herself, surely, there's someone out there who won't mind.
And there is. He's rude, and he has this annoying habit of licking his lips too often. He forgets her name twice, and he eventually does fuck her, it's quick, maybe five minutes. But he stays afterwards, and cradles her to his chest, so she figures she doesn't have much to complain about.
"Who drew this?"
She's standing behind Atsumu's desk, chest heaving with heavy breaths and a small piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand. When Atsumu turns around, smirking like he always is, she holds it up to his face, jaw clenching.
He chuckles at the sight of it. "Nice work," he comments. "You look good there."
It's a cruel drawing of her. Her worst features over-exaggerated and drawn crudely. Her tongue is hanging out of her mouth like a dog, and the artist even went as far as giving her a pair of pointed, fuzzy ears and a long, floppy tail.
The Office Bitch, it's titled.
"Did you draw this?" she demands of him. She's surprised that she's not crying. Her eyes burned when she first saw it on her desk, but now she feels to hollow to produce any tears. "Tell me if you drew this."
Atsumu looks satisfied with himself, like this reaction is more than he could have hoped for. "If you ask nicely, I'll sign it for you."
She wants to ask him why he hates her. She wants to ask him if it's really that bad, to be as ugly and as lonely as she is. If there's some social code that she's unknowingly breaking, and that's why they keep punishing her.
Her throat feels too dry, though, and she has a report to work on. She reaches around Atsumu, and slams the drawing down next to his keyboard.
tsumu, every day gets harder. sometimes i don't even feel like a person at all. all the time i find myself wondering if you ever feel like this. do you? do you ever feel so low that sometimes you think it'd be better if you'd just end it already? do you ever feel like the world wouldn't miss you if you were gone? do you ever feel like the world is slowly tearing you apart from the inside out? i think about you all the time. every time i find myself knocked down lower and lower, it feels like the only person i can turn to is you. i don't know if that's a good thing or not. i just want to be happy, but it's so lonely. i don't know what to do.
angel, i feel pretty horrible most of the time. i don't think i'm a good person. i think there's a lot wrong with me. i wish i was more like my brother. i wish my life had turned out different. sometimes i look around at my life and think that nothing had turned out like i had hoped it would and everything that i had feared came true. but every day, i get to talk to you. and i think that makes it all worth it. i don't know if it's a good thing or not. but at least knowing you're out there makes me feel better. i want you to be happy. i hope i can make you feel less lonely. i hope one day you'll let me meet you in person, and i can show you just how much i care about you. please stay strong, im waiting for you
love,
your tsumu
She has a meeting with her boss. He tells her that she meets expectations well enough, but that she works slower than the rest of her colleagues. There's nothing particularly special about her, but she manages to get the job done. The office drama, though, always seems to center her, and she needs to find a way to stop causing so much conflict. It's unprofessional, and she should be better at keeping her head down and focusing on getting her work done.
She goes outside, sits on her perch with a cigarette in hand, and watches the people around her, wishing she was them.
It doesn't make sense to her. In every way she can be, she is better than Miya Atsumu. She's smarter than him and her work is more thorough and she's certainly more dedicated to the job than he is. He's just a stupid jock, someone who settled at this company because he couldn't have the life he wanted.
And what is it about him that everybody seems to like so much? He's pathetic. Just a loser with a charismatic facade that everyone can't help but fall for. If he didn't have his good looks and his charms, he'd be nothing. He'd be just like her.
It's cold outside. An early autumn day with a light breeze and a blinding sun. Her eyes squint against the brightness and she inhales her cigarette. A couple passes by on the sidewalk, their hands intertwined and their steps aligned. She watches them as they go, disappearing among the crowd of people.
Atsumu's there to greet her as she walks back into the office. He's leaning against the doorframe like he was waiting there, just for her. It almost makes her feel special. "Get fired yet, baby?" he questions, a slight pout to his lips and faux tone of concern.
She ignores him, storming past him to get to her desk, keeping her head down like the good, obedient girl she was told to be. But of course, Atsumu follows her. "I really hope not. I'd be so lonely without you around."
"Fuck off," she barks out, quiet as she can be, as she takes a seat at her desk.
Atsumu frowns. It looks almost plastic. She wonders if this is what he looks like at night, when he emails her and tells her about how good she makes him feel, about how sweetly he wants to treat her. She tries to imagine Atsumu as genuine, and she can't conjure the image in her mind. "Don't be so mean, bab-"
"Do you just feel like this all the time?" she snaps, cutting him off. "Are you just so fucking miserable that you have to make me feel the same? Is that the only way you don't end up blowing your fucking brains out?"
She doesn't know why she says it. It probably rings too close to home. It probably sounds too familiar. And for a second, when Atsumu's face drops, she thinks she might be caught. But Atsumu smiles again, forced and tight, and says, "Sure. You caught me."
He returns to his desk without another word.
cyb3r_tsumu: there's this girl at work i want to tell u abt
All at once, her skin becomes hot and her head is filled with static. Her living room is dark and quiet, but in her head, she can see Atsumu's mouth move as if he's telling her to her face, can hear the words as they float in between them.
She adjusts on her couch, suddenly unable to find a comfortable position. And she keeps making these small movements and rereading his message and adjusting all over again because it's not settling well within her.
222angel: aww do you have a crush on someone ^^
Her front teeth gnaw on her bottom lip, rolling it back and forth. She stares at the screen, heart thumping in anticipation.
There's nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Ping!
cyb3r_tsumu: no i dont think its like that
cyb3r_tsumu: i do think abt her all the time
cyb3r_tsumu: i just think i hate her
Her fingers lightly tap against the keys, brain running through responses, trying to think of how his angel would react.
'why? did she do something to u?' she types out, and then deletes it. She types it out again, and then deletes it once more.
222angel: then i hate her too
222angel: anyone u don't like i don't like either
222angel: did something happen?
It's silent, but her head feels loud. She places her laptop on the couch cushion and pulls her knees up to her chest, folding into herself.
cyb3r_tsumu: idk. she just kind of drives me crazy. something abt her bothers me and idk what. she looks at me like she can see right thru me. it makes me feel like somethings wrong with me
Her hands hover over the keyboard. One of her fingers twitch. She feels sick and nervous and angry all at once. It brews in her gut and creeps up to her chest, tightening it.
222angel: maybe she just sees u for who u are. maybe that's not such a bad thing.
Atsumu doesn't respond for a while. The whole time, she sits there, unmoving on her couch. Her right foot starts to go numb.
cyb3r_tsumu: yeah. maybe.
cyb3r_tsumu: anyway. whats up with u today?
She's outside smoking a cigarette. The bar got too crowded, too loud. It's overwhelming. It's not easy to be surrounded like that.
It's cold out. Her free arms wraps around her middle, trying to conserve warmth. The streets smell like puke and alcohol and the dumpster hidden behind the back of the bar. The pavement is wet. Her head is slightly throbbing.
Despite the crowds and ample amount of men, no one's made any attempt to speak with her. She's approached two people. One brushed her off. The other pretended not to hear her.
She figures she might as well cut her losses. Just go home and argue with some other loser online about some comic book she doesn't even really care about. It'd be a better way to spend her time than enduring this kind of humiliation.
Halfway through her string of self-pitying thoughts, someone appears beside her. She doesn't look at him, because she doesn't want to be ignored again, but he leans up against the wall behind him and asks, "Can I bum a cig?"
She fishes around in her back pocket for her carton, flicking it open. She keeps her head down as she lifts it in his direction.
"Thanks," he says, grabbing one. She retracts her hand. "I won't bite, y'know."
As if commanded to, she lifts her head to look at him, and can't help the small breath that escapes her, because for a second, she thinks it's Miya Atsumu. But it's not. His hair is darker, natural. His nose is shaped slightly off, a touch more crooked. And there's something about his eyes that's just unfamiliar.
She knows exactly who he is.
Miya Osamu grips tightly onto her sides as he drills into her, rhythmic and hard. Her head drops back, and she tries to keep her hips up with his movements, but her brain is too fried and she just can't move quickly enough.
He reaches up and hooks a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her down to meet him. Miya Osamu kisses her as hard as he fucks her, their teeth gnashing together. It feels ugly and animalistic.
She pulls away, lingering over him, a line of spit still connecting their lips. "Tell me I'm pretty," she says, breathless and heavy.
Osamu slows for a moment. "What?"
"Tell me I'm pretty," she repeats, firmer now, surer.
He looks at her. His eyes are wide and shining, pupils blown out. "You're beautiful," he says. And then again, "I think you're beautiful."
She thinks that maybe a small part of her falls in love with him, at that moment.
Later, he lies in her bed, a lit cigarette in hand. She normally doesn't smoke in her apartment, but figures she can make an exception for him. She lays on her side, looking up at him, and he has one hand resting on her bare shoulder. It might be the most intimate moment of her life.
"Did you mean it?" she asks, feeling clingy and cloying.
Osamu's attention is on his cigarette. "Mean what?"
She shuffles a bit. "When you said I was beautiful."
"Of course I meant it," he replies, his words a billowing of smoke that rises to her ceiling. "Why else would I be here?"
Osamu leaves in the morning. She doesn't talk to him again.
222angel: you have a brother right?
cyb3r_tsumu: yeah, why?
222angel: you just never really talk about him. are you guys close?
cyb3r_tsumu: we used to be a lot closer. but after i got injured things just started to change. idk.
cyb3r_tsumu: tbh i think i just might be jealous of him.
cyb3r_tsumu: i mean, he got to live his dream of opening a restaurant. like, he gets to do what he was meant to do. and im just stuck in some office
cyb3r_tsumu: how could i not resent him? and i think he knows that too. i think its hard for him to be around me
222angel: it must be hard to drift apart from your brother.
cyb3r_tsumu: it is. sometimes i miss him.
cyb3r_tsumu: actually i miss him a lot
222angel: i bet he misses you too
She feels like she's won something.
There's a pile of paperwork on her desk. It's hard to focus on it. Atsumu's quiet today, keeping his head down at his own desk, wired office phone pressed to his ear and his fingers never leaving his keyboard. She keeps looking at him. He does not look back.
It's been a few days of this, now: him ignoring her, save for a few curt emails about sales reports and meeting schedules. In a way, it's almost concerning. There's usually nothing that gets between Atsumu and his punching bag, not work, not scoldings from his boss, not anything.
She looks up from a report she's made very little progress on. Atsumu has his back to her, hunched over his computer. His shoulders look broad, and the ends of his dyed hair reach the collar of his short. She gnaws on the inside of her cheek. There's an odd part of her that wants to move closer, to get a better look.
Her eyes drift back down to her computer only to flick back up towards him once more. She wants to get a closer look, to study the details of his face, see if there's anything she might've missed before -freckles, scars, moles. She wonders if his teeth are crooked. She wonders if he tastes anything like his brother.
His shoulders roll back, and his head drops from side to side, before he straightens back out and resumes his typing. He's working harder than he usually does. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. There's an open can of an energy drink next to his desktop. When Atsumu lifts his hands above his head to lean back and stretch, the muscles in his arms flex. He looks too big for his desk, too grand.
When she looks at him then, she doesn't hate him. She wishes he would turn around, so she could see his face, and see what it looks like when it's not turned up in hatred. But Atsumu keeps working, with his back turned to her all day.
cyb3r_tsumu: thinking abt quitting my job. im just not happy there.
222angel: if you're unhappy, you should do something else. find something that does make you happy. any idea what else you might want to do?
cyb3r_tsumu: no idea
cyb3r_tsumu: maybe work for the jva if i can. something involving volleyball.
cyb3r_tsumu: but idk if i'll leave. it feels like i'd be leaving something behind unfinished
222angel: wym?
cyb3r_tsumu: it's hard to explain
cyb3r_tsumu: i just feel like maybe it's not time to leave yet
There's an office party on Saturday. They rented out a karaoke room. She goes, and doesn't know why.
The can of beer in her hand is too full and warm. She has plans of abandoning it on the table in front of her, but she doesn't want to move, for fear of drawing attention to herself and being forced to sing some hyper, upbeat song. Both seats on either side of her are empty. Someone sings loudly and off-key. She wants to go home.
Atsumu sits on the opposite side of the room. He hasn't yet let up on his new habit of ignoring her, and she hasn't let up on hers of watching him. He looks too sober for an event like this, where his cheeks are usually flushed red and his step more of a stumble.
One of her coworkers, Ito, plops down on her left. His arm goes over her shoulder, and the beer in his hand sloshes, some of it spilling on her top. He says her name, sloppy and with too much familiarity. "You don't look like you're having any fun."
She takes a sip of her own beer, so she'll have something to do with her hands. "I'm having plenty fun," she insists, plain and flat.
"Are you going to sing anything?" Ito asks her, tilting his head towards her and grinning. She supposes it's supposed to be endearing.
Her eyes flash over to Atsumu. His roots are growing in. "Wasn't planning on it."
"You know, this is why everyone in the office has a problem with you," Ito tells her, somehow still keeping his voice as upbeat as the music that plays. "You act like you're better than everyone. Like you're too good for this. I bet if you just drank a little more and had some fun every once in a while, people would like you more."
Atsumu finishes the rest of his drink, and slumps back in his seat. "Oh," is all she can manage to say.
Ito continues. "I mean, I like you fine. And really, I think everyone might be a little too hard on you. But you don't make it easy on yourself, you know."
Atsumu stands, so she does too. She copies his movements without even thinking about it, and Ito's arm slides right off her shoulders. She looks down at him, and swallows, finally abandoning her beer. "I have to use the bathroom," she says curtly, because it's the only excuse she can think of.
As she leaves, she hears the unmistakable mutter of, "Freak," come from under Ito's breath.
The bathroom's tile is too red. It's too bright and aggressive and it makes her head hurt. The small amount of beer she did drink isn't sitting well. She feels queasy, and like she needs a cold bottle of water. All of her belongings are in her pockets, the only thing she left in that karaoke room being the warm can. She can slip out, and go home, and she doesn't think anyone would notice.
The tap water runs slow. The soap dispenser is almost empty and she has to squeeze the plastic sides of it to get enough out. Carefully, she washes her hands, and does her best not to look up.
Mirrors are never her friend, and this one might be the worst of all. It is big and clear and the room is bright and well-lit, so if she looks up at sees herself, there will be no room for interpretation. There will be no way to talk herself out of a reflection, and she does not want that feeling to linger on her for the night.
She dries her hands on the tops of her jeans, and leaves the bathroom with her head down.
Miya Atsumu is waiting for her, just outside the door, standing close enough that she almost bumps into him on her way out. A small yelp escapes her, and she jumps back on instinct, a hand over her mouth. It's a small, narrow hallway, and it feels like he's trapped her in it. "What the fuck are you doing?" she barks out.
His gaze is fixed intensely on her, lowered and severe. She swallows, and he takes a step towards. "I wanna try something, okay?"
He's never spoken to her like that before. His voice sounds soft, raw. Like there's been something stripped out of him and what's left is unfamiliar and ragged. It disarms her. She stammers for a moment, taking another step back. "Wh-what do you mean?"
Atsumu shushes her. "Calm down," he says, stepping closer. He raises a large, warm hand, and presses it softly against the side of her face. He tilts his head down to look at her.
She starts to go numb, at that point, overwhelmed. She holds her breath. Atsumu stands before her, too close and with his hand cupping her cheek. His eyes look warm. All of him looks warm. The florescent light above them flickers. Her heart beats violently and uncomfortably.
"Stop me if you want," he whispers, and then, he dips his head down, slowly inching closer and closer to her.
She could stop him, if she wanted to. He moves slow enough for her to. She thinks she is going to, and then she does not.
Atsumu kisses her. She doesn't react, at first, and though his eyes are fluttered shut, hers are wide open, watching him, stuck in disbelief. For a moment, she can't even feel him. There is just this warmth pressed against her, moving slightly. And then Atsumu pushes his hand back, fingers spreading out into the roots of her hair, and her nerves bloom to life. Her eyes flutter shut.
His mouth is soft and wet. His tongue drags along her bottom lip, and hers presses back against it. He leads, and she follows. His free arm goes around her waist. Her hands press against his chest, fingers spread, moving up to hold onto his shoulders.
Atsumu tastes bitter, like alcohol is lingering on his tongue. His arms are strong-she can feel his strength from the way he holds onto her, keeping her in place. And as he kisses her there, in the middle of an empty hallway outside the bathroom, she wishes she had told him to stop, but makes no effort to pull away.
When Atsumu does eventually lift his head, he drops her completely. Arm removed from her waist and hand sliding out of her hair. He steps back, and turns his back to her. "You can come back to my place, if you want," Atsumu says over his shoulder. He walks then, striding down the hallway without looking back at her.
And if she had half as much pride as she acted like she did, she'd go home. Her head hangs as she follows him.
Atsumu's home is shrine to his past life. Photos of him and old teammates in black jerseys adorn the walls. There's trophies hanging off of trophies. An old team banner, messages written across it in silver marker, all addressed to him. There isn't one photo of him that isn't at least ten years old.
She lies in his black sheets, blanket pulled up to cover her chest, but the fresh marks left on her neck are exposed to the cool air of his apartment. Atsumu stands in front of a dresser, back to her, a sight she's gotten used to.
When he turns around, there's a loose t-shirt in his hands. He tosses it at her, and it lands on her lap. Clutching the blanket to her chest, she sits up, and does her best to hold it up as she shrugs the shirt on over her shoulders.
"Don't hafta be modest now," Atsumu says, and the bed besides her dips. She pokes her head out of the top of the shirt. "A bit late for that."
"I'm allowed," she mumbles, pushing each of her arms through. She's finding it hard to look at him. She imagines right now, she'd have a harder time looking at herself.
Atsumu hums. There's a bit of distance between them. His legs dangle off the edge of the bed, his torso half-titled towards her. The air feels stiff, and she doesn't know what to do with her body. She shuffles under the blankets. "Did you-" she stumbles, and tilts her head at Atsumu. "Did you sleep with me just to humiliate me?"
"No," he answers easily. "Did you?"
Her jaw tightens. "I slept with you because I wanted to."
He shrugs. "Well, there you go."
It feels like a lie. She doesn't really know why she did sleep with him, or why she didn't stop him when he kissed her. Something inside her burns at the thought of it. She thinks she should've hit him.
She pushes the blanket off and stands, his t-shirt falling down her thighs. Her jeans are lying somewhere on the floor, and once she finds them, she can leave. Leave, and maybe find a new job. Delete her stupid angel profile and forget about Miya Atsumu.
They're in a crumpled pile by the door, and as she's dipping down to grab them, Atsumu asks her, "Was any of it real?"
Her head snaps back in his direction. "The sex?" she questions.
"No. You know what I mean," he says, voice sounding tighter now. "Don't play stupid with me."
She doesn't know what she means. She tugs on her jeans and buttons them up and says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Was any of it real?" he repeats, sounding just agitated enough to make her pause. "Or were you just fucking with me the whole time?"
It dawns on her then. Her hands drop to her side, and her throat gets tight. "I don't know," she replies. Her eyes find the ground beneath her feet. "Maybe some of it was."
Atsumu feels very far from her. "Maybe this is a stupid question, but why did you do it?"
"Because I hated you," she answers at once, and maybe it's the most honest thing she's done all night. "I thought you deserved it."
"Do you still?"
She looks up at him, then. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and his eyes are watering. She's not sure what he's asking-if she still hates him, or if she still thinks he deserves it. Either way, her answer is, "Yes."
Atsumu looks past her, and she gets what he means. About how it felt to be seen right through. It makes her fists clench. "I thought you might've been the love of my life."
"How did you know?" she asks.
"I always thought something was off," Atsumu says. "I just didn't think it'd be this bad. When I thought it might be you, I went through your email at work while you were in a meeting."
She should be affronted by the invasion of privacy. But it doesn't even bother her, anymore. That kind of thing is just what she expects, when it comes to Atsumu. He fucks with her, that's what he does.
And she bites back.
She opens her mouth, apology on the tip of her tongue, and then promptly closes it when she realizes what she's about to do. It's Miya Atsumu, she tells herself, no reason to feel bad. It's nothing he doesn't deserve, and there's no one that can make her feel bad.
On Monday, she sits outside on her perch, cigarette in hand, and watches as the people pass her back. Miya Atsumu is gone. His desk is cleared out, and the space he used to occupy is empty. Her coworkers have started ignoring her. No one seems interested in her, anymore.
It calms her, to watch the people as they pass her by. She likes to picture their lives, imagine an entire world based off the few seconds she sees them on the street. She likes to pretend that she could be them, the strangers in her city. She likes to pretend she could be someone else.
Her cigarette tastes bitter. It's getting too cold to sit outside and smoke, but she'll keep going, disappearing for thirty minutes a day, doing this instead of getting a proper lunch. Then, she will work her tiresome and repetitive job until it's time to clock out. At home, she will sit on her laptop with the television playing in the background and she will get into arguments on forums over thing she does not care about until her eyes are too heavy to keep open. The morning will come, and then she will do it all over again.
For all intensive purposes, she won. She doesn't have to deal with Miya Atsumu anymore. He's gone, out of her life for good, her stupid profile deleted. And really, everything worked out better than she ever thought it could. She finally gets to be left alone. She doesn't have to endure any more humiliation.
She looks down at her watch. Only four more minutes left before her break ends. She stomps her cigarette out on the ground, and stretches her arms above her head. Might as well head back up early.
an: if u got to the end pls tell me what u thought i love u thank u for reading
STOP PUTTING OC STORIES WITH "X READER" TAGS BRO WITH ALL DUE RESPECT YOUR STORY DOES NOT BELONG THERE....listen... im sure the story is great... BUT im literally gonna combust if i keep seeing ts. Im trying to feed my delusions and yall arnt helping. Sighhhhhhh
‼️NORMALIZE NOT ADDING ANGST TAGS TO YOUR SMUT FICS WHEN THERE'S NONE JUST TO GET AUDIENCE‼️
guys please, respectfully, not everyone want to be freaky all the times. imagine craving some sad, melancholic fics but getting a nastiest smut instead like-
... just pls let us have our own personal, separated space of sadness🥺🥺
izzy806
germansingergirl
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
