sugawara koshi – wrong tag for anon | connected. event masterpost
the sun hung low, warm across the park, while a gentle breeze stirred the leaves above. you spread a blanket under a sprawling tree, unpacking sandwiches and fruit from the wicker basket. you sat beside sugawara, tilting your head at the spread, teasing about the way he had layered the sandwiches like some kind of gourmet display.
he asked to try your camera, holding it a little awkwardly at first. you watched as he peered through the lens, fumbled with the settings, and finally snapped a photo of a squirrel perched on a branch. he laughed at the picture, tossing the camera back to you with an easy grin that made the moment light and warm, like sunlight bouncing off the water.
you ate together, talking and laughing over little things—the breeze tugging at your hair, a duck waddling past, a crumb landing on his nose. the park stretched quietly around you, ordinary and pleasant, and you felt the day settle into something calm, simple, and perfectly enough.
sugawara koshi – behind the lens for @mayyhaps | connected. event masterpost
the restaurant was cozy, tucked away on a quiet street, fairy lights winking through the windows. sugawara led the way, holding the door open with a polite, almost nervous smile that made your chest flutter. inside, the air was warm with the smell of fresh bread and something sweet. he laughed easily at the small jokes between you, leaning in just enough that it felt intimate but not overwhelming. every gesture was careful—passing the bread, refilling your water, asking if the food was to your liking—with a sweetness that made you quietly marvel at how naturally charming he was.
as the night settled, he offered to drive you home. the car smelled faintly of his cologne, and the streetlights traced patterns across his face as he hummed along to a song. fingers brushed briefly, sending sparks through the quiet moments between sentences. when he pulled up to your place, he grinned, already talking about where you might go next, the thought of a second date making your stomach twist in the best kind of way.
signals, messages, and quiet encounters through a screen.
stories about what it means to reach someone.
choose a connection below. add 📱 if you’d like a short drabble to go with it.
connections
love through his screen
what their phone looks like while you’re dating — their wallpaper, your contact name, the messages you’ve sent, the photos they’ve saved, their posts.
behind the lens
photographer x model. maybe they find you through your work, or you meet during a shoot — either way, you end up in focus.
candid interview
interviewer x character. it starts as a few questions for a piece, but something in your voice stays with them.
story responder
they always reply to your stories — sometimes with something small, sometimes with something that makes you pause — and over time it turns into a conversation you don’t want to end.
wrong tag
they tag you by mistake. you could ignore it, but you don’t.
if you'd like something specific, please mention it in your request. i write for these characters.
example: "can i connect with [character] from behind the lens? 📱"
What would happen if I follow that other account of urs🫣
hi nonnie!
if youre talking about @deardaichinav , nothing would happen if you followed lol :3 its really just so it doesn't clutter your feed when i try out new themes
if youre talking about my personal account @danmanz, again nothing would happen haha its just where i reblog all my interests and follow people back :)
boy meets new neighbor, neighbor does everything they can to not fall in love, boy does everything he can to see them again… and again, and unfortunately for the neighbor, the boy seems to be getting his way.
main m.list
✦ status: in progress
★ pairing: atsumu miya x gn!reader
✶ taglist: open
✸ warnings: some sexual comments, neighbors to lovers, yearner x worrier, alcohol usage, and shenanigans
ex-husband jean kirstein who let you keep the cozy little beach house tucked away on the coast in the divorce. you didn’t even ask, you thought he’d want to sell it. but he knew what it meant to you then, knows what it still means to you now.
you don’t realize jean still takes care of the upkeep on the house when you’re not around. the shingles, the shutters. the rickety old windows on the porch. he doesn’t know why he still cares so much. he tells himself it’s because the two of you put so much work into the house.
he tells himself it has nothing to do with missing you. with regret. with the hole shaped like longing that lives in his chest. with the way the smell of the ocean breeze still reminds him of early mornings where you’d kiss him senseless in the wet sand, of late nights tangled in soft sheets with gauzy curtains billowing in a warm, moonlit breeze.
you cross paths accidentally on an early spring morning when you find jean up on a ladder, flecks of paint on his cheek and neck as he runs a paintbrush over a shutter that barely survived a harsh winter. and it’s borderline mortifying—the fact that you’re bundled up in the old green flannel shirt that he thought he lost (but the way his eyes soften when he sees you wearing it makes you feel something else entirely).
(all i can think about is jean just outright telling you how many repairs the house still needs then. how he’d rather just do it himself, if you’re okay with that.
and falling back in love over chipped mugs and loose floorboards and a leaking sink.)
038. benches, balance, and beginnings — iwaizumi hajime.
wc: 0.4k
cw: gn!reader. personal trainer!iwaizumi. confessions. getting together
you’d been training with iwaizumi for almost a year before it started to feel different.
not in any obvious way — he still greeted you with the same grin when you walked in, still handed you a towel between sets, still corrected your form with a gentle nudge or a low “careful” when your focus slipped. but somewhere between the easy banter, the way he remembered every detail you told him, and the rare moments his gaze lingered just a fraction too long, something shifted.
and if he noticed the same thing in you, he didn’t say.
he was good at that — at drawing the line, keeping the sessions light but professional. maybe that’s why you never pushed, never gave yourself away. not until the afternoon he asked if you wanted to grab something to eat after.
you thought it was casual at first, just two people who knew each other well enough to spend a little time outside the gym. but then, halfway to the café, he stopped walking.
“i’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he said, thumb hooking into the strap of his bag. “and i figured… it’s better if i tell you now before i overthink it again.”
you raised an eyebrow, smiling just a little. “tell me what?”
“that i like you.” he looked straight at you, voice steady but warm. “and i’d like to take you out, but—” he hesitated, “—i don’t want this to ruin what we’ve got. i don’t want you to feel like you have to say yes because i’m your trainer.”
you laughed then, not because it was funny, but because the worry in his eyes didn’t match the certainty in yours. “iwa, i’m not saying yes because you’re my trainer,” you said, nudging his arm. “i’m saying yes because i like you too.”
the relief on his face was instant, followed by the kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
after that, things shifted again — not in a way that felt strange or awkward, just…right. he stopped charging you for sessions. you stopped calling them sessions. and soon enough, iwaizumi wasn’t your personal trainer anymore. he was your boyfriend, the one who always accompanied you to the gym, spotting you with the same care he always had, only now with the occasional kiss between sets.
and maybe, you thought, that was the best workout plan you’d ever signed up for.
a/n: requested by @kingdaddydaichi. i hope you enjoy <3
your knees ache. your lungs still burn. the court’s noise has dulled to a hum in your ears, but it’s there — the memory of it, vibrating through your hands like the aftershock of every receive.
five sets. five sets and the win still doesn’t feel real.
you’re on the bench now, sweat drying cold against your skin, jersey sticking to your back. the others are moving around you — some talking, some laughing, some sitting dazed with half-laced shoes and heads tilted toward the ceiling like they’re waiting for it to cave in and tell them it was all a dream.
your body is still. too heavy to move, too light to believe it’s over. and through the haze, you find him.
daichi.
he’s crouched by his bag, arms resting on his knees, face caught in some place between exhaustion and something else — wonder, maybe. disbelief. quiet joy. you can’t tell. you just know that when he looks up, he finds you.
the eye contact doesn’t break.
you should look away. blink. breathe.
but you don’t.
he doesn’t either.
and in the space of that held gaze, something passes. not loud. not sudden. just real. like the breath between a spike and a set point. like the second before a jump.
he gives you a smile — small, worn, the corners soft.
you return it.
and then someone calls your name, and you look away.
but the moment stays. stitched into your ribs like a bruise that doesn’t hurt.
you’ll think about it in the shower. on the bus. when you’re lying in bed later, the dark still buzzing faintly with the day’s noise.you won.
but it’s not the only thing that stuck.
a/n: requested by @chaosplatypus. i hope you enjoy <3
“just go to dinner,” hizashi says, spinning a pen between his fingers. “that’s all i’m asking.”
across from him, you lean back in your chair. “you want me to go on a blind date with your best friend.”
“don’t make it weird,” he says. “it’s not a date date. it’s two people having food in the same place at the same time. possibly laughing. or not. you’re both kind of hard to read.”
you raise an eyebrow.
“i’m saying that with love,” he adds, holding up both hands.
you don’t say yes immediately. he doesn’t expect you to. but when you eventually do — days later, over a quiet coffee, half-distracted — he acts like it’s a surprise.
“you’re serious?”
“you said it wasn’t a real date.”
“i said possibly,” he says, but he’s smiling. “i’ll text you the details.”
you nod. you don’t look thrilled. but you don’t look hesitant either. just neutral. curious, maybe. open to the idea. the way you always are when it comes to him.
it doesn’t hit him all at once. it’s not like that.
it creeps in slowly — a laugh that lands wrong in his chest, a second glance held too long. the way you say his name when he’s not ready for it.
he brushes it off.
you and aizawa go out once. then again. you keep it vague when you talk about it. aizawa keeps it vaguer. that should reassure him. it doesn’t.
he asks once, half-joking, how it’s going.
you say it’s going fine.
aizawa says nothing.
fine, hizashi thinks. that’s good. that’s what he wanted.
except now he’s watching you talk about someone else with the same voice you used to talk about him. and he’s starting to wonder if maybe he missed the moment when this all got complicated.
the third time you go out with aizawa, hizashi cancels plans with both of you. he spends the night on his couch, music too loud, scrolling through his messages like maybe he can trace it back to the moment he messed this up.
he can’t.
aizawa shows up without warning.
hizashi opens the door and steps aside. aizawa walks in, quiet, unreadable, a to-go coffee in hand.
he places it on the counter. doesn’t look at him.
“you like her.”
hizashi laughs. or tries to. “she’s easy to like.”
“but you like her,” aizawa says again, this time without question.
hizashi doesn’t answer right away. he just rests his palms on the counter’s edge and stares down at the floor.
“yeah,” he says eventually. “i do.”
aizawa leans back against the fridge. “why’d you push me toward her?”
“because i thought you’d be better for her.”
a beat. then another.
“you didn’t ask what she wanted.”
“yeah,” hizashi says. “i didn’t.”
aizawa doesn’t reply. for a long time, neither of them says anything.
eventually, hizashi lets out a breath, softer this time. “i didn’t think i’d feel this way.”
“you do.”
“yeah,” he says. “i do.”
he finally looks up.
“but it’s already happening, isn’t it? you and her.”
aizawa doesn’t flinch. doesn’t confirm it either. just says, “maybe.”
and then, quieter: “nothing’s official.”
“doesn’t need to be,” hizashi says. “doesn’t change what i did.”
aizawa’s eyes narrow slightly. not out of anger — out of knowing. he’s always been good at that. seeing through people when they think they’re being subtle.
“are you going to tell her?”
hizashi’s jaw tenses. he shakes his head once.
“why not?”
“because this isn’t about me.”
aizawa’s expression doesn’t change. but his voice does, slightly. less sharp. almost tired. “it kind of is.”
hizashi shrugs. “doesn’t matter.”
and he means it. or maybe he wants to. it’s hard to tell the difference lately.
he pushes off the counter and moves to the sink, rinsing out a mug just to give his hands something to do.
behind him, aizawa doesn’t move.
the silence stretches.
then — without judgment, without pity — aizawa says, “you can still change your mind.”
hizashi’s hands pause under the water.
but when he turns around, he just gives a small, almost-smile. the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“too late for that,” he says.
aizawa doesn’t argue.
and nothing else is said.
not because it’s over — but because whatever this is, whatever it could be — it’s already slipping out of reach.
a/n: written for @dira333. hey so um. i hate angst. i hope this doesn't suck
taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @oligbia @kcandyliciouss@tangerinelovr
035. bros, boyfriends, and bump-ins — kirishima eijiro.
wc: 0.4k
cw: m!reader. public affection. kirishima is a proud boyfriend.
the date wasn’t anything fancy — just the two of you walking side by side, drinks in hand, sharing sips and eating fries from the same paper bag. his sunglasses were pushed up in his hair, and you were wearing the hoodie he’d tied around your waist earlier, mostly because he said it looked better on you.
you weren’t in a rush. the streets were busy, but not overwhelming. a breeze cut through the heat. his fingers brushed yours every few steps.
“so what i’m saying is,” he was mid-story, “bakugo’s yelling at me like i’m the reason the blender exploded.”
you raise an eyebrow. “weren’t you the one who dared him to blend hot soup on high?”
“i didn’t think he’d actually do it,” kirishima grins. “it had steam coming off it, man. that blender never stood a chance.”
“you’re a menace.”
“i’m a witness to a kitchen tragedy,” he says, dramatic. “and possibly banned from using blenders ever again.”
“whatever,” he grinned. “point is, it was flying.”
you snorted, about to reply, when a voice called out from ahead.
“kirishima?”
you both looked up. midoriya was standing near one of the shopfronts, bag from the pharmacy in one hand, blinking like he wasn’t sure if it was really him.
“yo, midoriya!” kirishima waved, already tugging you with him. “dude, long time no see.”
midoriya smiled, then looked at you — just a beat too long — before giving a polite nod.
“this is my best bro and boyfriend,” kirishima said, arm sliding around your waist like it belonged there.
you coughed. “bro–”
“what?” he asked, totally unfazed. “you are.”
midoriya’s eyes went wide, then soft. “oh–wow, it’s really nice to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. “i didn’t know you two were–i mean, that’s great. you seem–yeah. that makes sense.”
you shook his hand. “likewise.”
kirishima looked too pleased with himself. like he’d been waiting to say it that way all day.
“best bro and boyfriend?” you muttered when midoriya stepped away a few minutes later.
“yeah,” he said, squeezing your side. “you’re both. figured i’d be efficient.”
you shook your head, trying not to smile. “you’re ridiculous.”
“and taken,” he said, tugging you close again. “by the best guy i know.”
matsukawa only uses soundcloud. refuses to switch to spotify. says everything else is “too mainstream,” but most of the tracks he listens to have less than 400 plays and sound like they were recorded in a furniture-less living room.
none of the artists have normal names. it’s all stuff like lil melancholic or user192308. you ask who they are and he just goes, “no clue. this one popped up after something else ended.”
he’s always trying to show you new songs. plays them through his phone speaker and watches your face like he’s waiting for a reaction. if you laugh, he grins. “knew you’d appreciate the layering.”
all his playlists are weirdly specific. “songs for walking to the store at night” or “this one hits if your socks are cold.” he’ll never elaborate.
the music is mostly awful, but every now and then, one of them actually sounds kind of good. and he’ll pretend he’s not smug about it. “see? you doubted me.”
he sends you links when he knows you're upset. no context, just “this reminded me of you.” usually it's a grainy lo-fi beat with a guy whispering about the moon.
and it shouldn’t work. but somehow, it does.