Ayatakanosstuff - Iris

too tired maybe tmr.

LEY ME WORK ON THE MOODBOARDS LOL

me and shoyo and suna and meeya’s wedding @kawoala

i feel like making a bllk smau…

i look horrendous due to my sickness it’s not even funny.

∿ when grit meets grace ⤸ ╱ ❛ lilies ❜

♬⋆.˚ starry cat, up above / why do you glow? do you know? / when you left, you made a / hole the size of a moon inside my heart.

ꫂ ၴႅၴ content warnings; flirting. smoking. maybe some self depreciation? short, sweet. -> word count: 727.

@alcyneus @ayatakanosstuff @mayyhaps @s6rine @dearru @sahrberrii @anxiousyutsuki

“wrong. run it again.”

they’ve been at this for over an hour. hinata approached keishin before practice, phone in hand, with hopes of trying a new quick. it had taken keishin less than 30 seconds to know that it would be hard. hard, but not impossible. everyone looks tired–tsukishima’s attitude is growing worse by the second, nishinoya is getting more frustrated, hell, even asahi is getting a little upset. it’s no one’s fault in particular, but he knows they’re blaming hinata and kageyama.

“jesus, dude,” tanaka pants, hands on his knees. he’s staring right at keishin, brows furrowed. “we’ve been doing this for, like, an hour. can we get a break or something?”

the man thinks for a moment. if they stop now, they’ll lose the momentum. “no,” he says, maybe a little too bluntly. “do it again.” he crosses his arms over his chest and waits. they reset to their respective positions and keishin brings the whistle to his mouth and blows. their movements are sluggish, tired, defeated. the ball gets to kageyama and he sets it, but hinata is so tired that he can’t jump as high as he normally can. he misses the ball by mere inches and groans reverberate through the gym.

“sorry, guys,” hinata mumbles, draggin a hand down his face.

keishin looks to his left, where takeda is standing with a pinched face, and he sighs. he turns back to the team and waves his hand dismissively. “okay, take a break. ten minutes, that’s it.” he doesn’t stay to hear the complaints. instead, he walks out of the gym, sticks a cigarette in his mouth, and lights it. nicotine floods his veins and his stress dissipates. he’s only there for a couple seconds when something catches his eye.

you.

you’re carrying baskets full of flowers, struggling to balance them all. ten minutes his ass. he stomps his cigarette out and walks over to your car, hands in his pockets. “need some help with that?”

you flinch and nearly drop one of the baskets. “oh! ukai! hey, it’s funny seeing you here. um, yes, i could use some help if you’re offering.” you laugh and, once again, ukai feels weak in the knees. he chalks it up to his injury. you hand him one of the baskets and sigh heavily, grateful that you’re no longer straining. “ah, thank you so much. what, uh, what are you doing here? you’re not stalking me, are you?”

he nearly chokes on his own spit. “what?” it takes him longer than it should to realize you’re joking. “oh, hah, no i, um, coach the boys volleyball team here.”

your eyes seemingly light up. “no way! that’s so awesome! i used to play volleyball when i was in high school. i wasn’t very good, though.” you hum, reminiscing. “did you play?” when he nods, you smile. “were you any good?”

he exhales, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “nope,” he says quickly. he doesn’t need to tell you his sob story just yet. “what are you doing here? and with all these flowers?”

“oh, i’m donating to the greenhouse club! i saw a facebook post saying they were looking for flowers and seeds–stuff like that.” you shift the box to your other hip. “i figured it would be good business, y’know? donate and then people know i have a flower shop?” you begin to walk, but stop and turn to him. “um, do you know where the greenhouse is?”

he scoffs out a laugh and nods, walking the opposite direction you were going. “and what happens when this doesn’t get you the business you want?” he doesn’t mean to say it, but he’s a pessimist, he can’t help it.

you hum, looking down at the ground where your feet walk in sync. “i don’t know,” you whisper. suddenly, keishin regrets even making a comment about it. “i suppose i’ll . . . apply at your convenience store and hope you give me a chance?”

he looks down at you and almost flinches at the wide smile on your face. you two stop just before the greenhouse, turned towards each other. “i’ll think about,” he says, smirking slightly.

you smile and laugh, pushing the door open with your hip. “thanks for helping me, ukai. i really appreciate it.”

he swallows hard and nods. “yeah, sure. it was no problem, really.”

okay i just finished reading this and might i say im already addicted this is so beautiful like nana i love u this is how i pictured him so well and me and him and omgomgogm

navigation : midnight records! the moonlight album! the jjk album!

BEFORE SUNRISE ft. Zen'in Toji

synopsis : tokyo, may 1995. she doesn’t want to go home. he doesn’t have one. what starts as a strange encounter becomes a night of wandering until sunrise. and sometimes, one night is enough to remember someone forever.

contains : before sunrise au. soft angst. fluff. right person wrong time. strangers to almost lovers.

warnings : mentions of alcohol/smoking. language. themes of transience and loneliness. mentions of family trauma. suggestivity.

✷ masterlist — chapter two

✷ CHAPTER ONE. / 8:00 PM - Last Train

You left work late. Again.

One of the speakers had blown and you stayed back after close, rewinding the same ten seconds of a scratched L’Arc-en-Ciel CD until the bassline stopped rattling. It didn’t. You gave up.

The street was already leaning toward night when you stepped out, city lights blinking like they were pretending to care. You didn’t check the time. You knew if you looked, you’d start running. And running meant you still gave a shit.

So of course, you ran.

Boots not meant for sprinting. Shoulder bag slipping down your arm every five seconds. You cut through two alleys, jaywalked across an empty intersection, and whispered “sorry” to a taxi that almost hit you, though you weren’t. The wind hit your face like a reminder that you didn’t put on powder before you left. You’d gone a little heavy on the mascara this morning and now it was probably smudged. Fine, whatever.

The station came into view like a mirage of bad timing. You took the stairs two at a time. Your breath caught somewhere just behind your ribs, and right as your foot hit the platform — the train doors slid shut. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of a dramatic noise. They just clicked. Indifferent. Clinical. The train pulled away from the platform as you watched it go, hands on your hips, chest rising too fast, trying to look like you hadn’t just sprinted six blocks and lost.

Cool.

You tried to make your breath quieter. You tried not to look like someone who still cared about missing things. But your legs were buzzing and the strap of your bag had carved a mark across your shoulder and honestly, the worst part was that you ran at all. You could’ve left five minutes earlier. You could’ve not cared. But you ran. Because sometimes, even when you’ve got nothing urgent to get home to — you just want to get there first.

And now you weren’t there. You were here. Sweating slightly under your collar, trying to look normal under the flat glow of station lights. You pulled your coat tighter. Not because you were cold. Just because you needed to do something with your hands.

You decide to lean back against the wall to avoid looking awkward longer. Your shoulder bag tugs at your arm, heavy with too many little things — a mazzy star cassette tape you didn’t put back in its case, half a sandwich you forgot to eat, a receipt you didn’t throw out because it felt like proof of something. You pretend to check the next train time. It's thirty-two minutes. Which is just long enough to feel like a punishment.

The vending machine glows from across the platform — garish in a way nothing ever is during the day. You walk toward it. Not because you’re thirsty. Just because it's something to do that isn’t standing still and thinking about how out of breath you still are. You press the first button you see. A can thunks into the tray like it’s mildly annoyed with you. You open it without looking and take a sip. Lukewarm. Bitter. Tastes like shit and regret. It makes sense. You're not sure what else you expected.

You bring the can up again and catch movement out of the corner of your eye. Not movement, really — just presence. Someone standing across the platform, maybe six paces off. Leaning against a concrete column like he’s been there the whole time. Like he was built into the structure. You didn’t see him when you got here. Or maybe you did, and your body was too busy trying not to collapse in front of a closing train door to register it.

He’s tall. Really tall. Black jacket a little too heavy for the weather, dark jeans that are not too large but not too tight. Cigarette between his fingers, not smoked so much as held. You can’t see his eyes from here, but you feel them. Not in a creepy way. Like he’s not looking at you. But he’s not not looking, either.

He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even seem bored. Just stands there like someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill silence. Or maybe someone who’s too used to it to bother anymore.

You glance away. Sip again. Grimace. The coffee still tastes like shit.

You wonder what he’s waiting for. If he’s waiting. If he even missed a train or if this is just where he ended up tonight. You think about saying something. Then think better of it. You haven’t had enough sleep this week to make decent small talk. You haven’t had a full conversation in three days that wasn’t about a refund, a release date, or which side of the sleeve is supposed to face out on a display rack.

Besides, he looks like the kind of man who doesn’t answer questions. Not because he’s mysterious, but because he doesn’t see the point.

You exhale through your nose and shift your weight again, not because you’re uncomfortable — just because standing still makes you feel too obvious. You glance over one more time. He hasn’t moved. You don’t know what makes you finally speak. Maybe boredom. Maybe impulse. Whatever it is, the words come out before you think them through. “You always look this constipated?” It comes out low, flat, not even trying to be funny. Just something to toss into the space so it doesn’t keep swallowing you whole.

He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his gaze slightly, enough to let you know he heard. His face doesn’t change much — except for the smallest twitch near the corner of his mouth, like something pulled tight out of habit is deciding whether or not to let go. “You always talk this much to strangers?” he asks, tone dry, almost bored. Just matter-of-fact.

You shrug, turning your attention back to the can in your hand like it might give you an excuse not to answer. “Only the ones who stare. And see me lose.” You walk back toward the bench without looking at him. You sit, cross your legs and sip the coffee again just to make your mouth stop moving. Still disgusting. Still better than being alone with your thoughts.

He doesn’t come closer but he doesn’t leave either.

“You always smoke that slow?” you ask, watching the red tip of the cigarette hover near his fingers. “Only when I’m not in a hurry.”

“Well shit, guess I ruined your vibe.”

Still nothing. Or maybe silence is just how he answers when he doesn’t feel like lying. You don’t push. But you don’t stop too. “I thought I had more time,” you say, like that’s something normal to admit to a stranger. You keep your eyes on the machines across the track. “I didn’t, apparently.”

He flicks ash without looking at you. “Can’t tell if you’re making conversation or confessing something.” You smile, faintly. “Why not both?” That’s the first time he really looks at you. Not long or searching. Like something about the way you say it doesn’t match what he expected. You sit with that. The station hums in the background. One of the lights overhead buzzes like it’s threatening to die.

“You live around here?” he asks after a beat. It’s not casual, but it isn’t probing either. You don’t look at him when you answer. Just tilt your head, eyes still on the vending machine like it might give you an exit. “Far enough to miss the train. Close enough to pretend I didn’t mean to catch it.”

Another pause. Then you add, softer, because it’s true, and you’re too tired to lie about small things: “Not that I was rushing to get home.” He doesn’t react. But that doesn’t surprise you. He’s got the kind of face that probably doesn’t shift for much. You wonder if that’s something he learned, or if it just grew that way.

You lean back against the bench, feeling the cold press of metal through your coat. The coffee can’s almost empty, and you can’t decide if you’re disappointed or relieved. “It's not that I hate it,” you say, mostly to yourself. “The place is fine. Small. My first appartment.” You swirl the can once before setting it on the ground by your feet. “But sometimes it feels like the walls get closer when I close the door behind me.”

He doesn’t say anything. You weren’t expecting him to. That might be part of the reason you said it. It’s easier to speak when the other person doesn’t try to fill in the blanks. He drops what’s left of his cigarette and crushes it under his boot with a slow, clean scrape. Doesn’t rush the motion. Doesn’t say anything for a while after.

Then: “Let’s walk.”

Just like that. Not a question. Not a command. Just a line drawn across the platform, and you’re the one who has to decide whether to cross it. You look at him. For the first time, fully. And he meets it — not challenging, not inviting. Waiting, like he’s already on the other side of the choice.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one leg. “You could be a serial killer.” He nods, like that’s reasonable. “I could.” There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t feel dangerous. He's ridiculously honest. Which is maybe worse.

You look toward the exit, then back at him. “You’re not gonna smile and say ‘I’m not that kind of guy’?”

“No.”

You let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Points for consistency.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture for you to follow. He just starts walking. Like the night was already his and you’re just deciding whether or not to step into it.

And for a few seconds, you stay still. You think about your apartment. About the cold floor, the quiet, the leftover curry you didn’t finish last night. You think about how the silence there doesn’t even echo — it just lands. You should stay. You should wait for the next train. You should go home. But you don’t want to go home. So you move.

The doors hiss shut behind you. You step into air that’s cooler than it felt five minutes ago. City air, late air — the kind that smells like warm metal and leftover ramen and just enough night to make you feel like maybe something’s still possible.

You stand there for a second. On the curb. He’s a few feet ahead of you, not looking back, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t ask if you’re coming. He already knows.

You shift your weight. The vending machine buzz follows you out. A cat darts across the street and disappears between buildings like it’s got somewhere more urgent to be. You glance toward him, then forward again. “If I end up in a missing person’s case,” you say, mostly to the sidewalk, “I really hope they use a decent photo.”

He doesn’t turn, but you catch it — the ghost of something near his mouth. Not a smile. Just a suggestion of one. “Guess that depends on what gets you reported missing.” You shake your head, drag your hands deeper into your coat pockets. “You’re really not big on comfort, are you?”

“I don’t sell anything I can’t afford.”

That gets a small exhale out of you. Not a laugh. But enough to loosen the knot in your chest. You both stay still for a minute. Not walking yet. Not really standing, either. Then, without looking at him, you ask: “So, we just gonna walk until sunrise?”

His voice doesn’t shift when he answers. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.” You don’t but you don’t say that. You just stay where you are. The street humming somewhere behind your left shoulder. The sky half-closed. A taxi slows but doesn’t stop. And the night — strange, quiet, almost patient — lets you be undecided.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @buckcherried @andysteve1311 @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @angelkiyo @stargazsblog @seren-dipitt @loverofthingsnsuch

IRIS.

spam/interactions for @pomeloblush

i saw this before everyone also ily for showing me this cid atsumu i love u too

MIYA ATSUMU has countless pet names and cheesy phrases for you but at the end of the day, your name is the one that grounds him.

"wish me luck babe!"

this is an important game, not in terms of progression but to set the tone for the rest of the season, and it's not going according to plan.

"you'll get the next one!" "ya bet i will darlin'!"

he's slightly off form today, a couple of missed serves and sets off trajectory too many for a seasoned professional like himself. of course, everyone makes mistakes, but atsumu doesn't take his own shortcomings lightly.

despite the victory, it shows in the way the furrow of his brow remains past locker room debrief, etching creases into his forehead with a barely suppressed frown to match as he shuffles over to you once everything's wrapped up. you know better than to ask questions, simply taking his calloused hand in yours and squeezing thrice, silently leading him to the car.

his damp blonde strands ruffle in the wind, yet it still falls short in masking the disappointment swirling in his eyes, the sound of your name falling from his lips small in the expanse of the once busy carpark, now almost empty, like a distant lighthouse amidst the sea.

"hey," the evening breeze caresses his cheek just as your words grace his ears, fingers intertwining with his as you step closer, overwhelming his senses. "i'm proud of you tsumu."

the warmth of the golden sunset pales in comparison to your ever saccharine love and embrace, and if atsumu's quivering lip against your shoulder is any indication, you always did know what he needed to hear.

taglist. open (link to form) @wyrcan @urslytherin @saucejar @kurogira @returntothefae

@diorzs @daisy-room @stellar-headquarters @whatisnureotypical @haruhi269

@ayatakanosstuff @zuhaeri @cyxjz @sexylexy12

notes. so about not posting this week... i lied... ;3 anyway this is not proofread so don't mind any typos

© inloveinsickness. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.

is iris and atsumu JOEOVER??

we’re literally married 😕 he’s obsessed with me as i am with him WE ARE NEVER GONNA BE JOEOVER.

“my daughter is completely fine!”

ma’am your daughter has to read fanfics about fictional characters just to maintain a healthy mental state