genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff
pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader
summary: country girl (shake it for me).
you’ve gone to school in the same area since kindergarten.
same dusty gyms. same cracked water fountains. same girls who shriek in the locker room and clog the sinks with lip gloss and secrets. same school colors: navy and gold, worn thin on the cheerleaders’ skirts. same gym teachers with warped whistles, who yell more than they teach, and always act like they’ve got something personal against teenage knees.
you’ve always been a nobody here, pastor’s daughter, soft-spoken, long skirts, ponytails.
you don’t dance. don’t date. don’t drink.
you pray before meals and say “yes sir” when called on. you keep your eyes down when it’s time to run laps in p.e., always hoping your name blends into the floorboards.
you’re the kind of girl people forget.
and then the miya twins show up.
they transfer in the first week of senior year, already built like athletes and armed with too many stories from too many schools. loud, cocky, magnetic in a way that makes teachers sigh and girls trip over their own shoelaces. they step into gym like they own it. atsumu’s mouthing off by second period. osamu’s already scoping out the best vending machines and laying claim to a corner of the bleachers.
atsumu talks too much, says things like “c’mon, coach, we’re not that late” with a grin too bright to punish. osamu talks less but sees everything, eyes half-lidded and always watching.
they’ve got that thing.
the kind of pull that makes people lean in without knowing why. where even the teachers roll their eyes but still let them get away with murder. atsumu’s already got three girls giving him their number by week one, and osamu’s the one they ask to help lift the volleyball nets because he’s “less annoying.”
you assume they’ll never learn your name.
you assume that right up until week three, when you’re quietly echoing the gym teacher with your usual “yes sir” during warm-ups, and atsumu turns to parrot it back, high-pitched and ridiculous. osamu barks a real laugh, quick, sharp, and for the first time, you see their eyes on you.
and then, somehow, they start talking to you.
not all at once. not in a mean way. not even in a flirty way.
just—
“you don’t talk much, huh?” atsumu asks, bouncing a volleyball off his hip.
“she just don’t waste her breath like you do,” osamu mutters, squinting toward you with the first real look you’ve gotten from either of them.
“what’s your name again?” atsumu asks.
and after that, you’re theirs. not in a that way. not yet. just… in the way that matters.
you become their gym class girl. their inside joke. their new project.
atsumu shows off for you during drills. osamu stretches beside you and mutters dry commentary under his breath. when you skip laps behind the bleachers, they don’t rat you out, they just slow down so you’re not walking alone. they tease you about your high collars and the way you call soda “pop,” but they never cross the line.
they ask you questions. real ones.
“so you’ve never worn shorts in public?”
“your mom really don’t let you wear nail polish?”
“what do y’all even do on sunday besides church?”
they call you church girl. not like an insult, more like it belongs to them.
and then you start to change.
just a little at first. just a little lip gloss. just a little roll at the waistband of your skirt. just a little boldness in the way you say hell when you trip and fall during dodgeball and both twins lose their minds laughing.
one afternoon, osamu strolls into gym fifteen minutes late with a crumpled doctor’s note and a mcdonald’s bag in hand.
you’re sitting on the bleachers, tying your shoes.
he sits beside you without asking.
“doctor’s office ran long,” he says, like that explains the smell of fries. “you eaten?”
you blink at him. “i’ve never had mcdonald’s.”
he stills. “you’re joking.”
“my parents think it’s poison.”
he stares like you’ve admitted to never breathing oxygen. then he reaches into the bag, pulls out a fry, dips it in sweet ‘n sour sauce, and holds it out to you.
“live a little,” he says. “a lil grease won’t kill you.”
you hesitate. take the bite. and it is greasy. and sweet. and salty. and forbidden. and it tastes like freedom.
another day, atsumu dares you to sneak out of the school gym during fifth period.
it’s a thursday. the air is thick and stale from too many teenagers and not enough windows. the gym teacher’s halfway through explaining a partner drill, and you’re already mentally preparing to be paired with someone who doesn’t remember your name.
atsumu’s leaning back on his hands, legs stretched out obnoxiously long in front of him, lip curled like the rules don’t apply to him—and maybe they don’t. you don’t know why he whispers it. maybe because he’s bored. maybe because you looked too angelic that day in your ankle-length skirt and buttoned-up cardigan. maybe because you smiled at him once, soft and real and half-hidden behind your hand.
“you ever ditched class before?” he murmurs out the corner of his mouth.
you shake your head, already looking nervous.
he grins like that’s the best answer you could’ve given.
“wanna?”
your eyes go wide. “what?”
“right now.” his voice is all honeyed mischief. “i dare you.”
you hesitate, throat dry, fingers twisting into your gym shirt. “we’ll get caught.”
“not if we’re fast.”
and god help you, something inside you wants to say yes. wants to crack open the safe and see what it’s like to run wild, just once. wants to know what your name sounds like outside the mouth of someone who means it.
so you nod.
and he lights up.
you wait until the coach’s back is turned, distracted by some drama near the weight racks. atsumu counts silently: one, two, three, then grabs your hand and bolts for the double doors near the equipment closet.
you’re laughing before you’re even halfway down the hall. loud, gasping, giddy laughter. like it’s been trapped in your chest since birth.
atsumu lets out a triumphant, “woo!” so loud it echoes against the tile.
you clap your hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “shut up!”
but he’s already grinning. his eyes crinkle. “i didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“i didn’t think you were actually gonna yell.”
he shrugs. “i got excited.”
you’re both panting now, tucked in a quiet stairwell, backs against the cool concrete. the world outside gym class feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to exhale.
your chest rises. falls. rises again. you glance at him. “we’re gonna get in so much trouble.”
he grins. “worth it.”
and weirdly, you believe him.
…
the first time you drink is behind a bonfire in someone’s cow pasture.
“we’ll take care of her,” osamu tells the host, half teasing, half serious.
“like bodyguards,” atsumu says, handing you a red cup with the same grin he always wears.
they teach you how to sip slow. how to pace. how to have fun without losing yourself.
but then one night, you lose yourself anyway.
…
there’s a truck parked just beyond the tree line, mud-streaked, rust-kissed, with dented doors and a busted tail light. the kind that’s seen too many summers, too many backroads, too many half-legal hauls of stolen fireworks and cheap beer. someone’s rigged a bluetooth speaker to the bed, and “country girl (shake it for me)” is rattling the metal, crackling like fire from the busted subwoofer.
teens are everywhere.
boots on dashboards. bare feet on coolers. bodies swaying in loose circles around the fire pit. there’s sweat on sun-browned necks, red solo cups in every hand. someone’s tossing corn chips into their mouth from a tailgate. someone else is making out behind the hay bales. the sky is all purples and pinks, stars trying to peek through the smoke.
you’re standing in the bed of the truck, soaked to the thighs and shining in the firelight. atsumu’s shirt hangs off your frame, oversized and damp, slipping off one bare shoulder. your swim bottoms peek out beneath the hem, clinging where your skin’s still drying from the river. your hair’s a mess. your lips are sticky with bud light. your legs ache in the best way from the rope swing drop you took earlier, screaming all the way into the current.
your hips move wildly to the music, loose, syrupy, offbeat and beautiful. you’re not even dancing, not really. you’re just moving because it feels good. because the wind is warm, and the fire is close, and you are happy.
the twins are hollering for you from the grass.
“get it, church girl!” osamu whoops, tipping back a beer.
atsumu’s leaning on the tailgate, drink in hand, head tilted up to watch you like you’re the damn moon.
his smile’s all teeth, cocky, fond, unreadable. your eyes lock for half a second too long and your chest flips.
you jump down. your feet slap the dirt. your knees dip. the world sways.
you stumble. catch yourself on his arm.
“whoa,” he says, catching your elbow. “easy.”
you grin, breathless. your hands find his shoulders. “you’re so pretty,” you slur, leaning in too close. “has anyone ever told you that?”
he freezes. eyes wide. “uh…”
you loop your arms around his neck, heavy and giggling. “you know,” you whisper, breath warm against his jaw, “i’ve never had my first kiss before.”
you blink at him, dreamy. “if you kiss me… i won’t tell nobody.”
his mouth opens. shuts. his throat bobs.
“you’re drunk,” he mutters. “jesus, girl…”
your knees start to fold. your weight tips forward and he grabs your waist. swears. hoists you up with an arm under your legs, the other around your back.
“alright, c’mere,” he mutters, guiding you toward the truck.
you don’t remember much after that.
not how he eased you into the passenger seat with your head lolling back, or how he cursed under his breath the whole drive, or how the speaker kept playing “god’s country” while he muttered “jesus christ” like a prayer he didn’t believe in.
you don’t remember throwing up behind your porch. you don’t remember him rubbing your back. you don’t remember the door opening, or your mama’s tears, or your daddy’s tight-lipped handshake.
but you remember the next morning.
the headache. the shame. the way your parents circled around you like vultures. the way they prayed. the way they said the devil came in through the bottle.
you sat through it all, silent. seething.
because you’d finally felt free. you were barefoot in someone else’s shirt, dancing under stars to a song your parents would’ve called garbage, and it had felt right.
and now they’d taken that too.
and for the first time in your life you were mad. not at yourself. at them.
because they couldn’t see that you were becoming something. someone. and it scared them.
but not atsumu. not osamu. because they didn’t try to fix you. they just watched you. and cheered. too.
…
but the next night, there’s a tap on your window.
and the next.
and the one after that too.
osamu’s the one you spot first. standing down in the yard, hoodie up, arms crossed, looking up at your second-story window like this is all standard procedure. he jerks his chin toward the roof.
atsumu scrambles up the gutter pipe like he’s done it a hundred times. probably has. osamu gives him a lazy shove at the top, and he half-tumbles, half-crawls across the shingles with a plastic bag clutched in his teeth.
he knocks, twice, soft. then pushes the window open just enough to stick his head in.
“your mom ain’t bring you dinner?” he asks, sheepish, already brushing leaves from his sleeves.
you shake your head, curling your arms tighter around yourself.
he climbs in halfway, settles on the roof beside you. the plastic bag rustles between you. “figured,” he mutters, handing it over. “you’re probably starving.”
you take it with a small smile. the smell of warm fries and something vaguely spicy curls around your face like smoke. he doesn’t look at you as you eat, just leans back on one hand, watching the tree line like it might move.
he keeps showing up. every night. always with food. always with something small to say and a hundred things he doesn’t.
but then one night, he comes empty-handed. climbs up slower. doesn’t smile.
he stands on the roof instead of sitting. shifts his weight back and forth, like he might leave.
“did you mean what you said?” he asks, voice tight, eyes fixed on the dark yard below.
you blink. “huh?”
he nudges a pebble off the edge with the toe of his shoe. watches it fall.
“at the party,” he says. “what you said to me.”
your chest goes still. you pull your knees in, rest your chin there. “what did i say?”
he shrugs, too casual. wipes his palms down his thighs. “never mind. you were drunk. doesn’t matter.”
you’re both quiet. then: “i said i liked you.”
his head snaps toward you.
you meet his eyes, even though it makes your stomach flip. “i like you, atsumu.”
he stares. his mouth opens. shuts. opens again. no words come out.
then finally, barely above a whisper: “good.” he scratches the back of his neck. looks down. “i like you too, church girl.”
the silence hangs, sweet and awkward and charged. you both try to hold it in, but it breaks, soft giggles spilling out between bitten lips and shoulders shaking. you press your face into your arm. he grins like an idiot. you’re both doing your best not to be loud, but it’s so hard when everything feels this big and stupid and good.
when he starts to climb back down, you hesitate.
then you reach for him, arms looping around his torso in the most lopsided, shy, horrifically awkward hug through the open window.
he chuckles, a little startled. leans into it. “g’night,” he says near your ear. and disappears down the side of the house like a ghost with your name written on his wrist.
…
the next day in gym, everything feels electric.
your arms brush while walking the track. your fingers almost touch.
and it’s clumsy. so clumsy. you don’t know how to flirt. you’ve never had a crush that went anywhere.
but atsumu, despite all his charm, is flustered too. because he doesn’t want to scare you. doesn’t want to mess it up. “you okay?” he asks, glancing at you mid-lap.
you nod too fast. “yeah, just… hot out.” you both know it’s not the weather.
when the gym teacher turns, you duck under the bleachers. he follows.
you sit side by side, knees nearly touching. hands braced against the ground, picking at loose gravel. it smells like rubber and dust. the world hums around you, loud and quiet all at once.
atsumu’s picking at the edge of a blade of grass, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
you’re watching him. watching the way his hair’s curling a little from sweat, the way his lashes are darker today, the way his mouth keeps parting like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to begin.
you take a breath. let it out. and then say, barely above a whisper, “so…”
he looks up.
you swallow, cheeks hot. “about that first kiss…”
his eyes widen just a little. not mockingly. not smug. just surprised. and soft. a little hopeful, like he’s been waiting to see if you’d bring it up.
“you wanna?” he asks, tilting his head.
you nod, but it’s hesitant. “i… i really don’t know how,” you admit. “i’ve never—”
“hey,” he cuts in gently, shifting closer, the space between you shrinking by inches. “it’s okay. no pressure. we don’t have to if—”
“no,” you say, a little too quickly. then quieter, “i want to.”
his lips twitch into a half-smile. not smug. not teasing. just nervous. and sweet. like he doesn’t wanna scare you.
“alright,” he murmurs. “just close your eyes.”
you do.
“and lean in.”
you hesitate. your hands are planted stiffly on the ground beside you. your heart’s going crazy in your chest, so loud you’re sure he can hear it. you can feel the grass poking at your ankles. feel the tension in the air, the warmth of his thigh just barely brushing yours.
you open one eye. he’s watching you.
“sorry,” you whisper, embarrassed. “i don’t know if i’m doing it right.”
he smiles, softer this time. “you’re doin’ perfect.”
and then you both lean in. slow. careful. like the world might shatter if you move too fast.
your lips meet.
it’s shy. warm. quick. your arms stay at your sides, fists curled tight into the dirt. his lips are soft, barely there. it’s over almost as soon as it began.
you pull back, blinking, face flushed so hot it feels like you might melt into the earth.
“how was it?” he asks, voice hushed, still close.
“it was…” your breath catches. you nod, a little dazed. “it was good. really good.”
he grins, teeth flashing. “did you wanna try again?”
you laugh, nervous and giddy, the sound bubbling out of you before you can stop it. “okay,” you say, covering your face with one hand, then lowering it. “okay. yeah. i’m ready.”
this time, you lean in first. he meets you halfway. and this one lasts longer.
his hand comes up slowly, brushing a bit of hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek. his lips move gently against yours, unhurried, like he’s memorizing you. like he knows how new this is and wants to make it count.
it’s still soft. still shy. but deeper. sweeter.
when you part, your breath is all tangled with his. your eyes flutter open. you can’t stop smiling.
“wow,” you whisper, dazed. “that was… wow. that was really good.”
atsumu’s eyes shine. he bites his bottom lip, then flashes a grin that’s all mischief.
“can’t wait for you to see what else i’m good at.”
your brain short-circuits. you swat at his arm, sputtering. he just laughs, low and warm, and leans into your shoulder as he stands, offering you his hand.
“c’mon, church girl. before coach realizes we’re gone.”
and he doesn’t let go the whole walk back.
