#sunnie-asks

Needless to say, the news of your arrival made the rounds before you even found your homeroom class. 

Which, okay. It might not be so crazy, considering you moved onto campus the day before and your roommate—a quiet, clearly nerdy girl—might’ve told a few people about you. But you’re starting to feel like everyone knows who you are, or at least is watching you like they know, considering the innumerable amount of stares tracking you down the hallway. 

One of the student council members was tasked with showing you to your homeroom. You don’t remember his name, just that he looks like the type to be a student council member at Shiratorizawa Academy and he hasn’t actually said a word to you. 

A streak he doesn’t break when he drops you off at your homeroom class. You feel a little bit like a fish out of water, standing in front of a mostly filled room of students that all have their focus pinned on you. And then he’s gone, abandoning you to figure out on your own which desk is yours without really wanting to talk to anyone about it. 

You hesitate by the door, not even intentionally, you think. It’s just a tad too nerve wracking to fully enter the classroom. So much has changed in the past few days. New school, new living arrangement, new uniform. The worst part of it all is the fact that you don’t know a single person at your new school. 

But at least your father is happy, you think. 

Pressing your lips together in a thin line, you brace yourself to enter. Except, you barely have the chance to shift your weight before there’s a body bouncing in front of you, a smile shining bright despite the early morning. 

“Hi!” The girl chirps, voice just as cheery as her expression. You try to match her enthusiasm, but you just can’t drag it out of yourself. “You must be the new student. C’mon, I’ll show you your desk.”

“Thanks,” You breathe a sigh of relief. The grip you had on the straps of your schoolbag loosen, and you realize for the first time just how tight you’d been squeezing. Your newest, and far more talkative tour guide, chatters as she weaves through the slowly filling classroom. In the time it takes you to walk to the back of the classroom, you learn her name is Mizuki Ogawa, that you can call her Mizuki, she’s part of the school’s equestrian team, and her dad does a lot of business with companies contracted abroad. You don’t really have the chance to get a word in, which you don’t mind. Most of your focus is dedicated to getting through the day in one piece. 

Your desk, that Mizuki points out for you, is in the back row. It’s clearly just been added to the room with the news of your transfer, so you only have a seat neighbor on your left. So far, the next-door desk is empty, so Mizuki leans backwards against it as you settle into your chair and hang your bag on the side. (In that time, you learn that she has two horses of her own back on her family’s estate, plus her personal one she uses for Shiratorizawa competitions. All of which are named after American popstars.)

“Oh! Are you local, or do you live on campus?” Mizuki asks you the first question once she’s done with a rant about herself. You don’t mind her dominating the conversation, especially since she has no reason to even entertain you. If it means that you don’t have to struggle to make friends, you’ll let Mizuki talk about herself as much as she wants.

“Er, campus.” You stumble over your words, mostly surprised at the fact she asked you a question but a little distracted by a loud redheaded boy that tumbles into the classroom, practically hanging off another boy that has you seriously questioning the fact if he’s actually a third year student or a grown adult. “My family lives closer to Tokyo, but my dad went to Shiratorizawa, and he’s been dying to send me here.”

“So you come for your third year? And not even at the start of term?” 

“Better late than never,” You shrug easily, tucking away the part about your parents divorce and how your father agreed to give sole custody to your mother if she agreed to send you to his alma mater. It’d probably ruin the mood, you think. 

“You’re cute.” Mizuki flashes another one of her brilliant smiles. You have no problem picturing her as one of Shiratorizawa’s popular girls, and the demure way she stands straight and flips her hair over her shoulder does nothing but sell the fact to you. “Sit with my friends and I at lunch?”

“Sure,” You agree, because it’s not like you had any other plans, anyways. She gives you one more sweet smile before slipping away from your desk, calling the name ‘Ushiwaka!’ as she goes. You watch her for a moment, hair bobbing as she ends up beside the desk of the grown-man-turned-student you’d seen enter moments ago. 

Your attention flicks towards your bag, not exactly interested in seeing if Mizuki is going to flirt with that Ushiwaka the way her tone seemed. You get as far as reaching for your notebooks before you freeze, feeling a new set of eyes on you. The attention had tapered off once Mizuki had led you away from the front of the room, but there’s absolutely no missing the newcomer standing beside your desk. 

You have no idea who he is, besides the fact you heard him enter loudly a few moments earlier. The tall redheaded boy is standing in the gap between your desk and the one beside it, head cocked to the side and wide eyes analyzing you closely.  

“Oh, you’re new.” He comments, voice a tad bit too loud and tone just an edge too teasing for your comfort. 

You meet his stare, because you’re not sure what else to do. The dumbstruck look on his face melts into a grin, and you might’ve found it cute if you weren’t focused on trying to figure out what he wanted. 

“Am I… in your seat?” Mizuki had said your desk was open, but this new student is studying you so intensely you wouldn’t be surprised if she had gotten it wrong. 

“No, no. That desk is free real estate.” He shakes his head, spiked red hair barely budging with the movement. He sets his bag down on the empty desk beside you, the dull thud not enough of a distraction to pull your curious attention from his amused expression. “This is mine. My name’s Satori Tendou. Please tell me you’re not the kind to sleep in class, because I will be asking to borrow your notes at least twice a week.”

“Nice to meet you?” He’s so ridiculous you can’t help the way your smile forms faintly on your lips. You give him your name and his grin somehow widens as he slides into the seat beside you. He seems… harmless, if not a bit odd. The classroom is practically filled, so you know the teacher is bound to walk in at any moment. 

“So, are you sports, academics, or money?” Tendou asks, propping his chin in his hand as he twists in his seat to face you. Your brows furrow together at his question, and you hope the confused look you send him is enough to get clarification. He waves his free hand through the air, like the action alone can transmit his meaning. “You know, for admissions? I’m sports. Volleyball, actually.” 

“Academics, then.” You shrug, finally finishing your task of tugging your notebook from your bag. Half your attention is on your task, the other part on your new conversation partner. He’s easier to talk to than Mizuki, strangely, but it could also be due to the fact that he’s actually asking you questions instead of talking about himself. “I played volleyball in elementary and middle school, actually. Though it’s probably for the best I stopped. Miraculously, my old teams started winning as soon as I was off the roster.” 

It’s a truth wrapped in a joking tone, and you flash Tendou a smile as you deliver it regardless of the punchline being yourself. There’s a moment where he doesn’t react, face frozen, and despite knowing him for a grand total of five minutes, you’re starting to think that’s more odd than any reaction he could have given you. 

But then he sits up straight, wide eyes growing even wider. His smile is more gaping open with shock than the grin he’d been wearing moments earlier, but he’s talking before you can really even process the change. 

“What! Oh, we were destined to sit beside each other.” Tendou does an awkward little shoulder shimmy that you can’t help but snort at. You flip open your notebook without looking away from Tendou, but you’re pretty sure the teacher just walked in and you need to wrap up this conversation. “Look at all we have in common! Volleyball, desk locations, uniforms! Though, I admit, you’re lucky I’m not wearing the Shiratorizawa skirt.”

You take a moment to look at him, studying his expression. The teacher starts calling the class to attention, shuffling papers around on his lectern at the front of the room. You know you should be focusing on him, but you can’t quite look away from the redhead sitting beside you just yet. 

“You’re very weird, Tendou.” Your lips stretch into a smile. You don’t mean it in a bad way, not in the slightest. You keep your voice soft, quieting down now that the teacher is starting to address the room. 

Tendou smiles so wide you can see the crinkles by his eyes. He bows his head slightly, as if he’s concluding a performance, though you’re starting to think that he might just really be like this. 

“And thank you.” 

You roll your eyes and choose not to respond, listening as the teacher continues on about settling in and starting the day. 

“I’m sure many of you have noticed that we have a new student joining us today.” The teacher no sooner gets the words out than everyone’s heads swivel in your direction. You think you hear Tendou snort at your misfortune, and you’d toss a goodnatured glare his way if you weren’t trying to sink as low as possible into your chair. “Why don’t you stand and introduce yourself.”

It’s not a question, even if it’s posed as one. You take a steadying breath, standing carefully behind your desk and give your name to the room. Mizuki gives a comforting thumbs up, and the guy Tendou walked in with earlier nods his head a fraction of an inch. 

When you return to your seat, the teacher deems your introduction satisfactorily and turns to write on the chalkboard behind him. You think you got the worst part of transferring schools out of the way—finding your homeroom, talking to classmates, introducing yourself—when you hear the hushed whispers. 

You don’t know who they’re coming from. One’s a deep voice, another the high pitch of one of your female classmates. Maybe if you knew any of them, you’d be able to tell who was talking. But all you know is that people are talking, and they’re talking about you. Kind of. 

“She’s sitting by Tendou?”

“Poor girl.” 

“He’s so weird, she doesn’t deserve that.”

They’re not being subtle, but the teacher doesn’t hear them. Tendou does, and you can tell by the way he stops humming some unknown tune. You still don’t know who’s to blame for the whispers.

But you do know one thing for sure, though. You don’t like the way people are talking about him.

Or the frown you see tugging at the corners of his lips.

then we have my atsumu fic - childhood best friends to distant friends to lovers, dual pov, angst, reader moves away and comes back for the second year of high school and atsumu can't handle it. this will also be long.

Atsumu Miya is irrevocably, irreversibly, undeniably screwed. 

You’re so stupidly pretty. 

And as much as Osamu claims, he’s not a total moron. He’d expected you to look different than you had when you were twelve. What he hadn’t expected was just how stunning four years and time away in Tokyo had made you look. 

He’d seen pictures from your mom over the years. He’d known you’d grown up, grown prettier. Part of him thinks he was just wishing it was really good lighting. Now that he knows that you naturally look that good, all the time, he thinks he might turn to mush. 

No way that Osamu doesn’t catch on within three days. Three hours, if he’s lucky. 

His mind had melted the moment he saw you standing on the top step of the genkan at your mother’s house, like you’d never left. Thankfully, his mom had you occupied long enough to let him pull himself together. It also helped that Osamu picked a fight after one sentence left his mouth. 

But then you had smiled and hugged him and his mind was scattered once more.

He’s starting to think he might’ve had a crush on you before you left. He hadn’t thought he did, back then, but it did take him weeks longer than Osamu to adjust to your absence. He never really quite accepted the fact you were living in Tokyo. 

And now you’re back. And he’s really starting to hate the idea of you attending his school in a few days. 

What if you think Suna’s cuter than he is?

It’s not a thought that had bothered him until approximately thirty minutes ago. The moment your front door swung open and you chastised him for growing up, the same way you always told him off for improper grammar or being a dick to your classmates, Atsumu realized you were going to be trouble.

It doesn’t help that he’s sitting stiffly on the edge of your bed, Osamu having disappeared back downstairs to help your mothers with the cooking. 

“I can’t believe this room is exactly the same as I remember.” You flash him a smile over your shoulder while you put clothes away. Atsumu feels his heart squeeze in his chest in a way he doesn’t like at how happy you look. 

“Yeah, ya still got all yer weird shit,” He nods, because that comment falls past his lips way easier than anything that he really wants to say, like ‘can’t even tell ya how much I missed ya’ or ‘please don’t tell me ya got a fancy Tokyo boyfriend waitin’ on ya’. 

“You’ll never catch me saying this, ever again, but I’ve seriously missed even your dumb comments.” You smile at him again and Atsumu thinks he might have to leave the country. You’re so pretty that it hurts. It makes his brain fuzzy and awkward and he hates the feeling so much. 

“Seriously, why are ya talkin’ like that?” He doesn’t hate it, the way your words sound different. But it’s not the you he remembers, and he thinks if he’s going to cling to his sanity he needs to think of you like the twelve year old dork you were the last time he saw you in person. 

“I don’t know.” You shrug, and instantly there’s a shift in your voice so obvious even he can pick up on. You’re quieter now, more melancholic, with a frown weighing on your pretty lips. It has him listening just that much closer to your every word, like he’s some lovesick fool. “Made it easier to fit in, I guess. And then before I realized how different I sounded from when I lived here, it already was just a habit.”

And that makes him pause. He thinks about you for a moment, all alone at some fancy school your father picked out for you. Thinks about how you probably nervously introduced yourself, always trying to make the best out of any situation. He thinks about how someone probably made fun of the way you spoke, and suddenly there’s a tight knot of anger working its way up his throat. 

He needs to swallow once, twice, before he’s able to talk without cursing out people he doesn’t even know actually exist. 

“Well, I ain’t stoppin’ my friends from teasin’ ya for soundin’ all fancy and shit.”

“Ain’t isn’t a word.” You correct, like you always did. Like no time had passed, and you’re still the same annoying brat that thought you could beat proper grammar into his thick skull. Your easy grin is back, and he thinks being told he’s wrong is a small price to pay for you to stop thinking about Tokyo jerks. “And I grew up with you and ‘Samu. A little teasing won’t scare me away.”

You smile at him a little too knowingly and Atsumu feels the fear of god in a way that he hasn’t since he broke Osamu’s science fair project the night before it was due and you were just mad enough at him to tattle. 

“Ya gotta promise me ya won’t date any of my friends.” Atsumu blurts without thinking. It’s how he does most of his talking, anyways, but he’s particularly embarrassed about this instance, because now he’s floundering for a response while you’re looking at him curiously. “They’re dumb. And idiots.”

“Those mean the same thing,” You snort, returning to folding your laundry with practised ease. He can’t help but watch you closely, hands clenched in fists in his lap, like he’s never once sprawled across that very same bed and demanded that you let him talk about volleyball practice for hours. “And don’t worry about me. If they’re anything like you and ‘Samu, I’ll pass.” 

You poke your tongue out at him, teasing. His heart stops in his chest instantly. He knows he definitely shouldn’t feel this type of way about you, especially considering you’ve been gone for four years and now you’re back and treating him the same way you had when he was twelve. 

This is bad. Horrible. You’ve been back in his life for less than an hour and he’s already imagining having to fight half his team if they try anything with you. 

“Promise me.” He’s demanding without thinking, which is bad, because if you’re anything like you were before you left, you’ll see right through him. You’ll see that he’s practically vibrating out of his skin, alone in your bedroom with you. You’ll see that he’s just itching to get ahead of the curve and tell every lowlife, grubby, moron at Inarizaki High that you’re too good for them and he’s known you since you were in diapers. Before you were even born, actually. 

“What?” You ask, head tilted to the side in an adorable way that makes him consider jumping out the window to escape the feeling building in his chest. He’s a coward, fine. 

“Pinky promise me ya won’t. Even if they try to be charmin’, yeah?” He backs up his words, mentally begging that you won’t call him on his possessiveness. He doesn’t think it’s too far from what he was like before you left, though. He remembers the stories his mom used to tell him about how he and Osamu would fight over who got to play the role of prince when you were all toddlers and playing ‘save the princess from the dragon’. (It got to the point that your mothers had to get involved, keeping a running list of who’s turn it was to be the prince and who had to be the dragon. You, always, were the princess.)

He’s pushing his luck, he knows, but he lifts his hand and extends a pinky in your direction, like you’re five again. He thinks you’re probably going to call him an idiot, but you don’t. Instead, you set the sweatshirt you’d been folding down and move to stand in front of him. 

“Fine.” You hum, voice gentle in a way he never realized he’s missed so much. When you wrap your pinky around his, he has to make a conscious effort to not blush like a fool. 

It’s at this very unfortunate moment that Osamu makes his return, flinging open the door and strolling through it like he’s never stopped coming in. Atsumu swears his brother can see right through him. 

“What’re you two doin’?” Osamu, the jackass, questions in a tone that couldn’t be mistaken for anything beyond the smug teasing it is. Astumu has half a mind to put him in a headlock for being so obvious, but that would mean fully outing himself to you. 

“‘Tsumu’s making me promise I won’t flirt with your friends.” You still have your pinky wrapped around his, and Atsumu will be the last one to remind you of the fact. You’re half turned to look at Osamu, and he feels like he’s ten years old again and jealous every time you’d watch someone else at his volleyball matches.

“Let her meet Sunarin before ya make her agree to that.” Osamu is grinning so smugly Atsumu swears his brother must already know what he's thinking and how he’s absolutely obsessed with you already. 

He feels his soul leave his body when you look at him again, curious grin on your perfect lips, head tilted adorably to the side, and pinky still wrapped tight around his.

“Sunarin?” You ask, and the sound of his friend’s name on your tongue is like one of Atsumu’s recently realized worst nightmare. Part of him thinks you’re doing it all on purpose. 

“No! Ya already pinky promised me.” Atsumu can’t help the way he practically shouts in your face. For added measure, he waves your conjoined hands in the air to remind you of the commitment you just made. “‘Samu’s just an extra. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout him. Or Suna.” 

You roll your eyes at him and he practically preens, because you at least decided to lay some of your attention on him. And he’s starting to realize that he wants you to keep looking at him, always, even if it makes him seem a little pathetic. 

Despite the way Atsumu’s plotting to keep you close forever, you drop his hand and retreat back a step, leaning against your bed a foot away from where he’s sitting. He frowns at the distance like it personally offends him, which in his lovesick mind, it does. 

God, he’s already admitting to be lovesick. 

“Moron.” Osamu coughs into his fist like he’s actually hiding anything, and Atsumu contemplates murder. You must have some special Miya twin sense, an innate quality, because you glare at him the same way you always do when you realize a fight’s about to break out between the brothers. Astumu holds his hands up like he’s ever been innocent a day in his life. 

“He’s startin’ with me, ain’t ya hear him?” He defends, gesturing wildly between himself and Osamu, who’s leaning against your doorframe and looking rather unimpressed. 

“Ain’t isn’t a word, ‘Tsumu.” 

Atsumu beams, royally screwed and eternally grateful that he got to hear you call him by his nickname. 

Osamu, of course, has to ruin it. 

“Dinner’s ready. Ma told me to come get you both.” 

and finally my kuroo thing. idk what this even is, or will turn into, but a started writing this and really liked it. karasuno journalism club member x kuroo, long distance, there's a shitty ex in the later chapters?

It’s warm enough to study outside the first time you see him, you remember. 

Your friends didn’t seem to think so, which was why you’ve been abandoned to work all on your lonesome, though you don’t mind. There’s something to be said about the level of focus you can achieve by yourself, and you’re half a week behind your self-imposed deadline for the newest article for Karasuno’s school paper. 

Something about the basketball team, or whatever. You don’t remember the article. What you remember is him. 

Tall, athletic frame. Dark hair a touch beyond styled windswept and bordering on yeah, it’s stuck like this. Golden eyes that held a playful intelligence you’re not used to seeing in the guys you typically surround yourself with. 

A pretty boy, through and through. 

You hear him and his friends before you see them, though. Perched on a bench in the middle of campus, legs carefully crossed to keep any mishaps with your uniform skirt from happening, your attention is fixed more on your notebooks than the miscellaneous student body lingering around after school hours.  

Distantly, through the murky barrier of time, you recall the sound of a rowdy group of boys getting closer to your outdoor workspace. You hear some jeering, lots of teasing. But you don’t look up from your work at the sound alone, because it could be any number of sports teams Karasuno boasts—with middling success rates, but still. 

You do, however, pull your attention up from the stack of notes you’ve curated for your current article—game stats, team rosters, records across the prefecture—when you hear a horribly whispered argument consisting of pleas to just ask her!

You know you’re the her being referred to. No one else shared your sentiment that it was warm enough to work outside, and school had long since ended. The only ones left on campus with you are the ones dedicated to their work, like you, or athletes—clearly like the group of boys dressed in dark red slowly inching towards you. 

Your sharp gaze travels over the crowd, picking out details like the matching tracksuits printed with the kanji for Nekoma High School and the volleyball bags. Stopping maybe a dozen feet away, you don’t miss the fact that you still have to angle your neck upwards, just slightly, to make eye contact with the dark haired boy at the front. They have some tall players, you’ll give them that, but you don’t really remember hearing about a Nekoma anywhere in Miyagi. 

Oh, wait, Sugawara had told you about the team coming from Tokyo. 

Something about a practice match, another part about an old rivalry. You’d half tuned out your childhood friend throughout the conversation in favor of cramming in some extra studying in your passing period, but now that you’re face to face with Nekoma, you sort of wished you’d listened better. 

“Looking for the gym volleyball practices in?” You call out, the corner of your lips curving upwards as the visiting boys still argue futilely about asking you something. And considering that they’re currently heading in the opposite direction of the gym, it’s not hard to piece together what they need. 

That, and a Nekoma player with a buzzed head and bleached mohawk whisper-yells something that sounds an awful lot like ‘she’s so hot oh god, we can’t tell her we’re lost’ that makes another one of his teammates shove his shoulder.

“That obvious, huh?” One of the Nekoma boys, the tall one in front, responds. He’s handsome, you’ll admit that. Dark hair disheveled in a way that doesn’t look quite purposeful, a lazy smirk pulling across his lips in a way that manages to be more endearing than sleazy. An impressive feat, you note.  

Certainly, a pretty boy from Tokyo. One who probably has no problem getting just as pretty girls to bat their eyelashes at him. 

And you’re far from immune to boyish good looks, so you smile wide and gesture in the general direction the team just emerged from. You’ll never see him again, anyways. No harm in a little flirting, right?

“Go back the way you came, and take a left when you come to the fountain.” A brisk spring wind blows a strand of your hair loose, and you brush it away while holding eye contact with the stranger. You don’t hate the way your face warms under his attention, but you think that might be due to the fact that you don’t know him, and you never will. It’s a little easier for you to revel in his attention when you know he’ll be on a train back to Tokyo at the end of the day. 

Not that you’re a total coward, or anything.

“Can I come find you again if I get lost?” The dark haired stranger asks, the request rolling so earnestly off his tongue you can’t help the little laugh that slips past your lips. The flirt.

“Yuck.” One of the other Nekoma players interrupts, shaking his head and shoving at the arm of his teammate you’d been talking to. He’s short, possibly the libero, with lighter hair and an attitude turned against his friend. “Dude, just, ew. You’re an awful flirt. So embarrassing.” 

“Shut up, Yaku!” The dark haired stranger snaps, and you think you see a blush start to burn the tops of his cheeks. So he’s a little awkward, too, beneath all his bravado. All the more endearing to you, anyways. A handful more of his teammates start snickering, and somehow his misfortune makes your smile widen just an inch. “Sorry for interrupting.”

He bows slightly with his apology, and you find yourself very thankful he lives in Tokyo, or else you’d have a big problem and a bigger crush. 

“S’alright.” You wave a hand casually through the air, surprisingly honest when you say you’re not annoyed by the distraction from your work. Usually, you loathe anyone coming between your studying and club responsibilities. But there’s something about this stranger with bed-head that has you intrigued. “Good luck with the match. Karasuno is… interesting this year.” 

Putting it lightly, you know. Playing a bit of volleyball in your elementary and middle school years gave you enough background knowledge to feel capable to comment on it. That, and you’re set to write about Karasuno volleyball at the Interhigh Preliminaries soon.

“Thanks for the directions,” The stranger ends the conversation, flashing one more award winning smile and turning towards the direction he’d already come from once. Most of the team follows suit, but the one he called Yaku stays, and has something like an evil look on his face when he glances at you like he’s about to say something he knows he shouldn’t. 

“Sorry about our captain,” Yaku calls across the short distance separating you from where he stood. He’s trying to keep his voice down, but there’s not a chance that his team can’t hear him. And you think that’s kind of the point, with the way he’s grinning like an idiot. “Unfortunately for us, he was dropped on his head as a baby. A lot.”

Yaku nods, his expression a picture of seriousness. You can’t help the laugh you snort, especially when the dark haired stranger turns with a scandalized look on his handsome face. 

“Yaku! Stop telling people that!”