This Is Osamu When Him And I Were No Contact

let me hop on the train

tomorrow is katsukis birthday im cooking something up

I DID THIAT NSHIT NKW

next theme for pomeloblush is gonna be tomatoes btw, if anyone sees any cute tomatoes things send em my way

WILL BE READING SOON OMGOMG

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’ArcenCiel 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

Thinking of you, an impudent young princess with a slight rebellious streak, who has scared off every guard your father has assigned to you. To combat this, the King decides to appoint Hinata Shoyo, a new knight with an indomitable spirit, to your staff. Clumsy and intent on making a name for himself, he may just be the answer to subduing your quiet revolt. | mlist

Your silken gown drapes against the cushioned sofa as you read your novel in a decidedly unladylike position. From the corner of your eye, you catch the scandalized look of your lady-in-waiting at how your legs sprawl; however, you find great pleasure in it.

Twisted as it may be to feel joy at the sight of another’s discomfort, princess etiquette is far too rigid for your liking, and your lady-in-waiting is a conservative prude.

Beams of sunlight tickle your face, and you bask in the feeling. Your mother is horrified by the idea of a princess’ skin burning, meaning wide-brimmed hats are a permanent fixture of your summer wardrobe. It’s a rare treat to feel warmth on your skin.

Moments such as this are sacred. You hold them close to your chest

So, who is this orange-haired oaf with the gall to cast a shadow over your precious sun?

“You are blocking the light.” You spit at the human obstruction. Sighing in annoyance, you slam your book shut and glare at him.

His face is unfamiliar to you. Unruly orange hair sticks up in various directions, a complement to his boyish features and short, stocky stature.

“Ah! I apologize!” The stranger exclaims. Metal from his armored suit clanks loudly as he scrambles to reposition himself away from the window. You cringe at the unwelcome noise. Eyes narrowing further, your gaze travels from his reddened face down to the family crest that rests on his breastplate.

He must be a Royal Knight. A rather jumpy one, but a Knight, regardless.

Your blushed lips turn up in subtle amusement, betraying your otherwise cold disposition.

“Do you often make it a habit to disturb Princesses?”

“No!” He stammers in a manner unbefitting for a brave soldier of the Kingdom. His posture stiffens suddenly, and he clears his throat, as if he’s suddenly remembered how knights are meant to act. He bends his body down in a poor attempt at a bow.

“I am Shoyo Hinata. The King has appointed me to serve as your knight.”

You snort. The foals in your stable have more grace than he.

How did he manage to become knighted? You wonder. Or, better yet, what is your father playing at, assigning this inept boy, who cannot be much older than yourself, to your staff?

Intrigued, you sit up in your chair. The bottom of your dress pools at your waist as your hands prop your face up.

“So you are the one who is sworn protect me?”

Shoyo looks up at you, body still contorted into an uncomfortable bow. “Um…yes?”

Your brow raises. “Is that an inquiry or an answer?”

“Yes!” He shouts. There’s a determination in his expression that surprises you. “I will do everything in my power to serve you!”

Your interest deflates at his eagerness. Knights are nothing but a chain on your independence. They’re sworn to protect; however, the only thing they do is hold you down. Humming, you pick your novel up once again, flipping the pages to find your spot.

“Well, Shoyo Hinata,” you speak, not bothering to look up, “ You cannot blame me for doubting your fitness to serve. The sight of you in armor is reminiscent of a child playing dress-up.”

“I am aware of my smaller stature,” he agrees, and you resist the urge to peek at his face, which must be discouraged.

Your record for scaring off a Knight is one week. Are you about to set a personal best?

Your fingers turn a page, pleased. “My father will not blame you for your resignation. I am sure that—“

The snide remark dies in your throat as you feel a sudden force tugging your book down. Your eyes widen at the closeness of Shoyo’s face. He leans in, and you feel yourself submitting to the overwhelming presence he takes up.

“I may be unassuming, but I will prove that I am worthy of serving you!” He says in earnest. His hand grips your book firmly, subjecting it to his flurry of passion. He is so near that you can see the rise and fall of his chest. “Wait, and you will see.”

You remain still.

Shoyo’s face pales, withdrawing his hand from your book. Stepping away, he raises his arms in submission. “My…my sincerest apologies. I did not mean to—“

“Very well.”

He looks at you incredulously. “Huh?”

“Very well.” You echo, “Let us see how you do.”

His expression morphs from panicked to excitable. A wide grin spreads across his face and his chest puffs slightly. Kneeling abruptly, his energy is palpable as he places a hand over his heart. Looking at you through the locks of hair that cascade across his face, a beam of light from the setting sun shines down on him, almost like a spotlight.

“You will not regret your decision.”

You chuckle. “That remains to be seen.”

—a/n: this is for @shouyuus and the three other shoyo stans who will read this:3 i have been obsessed with knight!shoyo since 2020 and i am so thrilled others are seeing the light…

—p.s. read rain’s take on knight!shoyo here

hi imy ily i give u my entire immune system

hi cid this was so sweet to wake up to ilysm

ty for the tag nensi!

ntp: @miiyas @dearru @bakery-anon @stellar-headquarters

LETS MAKE A WEDDING CHAT

Search on Pinterest and choose the first that pops up

Spouse(yk the drill anime character>first one that pops up)

Wedding venue

Wedding dress/suit(depends what you want to wear)

Maid of honor(anime character>first or second girl that u see, depending on who u get as spouse)

Best man(random character>first or second guy you see, depending on who u get as spouse)

Cake

HERE'S MINE

Chaos ensues.....

GET WITH THE PROGRAM GANG KSKSKWKS

@dimsumo @psyzcraze @shoudakii @mixolya @kenyuukisser @fishii28 @ayatakanosstuff @megumismyhusband @mims-bshelf @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 @ohagiyoo +AYONE ELSE WHO WANTS

All my fan works are deeply niche and incredibly self indulgent.

I am serving myself. I am throwing an exotic and strange banquet. I am not expecting any guests but you are more than welcome to attend.

thinking about iwaizumi

sent tweet

Reblog to head butt prev (affectionately of course).

@dearru oh i’m crying…

It’s hard to argue with Suguru.

Not like it is with Satoru, who fights loud, two tempers crashing, both of you saying things you don’t mean but at least saying something. At least with Satoru, everything’s out in the open. Honest. Even when it hurts.

Suguru is different.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t combat your words. He just... tightens. Folds inward. Smiles a little too tightly, makes your coffee just the way you like it, overplans your days to “help.” He does everything for you, but never with you. He says he wants peace. Harmony. Love. At first, it felt like being cherished. Now it feels like you’re being caged. Never actually tells you what’s wrong. He’ll go passive-aggressive, clean the entire kitchen in silence, disappear into his thoughts for hours while insisting he’s fine. He’ll bottle everything up until you’re the only one spilling over. Until you look like the one who’s too much.

You try to bring it up - you try. That you feel smothered. That he never talks to you. That his silence makes you feel like you're the only one bleeding while he stands there pretending he’s not even scratched.

But he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look at you. Just sits there, staring at the floor, leg bouncing, fists tight on his lap like it physically pains him to have this conversation. You hate raising your voice. But you feel like you’re screaming into a void.

And when you finally slam the bedroom door shut, frames rattling, it’s not because you’re angry. It’s because he stopped trying. He stopped meeting you halfway. Stopped seeing you.

He doesn’t follow, just sits there, biting back the tears. Biting down the words he wants to say but doesn’t know how. “Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Please tell me how to fix this.” But nothing comes out.

Because if he lets the fire out, he’s afraid there’ll be nothing left.

Hours later, when the house is dark and your breathing’s turned soft in the guest room, he creeps in. Picks you up carefully, warm palms slipping underneath you. Carries you back to your shared bed. You stir, but don’t wake, and he thinks maybe that’s a blessing.

Pulls you close, tucks you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he’s trying to glue the pieces back together without you noticing. Then, quietly, he cries. Doesn’t sob. Doesn’t shake the bed. Just lets the tears roll down his cheeks, one by one, into your hair. His fingers curl tightly into your shirt. His chest rises and falls with the kind of grief he’s never spoken aloud.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, again and again, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I make it so hard to love me. I’m sorry I keep breaking things. I don’t know how to stop.”

You don’t move. Maybe you’re still asleep. Maybe you’re pretending.

He doesn’t mean to cry. He’s so careful, always so careful, with you, with the house, with the weight of everything he carries but never speaks about. But when he lays you down in the bed, when you shift just slightly and curl instinctively toward him even in sleep, something in him buckles. Brushes the hair from your face with trembling fingers. The pad of his thumb drags gently beneath your eye, wiping away the last of your tears, but his own are already falling.

His broad shoulders start to shake, just barely, like he’s trying to hold even his grief in check. A soft, broken breath leaves him, one he bites down on so hard it sounds more like a choke than a sob.

“I don’t know how to keep you,” he whispers, voice raw. “I don’t know how to stop ruining it.” Closing his eyes, pressing his face into the curve of your neck. Tries to breathe you in like you’re still his. Like he hasn’t already pushed you too far.

“I just wanted to make it perfect. I thought if I could just... if I could make everything perfect, then maybe you'd stay. That nothing would go wrong.”

He swallows another sob, muffles it into your skin. Every apology he didn’t say earlier pours out in pieces now, scattered and soft and full of everything he buried beneath that calm mask.

“I’m sorry I don’t know how to talk. I’m sorry I make you feel small. I just - ” his voice breaks again, “ - I was so scared. I’m always scared.”

He thinks you’re asleep. Thinks you don't feel the way his strong body trembles. Doesn’t know you’re awake now, barely breathing, listening to the truth he only speaks in quiet moments. You realize he’s not trying to control you out of malice.

He’s just a man surrounded by love, who never actually learned how to love.